The Farming of Bones_ A Novel - Edwidge Danticat [63]
I gathered from many scraps of conversation that the Generalissimo was inside the church. Earlier he had given a speech to the crowd, restating that the Dominican Republic’s problems with Haitians would soon be solved.
There was glee in the voices that recounted this. Some thought the Generalissimo was going to war with Haiti to force all of us to return there. I also heard some worried Kreyol-whispering voices, people who might have wanted to walk with us, but perhaps feared that gathering in large numbers would be dangerous for all.
Some of the Dominicans who were closest to us gave us looks that showed they pitied us more than they despised us. Others pointed us out to their children and laughed. They told jokes about us eating babies, cats, and dogs.
The crowd spilled into the square across from the cathedral. People waited anxiously for the Generalissimo to come out of the church. It was as though his presence were a sacred incident, something that might transform the rest of their lives.
La Orquesta Presidente Trujillo was playing in front of the fountain where Wilner had asked us to wait for him and Odette.
Yves grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the edge of the crowd. I turned around to make certain Tibon was following.
We moved towards a dark corner behind an acacia grove wreathed by crimson birds of paradise. A group of five young men watched us from beneath a frangipani a few feet away; they had deeply reddened faces as though, like us, they had spent the entire day walking in the sun.
“Best if we go to the border now,” Yves said, watching them watch him. “I don’t know if we can count on my friends. I don’t even know if they’re still here.”
Tibon agreed, but he wanted to give Wilner and Odette some time to find us.
“We should go immediately,” Yves spoke from behind his teeth, without moving his lips. “We should go while there’s a lot to occupy the soldiers and the crowd.”
The young men moved away from the frangipani and started towards us. They raised handfuls of parsley sprigs over their heads and mouthed, “Perejil. Perejil.”’
A few of the people on the benches walked away in fear as the young men came towards us. The soldiers were too far away, and I didn’t think they’d want to defend us in any case.
The young men surrounded us, isolating us from most of the crowd faithfully watching the church doors and waiting for the Generalissimo to come out. As they circled us, Yves pulled out his machete and held it like a metal sash across his chest. Two of the young men lunged at him and wrestled the machete out of his grasp. The other three ripped off Tibon’s shirt and poked a broomstick at his skeletal arm. Tibon tried to step back, but the young men shoved him forward, towards the stick.
I moved to an empty space on my left and found myself stepping on one of the young men’s feet. His cheeks ballooned. He spat. I reached up and touched the glob as it rolled down my face. It was green with chunks of parsley.
Tibon thrust his muscular shoulder at one of the youths who was poking the broomstick at his chest. He was a child really, perhaps fourteen years of age, jabbing at Tibon as though he were sitting by a pond and teasing the small fishes circling around his feet. This boy was caught off guard when Tibon charged towards him; the broom fell from his hand as he staggered and tried to remain on his feet. Tibon encircled the boy’s neck with his more developed arm and tightened his grip. He dug his teeth into the curved bone behind the boy’s left ear, keeping the boy’s scream buried in his throat by pressing his bony forearm down on the boy’s lips. Two of the boys’ comrades began pounding their fists against Tibon’s back, but Tibon only squeezed the boy’s neck harder. The boy began choking, blood flowing from his