A Rendezvous in Haiti by Stephen Becker Page A

with one spur and the lone ruby eye dimmed. They died like that, the red with his beak in the orange and a spur in his brain, and the cheering was fierce. Men and women roared and yodelled and applauded and clacked their wooden cups together in rhythm, and in the corner by Boniface’s little dwelling a tambor rataplanned, and a deafening hooraw went up for Mince Serpen’ and Cheche Crachat, or Skinny Snake and Dry Spit, who were the birds embraced in death, and for Achille and Charlot, who were the owners embraced in life. All bets were off, and the camaraderie was like warm mist.
    A quartet of handlers were setting out another main. The murmur of Creole soothed Blanchard again, like some country melody from another century. The handlers examined spurs, their own bird’s and the other’s; they ruffled feathers, they blew a fine spray of rum. Noise mounted. These were another red and a zinga. Blanchard sized them up. “Le zinga!” he called. “Qui moon ba deux?”
    The chatter checked: who was this white fool, asking two to one?
    â€œImbécile!” someone called. “These are great birds! Five gourdes! Evens!”
    â€œEven money,” Blanchard agreed, and the crowd pressed in, and the clairin was sweet. The handlers were ready, the cry went up, the birds circled, fluttered and attacked. They sparred, broke. The zinga was a slasher and bided his time. The red seemed a hybrid, slashing and pecking both. When the birds paused for rest, the handlers gathered them in. They were set again; Blanchard saw the handler jab, and the red lunged forward in a frantic flurry and pecked blood from the zinga’s neck, and then slashed. Blanchard shouted, “Foul! Coup-bas!” Furious, he leapt into the pit and took up the zinga. For that instant he saw and heard nothing: only knew that he had been fouled.
    A handler in a red headband came straight for him. The man was café-au-lait and mustachioed. Blanchard now saw that he was a runt, but his blade was eight inches and bright. Blanchard shielded himself with the cock and shouted “Ça va, ça va!” while he groped for his own knife. In the back of his mind he cursed himself: this was neither paid work nor a cause. The handler cursed and spat. Blanchard told himself, just two country boys arguing, but he knew how wrong that was.
    There was a ring of them suddenly and no wall behind him and no way out. Blades wrote flashing illegible messages. Blanchard forwent his knife; he crouched and raised open hands like a wrestler; the zinga flapped to earth. Blanchard talked fast. “You goosed that red. You goosed him hard.”
    Another handler dashed into the circle to reclaim the bird, and dodged away. The crowd cheered, and Blanchard heard: this was better than a cockfight. Two to one on the black. No bet on the blanc. The ring was all knives and teeth, edging closer. Blanchard could only stand still.
    Boniface came waddling, cheery and curious, a bottle dangling in one hand. “Tiens,” he said. Then he cried out, “Ohé, merde! Shut up, all of you!”
    They did shut up. “Ten times a night one protests the handling,” he went on. “What the devil is all this fuss?”
    â€œNot to Marius,” a voice called. “Marius is an honest man.” The crowd agreed in a peevish mutter.
    â€œYou see, setting-on is legal,” Boniface said to Blanchard. “Perhaps it is done differently here.”
    â€œSetting on! He damn near disemboweled that red with a railway spike.”
    â€œSuch talk,” Boniface said.
    â€œLook in his pocket,” Blanchard said.
    â€œWe do not look in pockets here,” Boniface said. “As well, don’t you think?”
    Blanchard drew a deep breath and stood tall. He sniffed tobacco smoke. The ring of men was still waving knives at him, and their faces were not angry, but sullen and scornful. The mustachioed handler muttered to Boniface, whose