Judas, the Betrayer
Chapter 63 of "The Heart Of The Earth" (this selection originally published in Loose Change Magazine)
Pascal Jean-Baptiste sat in his pickup watching the door of the Canaan Gap Police Department, trying to muster the courage to go in. The middle school janitor gripped the wheel to keep his hands from shaking. They had his boy in there, but he couldn’t move.
Decades ago, Pascal had spent a night in handcuffs. Anxiety had racked his body on that warm Port-au-Prince night. “I just wanted to make things better,” Pascal had mumbled as cuffs that dug into his wrists.
“Mr. Jean-Baptiste, you should be glad the UN arrested you and not your own government." The French colonel sat across from him in a folding chair. “You would survive the night if they’d caught you.”
“So you admit it that this government is corrupt?”
“No more corrupt than you Mr. Jean-Baptiste. You set fire to a dozen of your opponents. Is that how you bring democracy to Haiti?” The foreigner leaned in, “If it were to me I would shoot every politician in this government,” his mouth was right beside Pascal’s ear, “but you, Jean-Baptiste, I would give to the mothers of the men you killed and let them tear you apart with their teeth.” The Frenchman turned to return to his chair, “But my job is not justice. I only monitor elections. So a piece of shit like you gets banishment. You will be on a plane to Miami in an hour. The United States accepted you as a refugee.”
“An hour!” The election was in two days. Haiti’s future hung in the balance, yet he was surprised at how his body relaxed at these words. He would escape. He would live.
“Never come back if you want to live, Mr. Jean-Baptiste. Haiti doesn’t want you. And I hope that every time you breathe free air your nose will sting with the smell of those boys you burned. Perhaps their families will find you in Miami and kill you.” The old colonel’s eyes were like two live coals of smoldering hate.
Pascal would not let himself tremble. “Colonel, what would you not sacrifice to deliver the world from evil? I sacrificed them all. I would sacrifice myself.”
“Your only sacrifice will be flying coach.” The colonel walked out.
Pascal wished he had paid more attention on the plane. It was the one time in his life he was above the world and close to God. Instead he fretted over elections and the safety of his wife and son in Port-au-Prince. In the narrow streets of Miami’s Little Haiti he found allies who had been sending him letters for years. He tried to be a big man among the Liberté Party here--tontons even tried to shoot him once—but far from the mountains of his homeland the struggle felt too abstract. His allies and enemies all felt like schoolboys squabbling over nothing. When his wife and little son, Gerard, arrived he told her, “We Haitians are hopeless people. We come to a land of freedom, and all we do is fight over crumbs.”
It wasn’t long before his wife told him, “It just isn't the same here.” Being Pascal Jean-Baptiste’s woman meant nothing in Miami. Pascal wasn’t an important freedom fighter anymore. They spent every day on a couch watching TV in English she couldn’t understand. When he found tickets back to Port-au-Prince in her purse Pascal slapped her and called her a whore. He dragged his crying three year old to the car and drove till he found mountains. The green mountains around Asheville, North Carolina reminded Pascal of home.
“What brings you to Asheville?” asked Dave, Pascal’s co-worker at the Golden Gallon.
“I came to become American.”
“Right on!” Then Dave taught Pascal a bizarre hand-slapping routine and shared marijuana with him. Dave even let Pascal rent a room in his house.
A strange thing happened as Pascal became American: he realized that he hated democracy. Pascal had served democracy all his life. He had sacrificed his prosperity and his homeland for democracy. He had put tires full of gasoline on men and set them on fire for democracy, but within the very heart of democracy he discovered that democracy was a disease. Even poor Americans had more freedom and prosperity than most of his people could imagine, but not a one of them enjoyed it. They were greedy, fat, and petty—waisting their lives on drugs and television. They were far less happy and intelligent than Haitian peasants. Pascal slapped Gerard when he heard him reciting the Pledge of Allegiance he'd learned in school. “Ou pa Amerikan!” You are not American!
