Interview with a dictator…

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So I’m heading down to Haiti to interview Baby Doc Duvalier, dictator son of a dictator. He’s been interviewed before, but this is 1980 and tons of Haitians are piling onto anything that floats these days and heading for Florida, so I’m not alone. Mebbe three other writers and a photographer show up. It will be the Doc’s first ‘group’ session.

We’re escorted way outa town to a mansion overlooking the harbor at Port au Prince. Hollywood has nothing on this place. It is staggering. Marble, crystal, lush woods. Lot of money.

Along the perimeter, there’s a guy with an Uzi every 20 feet. Sounds like an exaggeration. Take my word. There are a ton of guys standing guard here.

I ask the ranking guy around, who turns out to be the Finance Minister, if this is where the Prez lives. I’ve seen the palace downtown, which looks like a French chateau and runs for blocks, separated by a fence and another army of guards from the starving islanders who beg for handouts across the street.

He laughs at me, says it is for weekend entertaining of “very unimportant guests.” About this time we hear the Doc heading up the winding one-lane that climbs the mountain to this little shack. I’ve just been up this road, moving at about 5 mph to snake through the throng of people and tiny homemade carts lugging firewood.

The reason we can hear Duvalier‘s on his way: Sirens, dozens of motorcycle cops and the fact that he’s got his big Benz screaming. As for all those poor people crammed onto that little road, they can jump out of the way or they can be dead poor people.

Duvalier arrives. Before he steps out of the car, it is surrounded by machine-gun toting guys standing shoulder to shoulder. The Doc runs this place with fear and murder and torture. He is never exposed.

We go inside. Begin to talk. There’s a delay as his guy translates in both directions. It is obvious from second one that Duvalier has nothing to contribute, is an inarticulate slob and has so much disdain for this moment that it’s oozing out his pores. His three-word responses turn into paragraphs of lofty prose in the hands of his translator.

And it is during one of these moments, amid the palms and the cool island breezes and the chandeliers, as the dictator continues to spout, that one of the uncouth American swine journalists gathered there on his marble porch decides to interrupt with another question.

It happens so quickly it takes a moment to fully register. The guard standing just behind His Eminence has whipped that little Uzi waist high. He’s either about to cut loose or he’s doing a real good job of intimidation.

The clue might be the fact that my new best friend, the Finance Minister, has grabbed the barrel and yanked it to the floor.

Nobody interrupts Baby Doc.

A few hurried comments later, the interview is over. There are no refreshments.