Beneath the Darkest Sky Page 4

  “Yes,” said Loretta, knee tapping me again. “Twisting your wife’s words opens you up to it.”

  “Wow,” I said, “I could have sworn I was just sitting here minding my own business. Should I take cover?”

  Dorene and Loretta held back their laughter, shaking their heads in the affirmative while Bobby gave me a look of empathy.

  “I believe,” said Loretta, “that the curse is designed to make a man’s marriage slowly fall apart. Right, Dorene?”

  “Yes, a sorcerer . . . or bokor, to be specific, could cast one on you without you even participating in a ceremony.”

  Bobby and I were still listening and playing along, but the way our wives were working in tandem had our eyebrows raised. It was as if they were able to finish each other’s sentences or thoughts on cue.

  “That’s enough,” said Bobby. “We get your point.”

  “Do you?” said Dorene, playfully. “You’ve been twisting my words since I’ve known you. It is just part of being an American man, I believe. Don’t forget, I’ve traveled the world many times over and find that this word manipulation is unique to you American boys.”

  “Designed to make a man’s marriage fall apart, huh, Loretta?” I said.

  “You heard me, handsome man. I’ve learned a lot from my gals on the island. They run this country, boy. Once you are given the pati gason hex, your natural word twisting gets worse, then turns to flat out compulsive lying, then, dare I say, turns to rampant cheating. The wife then has no choice but to leave the bastard for a new, faithful man. Do you have anything to add, my dear sister, Dorene?”

  The two clinked glasses.

  “Only that the final stage of the curse, which happens even after the man is left alone and without family, is that a significant body part of his begins to decay and eventually fall off.”

  “Oh God!” Bobby and I said in unison.

  They both inhaled and looked at each other, giggling, obviously inebriated in the most endearing way.

  “Touché!” I said, picking up the bottle of wine.

  “Yes,” said Bobby. “Touché!”

  I began refilling all of our glasses while the three of them lit a new smoke.

  “Don’t ever twist her words again, Bobby,” I said.

  “Oh, believe me,” he said, playfully nodding, “I’ll try not to.”

  “Good,” said Dorene.

  “But if I fail and do, may these splendid little digs at our maleness continue aboard your father’s yacht next week.”

  “They shall,” she said, the two of them kissing.

  “Wait,” I said, “we’re not traveling on—”

  “No!” said Bobby, excitedly. “Change of plans. The new agenda is for the yacht to pick us up at Cap-Haïtien around noon on the fourteenth. From there we will steam to Miami, then up the east coast to Nantucket, where we’ll spend four days at her parents’ estate.”

  “Oh my gosh!” said Loretta. “This sounds absolutely fantastic.”

  “It is a treat of all treats,” said Bobby. “Believe me. Dorene doesn’t mind my boyish excitement when it comes to traveling on the Trumpet. The first time I stepped aboard the ninety-six-footer, I ran around it like a child who’d stumbled upon Neverland. It is a pristine ship.”

  “And I really want to make this special for the four children,” said Dorene, looking at Loretta. “Let’s let them each have their own room.”

  “Well . . . okay!” said Loretta, surprised at all of it.

  “We will depart for France from New York City aboard the Ile de France,” said Bobby. From Le Havre we’ll board the train to Moscow. Then our work begins, Prescott. It will be time for you to break out those Russian words for real.”

  “I still can’t believe your acumen for languages, Prescott,” said Dorene. “To say you are indispensable is not enough. Have you thanked him every day, Bobby?”

  “Of course. But it’s not just translating. I haven’t had the opportunity to speak with Ambassador Bullitt yet. He’s, of course, already been posted at Spaso House, but it sounds as if there are a myriad of technical problems with the house, and once Bullitt learns of Prescott’s engineering skills, he’ll likely be inclined to put him on a personal service contract as a technical consultant.”

  “But then how will you survive the city without your right-hand man, dear?” said Dorene.

  Bobby turned to her. “Maybe you can learn Russian and take his place.”

  “I just may.”

  “I’m actually looking forward,” I said, “to seeing if we coloreds are indeed treated as well in the Soviet Union as so many have claimed. According to an old friend of mine, Claude McKay, he damn near forgot his skin was black while there. Du Bois has called their social experiment promising. Maybe I can bottle it and take it to America. Could it be that we and our children might find it a country that can offer us something altogether new?”

  “Not even Paris offered us that,” said Loretta. “Almost! But not one hundred percent!”

  “No!” I said. “And we want our children to feel equal one hundred percent of the time. Not sixty or even seventy percent of the time! Not only in certain sections of certain towns! Am I being greedy?”

  “Of course not!” said Dorene.

  “There were times in Paris,” said Loretta, “when we ventured out of our little community and I felt less than, or like I had wandered into the wrong place. And it was always, in some less than straightforward way, made clear to me by somebody that I should have known better.”

  “Really?” said Dorene. “Even in Paris, Loretta?”

  “Yes. Only in certain areas, but . . . there were times.”

  “But make no mistake,” I said, “it pales in comparison to the systematic horror that exists in the U.S.”

