Our Last Carnival: A Novel

CHAPTER 1

July 3, 2005

It is the eve of my sixtieth birthday, and I am nearing the twilight of my career and my life. As I lay on a comfortable deck chair in my terrace, overlooking the bay and balmy blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea, I am sipping a frosty drink to refresh my parched throat. I can’t help but reflect on the six decades that have already come and gone and, in that time, I have collected a lifetime of memories and stories. My thoughts drift back to those early years which I recall with great fondness and satisfaction, even though, along the way, there were as many tears as there was laughter.

As if I am able to travel through time, my thoughts transport me to the voyage I embarked upon so many moons ago. I can visualize every detail clearly. I can hear the sounds and feel the heavy atmosphere of that auspicious day that took our family so far away from Ciudad Trujillo (present day Santo Domingo), the capital city of our Dominican homeland. I distinctly remember the date—February 27, 1952—and I succumb to the memory.

Not only was it Dominican Independence Day, it was also Carnival Day. As was customary, the entire island was celebrating with a frenzied masquerade party. Thousands of people mobbed each other as they paraded down El Malecón (the capital’s beachfront promenade) in their wildly colorful, traditional masquerade costumes. Merengue music could be heard coming from loud bands as they pranced down the wide boulevard. And shouting and singing burst forth from the crowds as people danced along the shore of the turbulent Caribbean Sea.

The crowds gathered under the scorching sun, right in front of the tall obelisk which doubled as a city monument and a meeting place/point of reference for the beachfront promenade. The aroma from the Creole food stands permeated the warm tropical air, and food was gulped down with generous portions of the national drinks so well loved by the locals—Presidente beer and Bermudez rum.

Being inherently demonstrative people, Dominicans greeted each other warmly with a loud, Hi! How are you? as they exchanged friendly hugs, kisses, and affectionate slaps on the back. The sounds of giggly laughter and innocent gaiety were everywhere. At Carnival time, the atmosphere was indescribable.

Those not celebrating in the streets were doing so in their homes with families and friends. Our family was no different. We were at home in a residential area called Gazcue. It was located in the center of the capital city, just a stone’s throw from the Presidential Palace.

My mother Quisqueya, or Queya, as she preferred to be called, had just finished dressing. She had on a red, gathered skirt and a white blouse with red embroidered flowers around the décolleté. She and our maid, Dulce, were scrambling to get everything ready before the guests arrived. I saw how they arranged the finishing touches of our dining table. In the center, they placed a tall vase containing tropical flowers freshly picked from our garden. A large bowl of rum punch was filled to the brim, and the rest of the table was covered with typical Dominican staples like white rice and red beans—a duo seldom absent from a Dominican table and affectionately called the Dominican flag.

As always, my four-year-old brother, Francisco, was whining and bothering everyone, especially me. I was irritated to no end, but I knew that even if I complained, my protests would go unheeded because Francisco was the apple of the family’s eyes and was never scolded. He had been born with a deformed heart—severe mitral valve prolapse. His infirmity, in combination with his being the baby and the family’s only male child, guaranteed him preferential treatment for life. Besides, at that moment Mami, as I called my mother, was much too busy to reprimand anyone, so Francisco kept sticking his finger in the majarete (a creamy Dominican corn pudding) and licking it.

As for me, I was told to stop interfering with the proceedings. As Mami put it in a commanding voice, Lyana, you’re a threat to our preparations. Go outside and play with your brother right now!

Having been told to skedaddle, our neighbor’s housekeeper, Ramona, took the children in her care, plus Francisco and me, to play nearby to the Parque Ramfis. In the park’s glorieta (gazebo) we skipped rope and played hide-and-seek until we were allowed back in the house. That was sometime after Mami was sure we weren’t going to disrupt her carefully planned party.

