certainly, or had been, a Budweiser. Haitian brewers, it seemed, recycled the bottles of their peers in other countries.
“Good Haitian beer,” duPaar announced. “Unlike some here in Pétionville who drink the finest of French wines, I am a man of the common people, drink what they drink. One of the reasons they love me so. Besides, beer will go better with the dinner I have ordered prepared.”
The undersecretary saw no reason to mention the fact that few of those “common people” in the city below could afford to spend more than the national average annual income in an establishment like this, nor would he inquire why such security was necessary for a man so beloved.
The proprietor and another man placed platters before each man.
“ Lambi with rice,” duPaar announced. “Small, er, conchs dried in the sun and cooked with a spicy sauce. It goes well with beer, does it not?”
It would have gone better with CO 2 out of a fire extinguisher. The small, experimental bite Diem had taken singed his tongue and was now consuming his entire mouth. He was afraid to swallow for fear he would incinerate his intestines and stomach. Szechuan Chinese food was hot but a mere summer zephyr compared to the inferno he was experiencing.
He grabbed the beer bottle and emptied half of it at a gulp.
“As I said, the beer goes with the food, do you not agree?”
Diem was using his linen napkin to stanch the tears running down his cheeks. In his diplomatic career, he had been subjected to cuisine including hummingbird tongues, raw monkey brains and fried insects, but he had never suffered anything so painful.
DuPaar ignored his guest’s obvious discomfort, continuing. “The dish, lambi, is a meal of the common person. The conch, of course, come from the sea and are available to all. Many of the spices grow wild.”
Diem was now mopping the back of his neck.
“And the pepper . . . it is a small one.” DuPaar held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Small but quite potent. I believe it to be peculiar to Haiti.”
Diem passionately hoped so.
The president for life was already smoking a cigar when Diem finished moving enough food around his plate to give the maximum illusion of having eaten it. It was a trick most diplomats learned early.
He was reaching for his Marlboros when duPaar slammed a fist down on the table hard enough to overturn the beer bottles.
“It is a fraud!” he screamed. He leaned over so that his face was inches from Diem’s, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. “Did you not think I would not run tests? Do you take me for a fool?”
The transformation from affable host to outraged victim was so sudden, the undersecretary was reduced to a stammer. “F-fraud?”
“The package, the one you retrieved from Venice.”
Diem swallowed his discomfort, both from food and company, and regained his composure. “Mr. President, I can assure you . . .”
Another fist hit the table, this time making the plates jump. “Assure? Assure what, that you have given me a worthless collection of partial bones?”
“But . . .”
Leaning even closer, duPaar lowered his voice to a near whisper that Diem found more disquieting than the outburst. “As soon as I received the package, I sent small parts of it to the States for testing of DNA. The bones were of a man, a Semite, who lived in the first century AD.”
Diem thought for a moment, remembering what he had learned of Western history and religion. “The Christians’ Saint Mark?”
Again, the thumping on the table and raised voice. “Saint Mark? Of course it may be Saint Mark. It did, after all, come from his tomb. It was your idea that the occupant of that tomb was someone else!”
Diem made a mental note to find the person in the Foreign Office who had made that determination. If he (or she) were lucky, they would end their career in what had been Tibet. If not lucky, in prison.
“Mr. President, I understand a mistake has been
“Good Haitian beer,” duPaar announced. “Unlike some here in Pétionville who drink the finest of French wines, I am a man of the common people, drink what they drink. One of the reasons they love me so. Besides, beer will go better with the dinner I have ordered prepared.”
The undersecretary saw no reason to mention the fact that few of those “common people” in the city below could afford to spend more than the national average annual income in an establishment like this, nor would he inquire why such security was necessary for a man so beloved.
The proprietor and another man placed platters before each man.
“ Lambi with rice,” duPaar announced. “Small, er, conchs dried in the sun and cooked with a spicy sauce. It goes well with beer, does it not?”
It would have gone better with CO 2 out of a fire extinguisher. The small, experimental bite Diem had taken singed his tongue and was now consuming his entire mouth. He was afraid to swallow for fear he would incinerate his intestines and stomach. Szechuan Chinese food was hot but a mere summer zephyr compared to the inferno he was experiencing.
He grabbed the beer bottle and emptied half of it at a gulp.
“As I said, the beer goes with the food, do you not agree?”
Diem was using his linen napkin to stanch the tears running down his cheeks. In his diplomatic career, he had been subjected to cuisine including hummingbird tongues, raw monkey brains and fried insects, but he had never suffered anything so painful.
DuPaar ignored his guest’s obvious discomfort, continuing. “The dish, lambi, is a meal of the common person. The conch, of course, come from the sea and are available to all. Many of the spices grow wild.”
Diem was now mopping the back of his neck.
“And the pepper . . . it is a small one.” DuPaar held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Small but quite potent. I believe it to be peculiar to Haiti.”
Diem passionately hoped so.
The president for life was already smoking a cigar when Diem finished moving enough food around his plate to give the maximum illusion of having eaten it. It was a trick most diplomats learned early.
He was reaching for his Marlboros when duPaar slammed a fist down on the table hard enough to overturn the beer bottles.
“It is a fraud!” he screamed. He leaned over so that his face was inches from Diem’s, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. “Did you not think I would not run tests? Do you take me for a fool?”
The transformation from affable host to outraged victim was so sudden, the undersecretary was reduced to a stammer. “F-fraud?”
“The package, the one you retrieved from Venice.”
Diem swallowed his discomfort, both from food and company, and regained his composure. “Mr. President, I can assure you . . .”
Another fist hit the table, this time making the plates jump. “Assure? Assure what, that you have given me a worthless collection of partial bones?”
“But . . .”
Leaning even closer, duPaar lowered his voice to a near whisper that Diem found more disquieting than the outburst. “As soon as I received the package, I sent small parts of it to the States for testing of DNA. The bones were of a man, a Semite, who lived in the first century AD.”
Diem thought for a moment, remembering what he had learned of Western history and religion. “The Christians’ Saint Mark?”
Again, the thumping on the table and raised voice. “Saint Mark? Of course it may be Saint Mark. It did, after all, come from his tomb. It was your idea that the occupant of that tomb was someone else!”
Diem made a mental note to find the person in the Foreign Office who had made that determination. If he (or she) were lucky, they would end their career in what had been Tibet. If not lucky, in prison.
“Mr. President, I understand a mistake has been
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