Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (25 page)

He had a gold watch on his wrist, in pristine condition while its wearer was anything but. She reached at it with her working arm, undoing its clasp and slipping it off with some resistance offered by the rigid, lifeless fingers.

Libète laid the watch carefully on a nearby cement block and looked at it intently.

She then picked up a clump of broken cement the size of a softball, eyed her would-be killer’s hand, and began screaming as she crushed his remains into oblivion.

Libète digs through the surface layer of dirt, a pale brown color, looking over her shoulder every few seconds at the tents in the distance to ensure no eyes pry into her business. Her tool is a hardened shard of ceramic pottery, shaped like a triangle. She turns it like a drill, tearing up the soil until it permits her to sift through it with her bare hands.

Was it really this deep?
she wonders, worried her memory may be faulty and that what she seeks may not be where she left it.

Her searching hand finally catches on its familiar rounded rim and she sighs in relief. She digs carefully, like an archaeologist unearthing a lost treasure, replacing the ceramic in her black bag. She pulls another plastic bag from the ground, this one protecting a sealed metal jar. She unscrews the top, careful to check for spies once more, and looks inside the container.

When Libète had left her tent in Twa Bebe that morning, she began walking resolutely toward the water station with her faithful jerry can and dangling plastic bag.

The camp was not too far from Bwa Nèf, erected on open land near the southeastern edge of Project Drouillard. If viewed from above, the layout of the camp’s several hundred tents resembled a white athletic sock, organized for the most part into nearly straight rows with a larger improvised road that ran along the top of the foot, severing the ankle from the heel. The water station was toward the toe.

She greeted neighbors only if they spoke to her first. They were the unfortunate souls to have woken up in this circle of hell, one even lower than Cité Soleil. But the slums, for all their misery, had not been as rocked by the quake as other parts of Port-au-Prince. The worst damage occurred where buildings were constructed several stories tall. When the earth began shaking, these pancaked, floor collapsing on floor collapsing on floor, their victims caught between. Others’ lives were cut short by falling concrete and mortar. Shanties, with their metal sheet roofs and improvised building materials, maimed and injured more than killed.

— Bonjou, my queen. Libète greeted the Queen of Spain, banished like her to this unlikely place.

— Bonjou, my little subject, she sighed. The woman’s gaze lazily fixed upon a small naked child crying in the dirt across the way.

The Queen was situated in front of her tent on a mat shaded by a hanging tarp. She did not look well. Her matchstick legs were curled up to her chest and her eyes glazed over. Her easy and joyful air had evaporated with the passing of her fellow monarchs. The Queen of England departed in the days after the quake (due to infection or dehydration, Libète couldn’t remember which) while the Queen of France was found dead in her tent one morning in a smaller camp on the west side of Bwa Nèf, probably from her epilepsy.

— I see you are selling bananas today, Libète observed.

— I am.

— I have a small problem.

— Oh?

— You see, my stomach cries out like that unhappy baby you watch across the way. But I can’t feed it.

— Ah. I understand, my subject. I can help you with this thing. She picked a not-yet-ripened banana from her bunch and handed it to Libète. A queen must provide for her subjects, no?

Libète gave a deep bow, depositing the banana in her plastic bag.

— I shall eat it later, away from others. The old woman waved her away with a faint smile.

Picking up her jerry can again, Libète continued on toward the water station. There was a queue at the bloated water bladder, a square of dense rubber that when filled looked like a five-foot tall pillow ready to burst and spit feathers everywhere. Tanker trucks, bearing the mark of a crimson cross and the words “
Croix Rouge Haitienne
,” came each day to refill them. This was not
dlo potab
, or potable water, and was used by camp residents for washing and bathing. To drink, camp residents relied on aquatabs, small chlorine tablets that dissolved in water. These cost money though, and neither the truck with the red cross nor the other aid organizations were handing them out anymore. So Libète, like many others, drank the contaminated water.

She waited patiently to fill up her can and then struggled to lug the heavy container back to her tent so her Uncle could bathe, as was his custom.

When she got there, he was still gone. She decided to take advantage of his absence.

She left the camp in a hurry, plastic bag still looped around her wrist, and went into Project. The streets were busy as usual. Young men were spraying down their prized motorcycles, girls braided their friends’ hair, and two men rode sidesaddle atop donkeys, one pulling a small cart behind his ass. She looked downward, trying to avoid the faces and looks of others. Though the chance of being recognized was low, she was embarrassed to walk these streets in her current state. Peers of hers, those she had glimpsed in recent months, were filling out, wearing nicer clothes, growing taller as their bodies began making the transformation from girl to woman. She felt like her body was betraying her, stalling and regressing when it should be thriving. She resented her scrawny limbs and flat chest, hating it all the more when people from church or former classmates in Bwa Nèf sometimes failed to recognize her entirely.

Despite this, her poor state did have some use.

— Honor! Libète called out. She arrived at her destination, a nicer home in the area, painted a soft yellow color, like a ripe mango, appointed with a sign that read “
Patisserie
,” bakery.

— Respect! came hollered back.

— Madam Bellerive, it’s me, Libète! She shouted this into the large doorway, comprised of two smaller doors so that when the lower one was closed, it created a counter for selling.