Our extended family began arriving soon after the midday siren sounded. This was a daily custom in Dominican towns and cities which announced that it was noontime. First to arrive was Aunt Miriam, my father’s sister, with her husband and their children. Then more cousins arrived, followed by my paternal grandparents. Mami’s close relatives didn’t attend because they lived in Santiago, which was quite a distance from the capital city. Friends were also in attendance. These were lifelong friends whose families had been friends with my grandparents and great-grandparents. In fact, we were so close that we referred to these friends as our cousins. As the party got under way, many guests sat outside on the patio under the protection of the huge fruit trees that offered a cooling shade from the sweltering heat. The only people missing from the celebration were my father, Luis Francisco, and my mother’s brother; Uncle Felipe, a young lieutenant in the Dominican army.

Where’s Papi? I asked my mother.

Lyana, for a seven-year-old, you’re pretty nosy, aren’t you? she scolded. Your father and your Uncle Felipe had something very important to do. Don’t ask so many questions. Why do you need to know everything? Go back outside and play with all the children.

I never thought of myself as nosy; I was just curious. However, I had no choice but to obey her orders, so I headed out toward our home’s vast courtyard where I could swing from a hammock that was attached to the trunks of two very large mango trees.

The music started to play from the Victrola, and some of the guests who’d brought along record albums shared their favorites. We listened to fast-moving merengues, guarachas, and mambos as the food and drink disappeared fast, a testament to how delicious it tasted.

We had so much fun that time seemed to fly by. By early evening, as it began to get dark outside, the guests slowly started to say good-bye. But Papi and Uncle Felipe still had not returned home. I couldn’t believe they’d missed the whole party.

I heard Mami’s voice call out to Francisco and me, ordering us to get into the house as it was nearing our bedtime. I didn’t want to go to bed, so I stayed outside waiting for our maid Dulce to come for Francisco and me.

Later, Mami came into our bedroom to tuck us in and kiss us goodnight. As she exited, Mami told Dulce that she could retire to her quarters and sleep late the next morning because she had worked so hard all day long. The two also commented on how well the festivities had gone and on what a wonderful day it had been all around.

This is definitely the best Carnival Day our family has ever celebrated! Mami said with a smile indicating her satisfaction.

My brother and I were so tired from the long day’s events that we fell sound asleep right away.

At some point during the night—I didn’t know what time it was, only that it was still dark outside, I was awakened by a persistent and loud banging. Someone was knocking frantically on our front door. Then I heard Mami call out in a loud voice, Dulce! Wake up! Wake up! Go see who’s out there knocking!

A few minutes later I heard Dulce reply, Yes, yes, señora, right away. I’m on my way!

I got up, stood by my bedroom door and peeked out into the hall. I saw Dulce run out from the staff quarters, rubbing the sleep from her tired eyes as she crossed the vast living room to the front door. I was still standing by my bedroom door when Mami came out of her bedroom putting on her bathrobe. She also headed toward the front door to see for herself what was wrong.

Who is it? The young servant asked in a low voice before opening the door.

It’s me, Luis. Open up quickly, woman! Open up!

Recognizing my father’s voice, Dulce unlocked the door, and with a certain panic in her voice, she let out a mighty scream.

Doña Queya, come quick!

With all the commotion, my brother began to awake as well. I signaled him to go back to sleep and said, I’ll tell you all about it in the morning. He put his head back on the pillow and continued his innocent slumber.

I crept out into the hallway and saw my father stumble into the entrance hall. He was perspiring profusely, and his normally pristine, white, embroidered cotton shirt was soiled and drenched with bright red blood. Mami shrieked when she saw him.

Oh my God, Luis…What happened to you? She asked looking confused.

With his voice trembling, he said, Queya! Hurry! Help us! Felipe has been wounded!

Mami and Dulce rushed to help the men. I found it impossible to stay in the hallway any longer, so I also ran to lend a hand—whatever assistance a seven year old girl could offer, that is. I could feel the agitation in the air.

