Distraction - Bruce Sterling [184]
“This is Clotile,” Fontenot said. “She’s my housekeeper.” He stood up and began sheepishly gathering dead beer cans, while talking in halting French.
Clotile gave Kevin and Oscar a resentful, dismissive glance, then began to lecture her limping boss.
“This was your security guy?” Kevin hissed at Oscar. “This broken-down old hick?”
“Yes. He was really good at it, too.” Oscar was fascinated by the interplay of Fontenot and Clotile. They were engaged in a racial, economic, gender minuet whose context was a dosed book to him. Clearly, Clotile was one of the most important people in Fontenot’s life now. Fontenot really admired her; there was something about her that he deeply desired, and could never have again. Clotile felt sorry for him, and was willing to work for him, but she would never accept him. They were close enough to talk together, even joke with each other, but there was some tragic element in their relationship that would never, ever be put right. It was a poignant mini-drama, as distant to Oscar as a Kabuki play.
Oscar sensed that Fontenot’s credibility had been seriously damaged by their presence as his houseguests. Oscar examined his embroidered sleeves, his discarded gloves, his hairy flight helmet. An intense little moment of culture shock shot through him.
What a very strange world he was living in. What strange people: Kevin, Fontenot, Clotile—and himself, in his dashingly filthy disguise. Here they were, eating breakfast and cleaning house, while at the rim of their moral universe, the game had changed entirely. Pieces swam from center to periphery, periphery to center—pieces flew right off the board. He’d eaten so many breakfasts with Fontenot, in the past life, back in Boston. Every day a working breakfast, watching news clips, planning campaign strategy, choosing the cantaloupe. All light-years behind him now.
Clotile forged forth sturdily and snatched the plates away from Kevin and Oscar. “I hate to be underfoot here when your housekeeper’s so busy,” Oscar said mildly. “Maybe we should have a little stroll outside, and discuss the reason for our trip here.”
“Good idea,” said Fontenot. “Sure. You boys come on out.”
They followed Fontenot out his squeaking front door and down the warped wooden steps. “They’re such good people here,” Fontenot insisted, glancing warily back over his shoulder. “They’re so real.”
“I’m glad you’re on good terms with your neighbors.”
Fontenot nodded solemnly. “I go to Mass. The local folks got a little church up the way. I read the Good Book these days.… Never had time for it before, but I want the things that matter now. The real things.”
Oscar said nothing. He was not religious, but he’d always been impressed by Judeo-Christianity’s long political track record. “Tell us about this Haitian enclave, Jules.”
“Tell you? Hell, telling you’s no use. We’ll just go there. We’ll take my huvvy.”
Fontenot’s hovercraft was sitting below his house. The amphibious saucer had been an ambitious purchase, with indestructible plastic skirts and a powerful alcohol engine. It reeked of fish guts, and its stout and shiny hull was copiously littered with scales. Once emptied of its fisherman’s litter, it could seat three, though Kevin had to squeeze in.
The overloaded huvvy scraped and banged its way down to the bayou. Then it sloshed across the lily pads, burping and gargling.
“A huvvy’s good for bayou fishing,” Fontenot pronounced. “You need a shallow-draft boat in the Teche, what with all these snags, and old smashed cars, and such. The good folks around here kinda make fun of my big fancy huvvy, but I can really get around.”
“I understand these Haitians are very religious people.”
“Oh yeah,” nodded Fontenot. “They had a minister, back in the old country, doing his Moses free-the-people thing. So of course the regime had the guy shot. Then they did some terrible