were piled up on the sidewalk
waiting for the trash pick-up. His wedding photograph scotch-taped together and
inserted in a replacement frame. Baron Samdi hidden under two coats of fresh
paint.
Val paid a speedy call to the UNOPD station house to
confirm that they still had Duval under surveillance. Then he drove across
Canal Street and took the Airline Highway.
The radio station he was headed for operated out of a
single-level building situated between a roadhouse and a hot-pillow motel.
Every morning for the past five years they had been broadcasting a short-wave
radio show in Haitian Creole to the Tenth Department, the name given to the
Haitian diaspora. The station had been firebombed twice and six months
previously the show’s presenter had had his car run off the road and both his
legs broken. A right-wing group called the Front
pour l’Avancement et le Progres Haitian , or FRAPH, was behind the attacks.
Amongst FRAPH’s ranks was a bunch of Duvalier’s former henchmen, the Tonton
Macoute, whom he had modeled closely on Hitler’s SS, except that in Haiti
Duvalier had added a theatrical touch. He had them wear white suits and dark
glasses, to fuel the rumor that they were Zombies.
That morning’s show was just winding up when Val
walked into the station’s reception; he could see the man he had come to talk
to still at work through a glass wall behind the front desk. Val told the
teenager answering the phones what he wanted and was told to take a seat until
the presenter emerged from his sound studio.
His name was Harry Nolan. He was close to sixty years
old and had been a legend in the civil rights movement for two-thirds of that.
He had been at the forefront of protest movements against segregation, Vietnam,
Nixon, Reagan, abortion clinics, and the Gulf War. His contempt for law
enforcement agencies was well known.
Initially, Nolan was reluctant to talk with him, but
changed his mind immediately Val mentioned his interest in FRAPH. He led Val
through to a small staff canteen at the rear of the building and organized two
paper cups of coffee from a machine. They sat at a Formica-topped refectory
table branded with cigarette burns. The presenter crossed his legs and started
to poke at a tear in his jeans.
The walls of the canteen were decorated with protest
posters connected to the various campaigns the station had endorsed. One of
them was of particular interest to Val.
“I did a short piece about Duval on the show this
morning,” Nolan said, and took a sip of coffee. He grimaced. “It would have
been longer, but we didn’t receive our invitation to the press conference. Must
have been lost in the mail.”
Val shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
“How can I help you?”
“I want the lowdown on FRAPH. No rumors or hearsay.
Just cold facts.”
Nolan’s fingers stopped probing the rip in his denims.
“For what reason?”
Val tasted the coffee. It was foul. “Somebody paid me
a visit last night. I wasn’t home at the time, but they made certain I got the
message. I need to know how active FRAPH are in the US and what they are
capable of?”
“Why don’t you ask your friend Marie Duval? Her father
was a big shot with the Tonton Macoute. They look after their own.”
“He’s been dead a long time. She remembers almost
nothing about Haiti.”
Nolan appraised Val’s face for a few moments before
saying, “FRAPH, an acronym for the Front
pour l’Avancement et le Progres Haitian , but also a play on the French
verb, frapper , to hit. To get a
handle on FRAPH, you need to appreciate that refugee Haitians here are from two
opposing camps, and they don’t get on. When ‘Baby Doc’ Duvalier’s dictatorship
collapsed in eighty-six, a lot of his supporters — mainly the military and the
Tonton Macoute — were forced to flee the dechoukaj ,
a prolonged period of bloody reprisals and civil unrest. President Aristide’s
attempts to introduce democracy helped to cool things down for a while. He
waiting for the trash pick-up. His wedding photograph scotch-taped together and
inserted in a replacement frame. Baron Samdi hidden under two coats of fresh
paint.
Val paid a speedy call to the UNOPD station house to
confirm that they still had Duval under surveillance. Then he drove across
Canal Street and took the Airline Highway.
The radio station he was headed for operated out of a
single-level building situated between a roadhouse and a hot-pillow motel.
Every morning for the past five years they had been broadcasting a short-wave
radio show in Haitian Creole to the Tenth Department, the name given to the
Haitian diaspora. The station had been firebombed twice and six months
previously the show’s presenter had had his car run off the road and both his
legs broken. A right-wing group called the Front
pour l’Avancement et le Progres Haitian , or FRAPH, was behind the attacks.
Amongst FRAPH’s ranks was a bunch of Duvalier’s former henchmen, the Tonton
Macoute, whom he had modeled closely on Hitler’s SS, except that in Haiti
Duvalier had added a theatrical touch. He had them wear white suits and dark
glasses, to fuel the rumor that they were Zombies.
That morning’s show was just winding up when Val
walked into the station’s reception; he could see the man he had come to talk
to still at work through a glass wall behind the front desk. Val told the
teenager answering the phones what he wanted and was told to take a seat until
the presenter emerged from his sound studio.
His name was Harry Nolan. He was close to sixty years
old and had been a legend in the civil rights movement for two-thirds of that.
He had been at the forefront of protest movements against segregation, Vietnam,
Nixon, Reagan, abortion clinics, and the Gulf War. His contempt for law
enforcement agencies was well known.
Initially, Nolan was reluctant to talk with him, but
changed his mind immediately Val mentioned his interest in FRAPH. He led Val
through to a small staff canteen at the rear of the building and organized two
paper cups of coffee from a machine. They sat at a Formica-topped refectory
table branded with cigarette burns. The presenter crossed his legs and started
to poke at a tear in his jeans.
The walls of the canteen were decorated with protest
posters connected to the various campaigns the station had endorsed. One of
them was of particular interest to Val.
“I did a short piece about Duval on the show this
morning,” Nolan said, and took a sip of coffee. He grimaced. “It would have
been longer, but we didn’t receive our invitation to the press conference. Must
have been lost in the mail.”
Val shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
“How can I help you?”
“I want the lowdown on FRAPH. No rumors or hearsay.
Just cold facts.”
Nolan’s fingers stopped probing the rip in his denims.
“For what reason?”
Val tasted the coffee. It was foul. “Somebody paid me
a visit last night. I wasn’t home at the time, but they made certain I got the
message. I need to know how active FRAPH are in the US and what they are
capable of?”
“Why don’t you ask your friend Marie Duval? Her father
was a big shot with the Tonton Macoute. They look after their own.”
“He’s been dead a long time. She remembers almost
nothing about Haiti.”
Nolan appraised Val’s face for a few moments before
saying, “FRAPH, an acronym for the Front
pour l’Avancement et le Progres Haitian , but also a play on the French
verb, frapper , to hit. To get a
handle on FRAPH, you need to appreciate that refugee Haitians here are from two
opposing camps, and they don’t get on. When ‘Baby Doc’ Duvalier’s dictatorship
collapsed in eighty-six, a lot of his supporters — mainly the military and the
Tonton Macoute — were forced to flee the dechoukaj ,
a prolonged period of bloody reprisals and civil unrest. President Aristide’s
attempts to introduce democracy helped to cool things down for a while. He
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