Uncle Felipe was helped onto the wicker sofa, where he slumped on the armrest. I could see blood dripping from his left side, and there was a hole in his khaki army shirt from where the blood was gushing out.

Mami look horrified at the sight of her brother in that dreadful state. She told Dulce, Go…go quickly and get the bottle of Mercurochrome from the medicine cabinet and some clean rags to wrap around that wound.

Dulce immediately followed her orders. By then, large drops of blood were spotting the tile floor, and the sofa had begun to soak up a lot of blood.

Who did this to you, Felipe? Mami asked her brother, as tears began pouring from her eyes. But he was too weak to reply.

Trujillo’s henchman, Papi said angrily. Hurry, Queya. He ordered. Wake up the children and get them dressed. We need to flee the country at once!

But Luis, Mami interrupted, please explain to me what has happened to the two of you?

Queya, please do what I ask, my father said sounding and looking frantic. I’ll explain later, because if they find us, they’ll kill us all! Hurry my love! He insisted. Pack a small bag with only our most important papers, your jewelry, and whatever money we have in the house. Your brother thinks that we might be able to hide in his in-laws’ country house until we can get out of this country. I believe it’ll be best if we try to cross the border and escape to Haiti.

My mother immediately followed his instructions without asking any further questions. As a child, I didn’t understand what was going on that night. Later, when I was old enough to comprehend, I realized that my mother had long known that my father and Uncle Felipe, with the help of other army dissidents, had been involved in inciting subversion and engaging in the overthrow of Dictator Rafael Trujillo. Mami had feared that this day might come, but it arrived much sooner than she had expected. Whatever had happened that night, she knew the situation was extremely grave and that our lives were most likely on the line.

Dulce and I ran to wake my little brother, but by this time he was up and started to cry. Don’t cry Francisco, she told him, trying to quiet him down, and hugged him to reassure him. Then she started to dress us in the clothes that were handiest. She dressed Francisco with the same short blue pants and white shirt he had worn earlier in the day and told me to put on the yellow cotton dress that had been hanging on the armoire’s doorknob and the white shoes that were under my bed. She then said, Go sit there in the dining room and be quiet. We did what she asked right away.

The uproar in the house was confusing. I noticed my parents and Uncle Felipe huddled together speaking in low whispers in an effort to keep us children and the maid from hearing their discussion. But I did overhear them mutter something about going al extranjero (abroad). Not knowing what that word meant, I prepared myself to go to wherever this place was, convinced that it wouldn’t be too far from home.

Our mother ordered Dulce, "Take the children into the master bedroom and stay there with them. Then Mami followed into the room and quickly began to get dressed. She wrapped a scarf over her head to cover her uncombed hair and she and Dulce rushed to pack items from her large armoire. Abruptly, Mami opened the chest of drawers, chose a few necessary items, and emptied the contents of her jewelry box into a cloth pouch and put it inside her handbag. As Mami exited the bedroom with Francisco and me in tow, she stopped to look back at the saints on the religious home altar table. In the shimmering candlelight, there stood a small statuette of our Dominican patron saint, the Virgin of Altagracia. Mami knelt in front of it, made the sign of the cross and prayed.

Virgin of Altagracia, I beg you, please come with us to protect us on this perilous journey.

She stood up, kissed the small statuette, put it inside her handbag, and left the bedroom hastily as Papi pressed on, Hurry, hurry, Queya! We have to leave immediately!

I naturally assumed that Dulce was coming with us, but Mami gave her very specific instructions.

Dulce, stay in the house for tonight, but as soon as we leave, start packing all your belongings so you can return home to your village and your family early tomorrow morning. Here, take these pesos for the bus fare. When we are safe, we will contact you.

Yes Doña Queya, whatever you say, Dulce replied obediently.

Unfortunately, Mami continued, you can’t count on these damn buses to run on a reliable schedule, but take the earliest possible bus leaving for your village.

For Dulce there was no other manner of transport to get to her small village, which was deep in the countryside of the agricultural Cibao region and quite a few hours’ drive from the capital city.

