A Rendezvous in Haiti by Stephen Becker

themselves into a murderous mood. The handlers were entitled to ullage—one for the cock and one for themselves. They would further infuriate the contestants by immobilizing them while a specialist filed the spurs that made them lethal. Once the spurs were filed, there was no turning back; all bets were on, and scratches were forfeits.
    There were peckers and slashers. Peckers took a while to do their work, like boxers jabbing a victim to death over ten rounds. Slashers leapt high and came down hard, the spurs flashing and sometimes blinding an enemy eye or penetrating the enemy brain; they were like fighters with a vicious hook in either hand, who could end matters early.
    Blanchard ordered clairin à l’eau. This was handed him in a capacious wooden cup. He then toured the gaguerre, and heard talk more appropriate to racing: “That black is slow starter but comes on strong at the finish,” or “The red has won his last three times out; hardly worth a bet at tonight’s odds,” or “The brown doesn’t look like much but I know his trainer. If the price is right I go for ten.” The air was full of admonitions, curses, greetings and cigar smoke. Most of the men wore the familiar white or blue cotton trousers and loose shirt; many were barefoot; but a few wore collarless dress shirts or imported pants. The women seemed to be whores; he saw none of the moon élégan’, no Near Eastern empresses or Queens of Sheba. It was a good noisy cheerful black crowd. He was at home and almost happy in this mob of rumbustious Haitians.
    The betting was moderate. There were a few professional bookmakers but mainly it was man-to-man. Bettors were offering as little as one gourde. The highest sum called in Blanchard’s presence was fifty. He would bet twenty—a dollar, give or take a few cents. He had come for the entertainment and the company, and his profession had taught him the dangers of gambling.
    As usual, every time he saw a flash of scarlet in someone’s get-up his mind said “Caco.” But that was habit, not fear. This evening he had no enemies. He was cheering impartially for two peckers. The flow of blood was impressive. It mingled with remembered flows, faint confused images from his several pasts. The red had lost an eye, but the remaining orb gleamed like a ruby as he attacked, attacked, hopped sideways and attacked again. It was, as cockfights go, classic. If either bird had flapped his way into the air and come down with a well-placed spur, the match would have ended; but they were peckers.
    He gulped clairin. He was thirsty and sober. “Vas-y le rouge!” he shouted. Startled faces gleamed at him. “Messieurs-dames,” he said, and hoisted his cup in general greeting.
    â€œâ€˜Soir, le blanc,” a voice called.
    â€œTout le monde!” Blanchard responded. The crowd was growing shrill, its nighttime roar swelling. Men stamped and cursed. The red was wearing down his foe. That was a waste. Suppose he won? A one-eyed cock would never fight again anyway, but boil up nicely with onions. Simmer for some hours, please. These were tough little birds. The loser was reddish too, more orange, and he stabbed back gamely, but he was being forced to give ground and circle. it was not that he lacked heart; only that he was smaller. His handlers were not permitted to touch him except to keep him within the ring. Each time he hoped to flee, they herded him back to his doom.
    Now the orange was hard-pressed, and the pit was all feathers and shouts. Along the palisade, lanterns flickered from the sheer force of sound. The red closed in hard and the din was fierce, but by God the orange gave them their gourde’s worth: fought back standing, fought back beaten to a sit, down on his tail; braced and strained himself into one more flurry and went over on his tail-feathers again, doomed and battling, and at the last second he fetched red a roundhouse swipe