The Boiling Season (35 page)

And when I awoke in the morning, just as the sun was rising, I felt oddly refreshed. The blood had been washed away after all. Standing out on the balcony, I looked down upon the canopy of trees below, blotting out the villas and their inhabitants. For once there was no smoke, and it occurred to me that from my old window in Senator Marcus's attic the distant green oasis on the mountainside would appear no different today than it had then, no less inviting.

I had been out on the balcony only a few minutes when I heard the commotion at the gate. The goats were coming back from the slaughter. And as I turned to watch them bump and bleat back down the drive to their beds—much more slowly than they had gone out—I thought to myself, Let them do what they will. Let them kill themselves, if that is what they want. But may they do it quickly.

That morning, an unmistakable pall clung to Dragon Guy's men, apparent even from so great a distance. Not until they were almost below me did I see why. At the lead, where I had never seen her before, strode René-Thérèse. The woman who ordinarily carried herself like a queen shuffled now like a penitent. Beside her walked two men I did not recognize, struggling to bear a stretcher between them, upon which lay the still form of a man dressed in a white linen suit. How strange, I thought, that nowhere did I see a single spot of blood. One panel of the jacket had fallen away from Dragon Guy's chest, revealing the intense green dragon. René-Thérèse gripped the fabric in her fingers, as if trying to keep the creature from flying away.

Instead of dispersing as they usually did upon reaching the end of the drive, the men clung limply together, watching the stretcher bearers stumble up the steps to the guesthouse with Dragon Guy. Two of the nurses stood waiting in the doorway. The grim looks with which they beheld their coming charge told everyone watching everything they needed to know about their leader's fate.

Soon there was shouting in the lobby, and the noise grew steadily louder as the men stomped upstairs. There were voices everywhere, and I found myself clinging to the arms of my chair until they passed, slamming seemingly every door on the second floor, except for the one belonging to the colonel. The manor house trembled and I did too, before allowing myself one deep, hopeful breath.

Perhaps the dragon was not invincible after all.

A
lmost no one showed up for breakfast. Among those who did, there seemed to be a sense that only silence would be permitted. In no case would I have dared to speak. Now more than ever I knew I must hold my tongue and wait.

For the rest of the day, everyone hung about in a suspended state, waiting for the dreaded news they thought might come at any moment. Me as much as anyone else. But I did not take part in the endless speculation.

Black Max had been shot alongside his friend, and he was already dead. No one saw it happen. There were some who insisted it must have been one of Dragon Guy's own men who did it, someone trusted, someone close. If that was true, was the traitor still among us? For the first time since they arrived here, I saw them eyeing each other with a suspicion they normally reserved for me. I could not have been more happy to share.

Never could I have imagined their idyll could crumble so quickly.

F
or once, I was glad when the evening darkness began its lazy creep over the mountains and the nightly assembling of arms commenced upon the lawn. They would not take the night off to sit at the side of their leader, waiting for him to die. Indeed, they seemed more eager than ever to fight. I could not wait until they were gone, taking their fury with them. From within my office—even with the shutters closed—I heard snatches of speeches trying to inflame them further.

“Dragon Guy is worth a hundred men,” one of them boomed, as if he were shouting through a horn. “Tonight we will kill a thousand.”

“Destroy them all,” screamed someone else, sounding as if blood were already running from his lips.

And then came the chant, bursting from every hysterical throat: “Duphay shall pay.”

Before they began their frantic march up the drive, I peeked out just once, and what I saw was more than two hundred men raising their weapons to the heavens, and their cry for revenge was like a cannon. In the center of it all, Hector stood, silent and still, like a boy lost in a crowd.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

T
he news that Dragon Guy was dead reached me in my sleep. It was not yet dawn when I heard the sobs and sprang up out of bed, hurrying to the balcony. There were two women clinging to one another on the lawn below, their necks entwined like birds. Each was the only thing keeping the other erect. Their cries were loud enough to wake the entire estate.

The mood around the manor house was grim, even worse than the day before. In seemingly every corner, small groups of men and women huddled, talking in low voices. No one seemed to have any idea what to do, and so they did nothing. Here and there men paced in silence, staring absently at the walls. They collected under every shady tree, like fallen fruit.

As word spread, so too did the rumor that perhaps Dragon Guy had been dead all along, and that only now were they telling us. That the men suspected such a thing gave me hope I had until now not dared to dream.

The blood pounded in my ears. Without Dragon Guy, would there be nothing to keep all of this from unraveling and his army from fleeing?

Throughout the day, the words “What now?” were on nearly everyone's lips, but it was their eyes—both heavy and quick—that gave away their fear. And then there was me, doing everything I could to keep my rising hope to myself. I struggled to remain still, abandoning a letter to Madame after getting no further than the salutation. When at last my rooms grew too constrictive, I went outside, making certain to keep my eyes low to the ground.

At the door to Mona's kitchen I knocked quietly.

“Mona,” I whispered, but she would not answer.

It was difficult to keep from yelling the news to her, loudly enough that everyone would hear.

School had been canceled at the casino. The restaurant was empty; even Claire was gone.

