The Deadly Rose, page 7
part #1 of An Assassin's Tale Series
“Okay, it’s your life.”
“Can you take a look at my leg?”
“Whose blood is it that soaking your shirt?” Marcel asked as he leaned down to observe the torn pants.
“I told you I had an accident,” Grimo answered.
“Okay, my friend—one day you may not be so lucky,” Marcel said as he helped Grimo remove his pants.
Grimo smiled to himself, thinking about his friend who was unnecessarily concerned for his well-being. No, he did not have a plan for old age, but he could not really see himself becoming old. Phenoms like him rarely lived a long, peaceful life. That might explain why they tended to be great at such a young age. “I will be fine,” Grimo said.
Marcel turned Grimo toward the light to observe the wound. The blood around the wound had already congealed, but the wound itself was still leaking from the opening. Marcel placed a hand over his mouth as if he was in pain. His face turned red. The wound was a deep tear that would need stitching. He shook his head as a mother would to a disobedient, injured child.
“What have you gotten yourself into?” Marcel asked as he walked away to retrieve his medical bag.
Grimo was careful to remain standing, trying to avoid painting his blood on any of the furnishings. He looked on the desk where Marcel was working and loosened the top of the inkwell sitting at the corner of the desk. He giggled as if a little child with a secret.
“You know how adventurous I can get. I fell off my motorcycle, that’s all,” Grimo said when Marcel walked back into the room.
“I told you that thing would one day be the death of you. The wound will need stitching,” Marcel said as he placed his supplies on the desk. He had no doubt that Grimo had told him a partial truth. He could smell the gunpowder and was well aware of Grimo’s capacity for violence, especially after his near-death experience as a teenager. They would go to some tough neighborhoods to challenge players on their home soccer fields and rarely left without a fight. As a man, his friend would defend a woman from assault, often leaving her attacker bloodied.
“You’re too cautious these days. What happened to the adventurous guy I used to know, who would follow me everywhere?” Grimo asked, looking at Marcel who was maneuvering a chair closer with a kerosene lamp in hand.
“I’m no longer a boy; I’m now a man with responsibilities. My father is paying for my education. I would be an ingrate to reward him with a careless death or by becoming a cripple.”
Marcel was the only child retired army General Henry Christophe St. Louis was able to produce; even with his large contingency of mistresses. His fruitfulness was no better than a pineapple patch located in the desert. The day Marcel was born, the general was not ashamed to be seen crying hysterically.
“The grateful son—how endearing,” Grimo said, a teasing smile on his face.
“I’m his favorite son,” Marcel responded, matching Grimo’s smile. As he removed the contents from his bag, his hand brushed the inkwell on the desk, tipping it over. He looked at Grimo with suspicion and quickly grabbed a rag to contain the spill. His friend would always be the playful jester trying to get under his skin. He smiled.
Grimo looked back with the innocence of a breast-feeding baby, reflecting on how they met in school. He was two grades ahead of Marcel, who was small and fragile but a determined, passionate soccer player. Marcel was so thin he was once knocked out by a ball while trying to defend against a goal. The next day, he was back on the field as if nothing happened.
Grimo removed the rest of his clothes and stood with only his underwear on while Marcel watched him with unwavering eyes, admiring the athletic physique of the star soccer player.
“How did you get here?” Marcel asked breaking his gawking gaze.
“I came on a borrowed motorcycle.”
“I didn’t hear you arrive.”
“It’s not a Harley. I came on a Suzuki and parked it up the block.”
“I must have been focused to not even hear that.”
“So, how long do you think it will take to treat this cut?”
“It shouldn’t take long. Why, are you in a rush?”
“No, I just wanted to get back home and get some sleep.”
“You’re not sleeping over?” Marcel asked, surprised and disappointed.
“I would really like to, but I have to meet with some sponsors very early.”
“When will I see you again?” Marcel asked, staring into Grimo’s eyes from his sitting position.
“Before the week is over,” Grimo answered as he gently stroked Marcel’s hair.
“Do that, I miss you dearly.”
“I miss you too.”
“Let me know if it gets too painful. I have some morphine, and you’ll need a shot of penicillin,” Marcel said, looking at the wound, then up at Grimo. He rearranged all of his supplies neatly on the nearby desk away from the spilled ink.
“I can manage without the morphine,” Grimo replied, well aware of the effects morphine would have on him from his hospitalization as a boy. He did not feel safe enough from his pursuers yet.
“There were men in a car keeping watch on this house. Did you notice them?”
“Oh, them. It’s my father’s doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“He felt, with all the political unrest, that I need a security detail. Henry is old, temperamental, and no longer has any claws.”
“That I know. Do you remember how he used to chase us around the yard for trampling his garden?”
“We were mischievous and unbearable. At least one of us has changed,” Marcel said, smiling.
“I’m glad I did change. Your kind always had a bad influence on me.”
“Me—have influence on the great Grimo, the soccer sensation who will bring home the World Cup? No, not me, maybe Marie-Anne,” Marcel said, as he dipped some cotton swabs into a silver pan filled with alcohol. “How is she anyway?”