The Spanish word dulce literally means sweet, and she was. Crying, she hugged Francisco and me tenderly. Oh, my babies…I’ll miss you both so much. Don’t forget me, because I’ll be right here waiting for all of you when you return home!

All of a sudden, we could hear cars quickly approaching our house. My father immediately ran out to the driver’s side of Uncle Felipe’s dark blue car, got in, and turned the key as Mother huddled Francisco and me into the back seat. I could still hear Lourdes sobbing as we climbed in the car.

In an instant, the screeching car tires stopped in front of our house. There were two or three black government cars with about ten guardias. I knew they were military men by their uniforms and because they carried weapons. Only one of the men was wearing civilian clothes.

Just as Uncle Felipe was opening the door and climbing in, a barrage of bullets was fired at us. Loud angry voices filled the night’s silence, and I heard the man dressed in civilian clothes shout out, Kill those bastards! Kill them!

Another yelled back, But captain, there are children in the car!

It doesn’t matter. Kill everyone! was his cruel reply.

The bullets were flying in all directions as our desperate mother tried frantically to shield my brother and me from harm. As the car jolted forward, my parents realized that Uncle Felipe had not been able to get into the car. He had collapsed onto the curbside after being fatally shot. My father sped away, but we could tell that innumerable gunshot blasts had perforated our car, and we continued to scream out of sheer terror and confusion as loud machine gunfire was fired in our direction.

The chaos woke some of our neighbors and house lights came on as the fearful peered through the slats of their Venetian blinds. It was evident that some of them had seen the whole episode, but not even one person dared to come out of the house. In dictator Trujillo’s murderous times, aiding someone in our situation would have been a good enough reason to be arrested, made to disappear, or even to be summarily executed on the spot. The fear that lived in the hearts of Dominicans at that time can hardly be explained.

We sped away as fast as we could, but two of the cars followed us doggedly, its passengers still shooting. My father was driving as fast as humanly possible, considering the condition of the badly paved roads. Our heads bobbed up and down like jumping beans hitting the roof of the car. Unfortunately, we weren’t fast enough. When he grabbed at his left shoulder, we realized that Papi had been shot.

Queya, I think they got me!

Mami looked at him and saw that blood was gushing from his shoulder.

Luis, let’s stop. You’ve been badly wounded. We need to stop the bleeding.

If I stop, he yelled, we’ll all die!

Papi wouldn’t hear of slowing down, let alone stopping. In fact, he slammed the gas pedal to the floorboard. He knew that he was our only chance at salvation from this terrifying situation because no one but him knew how to drive.

To get out of the city limits faster, he drove west on the famous El Malecón beachfront route where there were still a few stragglers celebrating Carnival Day. He took this particular road because he knew it was probably the best paved road in the whole city, and he could speed on it. When the good roads were exhausted, he drove on unpaved gravel roads. The tac, tac, tac, sound came from little pebbles bouncing off the windshield glass. It sounded like heavy tropical raindrops. It was thanks to my father’s good knowledge of his native city that he was able to take a few good turns to keep ahead of our pursuers. We couldn’t see our chasers, but we also weren’t sure we’d outrun them. Not knowing where they’d turn up next, and still petrified, we continued our precipitous escape for many more hours.

By then, Papi was bleeding profusely from his gunshot wound, and it looked as if he was about to lose consciousness. An eerie feeling came over us, and my devastated mother cried uncontrollably. Not only had she just witnessed the murder of her much-loved younger brother, Felipe, but now, her husband’s condition was deteriorating in front of her very eyes and the eyes of her children. We continued to cower in the back of the car, paralyzed by terror, but my father kept traveling west toward the town of San Cristóbal in an effort to get us as far away as possible from the capital city. In the scary black of the night, we drove without stopping for what seemed an eternity.