The one familiar face I finally came across as I was walking along the paths was Marc's. I was unaccustomed to seeing him without his skinny friend, and I wondered if Louis was off somewhere seeking comfort in the arms of Lulu.

It was clear that Marc, too, was in distress. “What will happen?” he said. “What will we do?”

“I wish I knew,” I said. But he continued to look at me expectantly, as if certain I possessed the information he so desperately needed. I added, “All I know are the rumors.”

His eyes opened wide in anticipation.

“I've heard this will probably be the end.” I did not wish to lie to Marc. I liked him too much for that. But in fact this had already begun to feel like the truth. As I said it, I felt my mind spinning on, putting together the pieces to come, assembling a list of what needed to be done. The repairs, the planting, the painting, the cleaning. It was not too late. Hector would come back, and together we could fix the estate so that Madame would never have to know what had happened. By the time she returned, it would be just as it was. Perhaps not
just
, but close enough that she might once again feel she was home.

“Is it true?”

“It is,” I said, and I meant it. “I'm sure of it. And do you know what that means?”

He did not try to disguise that he did not.

“It's time for you to go find your wife and daughter.”

Something changed in his face. A brightening. An opening. I could see the idea did not displease him, and I was relieved. First Marc, and then the others would follow.

“What if I can't find them?”

“You will.”

He thought about that for a moment. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Your wife,” he said. “There's no more point in waiting. She'll never come back now.”

Having created this deceit, I had no choice but to agree. Inside, though, I was beaming; with Dragon Guy gone, there would be nothing to keep Mme Freeman from coming back.

Just then, over Marc's shoulder, I spotted a boy running toward us up the path. He could have been one of Mlle Trouvé's students, but not one I recognized. As he drew closer, Marc heard his footsteps and turned, and I saw that the boy was waiting to say something.

“What do you want?” Marc said with uncharacteristic irritation.

“Aren't you coming?”

“Coming where?”

“There's going to be an announcement.”

“Wait,” I said, reaching out for Marc as he started off after the boy.

“Later.”

“Promise me,” I said.

He brushed me off, waving for me to come along. “We'll talk about it later.”

B
y the time we arrived at Dragon Guy's villa, the boy had long since disappeared into the crowd. Everyone was there: half-dressed men who appeared to have come straight from bed; women holding paring knives and laundry baskets. Even the children had come, drawn in by the promise of some rare kind of excitement. They were packed in around the pool, filling every last space. In front of me I could see almost nothing but heads. Perhaps three to four hundred. I saw them, and my head fell into my hands. Dear God, I thought, How could I possibly get rid of so many?

“What do you think is happening up there?” Marc asked.

Every once in a while there was the briefest of openings, and I thought I could see the edge of some kind of structure. I could not tell what.

I gestured to Marc to stay where he was. “I'll go and see if I can get a better look.”

Squeezing through a gap, I made my way toward the edge of the courtyard. There, beneath the sunlit canopy of a mombin tree, was a low stone bench. That little bit of height made all the difference. Beyond the heads, beyond the pool, directly in front of Dragon Guy's villa, a small wooden platform rose above the patio. It was impossible to hear over the crowd, but on one corner of the platform an old man was kneeling, weakly tapping nails into the boards below him. He was all there was to see.

For several minutes the old man continued to hammer. Several times he dropped a nail, and it was painful to watch him searching, his failing eyes of little use. When at last he was finally done, he wobbled to one knee. Using the hammer as a cane, he pushed himself unsteadily up the rest of the way. He had aged so much so quickly that at first I did not recognize him. It was as if the last three months had for him stretched into years. Even now, as he turned around and faced the crowd, only his blue plaid shirt gave him away.

“Raoul,” I yelled. “Raoul.” But with all the noise there was no way to get his attention.

At the back of the platform he was met by one of Dragon Guy's guards, who lifted him up by his armpits and then lowered him to the ground, as if he were a child. In an instant, he was gone from sight, and there was no way for me to go after him.

Just as quickly, the noise evaporated too. It was eerie how suddenly it happened—as if someone had flipped a switch.

Hector ascended the stairs to the stage slowly, like an old man himself, unsure of his footing. As he made his way to the center, he looked at us with a strange uncertainty, as if he did not know how he came to find himself there. One might have mistaken him for someone strolling unawares into a surprise party. Seeing him here now, I realized how much he had grown in recent months. At sixteen, Hector had nearly reached the height of his brother, and he was almost equally broad and strong. But he was still a boy, and no matter how big he had grown, he could not help looking small up there all alone.

No one in the crowd dared to speak. What did they make of him? I wondered. Was he anything to them other than Dragon Guy's little brother? Would they try to resist when he told them it was time to leave, to go back to Cité Verd?

Hector lifted his arms awkwardly, stiffly from his sides, forcing them to fold across his chest. He was trying to look like a defiant warrior. Where had he learned such a pose? It was nothing I had ever seen on his brother. Where did a boy who had grown up in a place like Cité Verd, utterly cut off from history and the rest of the world, find a model upon which to build such an image?

