Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (16 page)

— Mèsi, Mesye. Tell us when we should transfer,
souple
? She felt an inexplicable calm, a sense that this is what San Figi’s lingering spirit was encouraging her toward. They would find a way to make up the difference, she knew it.

She looked at Jak. He was peering out of the small crack between the plastic shell covering the passengers and the truck bed. She did the same. Libète had been to a family wedding up high on Delmas road, but that was a few years ago. Jak, she realized, had never been out of Cité Soleil, not even once. Within minutes the familiar landmarks and signs of their world had vanished, replaced by places and people unknown.

They made their first transfer, and the taptap assistant called out the next stop. The man with the lined face spoke again.

— We’re not so far now. If you alight here, you can catch a taptap to John Brown. You must head straight one more block, and then go left. Two more blocks, and you’ll be there, my friends.

— Many thanks, mesye. Jak, let’s do as he says.

When the lumbering truck stopped, they handed their five goud coins to the assistant and descended.

The two stood on the busy street corner for a while, a subtle excitement creeping up their bodies and making their heads light. The corner was wild with street sellers carrying belts, medicines, hats, or cardboard boxes with cold sodas and energy drinks that sweat in the heat. A shoeshine boy drummed upon his case of polishes with an impressive beat, and pedestrians danced as they walked, their courses and purposes known only to them.

Libète pondered their situation silently. They could either use their reserves to cover the last leg, or seek out some way to make up the balance now.

— What are we waiting for?

— Jak, let’s stay here for a bit.

— What? Why?

Libète pulled the empty pockets of her uniform inside out.

— Not enough?

— I didn’t know how many transfers there would be.

— Libète!

— What? Have
you
ever been to Jean-Jacques and John Brown? I haven’t! So I guessed.

— Why didn’t you tell me?

— Because, she said derisively, poking Jak on the chest. I knew you would back out. We need to find a way to make twenty goud.

— Twenty!? But that could take all day!

Libète surveyed the street. She knew that they could beg, but that was beneath them. Telling a story to pry the money from the hand of a trusting soul was always an option. No, swindling was too unsavory, as was stealing from anyone but her Aunt. She set her mind on the only other possibility: they would have to work.

But what could they do?

Up the street, Libète spied a young boy waiting at a broad intersection. Each time the traffic signal turned red, the boy set to wiping down the dirty cars and trucks with an old rag. Libète’s eyes lit up. Jak had carefully watched her gaze focus on the boy.

He sighed. Alright. But where do we get a rag?

She eyed Jak.

— Take off your shirt.

— What? No! What am I going to wear if my shirt is covered in dirt?

— Jak, your clothes are always covered in dirt. What difference does it make?

He was downcast.

— I’m sorry, Jak, I’m sorry. But help me do this. I’ve already been beaten twice to get here and I’m going to get hit even more for missing school and stealing money!

Jak brow crinkled as he pulled his shirt over his head. Libète hid a frown from Jak, regretting that she had heaped more indignity upon her friend.

The two found another intersection nearby. Jak approached his first car, an expensive looking one that had “Mercedes” in silver lettering along the back. Shirt in hand, he started wiping dirt off the hood. The driver, a light-skinned woman, didn’t acknowledge him and drove off at the traffic signal’s turn to green, colliding with his shoulder and spinning him to the ground.

Libète rushed to his side and helped him up. A breath of car exhaust nearly made her choke.

— You’re not doing it right! Libète hissed. Make your face look like you’re sick and haven’t eaten today!

— I haven’t eaten today, he muttered.

— Well, she paused. Then make it three days! She modeled a pitiable face.

Jak swore at her.

That Libète was not kicked from her Aunt’s home surprised everyone, Libète and Estelle included. But there was something true in their confrontation, something undeniable and valuable that cut through their layers of self-deception and forced them to face the stark reality of what kicked around the corners of their souls. For Estelle, it was her pride and brutality. For Libète, an anger that could cause her to injure another.

Despite these glimmers of clarity, no one chooses to view themselves in a poor light for long. They were soon at odds again, falling into the same arguments and patterns. But things had changed, irrevocably so. Libète knew she would never be her aunt’s daughter, but now saw that while still a restavek, a child servant, she was something less than a ti bòn, a bonded slave. And while Estelle now permitted Libète more freedom, including keeping company with Jak, she wouldn’t hesitate to beat the girl if provoked.

This thawing of their relationship was reflected in Estelle’s new business model. Always the entrepreneur, she recently acquired a
telefòn mobil
and was eager to use it to expand her business. She posted a new painted sign on the side of the fence surrounding her kitchen. It read “Restauraunt Estelle” followed by her phone number and the words
nou delivre
, “we deliver.” In truth it should have read “Libète delivers.”

Libète resumed school a month after her expulsion from Pastor Lucien’s academy, but found herself relegated to Madam Féthière’s school. Widely regarded as the worst in Bwa Nèf, its red and blue uniforms were some consolation to Libète. She had to regularly remind herself of her good fortune in having a school to attend, and that her Aunt was still willing to pay the fees. Most days after school, Libète would be busy taking plastic bags filled with foam containers of food to this house or church, that funeral or wedding.

Through this, the whole of Bwa Nèf was opened up to her. She learned back routes and alleyways and became acquainted with many more people in the community. Jak, with little else to do, accompanied her on these trips. When Libète discovered that her Aunt would let her keep small tips from speedy deliveries, it gave her an idea. Without her Aunt’s knowledge, she began employing Jak’s services so that Libète would deliver one order while Jak another, increasing their take. Libète secreted most of hers away—not because she was saving up for any particular candy or toy, but because it made her feel more important than other children with no money. Jak’s share went to help him buy food for himself and his grandmother.