Pascal’s boy, Gerard would watch Dave play video games for hours and even play himself when his father wasn’t looking. One day in 1995 Pascal turned off the television and said to his white roommate, “I grew up in the beautiful valley of Plesance. Every city I ever lived in has poisoned me. I am moving to the countryside. Goodbye.”
In Pascal's village when a thief was caught the medicine man would hang him from a tree by his feet and each right-living man who walked by would hit him with a stick. How could Pascal’s son have become a thief locked in an American jail? A Jean-Baptiste should never stoop to the level of these pathetic blancs, grasping for things they didn’t even need. Yet his very own son called in the middle of the night asking bail for stealing.
Pascal had more money in the jar under his bed than most Americans ever saved. Bail would not be a problem. He watched the police station. Officers carried in a fat man in cuffs, loudly protesting that some boy’s death wasn’t his fault. Pascal wondered who had died. Pascal had brought his son into these mountains to protect him from becoming like Americans. Pascal often wondered if the French Colonel had put a curse on him. What do white people know about curses? No, Pascal had cursed himself by spilling blood in the name of democracy. He wanted to run away to the basement of the middle school. The old boiler room in the sub-basement was the only place in America where Pascal could find any peace. As janitor, Pascal kept the only key, and he was creating something with wires, light bulbs and paint down there—the only thing in the world that made any sense anymore.
“Hello Pascal.” The officer rapping on the truck’s window startled him. “Gerard’s inside.”
“I’m coming, Mr. Gillenwater.” Pascal picked up his money jar and followed with his head down. It was the same officer who shot the dog. He was ashamed this mulatto had seen him twice in moments of weakness. Pascal's mother had warned him that mulattos couldn’t be trusted. “They are even worse that whites.” Of course, no one in America paid attention to family lines. Gillenwater’s superior officer probably didn’t even care that his blood was all mixed together. Forget where you come from and you end up with thieves and liars like all the American children.
The officer filled out the paperwork and counted Pascal’s cash. In the tiny police department Pascal could see his boy sleeping in a cot in a cell with handcuffs. Pascal recalled the cuffs digging into his own wrists and the reeking breath of the French Colonel whispering, “I would give you to the mothers of the men you killed and let them tear you apart with their teeth.”
The mulatto officer went to awaken and uncuff Gerard. The boy’s eyes met his father’s then fell to the floor.
“Ou fè m 'wont,” Pascal said. You make me ashamed.
The boy started to cry, “Pa, it wasn’t my fault…”
Pascal slapped the boy’s face. “Thief,” he hissed in Kreyol, “You call me to this place and you speak to me like this in front of white people? You make me ashamed!”
Officer Gillenwater pretended to be busy at his desk while the immigrant berating his son in a strange language.
Pascal tried to hold his head high, struggling beneath the second most shameful moment in his life. He must take his obstinate boy back to Haiti right away, before America could pollute him any more.
“A white boy is dead,” he barked at the slumped back of his son. “What do you have to do with that?”
“Keith Nelms.” Gerard began sobbing like a girl.
“Your friend?” Pascal put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I am sorry. I will drive.” Pascal’s hand still stung from slapping a minute before.
They could never go back. There were people in Haiti who would still remember what Pascal had done. Now more than ever Pascal needed his boiler room. When Pascal was a boy his uncle took him to the Cathedral in Port-au-Prince. He stood in awe at the bright murals across every wall. “What is it?” he asked.
“God.” His uncle whispered.
God had put a curse on Pascal and his son—retribution for his sins. God had followed him to this obscure corner of America. For nearly a decade in the sub-basement boiler room Pascal Jean-Baptiste had wrestled with God. He had often searched all night in the paint and wires for secrets that might save his soul. Pascal was beginning the bare wall beyond the old furnace; the death and resurrection of God would complete his project.
His son the thief made Pascal realized he must change his Garden of Gethsemene. Traditionally in Haitian cathedrals the sole white figure at the arrest of Christ is Judas the Betrayer, but Pascal realized the only way that the painting would work: He would paint his own face on the cursed disciple.