Madam Bellerive came quickly to the door, flour covering her forearms and clothing. Sweat had beaded upon her forehead, running straight up to her hairline.

— Libète! How are you doing? she said hurriedly, looking at her ovens over her shoulder.

— I am well. But also, I am hungry.

— Have you any money?

— I do not, Madam. Not a goud.

Madam Bellerive sighed, some of her initial goodwill souring. Hers was one of the most difficult jobs in Cité Soleil, being a bread seller in a place where most did not have daily bread.

— Libète, she whispered. You know that if I give to one, I must give to all. Surely you understand? I would be out of business, and then there will be no bread for anyone.

— I do understand, madam. And I would not ask if I was not so hungry. I just thought because of your business with my Aunt that you could make an exception this one time? The madam sighed again. She closed her eyes and bit her top lip, as if in a moment of prayer. Libète did her best to look away unassumingly.

— Quick. Take these. She picked up a clear plastic bag and removed three rolls, handing them to the girl. Madam Bellerive looked around nervously, trying to make sure that no others saw her reluctant charity. They’re from yesterday and growing stale, she said.

Libète obliged, adding them to her plastic bag.
Bondye beni ou
, Madam Bellerive. You are kind, and I won’t ask for this favor again.

— And may God bless you too, child. I see that life is a struggle, but do your best to care for yourself. And — she said this part quietly — you may come again, from time to time, if you need.

Libète smiled. She left the front of the bakery and shuffled back toward the camp. With what she had accumulated, she was nearly ready. Only one stop remained.

She ran out to the open field in search of her buried metal jar. She dug quickly, knowing she would be pressed about her whereabouts by her Uncle. Within minutes, she had recovered the jar, opened it, and reached inside to withdraw a small, clear bag full of money.

Libète counted out the exact amount needed for her purposes, the money being the only tie to memories so incredible she could hardly believe them herself. She placed the notes in her bag, resealing the rest of the cash before preparing to bury it again. She paused for a moment, feeling a tingling all over her body as her stomach again cried out. She took out an extra fifty goud, a small amount by any standard, and moved to add it to her opaque bag.

— No. Libète, do not do it. Do not do it, she said aloud to herself. She closed her eyes and rubbed her face, biting down hard on her lip to restrain herself.

She placed the extra note back in her reserve, sealed it again, and buried it quickly.

Libète rushed back to her tent, her bag heavier than when she left. As she reached to pull back the entrance flap, she heard her Uncle saying farewell to someone inside. The visitor, a man, pulled the flap aside before she could do so herself. Libète stepped back to make way for the guest.

She was surprised to face Davidson, standing tall and dressed in dark slacks, new shoes, and a white button-down shirt.

— Libète! he exclaimed, surprised himself. It’s been too long, my cousin.

The path back to the row of houses, Libète’s home in Bwa Nèf, is marked with sorrow.

Though pitch black, she sees walls fallen in and homes collapsed. The streets are completely full of people. Those who are uninjured scurry into the late hours to rescue their loved ones and neighbors, guided by cries for help that are beginning to fade. Even if they could sleep, all refuse to set foot indoors, fearing another quake might strike.

The scenes playing out around her seem cast with moving shadows rather than people. She staggers down Impasse Sara grasping her pained arm, her mind taken over by her consuming thirst. She sees bodies covered by sheets, the elderly and injured sitting in a miserable daze. A man yells “make way, make way” as he pushes his unconscious wife in a wheelbarrow, rushing to find unlikely medical assistance.

Though dazed herself, she registers the unsettling contrast of cries of agony and mourning with desperate praises and prayers. Libète prays herself, wondering if God listens.

Not a moment later, she sees her cousin, wondering at first if it is really him. He lifts a stunned older woman from the ground, depositing her into another sad-looking wheelbarrow. A man next to him holds a fading flashlight, and she sees a horrible gash running down his face.

—
Davidson
, she tried to say, but her words were burnt up in the furnace of her throat.

She paused, struck with apprehension.
What if he hates me?
She remembered her last encounter had ended poorly, him realizing that she was responsible for Lolo’s arrest.

She tried again and managed to get his name out, albeit hoarsely. He turned to see her and finished placing the woman in the wheelbarrow before rushing over to her.

— Are you alright? He enveloped her in a hug, making her wince. She bit her lip so as to not cry out, appreciating the warmth of the gesture too much to spoil the embrace. Are you OK? Oh God, I’m so happy to see you, Libète.

— Me too.

— I was so afraid. I heard you had run away, and about the attack on Jak.

— I did, cousin. I have a story to tell you—a big one.

— It will have to wait as I help these people.

She looked at the woman and nodded in agreement. Are you OK? She signaled to his wound.

— Yes, yes, no problem. But you have to get home. I’ve been helping here and there, digging people out, transporting the injured and I haven’t made it over yet. The phones, they aren’t working, so I haven’t been able to get to manman or papa.

— OK, Davidson.

— Go home. I’ll come as soon as I can.

Finally reaching the row of homes, she was surprised by what confronted her. Some of the houses appeared undamaged, pristine even. Others had collapsed walls, or cracks that spread out like spider-webs. She recognized neighbors through their harried looks, those who were not immobile or leaning against walls, running about like scared children in search of a parent. None of them paid her any heed nor could know the danger she had just escaped.