“Today,” Hector began, “we have lost something great.” I was surprised by the sound of his voice, coarse and deep and confident. But there was no denying that it suited the somber expression on his face. “But if you came here to mourn,” he said after a suitable pause, “you have come to the wrong place. Dragon Guy was a brave soldier, the most courageous among us. And I know all of you loved him like he was your brother. He was your brother as much as he was mine. But we are at war, and there is no place in war for sentiment.”

Around me, I saw many of the men and women sharing glances, but no one was willing to risk so much as a whisper. “This was not our first loss,” Hector continued, and as an afterthought he raised his fist into the air. It was an odd moment for such a gesture, but he appeared to have little idea what else to do with his hands. “It will not be our last,” he added. “Many of our comrades have been killed. But I ask you to remember this: for every blow we've suffered, we've dealt two in return. That's how it is when the weak fight back.”

As his eyes swept the crowd, I felt a strange unease come over me. Where had he found these words?

“
They
are strong,” the boy added with another pump of his fist, “only when the fight is easy. Our courage increases their cowardice. That is why even though the man who calls himself our president can offer pay and uniforms and weapons, it is
our
army, not
his
, that continues to grow. Look around you. Look into the face of your neighbor.” Everyone around me did as he commanded. They were transfixed. “That is the face of a soldier. That is a face François Duphay fears. Even those who once said it was impossible to fight back have joined us now. And we hold out our arms to welcome them. It is never too late,” he thundered, “to join the side of the right and good.”

As the aphorisms continued to fall from his lips, my bafflement grew. I could more easily believe he was somehow reading these words—despite his still almost complete illiteracy—than that he was making them up. What had happened to the boy I knew?

“There has never been a time when we've needed them more than we do now. M. Duphay understands that desperation is a poor battle companion. He knows that if he does not crush us now, we will crush him. From this day forward, all our efforts and all our energy must be focused on the fight ahead. We have God on our side, we have right on our side.” He clenched his arms and brought together his fists. “We have everything we need.”

Even as his voice rose and swelled, it was lost in the storm of cheers. Hector stood at the very edge of the stage, his face displaying none of the fire of his words. It was as if he were not aware that it was he everyone was applauding. But I knew that was not so. This platform, made of scrap boards and bent nails, could just as convincingly have been made of marble and topped with a golden throne. Despite his conviction and bearing, I could imagine him practicing his proud, expansive beneficence before Madame's gold-framed mirror. His eyes gave away the rest: the quick, subtle scanning of faces, searching for proof that the crowd had embraced him. And as his eyes traveled in my direction, glancing from man to man, I thought to climb down from the bench and lower my head, slipping unseen behind someone else. But when the moment came, I froze. His eyes locked on mine, and mine locked on his, and both of us wanted to look away, but neither of us could. So long were we stuck together like that that others in the crowd began to turn their heads to see what it was that had stolen Hector's attention. Were they simply curious? Was it jealousy?

The letting go happened in an instant. Suddenly aware of the attention he was attracting, Hector tore his eyes away and raised his hand. The applause, which had only just begun to wane, roared again. Hector lowered his arm and took a step backward, and there to meet him was René-Thérèse, wearing as usual her red head scarf. In her outspread hands she held a bright yellow garment, which she proceeded to drape over Hector's shoulders, affixing the corners of the cape across his throat with a familiar brooch. And as Hector turned to walk away, he glanced once more in my direction, bestowing me with something between a wink and a smile. Then he disappeared back into the villa, the cloth of one of Madame's favorite dresses billowing slightly behind him.

J
ust like that, the day that had begun in sorrow for everyone but me had completed its reversal. Yet whereas I had worked to guard my optimism, the men and women surrounding me in the courtyard saw no such need. That which they had lost—even things that could not be replaced—Hector had somehow given back.

How was it possible? How was any of this possible? Could that really have been Hector, the boy who ran my errands, the boy I was teaching to read? How could such a transformation happen? And how could they so readily embrace him, offering up their allegiance? Did they imagine the mere fact of their shared blood meant that Hector and Dragon Guy were one and the same? Could they not see he was just a child? Or were they desperate enough to have accepted anyone who happened to step onto that stage?

I did not go looking for Marc. There was no longer any point. Hector had seen to it that there was nothing I could say now to convince anyone to leave. Was that it, an opportunity that lasted no more than an hour? Had that really been my only chance? And how was it possible that, given the same chance, a boy could turn himself into a king? Could it really be that I had misjudged him all along?

A hand fell on my shoulder. René-Thérèse, her face proud and regal again, looked down at me from her great height. She took hold of my wrist. “Hector would like to see you.”

This, our second walk together through the villa paths, passed in silence. I had no words to offer her for Dragon Guy. What was there to say to someone mourning a loss you yourself did not regret? And besides, why should she not offer her condolences for what had been visited upon me? The way she looked at me, courteous but cold, made it impossible for me to know whether she had come to realize it was me she had escorted that night so long ago. And even if she had, would it have given her cause for anger? There had to be a code for forgiving someone so soundly defeated as me.