Haiti.
The captain was a thin unapproachable Hollander scrubbed clean like a piece of his own brass rail who only appeared once at table, and in contrast the purser was untidy and ebulliently gay with a great liking for Bols gin and Haitian rum. On the second day at sea he invited us to drink with him in his cabin. We all squashed in except for the traveller in pharmaceutical products who said that he must always be in bed by nine. Even the gentleman from Santo Domingo joined us and answered, âNo,â when the purser asked him how he found the weather.
The purser had a jovial habit of exaggerating everything, and his natural gaiety was only a little damped when the Smiths demanded bitter lemon and, when that was unavailable, Coca-Cola. âYouâre drinking your own deaths,â he told them and began to explain his own theory of how the secret ingredients were manufactured. The Smiths were unimpressed and drank the Coca-Cola with evident pleasure. âYou will need something stronger than that where you are going,â the purser said.
âMy husband and I have never taken anything stronger,â Mrs Smith replied.
âThe water is not to be trusted, and you will find no Coca-Cola now that the Americans have moved out. At night when you hear the shooting in the streets you will think perhaps that a strong glass of rum . . .â
âNot rum,â Mrs Smith said.
âShooting?â Mr Smith inquired. âIs there shooting?â He looked at his wife where she sat crouched under the travelling-rug (she was not warm enough even in the stuffy cabin) with a trace of anxiety. âWhy shooting?â
âAsk Mr Brown. He lives there.â
I said, âIâve not often heard shooting. They act more silently as a rule.â
âWho are they ?â Mr Smith asked.
âThe Tontons Macoute,â the purser broke in with wicked glee. âThe Presidentâs bogey-men. They wear dark glasses and they call on their victims after dark.â
Mr Smith laid his hand on his wifeâs knee. âThe gentleman is trying to scare us, my dear,â he said. âThey told us nothing about this at the tourist bureau.â
âHe little knows,â Mrs Smith said, âthat we donât scare easily,â and somehow I believed her.
âYou understand what weâre talking about, Mr Fernandez?â the purser called across the cabin in the high voice some people employ towards anyone of an alien race.
Mr Fernandez had the glazed look of a man approaching sleep. âYes,â he said, but I think it had been an equal chance whether he replied yes or no. Jones, who had been sitting on the edge of the purserâs bunk, nursing a glass of rum, spoke for the first time. âGive me fifty commandos,â he said, âand Iâd go through the country like a dose of salts.â
âWere you in the commandos?â I asked with some surprise.
He said ambiguously, âA different branch of the same outfit.â
The Presidential Candidate said, âWe have a personal introduction to the Minister for Social Welfare.â
âMinister for what?â the purser said. âWelfare? You wonât find any Welfare. You should see the rats, big as terriers . . .â
âI was told at the tourist bureau that there were some very good hotels.â
âI own one,â I said. I took out my pocket-book and showed him three postcards. Although printed in bright vulgar colours they had the dignity of history, for they were relics of an epoch over for ever. On one a blue tiled bathing-pool was crowded with girls in bikinis: on the second a drummer famous throughout the Caribbean was playing under the thatched roof of the Creole bar, and on the third â a general view of the hotel â there were gables and balconies and towers, the fantastic nineteenth-century architecture of Port-au-Prince. They at least had not changed.
âWe