Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (50 page)

He looked to Libète and Jak. Soon, he replied. As soon as I can.

Lè w’ mouri ou pa konnen, lè w’ konnen ou mouri

When you die, you don’t know. When you know, you die.

Fizi tire; nanpwen aranjman

Shots are fired; there is no more negotiating

The lights are beautiful in the courtyard, strung high and emanating a white glow that washes the party below in softness. A three-piece jazz band mixes drums, saxophone, and keyboard, producing music that is sedate, fitting the guests’ mood well. A few are people of repute, some good, some ill, but most are nobodies. What brings them together is an open secret that all know but none are willing to voice: that their candidate, Bienamié, will certainly lose the senatorial election in the next few days.

There had been high hopes this time. The previous senator for Cité Soleil was one of the many crushed in the quake’s unexpected tremors, opening up the seat. Bienamié, a three-time candidate and three-time loser, had hoped fate would smile upon him and grant him his wish of leaving behind the thankless job of a magistrate in Cité Soleil. Benoit’s entrance into the race had ensured fate’s frown once more.

The odd trio stand along a wall near the courtyard entrance. Two dirty, poor children and a police officer are not welcome at this soiree, confirmed by guests’ sideway glances as they sip warm champagne, cheap wine, and lukewarm Prestige. The children have never been in a place as foreign as this, among bona fide members of the middle and upper classes. They might as well have stepped into a king’s court.

Dimanche flips his phone in his hand impatiently, a grimace on his face and sweat on his brow. He knows that his absence in the slums has a high cost and hopes this errand is worth it.

The house man, an older fellow in an ill-fitting suit, signals the trio from across the courtyard. Dimanche swallows hard and the three walk in a procession through the mirthless crowd.

Bienamié sits in a faux-leather chair in an office that was once a laundry room. A single fluorescent light flickers overhead, along with a TV that Bienamié rages at even in the midst of his own party.

— You see this? he says to his visitors. Film crews are already down there!

The office is lined with French books on a variety of subjects, more likely to have been cast off from the motherland as donations Bienamié hoarded rather than purchased. His desk furniture—several metal balls hung by wire, a business card holder and a snow globe paper weight—appear to be strategically placed to hide the damaged surface of the desk.

— On a late Wednesday night! I’ve been hearing on the radio that
he’s
down there trying to broker peace or some such nonsense.

— Who are you talking about? Dimanche asked.

Bienamié shifted in his chair, his wide gut on display. He raised an eyebrow. Benoit, he said. That bastard.

He looked the three up and down for the first time, his face registering a look of distaste. Why are you here? You better have a good reason to invade my party, my
home
, on the cusp of the election.

The children were accustomed to being spoken down to and looked to the floor. Dimanche was not.

— I think we have something you might be interested in,
mesye majistra,
he spat derisively. We came to hand you the election, but if you want us to go I have more important—

— Cut your bluster, officer. I apologize. You have my attention.

— Libète, Jak, Dimanche grumbled. Tell the magistrate what you know.

**

— So you’re telling me that Benoit had his little girlfriend killed to spare his reputation and keep secret his involvement in a prostitution ring that pimped out young girls
from
Cité Soleil
to foreign
troops?

— That’s right.

— And these—these children are the ones who discovered all this?

Dimanche nodded.

— This shit is better than fiction! Bienamié sprang up out of his chair and did a gleeful dance, knocking over a champagne flute and letting it spill to the floor.

— Don’t forget about Lolo, Libète interrupted the magistrate.

He turned to look at the girl. My dear, if all you want in return for this is the release of some
nèg
from the National Penitentiary, that’s a price I’m willing to pay! Ha ha! Even if he was guilty! Ha! I’ll complete the paperwork now. This is too fantastic—God, this is just fantastic.

He reached into his desk and rifled through forms, pulling out a single sheet along with a pen and seal. He completed it in a flurry, signing the arrest order with a grand flourish.

Libète felt worry creep in.
This is who we’re making a senator?

— Who is going to execute my order? Bienamié asked.

Dimanche swallowed hard. That responsibility is mine and mine alone.