Pascal Jean-Baptiste sat in his pickup watching the door of the Canaan Gap Police Department, trying to muster the courage to go in. The middle school janitor gripped the wheel to keep his hands from shaking. They had his boy in there, but he couldn’t move.
Decades ago, Pascal had spent a night in handcuffs. Anxiety had racked his body on that warm Port-au-Prince night. “I just wanted to make things better,” Pascal had mumbled as cuffs that dug into his wrists.
“Mr. Jean-Baptiste, you should be glad the UN arrested you and not your own government." The French colonel sat across from him in a folding chair. “You would survive the night if they’d caught you.”
“So you admit it that this government is corrupt?”
“No more corrupt than you Mr. Jean-Baptiste. You set fire to a dozen of your opponents. Is that how you bring democracy to Haiti?” The foreigner leaned in, “If it were to me I would shoot every politician in this government,” his mouth was right beside Pascal’s ear, “but you, Jean-Baptiste, I would give to the mothers of the men you killed and let them tear you apart with their teeth.” The Frenchman turned to return to his chair, “But my job is not justice. I only monitor elections. So a piece of shit like you gets banishment. You will be on a plane to Miami in an hour. The United States accepted you as a refugee.”
“An hour!” The election was in two days. Haiti’s future hung in the balance, yet he was surprised at how his body relaxed at these words. He would escape. He would live.
“Never come back if you want to live, Mr. Jean-Baptiste. Haiti doesn’t want you. And I hope that every time you breathe free air your nose will sting with the smell of those boys you burned. Perhaps their families will find you in Miami and kill you.” The old colonel’s eyes were like two live coals of smoldering hate.
Pascal would not let himself tremble. “Colonel, what would you not sacrifice to deliver the world from evil? I sacrificed them all. I would sacrifice myself.”
“Your only sacrifice will be flying coach.” The colonel walked out.
Pascal wished he had paid more attention on the plane. It was the one time in his life he was above the world and close to God. Instead he fretted over elections and the safety of his wife and son in Port-au-Prince. In the narrow streets of Miami’s Little Haiti he found allies who had been sending him letters for years. He tried to be a big man among the Liberté Party here--tontons even tried to shoot him once—but far from the mountains of his homeland the struggle felt too abstract. His allies and enemies all felt like schoolboys squabbling over nothing. When his wife and little son, Gerard, arrived he told her, “We Haitians are hopeless people. We come to a land of freedom, and all we do is fight over crumbs.”
It wasn’t long before his wife told him, “It just isn't the same here.” Being Pascal Jean-Baptiste’s woman meant nothing in Miami. Pascal wasn’t an important freedom fighter anymore. They spent every day on a couch watching TV in English she couldn’t understand. When he found tickets back to Port-au-Prince in her purse Pascal slapped her and called her a whore. He dragged his crying three year old to the car and drove till he found mountains. The green mountains around Asheville, North Carolina reminded Pascal of home.
“What brings you to Asheville?” asked Dave, Pascal’s co-worker at the Golden Gallon.
“I came to become American.”
“Right on!” Then Dave taught Pascal a bizarre hand-slapping routine and shared marijuana with him. Dave even let Pascal rent a room in his house.
A strange thing happened as Pascal became American: he realized that he hated democracy. Pascal had served democracy all his life. He had sacrificed his prosperity and his homeland for democracy. He had put tires full of gasoline on men and set them on fire for democracy, but within the very heart of democracy he discovered that democracy was a disease. Even poor Americans had more freedom and prosperity than most of his people could imagine, but not a one of them enjoyed it. They were greedy, fat, and petty—waisting their lives on drugs and television. They were far less happy and intelligent than Haitian peasants. Pascal slapped Gerard when he heard him reciting the Pledge of Allegiance he'd learned in school. “Ou pa Amerikan!” You are not American!