“I’m not sure; I have not seen her for a couple of weeks.” Grimo remembered how the three of them—Marcel, Marie-Anne, and himself—would spend most of their weekends together loafing around the city.
“Are you serious—that long? You must be ill. Notre Dame is like your mother,” Marcel said, sincerely shocked. Notre Dame was the name Marcel gave to Marie-Anne for her innate ability to charm men.
“How could she be like my mother when she is only a few years older than me?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. Tell me.”
“She was the one you would go to for comfort, when your uncle was on a rampage,” Marcel said, a slight annoyance in his voice.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of Marie-Anne.”
“Me? Why should I be jealous of her? She only has everything, while I have only my books.”
“You have more than your books; you have plenty of people who love and care about you.”
Breaking off from his preparation, Marcel asked, “Whom is she dating now?”
“Chief Legros.”
“No! You’re joking! That big sack of walking lust?!”
“No, I’m not; it has been three weeks, two days, and according to your clock, sixteen hours.”
Marcel was not shocked by the precision of Grimo’s response. His ability to remember specifics made him ideally suited for a career in medicine, but the gregarious Grimo would not bend to his advice. Marcel would have a better chance getting a donkey to jog backward than getting the adventurous brigand to pursue something as serious as medical school. He shook his head again, thinking, You can’t change gold into silver.
Marcel focused on the egregious wound, cleaning it with alcohol at the edges and a saltwater combination that his professor assured him would help with healing and reduce the risk of infection. He worked slowly and steadily, making sure he did not miss any area. The wound was already swollen, but because of Grimo’s superb health, Marcel was sure it would heal quickly if kept infection-free.
Grimo felt the wound throbbing under Marcel’s treatment. The pain was tolerable, and it helped him refine his alertness. He remained still so Marcel would not be unnecessarily concerned. “So, how are your parents?” he asked.
“They’re fine, retired and traveling the Caribbean.”
“Who is taking care of the business?”
“I am, of course.”
“Things have changed in such a short time.”
“I figure since I’m here, why not me. I wouldn’t rob my parents.”
“You have the time to travel to the Iron Market and the countryside?”
“I can study anywhere.”
“You are indeed a savant of medicine and business,” Grimo said teasing again to camouflage the increasing pain he felt from Marcel cleaning his wound.
Marcel just shook his head at the comedian.
“Are you sure you won’t have the morphine?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Did the valium work for you?”
“Yes, absolutely the best sleep I had in years.” Grimo thought about the two sleeping dogs owned by the American.
After threading a sterilized needle, Marcel sutured Grimo’s penetrating wound with gentle hands.
Grimo stood as still as a soldier, tolerating the pain as best he could. When Marcel looked up to see if he was hurting, he responded with a wink, assuring his friend he was fine and signaled for him to continue.
Once he had completed cutting the last thread, Marcel painted the wound with a generous amount of iodine.
“Now for the penicillin. I left my syringes in the other room. Don’t move,” Marcel said and jumped up scurrying away.
“There’s no rush,” Grimo said, grimacing and letting out a strong exhale from the throbbing pain.
Marcel returned with a tray in hand, on which sat intimidating needles organized in a row next to a glass syringe and two vials.
“You are lucky my father keeps a stock for emergencies.”
“What would we do without your father?” Grimo smiled, forgetting the pain for a minute.
“Don’t make this a joke. Infection can kill just as fast as that motorcycle of yours.”
“You have been so serious lately; you’re becoming your father.”
“I now appreciate his diligence and sternness, and even more so, his sacrifice,” Marcel responded, as he attached one needle to the syringe.
“You decided to become a sour guinep. I want to be smiling even in my coffin.”
“Let’s hope that is no time soon,” Marcel said. He drew up the liquid content of one vial and injected it into another vial.
Grimo looked at the grandfather clock he faced and laughed out loud.
Marcel eyed him with suspicion. “What’s so funny?”
“I was thinking about your father.”
“What about him?”
“Do you remember how he used to fuss if we played too close to that clock?”
Marcel laughed thinking about his father’s tirades, lecturing the two boys about how the clock was brought to Haiti from France by his great-grandfather.
“He still shines it himself every Sunday morning when he’s here.”
“Your father can take things to the extreme.”
“Being a soldier can make you stiff in your resolve.”
Grimo continued to laugh, reminiscing on how the stubborn general got himself hospitalized a few years back. “Do you remember when he got hospitalized with General Hippolyte?”
Marcel laughed. “At the time, I thought he was going to die.”
The good general was walking side by side with his friend and former academy classmate, General Hippolyte, after lunch. Both men were of equal rank. When General Hippolyte had a sudden urge to empty his bladder, he picked up his pace; well-bred officers did not yank out their personals and relieve themselves on the side of the road. General St. Louis, misinterpreting his friend’s action as a slight by walking ahead of him, increased his pace to match his equal. Before long, a sprinter’s war was silently declared, and both men were running. At age sixty, and with years of physical neglect brought on by rich Haitian meals that sat well at their large bellies, the generals were far from being the same young, athletic brigands they’d been at the academy. With sheer determination, both men made it within a few feet of the latrine before passing out. At Haiti’s General Hospital, hooked up to oxygen and sour faced, they rekindled their friendship. They were diagnosed with spontaneous exertion. The newspapers embellished the entire incident with headlines that read, “A plot by communist sympathizers poisoned two generals.”