Nearing dawn, in a very isolated area where there was no one to be seen or heard except for the songs of the owls, Papi finally stopped the car and allowed Mami to sit in the front seat next to him so she could wrap her headscarf around his shoulder, to enable him to continue to drive.

After many hours, the car approached a border crossing near the town of Jimaní.

Papi said, Unless I’m totally wrong, we should be near the Haitian border.

He wasn’t certain because he had taken that route only once before, and that was a very long time ago. He was trying to get us to the Haitian border while simultaneously avoiding the treacherous drive through the Massif de la Salle mountain range. He decided that our journey would be faster and safer if he drove on the flat road that ran parallel to Lake Azuei.

As we got closer to the border stop, my parents voiced their concerns about what would happen to us there. Luis, said Mami. I’m so scared to go into Haiti. It’s such an endemically corrupt country, and we are in a car full of bullet holes with four visibly frightened passengers.

We have no other choice. My father said.

Since there was no other option, we continued to drive unabated toward the guardhouse until we were right in front of it.

At first view, we could see two half-sleeping sentries sitting on wobbly cane chairs. One of them continued to sleep as the other lazily approached our car. With a sinister look on his ugly face, he pointed a gun with one hand and shone a flashlight in my father’s face with the other. He noticed immediately the blood that covered my parents’ clothes and their excessive nervousness. He saw my brother and me in the back seat, but he didn’t seem interested in us.

In poor Spanish, sprinkled with a heavily accented Haitian patois, he asked my father, Monsieur, where you go?

My father explained in Spanish, We’re on our way to visit a sick friend in Port-au- Prince. But the guard didn’t believe him for a moment.

You have document? he asked insistently.

My parents produced their cédulas (Dominican national identification cards) and handed them over with certain edginess. The guard turned the cards every which way as he looked at my parents suspiciously. He then walked around to the other side of the vehicle and noticed the bullet holes piercing the metal like a sieve.

He pointed to the car’s trunk, and with a very demanding voice he commanded my father, Open now!

Mami quickly leaped out of the front passenger seat with the keys to open the trunk, but the guard signaled her to stay seated and ordered Papi to get out of the car. When he tried to get up, he couldn’t do it. The guard could easily see that he was bleeding.

The guard then went around to my mother’s side and asked.

Señora, what really happened?

Mami looked at my father trembling nervously.

Monsieur, on our way here we were in a very bad car accident. A large truck rammed into our car. This is why my husband is hurt, and the car is in such bad condition.

Sardonically, the guard insisted, I no think so. I think I call my police friend in Dominicana to find out who you are. Yes?

All along, the man was holding my parents’ only form of identification as ransom.

My parents looked horrified at the thought of losing their documents, or even worse, at being arrested on the spot if the guard contacted the Dominican police. My father quickly said in an appeasing humble voice using the little French he spoke, Look, my good friend, that’s not necessary. We can arrange this matter between us like friends. With that, my father showed the guard a few Dominican pesos.

Yes…Why not? That’s better. Replied the guard, mockingly.

He quickly ripped the bills from my father’s hand, counted them, and hinted that it wasn’t enough. The guard didn’t wait to be offered more money; he simply snatched the rest of the bills from Papi’s hand before tauntingly retuning their papers with a sarcastic laugh.

There was nothing left to do for my father but to step on the gas and careen down the dark, creepy road, just as we had been doing all night long.

Looking at my father quite worried, Mami said, Luis, you’re sweating profusely, and I think you have a fever. We’re going to need to find a doctor, and soon. Stop somewhere. Let’s see if we can get you some help.

In a weak voice, and sounding completely exhausted, he insisted. I can’t stop now. When we get to where we’re going, we’ll try to find a doctor, but I have to drive until then. Our lives depend on it.

