The painter Jeanne-Pierre, on the grounds of the Hotel Oloffson, Port-au-Prince. We got to talking, and he was very interested that I was an artist. He reached into his old truck and grabbed some canvases which he began rolling out enthusiastically on his truck's hood. I thought he was bullshitting me with his talk about being a famous artist, but he showed me clippings of his work at galleries in New York and Paris. He clearly wanted to sell me a painting, and I kept telling him I didn't have any money, certainly not enough for one of his beautiful works. He kept insisting, and sold me one for next to nothing. If Sue were not due back any minute to whisk me off to the airport, I might have gone with him to meet a Haitian Voodoo priest; probably best that I didn't.
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