  Bobby shook his head. “I was born in the wrong era for a white man, because for the life of me, I’ve never been able to wrap my head around racism. I truly haven’t once, since the four of us have been sitting here enjoying one another, thought about the fact that you two have darker skin. I can only hope, as I set about my quest to become an ambassador, that President Roosevelt has an ounce of this same feeling in his bones.”

  Dorene seemed concerned. “Well, I know that the first lady has those sentiments personally. And if the president cannot get all the way there politically, well, then, shame on him. The United States of America can never consider itself whole and just until absolute social equality is felt by every single one of its citizens.”

  “Can I ask why you didn’t run for president?” I said.

  “Because I’m a woman. And as farfetched as this may sound, I believe a black man will become president of the U.S. before a woman does. But women’s rights is certainly an issue the first lady is championing. We live in a time where real social change is on the horizon. At least I choose to believe that.”

  “You’re so decent,” I said. “Both you and Bobby are rare. You spoke earlier, Dorene, about my acumen for languages. Part of the reason I’m obsessed with languages is—”

  “You’re obsessed with everything,” said Bobby. “And in a good way. Prescott doesn’t like when I go here, darling, because he doesn’t like to toot his own horn, but he knows a lot about literature, art, geology, cooking, sport, opera, theater, geography, history, and, of course, politics.”

  “A real renaissance man,” said Dorene. “And you’re an engineer.”

  “I want my entire life to be a renaissance . . . a revival of learning, a renewal of spirit, of vigor.”

  “Oh,” said Loretta, “let us not leave out his interest in fashion and horticulture.”

  “Horticulture!” said Bobby with a look of bewilderment while Loretta nodded.

  “There’s a simple reason for all of this,” I said. “When you’re a Negro in this world, it is certainly in your best interest to be a jack-of-all-trades. And I try to be at least a master of a few. I think of that Negro of yesteryear . . . or of today. When he is constantly told by the powers tha
t be that he is basically nobody and hasn’t the right to do anything . . . he spends a lifetime trying to prove that he is somebody, and that he can perhaps do everything.”

  I sipped and watched the three of them smoke. I felt that I could say anything around the Ellingtons. I was completely at ease.

  “I think it’s a subconscious thing, though,” I said. “I’m not actively trying to prove anything to myself or anybody. But you grow up hearing stories about ancestors, slave stories, and then you feel a lot of this racism yourself, and even though you’ve accomplished a lot in the way of education, you’re aware that the general consensus is that your type is nothing. Such ignorance breeds a burning desire in you to try to soak up every single thing this world has to offer that is free. Learning is free.”

  “And you love it,” said Loretta. “I’ve never gotten the sense that you’re trying to prove anything, so that part is indeed a subconscious thing.” She turned to Bobby and Dorene. “I think he gets inspired by the characters in the novels he reads.”

  “Let’s just say I’m very hirable,” I said, provoking laughter.

  “What about the subject of law, Prescott?” asked Bobby.

  “Now that . . . I hate.”

  The two ladies laughed at Bobby, knowing he’d worked hard to earn his law degree. But, as always, he took it in jest.

  Dorene held up her glass. “All I know is that we are the two luckiest women in Haiti, married to two gorgeous men. Bobby, my dear, you do know how perfectly handsome you remain, don’t you?”

  “Thank you. I try.”

  “You do more than try, dear. You run every day.” She began rubbing his chest. “And it shows on all six feet of you.”

  “I just wish I were a wee bit taller, say six feet two, like my translator friend there. Does he remind you often how fit he is, Loretta?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You just don’t know. The man loves one thing more than me. A mirror.”

  “Stop!” I said.

  “He’s always posing and primping and strutting around the bedroom. He was six-two when I met him, but I think he continues to grow because he stretches himself every day after doing that stuff with the kicking and the punching and—”

  “Kodokan Judo,” I said. “And don’t make fun. Perhaps Dorene would like to know more about the benefits of meditative, physical routines.”

  “He still does it every single morning without fail,” said Loretta.

  “You’ll have to show her on the yacht,” said Bobby. “You’ll have quite the captive audience. I would love to see my wife learn hand-to-hand combat. This trip to your parents, dear, can’t come soon enough.”

  5

  Vladivostok, Russia

  September 1937

  THERE HAD BEEN MORE TRAIN STOPS ALONG THE WAY, MORE BLACK bread, an occasional cup of soup, and yes, a few more private, hearty meals for me with the guard. We’d been traveling for weeks now, and had finally come to the end of our journey, at least all of us prisoners thought so upon hearing the guard’s initial words to us. “The train is stopping for good now that we are near Vladivostok,” he said, the lights coming on inside the car, as he stood outside of our compartments. “There is no more land to travel. The train cannot keep going into the Sea of Japan.”

  He and the other guard snickered at his comment before he continued.

  “But this is not your final stopping point. This is a transit camp. Don’t ask how many days you will be here because I will hit you with the hammer again. Some will leave sooner, some later. It is not freezing season yet, so you will be okay to stand inside the fences until we take you to the ships. From there we will take you north to Kolyma. Then you will be finished traveling. When you are not in the barracks or in roll call line, this transit camp is wide open for you to walk and sit and pray and cry and die. No! Don’t die! Too many scum have already died on the way here because they were too weak. And now . . . we don’t want to have to shoot anyone because you try to run away over the fence. Do you hear me?”