CHAPTER 2

So many anxious hours at the wheel had left all of us mentally and physically worn out. Francisco and I fell asleep at some point in the journey, finally unable to keep our eyes open any longer. When we awoke, sunlight was streaming through the car window, and the car was parked in front of a dilapidated wooden shack. I had no idea where we were. Francisco was still asleep, wearing his usual angelic expression. My mother had her arm around my father’s shoulders; she was attempting to keep his blood loss to a minimum. The gruesome, long, and bumpy ride hadn’t done anything to help his condition.

Her eyes were red and swollen from having cried for hours over her brother’s death, her husband’s condition, and her young children’s exposure to such tragic events. For my father, the death of Uncle Felipe was just as shattering. They were more than brothers-in-law; they were brothers in combat. They had always shared the same ideals. In spite of being member of the armed forces, Uncle Felipe was an anti-Trujillo dissident at heart, just like my father.

An old black man, who I presumed was the owner of the shack, stopped milking his scrawny goat and approached our car. He saw Papi bleeding and Mami crying, and quickly realized that the family was in a traumatic situation. He filled a coconut-shell bowl with foamy raw goat’s milk and he handed it to my mother.

Lyana, Mami said, wake up your brother and make him drink some of this milk.

When Francisco was done drinking, I took a sip and my parents drank what was left. The frothy milk tasted quite delicious. We had neither eaten nor drunk anything in who knew how many hours since the previous night’s fabulous feast.

As I looked around, I could tell that we were in unfamiliar territory. It looked like we were deep in the countryside of a very rural village. Everything was ramshackle. The chickens and roosters cackled as emaciated young black women went about their daily chores with their malnourished babies tugging at their shabby skirts. Barefoot men with torn, dirty clothes cut sugar cane stalks in the fields with their sharp machetes as they chanted Creole songs in the traditional African call-and-response manner.

Being my naturally curious self, I couldn’t help but ask, Mami, where are we?

We’re in Haiti, somewhere near Port-au-Prince. But don’t worry, children, we’re not so far from our own country, she replied, trying to reassure Francisco and me that all would be fine.

Haiti? I thought. We must be in el extranjero, the place my parents and Uncle Felipe had been whispering about.

Meanwhile, a corpulent black woman with an infectious smile headed toward us. With help from one of her hands, she balanced on her head a large wooden tray of tropical fruit. Her singsong jargon of sorts - partly Haitian patois mixed with Spanish - which some of the Haitians living in the border area often spoke.

Have fresh fruit for you. Have ripe bananas. Have juicy mangoes and oranges.

Mami bought a small bunch of bananas from the woman, pulled one off, and passed the rest to us in the backseat. She peeled a banana and forced-fed it to our father even though he didn’t want to eat it.

Papi was now moaning from the excruciating pain, and his high fever was causing him to sweat huge, thick droplets. It had been quite a few hours since he’d sustained his wound.

Luis, now that we’re in Haiti, we need to get you a doctor. I fear that in this heat, the slightest unattended wound could easily become severely infected. Mami said extremely worried.

Mami took out a crumpled piece of paper and a tiny pencil from her handbag and wrote something on it. She called the old man over with her index finger and gave him the note. She also slipped a few coins into his hand as payment for the milk and delivery of the message. The old man promptly mounted a donkey and set off down the muddy path.

Mami instructed us in a low voice, Let’s all wait quietly in the car. We can’t be absolutely sure that we’re safe here, so let’s try not to attract too much attention. By looking at us and listening to us speak Spanish, it’s possible the locals can tell we’re foreigners and their curiosity might lead them to ask too many questions and conceivably contact the local authorities to report us.

So we sat in silence in the car and waited for the old man to return.

Meanwhile, my father painfully began to tell Mother where he and Uncle Felipe had been on Carnival Day and the events that had transpired. Her reaction indicated that she was overwhelmed by the tale. I was very young and unable to grasp what I was hearing because his story seemed very complicated.

Sometime later, Mami noticed a white car off in the distance. It was headed in our direction with the old man following behind on his tired donkey.

Mami leaped out of the car and went to see who it was.

