A Rendezvous in Haiti by Stephen Becker

Caroline said. “Both in white. Both in uniform.”
    â€œThis is a most unusual evening,” McAllister said to Scarron.
    â€œFor me too,” Scarron said.
    â€œI envy you,” McAllister said, “and I hope the Marines do leave soon. I don’t know about banks and corporations. I do know that the Corps wants to clean up, supervise an election, and go home.”
    â€œHome to the plantation, I believe.”
    â€œMy men are dying,” McAllister said.
    â€œYes; my apologies. And why do you envy me?”
    â€œYour future. You may even be president of this country some day. I don’t say all priests are selfless and honest; but it’s a place to look.”
    â€œGood Lord. Most of our presidents are poisoned or blown up.”
    â€œThat’s why I’m here,” McAllister said.
    Lieutenant McAllister and Miss Barbour made their farewells to various Excellencies and Honorables, to the colonel and assorted majors, to the attorney general and the anthropologist, and to Father Scarron. They descended stone steps and crossed a dark gravel drive by the light of torches in tall cressets. Distant drums still beat. In the drive coachmen sat like wax figures, glowing yet colorless in the licking torchlight; sat like well-trained circus tigers. McAllister handed Caroline into a fiacre; the night was dry and the roof was folded down, so they sat prim and proper, only holding hands. “A long day for you,” he said. “All those ensigns.”
    â€œA remarkably handsome wardroom,” she assured him.
    â€œSwabbies,” he said. “I wish we were at the hotel. I’d like very much to put my arms around you.”
    â€œI think I’d like that too,” she said.
    And they arrived not at Olofsson’s, which was full of Marines, but at the Grand Hôtel de Paris et de Port-au-Prince, which was small and clean and quiet, and they climbed the wooden stairs together, and crossed the broad threshold together, and walked arm-in-arm to the balcony to look out over the city. They kissed, tentatively and then with passion, and they stood embraced. The tambors followed them even here, and in some black alley a child wailed. McAllister drew back to look carefully at his lady’s face.
    â€œDon’t you dare say goodnight.”
    â€œYou’re exhausted. I’m a brute.”
    â€œNo, you’re not. I’d call you homely but honest.”
    â€œThat’s me,” he said.
    â€œYou’re still not sure.”
    He released her. “I make two thousand dollars a year plus two hundred overseas bonus.”
    â€œBut your quarters allowance has risen to four hundred and thirty-two dollars,” she said.
    â€œI told you not to be clever. Anyway I still have to buy my own uniforms. How do you like my dress whites?”
    â€œUnbearably handsome.”
    â€œTen seconds ago I was homely. You’re as confused as I am.”
    â€œI’m a bit confused about our tomorrow,” she said, and retrieved him, “but I am not the least confused about tonight.”
    On the Wednesday—what was Wednesday? Here the days flowed, merged; perhaps Sunday would orient them, churchbells—they joined Father Scarron to attend a public function. “By all means wear your medals,” the priest had said. “Be resplendent. Don’t come to Saint Rita’s; I’ll meet you at your hotel.” Now they were strolling the boulevard in the general direction of the Champ-de-Mars, Caroline and Scarron in white, McAllister in khaki; Caroline carried a parasol and wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. “It is the first school to be dedicated in over a year. Le tout-Port-au-Prince will be there. A chic woman will lose an earring. Sleek men will murmur assignations. Elegant polyglots will sweat like pigs. There will be no refreshments and in the end we will drift out of the courtyard and go our ways.”
    McAllister grumbled, “Why