A Rendezvous in Haiti by Stephen Becker Page B

while you enjoy the countryside,” Caroline said, “I languish in my room.”
    â€œI shall show you the big city,” Father Scarron said.
    The school was a white wooden shed with a corrugated iron roof also painted white. The shed was perhaps thirty feet by twenty, and the playground or courtyard about thirty feet by fifty: here the children would kick a ball, beat one another, scream and shout and sulk. Within the shed, Father Scarron explained, they would glance for a few minutes a day at some outlandish text, surely French in origin. “Some day we’ll teach in Creole. For now they will learn, or be exposed to, the life of Toussaint, the highlights of the French Revolution, the alphabet and some arithmetic. They will hear a few of La Fontaine’s fables and will be reminded again and again that Haiti is the only country in the world to have revolted, abolished slavery and expelled the former masters.”
    There was of course no electricity for this school, but that would arrange itself quite soon.
    There was of course no plumbing but that too would arrange itself quite soon.
    There were no books but that was irrelevant because there were no students.
    â€œAny Haitian who can afford unemployed ambulatory children can afford the lycée,” Father Scarron said. “But the Americans paid for this public school, and we Haitians are a polite people—cette fameuse politesse française, after all—so it has been constructed and advertised and every effort will be made to seat at these small desks deserving Haitians between the ages of six and twelve. And one of them will some day be a cabinet minister and it will all have been worth it.”
    The audience straggled to its wooden chairs and applauded politely at the mention of France, the United States, and the Haitian government. The school was described. It was to be observed that the east and west walls were mainly shutters, so that the presence or absence, indeed the very velocity, of the trade winds could be taken advantage of. A plaque would in time be erected, commemorating the generosity of the American people, who were the friends and benefactors of all the world now that war had been abolished.
    â€œIt is that sort of function,” Scarron murmured. “Everything is in the passive voice. Oh dear God,” he went on.
    They followed his gaze, toward the gate. A beggar was entering, almost unnoticed. Caroline took McAllister’s arm.
    The beggar was not old, but toothless, apparently, and one-eyed, and lacked a left foot.
    An Excellency was stressing the French heritage of this great country.
    The beggar was wearing a tattered tunic and hopping on one wooden crutch. What added zest to the occasion was the beggar’s sex and prominent breasts and, for the moment, the audience’s sublime unawareness.
    Caroline experienced a rush of affection for McAllister. She tried to thank him—for existing, for being there with her—but it was a wry smile.
    The woolly beast advanced. She plucked at a sleeve. A muffled cry wavered through the hot courtyard. Her mossy hair was crowned with lint, leaves, a green insect.
    His Excellency was praising Henri-Christophe, Napoleon when young, and Woodrow Wilson.
    The beggar continued along the outside row of chairs. Her eye gleamed. The occupants of those chairs shrank, fiercely attentive to the orator. A chorus of locusts chirred from beyond the wall. The breeze had dropped. The beggar approached the first row, and attempted to pass between the speaker and the spoken to. Gasps were uttered. His Excellency saw her in detail then, and faltered. The beggar hopped from dignitary to dignitary.
    His Excellency was equal to the occasion. He did not quiver in fury, nor did his voice rise. At his simple gesture a squad of police sprang up, as if he were Jason sowing dragon’s teeth. Almost before they converged, the beggar raised her free arm defensively and hopped once or twice