It was not safe work in those increasingly dark and violent months, but profit outweighed her Aunt’s prudence in most instances. More than once, when the report of gunfire was heard, Estelle remarked, “That was just a moto’s engine backfiring. Out you go, and be quick! The food will be cold when it reaches our customers!” So Libète scurried about in shadows, hoping to avoid the gun battles, arrests, and bloody executions so rampant in the streets.

From what she had gathered since coming to Cité Soleil six months earlier, the violence between the Chimè, the gangbangers in that area, started when President Aristide was forced to leave the country in February 2004. People rallied against the forces that had expelled him and his family, but the police in the pocket of the elites were used to put down demonstrators supportive of Aristide and his Lavalas political party. This often meant killing them.

Most all in Cité Soleil loved Aristide. He was seen as the first president to have the interests of the poor at heart. When many died in the fighting, the U.N. peacekeepers were invited in by the stricken government to “stabilize” the country using armored vehicles and machine guns.

While this occurred, many gangs began to take advantage of the situation. They sprang up in each of the different zones of Cité Soleil, with three big leaders that ran most everything. Evens Jeune ran things in Boston, Amaral Duclona in Belecourt, and in Bwa Nèf, Belony was the big
chef
. Touss, Libète had finally worked out, was one of Belony’s top lieutenants and was seen in public much more frequently than the top gangster himself.

The people in Bwa Nèf were sick of this fighting. Violence was as endemic as fulminating diarrhea in the neighborhood, and MINUSTAH, the peacekeepers, had been especially active in recent months. The largest invasion in 2006 occurred three days before Christmas. Nearly 400 troops in their armored vehicles entered the slums along with Haitian police at three in the morning, prompting a firefight that lasted much of the day. The size and ferocity rivaled the largest previous fight, dating back to July when MINUSTAH had targeted and killed one of the main Aristide supporters named Dread Wilmè, a figure celebrated by the slum dwellers and castigated by the elites.

The damage to the community proved inestimable. By the time smoke had cleared and the rubble and remains were taken into account, it was the innocents who had suffered most. Scores of civilians were killed. The high-caliber weapons’ fire tore through the shacks and shanties, striking people dead in their beds and bereaving families. Libète had stood at the funeral for many of the dead, held in front of the community stage in Bwa Nèf. She wept with others over the collected caskets of her neighbors, crying bitter tears because the deaths were unjust, stupid, and wrong. All of this warring made her long for the quiet and simple peace of La Gonâve, when her greatest concerns were an empty stomach, her mother’s love, and the health of her goats.

On this particular night, Libète and Jak carried a large order—seven styrofoam containers brimming with chicken legs,
sos pwa,
and rice to an unfamiliar house in the northeastern corner of Bwa Nèf, not far from the sea. It was an unseasonably cool night, and wet. Libète had put on her favorite knit sweater appointed with wild animals to help with the crisp air while Jak donned a stained, pink button-down shirt he had found discarded a week before. Meant for a child twice his size, he rolled the sleeves halfway up just so he could use his hands.

There was an uneasiness permeating the streets, but this was nothing new. As soon as the two stepped off the main road, a truck approached, flicking on its dormant lights. They rushed into an alley to ensure they were not hit, but it slowed down instead of speeding past. The passenger-side window rolled down. Sitting behind it was Officer Simeon, from the National Police.

— Children! he half-shouted, half-whispered, signaling for them to come closer. They approached his truck cautiously. There was a shadowy figure sitting behind the wheel, and it was Jak who first recognized his round, bald head.

— It’s Dimanche! Jak whispered, inaudible to the officers over the sound of their idling pickup. Both children gulped.

— You shouldn’t be out, Simeon said.

— But we must,
ofisye
. She lifted her bags. We are delivering food, and it cannot deliver itself.

— I don’t care if someone misses an evening meal! I care that children don’t get killed. It’s a bad night to be on the streets. We’ve heard Touss is back in this zone, already stirring up trouble.

— Ah, but if I don’t deliver this order, then it will be me who’s in trouble. Right now, I’m afraid of my Aunt’s fists more than Touss’.

Simeon grimaced.

— Who is your aunt, child? I must tell her not to let her niece and her niece’s friend out after dark.

— My name is Libète, and my aunt is Estelle—of Restaurant Estelle. My friend here is Jak.

— Hurry up, then, Dimanche growled, speaking for the first time. Deliver your food. But get home quick. I don’t want to find you out this late again, nor your bodies in the streets.

Libète gulped. Wi, ofisye.

The truck sped away.
They’re even more scared than we are
, she thought. That made sense. The gangs targeted police patrols, and even though things had been quieter since the December attacks, there was no reason to expect it to stay that way.

— Come on, Libète. Let’s finish this. I don’t want to be out any longer than we have to, Jak said, tugging at her sweater.

They continued on toward the customer’s house to finish the delivery. When they reached the row, they counted to the fourth home per the caller’s instructions. It was dark inside, leading Libète to wonder if they had made a mistake. She rapped on the door with three quick taps before each child stepped back a few feet.

— Who is it? a voice said. The speaker tried to peer through the door’s bars without letting his face be seen.

— We brought food. From Restaurant Estelle. She held up the bags to validate her claim.

— Ah. Ah ha.

A flurry of muted speech could be heard behind the door.

— You have any weapons on you? The question unnerved Jak and emboldened Libète.

— Do I look like I have weapons? she sneered. I’m a child. Come on, you want the food or not? Don’t waste my time.

They could hear the metal bolt being drawn back before the door opened.