Caribbean (136 page)

But she had to laugh when a young fellow from Tulsa broke in: “Not many coconut palms in Shaker Heights.” Later, when officers from the
Galante
heard of her strictures, one of them asked to address the students: “Every criticism Dr. Vaval makes is both accurate and relevant. Our company would have saved both time and money if we could have continued to make our stops at Port-au-Prince. Interesting city. Challenging history. Good food and people worth visiting with.”

“Then why did you abandon that stop?” a student asked, and he replied crisply: “A chain of compelling reasons, and as you evaluate them, wait for the last in line, because it’s a blockbuster. First, crime in the city endangered our passengers’ lives. Second, the economy was so debased that hordes of beggars trailed anyone who ventured ashore, especially our women tourists. It was at first intrusive, in the end alienating, because you could see that no matter how much alms you gave, your charity accomplished nothing. Third, the discrepancy between the affluence of our visiting passengers and the incredible poverty ashore made the Haitians envious and downright hostile.” He paused and surveyed the students before offering his clinching argument: “And in recent years the adverse publicity on AIDS, which has been reported as flourishing in Haiti, scared the hell out of our passengers. For all these reasons people became afraid to visit Haiti,
and when we continued to bring them here on our scheduled stop they told us frankly: ‘If you insist on visiting Port-au-Prince, we won’t travel with you.’ Without speeches or committees they initiated a boycott, and we knew it would be folly to oppose it.”

He then shared with the young people his conclusions about Caribbean travel, a subject upon which he was becoming one of the world’s experts: “Many islands in this sea are kept alive only with the dollars which tourists inject into the economy. And these dollars can be earned easily and without any loss of self-respect, but they are terribly fragile. Had we Swedes not built Le Paradis up here and protected it from the disasters of Port-au-Prince, Haiti would have lost all her tourist dollars. Complete wipeout. As it is, our ships pour a steady stream of currency into this black republic, but we can do it only if we maintain that fence which Dr. Vaval rightly condemns.” He stopped, looked directly at Thérèse, and said: “Young people, please look at the world as it is. Haiti has a choice: no fence and no dollars, or a fence which does little harm but earns a great many dollars.” He then broke into a wide smile and said: “Dr. Vaval’s job is to visualize a world in which fences are not permitted, and we wish her well. Mine is to utilize such fences as we must have, and take constant steps to get rid of them. At Paradis we’re doing just that.” But after he had gone, Thérèse told her young people: “That fence is a moral abomination, for it keeps rich people from observing the problems of the poor, and believe me, whenever that happens, anywhere in the world, trouble is brewing.”

When the group finally boarded the
Galante
—18,000 tons, 550 feet long, 765 ordinary passengers, 137 students, 418 crew, with the officers all Swedish, dining-room and kitchen help exclusively Italian, deckhands Indonesian, with Chinese hidden below to tend the laundry—Thérèse realized what a small proportion of the ship was allotted to her “Cruise-and-Muse” group—just over fifteen percent. But they did add color, especially as they clustered about the pool. When older passengers assured Thérèse: “We’re so fortunate to have young people sharing the cruise with us,” she said to herself: These next two weeks could be just what I needed.

That night as she sat in her cabin trying to forget the ignominy of being part of a black nation which experienced travelers were afraid to explore, she was visited by several students, who told her: “Discussion group aft. Don’t miss it. Topflight ideas get kicked around,” and, eager to escape her gloomy meditation, she allowed them to take her
to where one of the other instructors was helping his students acquire a balanced view of the Caribbean; the topic was music:

Sharp discussion followed, with some students championing the Rastafarian reggae of Jamaica and others citing certain merengues and zouks from the French islands, but before the night’s concert began, the students had to agree with their instructor that whereas they could sing from memory a dozen Hawaiian tunes, hardly anyone could sing more than a few phrases from anything Caribbean.

And then, even as she agreed with the instructor, Thérèse was thrown completely off balance—touched close to the heart—by a song of the Caribbean. Professional singers of some merit were offering the usual fare of songs popular forty years past, when onto the stage came two distinctive figures, a slim young soprano with a golden complexion, a haunting smile and a strong but gentle voice, and a very tall baritone dressed in somber black and wearing a nineteenth-century top hat. His voice was resonant and powerful as he introduced their duet: “We bring you a song of the islands … of all islands … the island girl and the American missionary from Boston.” And with that, a small orchestra of six musicians began playing for him, while a steel band of eleven hammered gasoline drums as an accompaniment for the soprano, and as a result of exquisite timing and altered rhythms the two songs merged into an evocative whole of the most enchanting intertwined beauty.

He sang in deep, powerful tones “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,”
while in notes of delicate harmony she sang “Yellow Bird,” and from the moment they started, Thérèse said in a soft whisper: “Oh, this is something special,” for both the singers and their words spoke directly to her condition:

The contrasting appearance they created and the magical blending of their voices created in Thérèse exactly the impression the singers had intended: She’s all the island people. He’s all the European missionaries and governors. The rivalry never ends. But as she listened carefully to the words the man uttered, all fire and bombast and death, she was almost projected out of her seat: My God! That’s Judge Adolphus Krey! And it’s me he’s lecturing to, the black island girl! And at that moment the transformation was complete: the thundering basso was her proposed father-in-law, the girl singer was she,

When the duet ended to thunderous applause, Thérèse was limp, but she had to smile when students assured her: “Your Caribbean has one good song!” Back in her cabin, with the images and sounds of the concert whirling in her head like an island hurricane, she knew she ought to write Dennis and share with him her Haiti experiences, but the implacable image of the elder Krey hurling the thunderbolts of the “Battle Hymn” as if he were protecting his son against island women was so overpowering that she could not write nor could she sleep.