“I will need to borrow your car for a couple of hours,” Grimo said.
“You know where the keys are.”
Marcel playfully slapped his patient on the butt, his face gleaming with malice. He couldn’t get enough of looking at Grimo’s athletic build. Although he was in good shape, Marcel’s own build was thin and muscular. He shook the mixture in the vial and drew up its contents into the syringe.
“Now stay still so I won’t poke elsewhere.”
“Make sure you get it where it should be.”
Placing the syringe onto the tray, Marcel dipped a cotton swab into the alcohol-filled canister and swabbed the muscular gluteus of the footballer in a circular motion, as if teasing the skin. He picked up the syringe and broke the skin, advancing the needle three-quarters of the way in before slowly pulling back on the plunger and injecting the antibiotic.
With his face twisted as if he would scream, Grimo endured the painful injection. It left his leg feeling numb. Afterward, he walked around testing his gait—he was slightly limping.
“How long will this pain and numbness last?” Grimo asked, thinking of the next place he would visit.
“Try not to overexert yourself. It will last a day or two.”
“Well, I feel healed already, my good doctor.”
“You can be my patient any day, but no more reckless behavior. The water tank is partially full. Go shower, and I’ll bandage the wound once you’re done.”
Grimo strolled out in his underwear into the darkness of the night and made his way to the brick structure that formed the shower next to the housekeeper’s shack. The shower was made of a twenty-gallon tank attached to a showerhead by a few short pipes. A pull cord released the water. The yard boy was tasked to keep the tank full, and the rays of the sun kept the water relatively hot. Marcel’s father had it built after seeing one in his travels.
After a thorough scrubbing and washing, Grimo emerged from the shower naked and wet. He limped the short distance to the cart holding the towels and dried off. Then he reentered the house with the towel draped over his shoulder. Marcel was facing away, setting out a pair of dark brown linen pants and a white, cotton, short-sleeved shirt.
“That was fast. I got Ti-Joe to clean your shoes,” Marcel said, referring to the yard boy.
“I need to get going if I’m going beat the sun to my bed.”
Marcel turned as Grimo said his last word and was slacked mouth looking at the footballer’s naked body. He motioned for Grimo to come closer as he got prepared to bandage the wound.
“You’re sure you don’t want to stay for the night?” Marcel said, a knowing look on his face.
Grimo smiled back, understanding Marcel’s look. “I would, but I have other obligations.”
“This will not take long,” Marcel said working fast, placing the dressing to the sutured wound.
“Thanks for bringing down my clothes,” Grimo said. He always kept some clothes at Marcel’s. Not long ago it was as if he lived there. Of the three bedrooms in the house one was set aside for his use.
It took Marcel less time to dress the wound than it took him to collect his supplies. He yawned as the signs of fatigue started to show.
“You will need to dress your wound daily,” Marcel said as he got up fighting off another yawn.
“I’ll make sure to take care of it,” Grimo replied while he got dressed.
Breaking the silence of the night, a cacophony of Haitian drums could be heard, tingling the skin as they began with a sound that resembled an angry bullfrog’s competing for the right to mate. Normally, the drums were festive, announcing the commencement of a ritual. This morning they were progressing to a rapid, menacing beat.
Grimo and Marcel looked at each other. Marcel was pensive and rubbed his hair with the palm of his hand. More drums took up the call, like a fire spreading to dry wood.
“What could be going on?” Marcel asked.
“I have no idea,” Grimo said, though he realized the news of the senator’s death had become common knowledge, and the streets would soon become dangerous with mobs and soldiers with undisciplined triggers.
“It sounds serious. Earlier, I could swear I heard every dog in Port-au-Prince barking.”
“Dogs bark all night long,” Grimo said buttoning up his shirt.
“This was different. It was similar to the drums, one taking life from the other.”
“You have to slow down on your studying; you’re hearing things.”
“Don’t poke fun at this.”
“Why so serious?”
“I remember my father explaining, as a child, how the drums rang wild when the Americans arrived in 1915.”
“I’m sure the Americans have better things to do than to harass unruly Haitians.”
“Is everything a joke?”
“I have to go. If I’m not able to come myself, I'll have someone drop off the car.”
“Be careful. It sounds serious.”
“You’re too serious, my friend,” Grimo said as he embraced Marcel, who was reluctant to let go.
“Do be careful,” Marcel said, their eyes inches apart.
“I know. Don’t worry, I’ll see you later this week,” Grimo replied as he broke off the embrace. It was already five o’clock.
The drums rang with ferocious agitation. The distant sun was finally rearing its lethargic head from its slumber. The restlessness of the city could be felt with the morning sunrise.
Grimo walked to the back, leaving Marcel standing in the study. He collected his weapons, securing them to his belt. His cotton shirt, worn loosely, covered the bulge from the Fornicator as he walked casually to the front of the house. One of the men he had accosted in the car was standing outside of the fenced entrance.