Luis! It’s René! she exclaimed excitedly.

For the first time in almost twenty-four hours, the expression on her face was jubilant. This indicated to me that some relief was finally coming our way.

Out of the white car stepped a very tall, thin man, with a café-au-lait complexion. He appeared to be about my father’s age. There was something notable about the man. He cut a fine figure indeed in his well-tailored beige linen suit, his white, open-collared cotton shirt, and his cream-colored Panama hat. The man lifted his dark sunglasses to get a better look at us. His face lit up when he saw my parents. He quickly ran toward them and hugged Mami tight; very tight.

Oh! René, you can’t imagine how good it is to see you, my dear friend. Mami said in a weak voice, as her eyes began to water. Seeing that my father could not get out of the car, the man ran to the driver’s side where Papi was sitting.

René pulled my father out of the car and hugged him. He guided my father’s head toward his own shoulder, put his arm around my father, and gently patted his back with such empathy. He looked like a parent trying to comfort a child. My father had tears in his eyes, and René’s eyes were beginning to well up also. In fluent Spanish, with the slightest French accent, he said, Luis, my brother, it’s been so long since we have seen each other Please tell me what’s happened? He seemed overwhelmed to see my father’s state.

Mami began to explain our ordeal, but René interrupted and said, Queya, let’s all go to my car. Don’t you think?

Yes, yes, let’s get out of here, my mother said as she signaled to Francisco and me that we should go to his car.

We abandoned our bullet-riddled jalopy, and René took the bag from our trunk. Papi asked René to move the car into an area covered with thick shrubs in an effort to hide it from curious passerby’s eyes.

Mother said, That car was of no more use to us anyway, and you know how fast news travels around our islands. By now, Trujillo’s militia has surely sent a message to the authorities in the whole Caribbean declaring us criminal fugitives.

All those damn dictators are in cahoots with each other, my father replied angrily.

You’re so right Luis. Unfortunately, we’re in Haiti. We’re far from being a democratic country. Our two nations are in the same boat; we’re all being oppressed by two augers!

Mami replied, I know René. We’re definitely not safe here either with a leader like yours. President Paul Magloire is no altar boy.

And by now, Trujillo’s good friend, Batista, is also probably on the look-out for all of you. René commented. He’d be delighted to hand you over if only to ingratiate himself with Trujillo. The Batista René referred to was none other than Cuban dictator Fulgencio Batista, who ruled the Cuban people with an iron fist.

But Papi said, Right now the Haitian guard who threatened us at the border presents the most danger to us. He certainly didn’t inspire any trust. My parents were afraid that he may have indeed called his police friend in Dominicana.

René started to drive, and wherever we traveled, scenery of poverty and misery abounded. We went from shantytown to shantytown.

Is this where we’re going Mami? I asked.

She looked at Francisco and me and smiled in an attempt to make light of the depressing surroundings.

Children, this is not our final destination. We’re going to visit René’s house. We’ll probably be home with our family and friends in a few days, and you can go back to playing with your toys on the patio and swinging from that good old hammock hanging between the two big mango trees.

Francisco and I smiled back. That was exactly what we wanted to hear.

This is Port-au-Prince where I live with my family, said René as we crossed a bridge. He continued driving and finally, we turned onto a street with a row of freshly painted houses and prettily manicured lawns. Practically every house had an armed guard stationed out front for protection. This was René’s neighborhood. His guard opened the wrought iron fence for us, and we drove right to the front mezzanine. We all got out of the car and quickly entered the house.

Sabine, René’s wife, appeared and greeted us. She had the gentlest hazel eyes, and looked so pretty and majestic in her flowing flowered caftan. It was a dress style well suited for her tall, thin figure. The colors in particular complimented her smooth, dark chocolate skin. Her hair was knotted back in a classic chignon, atop, which she wore a small sprig of fuchsia colored bougainvillea. She leaned over to kiss both cheeks of each of my parents in the European