Her mind was filled with haunting images that she could not exorcise: Lalique returning from the dead, Henri Christophe building that insane fortress instead of roads or schools, that despicable portrait of a leering, all-wise Papa Doc, and especially the look on her uncle’s face when he said that it was too late to escape from the prison of poverty. When she had boarded the plane in Boston she had expected to breeze through Haiti, nodding to family and friends and
leaving a modest gift of money here or there, and then to depart the same person as when she entered; she had not foreseen that Haiti was a place which tore at the soul, especially the soul of an educated black woman. Rising from her bed, she tried again to write to Dennis Krey, but again she failed, because a two-week stay in the dark fogs of Haiti had converted her into an entirely different woman, and to explain this in a letter of one or two pages was impossible.

In the morning when the
Galante
approached San Juan, the capital of Puerto Rico, Thérèse stood with her students as they heard the voices of some excited Borinqueños, as natives of the island were called, announce over the ship’s bullhorn: “There on the headland, see it! El Morro fortress with its round tower set into the walls. We love to see that sight. It means we’re coming home.” There were several of these little masonry towers jutting out from vulnerable corners, and she was still gazing at them as they glowed in the gold of sunrise, when a harbor boat pulled up to the
Galante
, bringing an eager young man from the State Department, blue-linen tropical suit freshly pressed and subdued red tie double-passed to give the trim look at the collar that diplomats favor. When he debarked and clambered up the jury-rigged ladder, he hurried to the ship’s elevator while the students tried to guess his mission.

“Must be coming to make a drug bust. One of the belowdecks crew.”

“No, he’s inviting the captain to tea at the governor’s palace.”

“Brain surgeon. Emergency operation. He came to fetch the patient.”

They were surprised when he sought out Professor Vaval and introduced himself: “John Swayling, attached to the Columbus Quincentenary Commission. We’ve been awaiting you, eagerly, Dr. Vaval. We need your help … urgently.”

“What’s up, Doc?” an irreverent student asked, imitating Bugs Bunny. Thérèse smiled and said: “The Feds are after me. See something of significance when you go ashore,” and with that, she and the State Department man hustled below, climbed down the rope-and-wire ladder leading to the harbor boat, and disappeared toward what the guide on the bullhorn was describing as “the old city.”

On the way ashore, Mr. Swayling outlined the day: “We have representatives from some forty nations meeting here. To plan the five-hundredth
anniversary of our boy Christopher. I use that slang term because everybody’s claiming rights to the old fellow … and wants to dictate how he shall be celebrated.”

“That could get sticky,” Thérèse said. “Spain, Italy, Portugal, United States.”

“Keep going! Like Mexico, Peru, Venezuela, not to mention Hispaniola, Jamaica and Puerto Rico.”

“That could be a dogfight.”

“It is.”

“Speaking of Puerto Rico. What’s the political sentiment on the island? Regarding future status?”

“We had another plebiscite … last in a long series … inconclusive as ever. Continue the Commonwealth status quo, forty-six percent. Enter the Union as the fifty-first state, forty-four percent. Complete freedom immediately, six percent.”

“That’s only ninety-six. What about the balance?”

“Who gives a damn? Four percent.”

When they left the boat, Swayling had a car and driver waiting, and as they sped through the wakening city he said enthusiastically: “This is a gorgeous city. Wish I could be stationed here permanently.”

“I know the rest of the Caribbean rather well. What’s so great about this place?”

“The Spanish heritage. The grand old buildings. And the women.” There was a moment of silence in which he obviously expected her to speak, and when she didn’t, he added: “I’ve seen about two dozen I’d like to know better.”

“Young women of color, perhaps?”

“Every color you could think of. Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m engaged to marry a young man just about your age, and white like you. I know problems do arise.”

“I’m engaged to a white girl and problems arise there, too.”

“Now, what about this conference?”

Before he could respond, the car swung onto a handsome boulevard lined with sturdy old buildings dating back to the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, when Spain relied on the incredibly stout walls of El Morro to defend the galleons heading back to Sevilla with the treasure from Peru and Mexico: “Hawkins and Drake both tried to sail past that fort over there and failed. I know that Hawkins died in the attempt, and Drake may have received wounds from which he died shortly after. This was a tough nut to crack.”

“The area looks so Spanish. Quite extraordinary,” and the young man explained: “You’ve touched the dilemma of the island. As you can see, they want to erase all signs of American intervention. U.S. army barracks used to be over there, another big American building at this corner. All being torn down as if to eradicate any memory of American influence. Huge funds spent to restore this as a Spanish city.”

“It was Spanish for much longer than it’s been American,” Thérèse said.

“Yes, but at the same time the Borinqueños want to be completely Spanish. You get no cachet whatever if you’re American … only Spanish counts … What point was I making?”

“I think you’re going to say that although they want to be Spanish emotionally, they want to be American economically.”

“Exactly.” And together they marveled at the brilliance with which this part of San Juan at least had been reconverted into a Spanish town, and such thoughts brought them to a discussion of the important task the American government had asked her to perform. “We hope, Dr. Vaval, that as a scholar of high caliber, you could represent us today with the black leaders who are going to be most vociferous.”

“What’s it about?”