Pascal’s boy, Gerard would watch Dave play video games for hours and even play himself when his father wasn’t looking. One day in 1995 Pascal turned off the television and said to his white roommate, “I grew up in the beautiful valley of Plesance. Every city I ever lived in has poisoned me. I am moving to the countryside. Goodbye.”
In Pascal's village when a thief was caught the medicine man would hang him from a tree by his feet and each right-living man who walked by would hit him with a stick. How could Pascal’s son have become a thief locked in an American jail? A Jean-Baptiste should never stoop to the level of these pathetic blancs, grasping for things they didn’t even need. Yet his very own son called in the middle of the night asking bail for stealing.
Pascal had more money in the jar under his bed than most Americans ever saved. Bail would not be a problem. He watched the police station. Officers carried in a fat man in cuffs, loudly protesting that some boy’s death wasn’t his fault. Pascal wondered who had died. Pascal had brought his son into these mountains to protect him from becoming like Americans. Pascal often wondered if the French Colonel had put a curse on him. What do white people know about curses? No, Pascal had cursed himself by spilling blood in the name of democracy. He wanted to run away to the basement of the middle school. The old boiler room in the sub-basement was the only place in America where Pascal could find any peace. As janitor, Pascal kept the only key, and he was creating something with wires, light bulbs and paint down there—the only thing in the world that made any sense anymore.
“Hello Pascal.” The officer rapping on the truck’s window startled him. “Gerard’s inside.”
“I’m coming, Mr. Gillenwater.” Pascal picked up his money jar and followed with his head down. It was the same officer who shot the dog. He was ashamed this mulatto had seen him twice in moments of weakness. Pascal's mother had warned him that mulattos couldn’t be trusted. “They are even worse that whites.” Of course, no one in America paid attention to family lines. Gillenwater’s superior officer probably didn’t even care that his blood was all mixed together. Forget where you come from and you end up with thieves and liars like all the American children.
The officer filled out the paperwork and counted Pascal’s cash. In the tiny police department Pascal could see his boy sleeping in a cot in a cell with handcuffs. Pascal recalled the cuffs digging into his own wrists and the reeking breath of the French Colonel whispering, “I would give you to the mothers of the men you killed and let them tear you apart with their teeth.”
The mulatto officer went to awaken and uncuff Gerard. The boy’s eyes met his father’s then fell to the floor.
“Ou fè m 'wont,” Pascal said. You make me ashamed.
The boy started to cry, “Pa, it wasn’t my fault…”
Pascal slapped the boy’s face. “Thief,” he hissed in Kreyol, “You call me to this place and you speak to me like this in front of white people? You make me ashamed!”
Officer Gillenwater pretended to be busy at his desk while the immigrant berating his son in a strange language.
Pascal tried to hold his head high, struggling beneath the second most shameful moment in his life. He must take his obstinate boy back to Haiti right away, before America could pollute him any more.
“A white boy is dead,” he barked at the slumped back of his son. “What do you have to do with that?”
“Keith Nelms.” Gerard began sobbing like a girl.
“Your friend?” Pascal put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I am sorry. I will drive.” Pascal’s hand still stung from slapping a minute before.
They could never go back. There were people in Haiti who would still remember what Pascal had done. Now more than ever Pascal needed his boiler room. When Pascal was a boy his uncle took him to the Cathedral in Port-au-Prince. He stood in awe at the bright murals across every wall. “What is it?” he asked.
“God.” His uncle whispered.
God had put a curse on Pascal and his son—retribution for his sins. God had followed him to this obscure corner of America. For nearly a decade in the sub-basement boiler room Pascal Jean-Baptiste had wrestled with God. He had often searched all night in the paint and wires for secrets that might save his soul. Pascal was beginning the bare wall beyond the old furnace; the death and resurrection of God would complete his project.
His son the thief made Pascal realized he must change his Garden of Gethsemene. Traditionally in Haitian cathedrals the sole white figure at the arrest of Christ is Judas the Betrayer, but Pascal realized the only way that the painting would work: He would paint his own face on the cursed disciple.