Brief Encounters With Che Guevara_ Stories - Ben Fountain [58]
Jacmel’s huddled lights were far below now, disappearing and reappearing as the road switchbacked, finally vanishing for good when the mountains shouldered in. Syto tried not to hope, which as the miles ticked by became an act of will like holding his breath: every once in a while he had to let go. Through it all he continued praying to Jesus and Mary and the voodoo lwa, praying not for success, not even for the safety of his skin, but for a truer deliverance, whatever that might be.
Which was, he supposed when the warning shots came, just as well. The Land Cruiser swung wide and overtook the bus on a desolate mountain curve, the cops hanging out the windows and waving their pistols, screaming at the bus driver to stop. That higher deliverance, then, that’s what he should strive for—Syto felt strangely unburdened as he stepped off the bus, almost wise, as if he’d finally grasped the point of life, and the only thing he really wanted now was to see Esther one more time. Michelet ordered the passengers to line up with their baggage, and as the people went about organizing themselves the cops were seized by a kind of authoritarian fit, charging around the road and kicking and screaming, cuffing women and children no less than the men. Michelet himself stood off to the side silently quivering, simmering in his own little world of rage. The passengers gradually fell into line with the guardrail at their backs, the rail skirting the lip of a dark ravine with a woodcut silhouette of mountains beyond. Syto was conscious of the faint thump of drums in the ravine as Michelet made his way down the line and stopped.
“Syto Charles.”
“Oui, m’sieu le chef.”
Michelet cast a brief, seemingly thoughtful glance to the side, then wheeled and struck Syto a lashing blow. The other passengers turned away with a resigned moan.
“What is this?” Michelet screamed, kicking the cardboard box.
Syto tried to shake the blue sparks out of his eyes. “Coffee, m’sieu le chef. To sell in Port-au-Prince.” He thought Michelet was going to hit him again, but after a gruesome pause the chef snapped at his men to open the box. One of them sheared through the top with a nasty-looking knife, then the others pulled out two heavy burlap sacks. At a nod from Michelet, his deputy slashed them open with a single stroke, the sacks stuffed so tightly that the fabric burst with a lightning rip, releasing a dense arcing spew of—
Coffee. For several moments Michelet could only stare. He stepped into the road and scuffed at the beans, then shook the sacks until every last particle had rattled free. He turned and gaped at the crowd as if this were a dream, then his eyes fixed and hardened, coalesced with a plan. He advanced on Syto, drawing his pistol as he came. The other passengers inched back, and even the cops seemed to cower and avert their eyes. Syto had turned his face to the stars and consigned his soul when two buses suddenly blew around the corner, horns wailing, boom-box drums blaring, a profound, gurgling hum underlying it all like steam boilers about to explode. The buses pulled up with their lights on high-beam, wallowing in a backwash of diesel exhaust. The doors flapped open; cops and prisoners squinted into the void, and the next moment a swarm of Gédés was tumbling out the doors, coming at them like a horde of demented undertakers.
No, Syto thought, keep going, but in a moment he saw that it was out of his hands. The Gédés danced into the road singing and clacking their teeth,