  We all let out a rather weak, collective, “DA!”

  “Good!” he said. “Many out there are political prisoners, counterrevolutionaries. And others are rapists, murderers, and robbers. It doesn’t matter to us. You are all in there together. And don’t worry about your filthy smell. It rains a lot here this time of year. You will get a nice, long bath when the clouds come.”

  Moments later we filed out into a vast, flat area. There was mostly dirt under our feet, but off in the distance in all directions was green vegetation, and I could smell the sea. Perhaps this portion of oak wood trees and ginseng plants had been carved away just for prisoners like us. We couldn’t yet see the camp and were told to line up parallel to the train. I had my eyes almost completely closed, as the morning sunlight was excruciating.

  “Listen, zeks!” said one of the guards. “You are car number twenty-eight for the entire time you’re at this camp. You will be assigned to a specific barracks, too, once we are inside. Beginning later in the day, when we release you from the lines, you can walk around and try to build some strength. But if you hear the horn, you must line up for roll call.”

  After he finished lecturing us, he took roll and checked our papers and passports. Then our group, along with the other few thousand, began to walk toward the rear of the long train. When we were able to, we crossed the tracks and walked east, along a trail lined with oak woods. Once we were out in the open again, we could see wooden structures in the distance and dots of men. The closer we got, the more unbelievable the scene.

  There were an astounding number of prisoners already waiting inside the holding camp, some of them in rows, some wandering about. It was a shock to my eyes, this sprawling corral of men that seemed to stretch to infinity. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the number were close to a hundred thousand. It was a massive collection of filthy, hungry, emaciated souls.

  As we were herded inside the barbed wire, I focused on the many wooden barracks beyond the zeks. There were rows and rows, but perhaps not enough to house us all. I wondered where some of us would sleep when it got dark, but then I realized I was doing the one thing a prisoner here should avoid—trying to think rationally about our circumstances. We were of course going to lie down right on the ground and sleep, or at least attempt to.

  Once we were about halfway inside this so-called tranzitka, we were told to stop. I was struck by the uniformity of all the prisoners. The long, perfect rows of downtrodden souls resembled those one might see on a military base.

  “Listen to me!” said our guard. “I’ve just been informed that you have been given barracks number twelve. But you are to remain in line here until further notice. Once we take roll again you will be free to move about. But you are to stay away from the barracks until nightfall. When we release you here shortly, you can use the latrine. Remember, later when the horn sounds, you better be in line for roll call. No one better be shitting or pissing then. That will be very bad for you . . . very bloody for you!”

  The rest of that day was miserable. We never were allowed to move about, as we were forced to stand in line until dusk and watch the other prisoners near the barracks, those who’d been here a while, roam around freely. The only positive was that it felt like good exercise just being able to finally stand for a long period of time. We were getting the blood out of our asses, the numbness out of our backs and legs. The only time we were interrupted was when some nurses came by and examined our teeth and pinched our buttocks for dystrophy. They were obviously checking to see which of us were still suitable to work.

  Studying the camp, I noticed a long fence that separated the right set of barracks from the left. I was guessing that our guard had lied to us, and that these were two separate zones, one for political prisoners and one for common criminals.

  With the sun about to dip below the oak woods in the distance, we were finally led to barracks number twelve. Inside the dark, filthy room that smelled of vomit, wooden bunk beds—each set stacked fiv
e high—lined the walls. After we all used the latrine and ate some rye dumplings with herring, I secured a bottom bed for myself, and one for James just above me. There was no talking on this night, only a long attempt to sleep through the filthy smell of the thin, sticky, straw mattresses and the itchy bites of mosquitoes and bed bugs. Nightmares would come easy, but sleep most certainly would not.

  * * *

  The following morning, after lining up for roll call and finally being allowed to walk about, the six from our train compartment walked north toward the farthest barrack.

  “I would rather be a cow or a horse,” said Yury, walking beside me. “At least they have proper stalls and barns. And I bet hay tastes better than the black bread or the urine soup they give us.”

  “I, for one, am looking forward to the soup,” I said. “Let’s try to think positive. Maybe we can salvage our sanity for a little while longer, Yury.”

  “You Americans!”

  “I’m starving,” said Mikhail, dragging his feet.

  “So am I,” said Boris.

  “Listen to me,” said the old man Abram, his Russian rather raspy, his old body damn near completely withered away. “Besides the boy here, James, we’ve all spent decades eating food, filling our bellies to maximum I’ll bet. So now it is time to overcome this feeling of hunger. It’s just that. A feeling! Overcome it! Think of the thousands and thousands of meals you’ve eaten, and imagine they were all consumed so you could survive this day, this week, this month, these years. Our lives have been a feast, and now we must accept this nothingness for a while and not succumb to it. It will all balance out in the end, this life of feasting and starving. We are loaded with nutrients, equipped to survive the torture. At least you all! My battle is with age.”