Bienamié nodded, making a clicking sound as he processed this. Well, good man! Go with God, he offered. You’ll need protection, that’s for sure! Ah! He held up a hand before another word could be spoken. What am I saying? I’ll be a
senateur
! You’ll have my protection now! To thank you for your loyalty, how about I make you my chief of security? That would be a good reward, no?

All emotion drained from Dimanche’s face, now inscrutable, like a mannequin. It took a moment before he spoke.

— Magistrate, understand one thing. I’m not doing this for you, nor do I want your slippery fingers trying to hedge me. If I never have to lay eyes on you again it will make what I’m about to do that much more palatable. He took the order in hand. We’ll be leaving now.

The three exited just as they entered, quickly and quietly.

When they reached their damaged truck across the street, Dimanche surveyed the magistrate’s home.

— This is what we fight for, he snarled, shaking his head in disgust.

**

They parked the truck at the mouth of Impasse Chavannes and jumped out of it without even cutting the ignition, rushing to the edge of the media storm gathered around Benoit. Their adversary—handsome, calm, sober—stood at its center, the cameras’ lights giving him an aura like in paintings of the beatified.

The children and Dimanche stood at a safe distance, straining to make out Benoit’s words over the bustling of so many onlookers and the dire gunfire in the distance.

—…times of crisis require leadership, Benoit said. Why do we let our arguments be made with the shouts of bullets instead of reasoned words? Are we prepared to see Cité Soleil fall to pieces again?

— But what of the reports of the prostitution of young women and girls?

Benoit paused to choose his words. At least ten young men, reporters, held tape recorders to capture his every word. Cameramen formed a ring around him too, edging to get a shot of his chiseled face. Even late on a Friday night the media had been stirred to attention, leading one to wonder if this impromptu press conference had been arranged in advance.

— Don’t get me wrong. I wish I could hold a gun against those responsible in our own police and the U.N. But this is not the way forward. Everyone involved in these crimes—I speak of the sexual enslavement of our citizens—will be punished most severely. You can be sure of it. We will not tolerate such things. As a private citizen I will fight this, and if the polls go my way on Sunday, than I will do so as a senator. I will not be able to rest until the culprits, these traitors to our country, are rooted out.

Libète shrank at Benoit’s words, his regal air, his conviction. Even knowing the truth about him, she wanted to believe his fiction deep down.

Jak leaned over to Libète and whispered in her ear. He’s not going to be content being a senator. He wants more. I can see it.

The crackling of machine gun fire and pistols’ replies reminded Libète of the stakes involved.

— Dimanche, Libète said. When will you do what needs to be done?

He looked at Libète’s wide eyes. His feet remained frozen in place, his knees locked and body rigid. The warrant in his left hand was crinkled and wet with sweat. He swallowed, sniffled, and wiped his nose with the back of his right hand.

— I don’t know if I can do this, Libète. The costs…

Tears sprang to Libète’s eyes. She reached out and took the man’s hand, tugging him forward slowly toward the center of the storm. It is right, Dimanche. It is right. It must be done…

He pulled back, his resistance saying what he could not.

— You are not alone, she coaxed him. You are not alone. It must be your choice.

— Help me then, Libète. Somehow.

She dropped Dimanche’s hand, connecting her eyes with his. Suddenly, the thought came to her. She took three steps forward, breathed deeply three times, and then exploded.

— LIES! This is all lies!

Benoit, mid-soliloquy, tried to ignore the little girl but she shouted again, finding her voice. The cameras and blinding lights began turning to the small girl, standing alone in the darkness. You are
koupab
, Benoit! Guilty!

Benoit’s bodyguards stepped from behind the candidate and moved toward the girl to silence her. Jak stepped forward from behind Dimanche and stood with her, ready for whatever the men would do. As they rushed to pull the children to the side, the officer stepped in front of them.

— If you touch them I’ll rip your arms out of their sockets! he shouted for all the cameras to capture and tape recorders to hear.

The thugs paused, clearly unsure of how to proceed with a uniformed policeman standing in the gap.

— Jean-Pierre Benoit, I have a warrant signed for your arrest! he shouted. For conspiracy to commit murder and prostitution!

— What? What is the meaning of this? Benoit shouted back. Dimanche? Is that you?

— It is, Benoit, and I’ve come for you! he yelled, spittle spraying from his mouth.

The thugs moved in. Dimanche punched one while the other tried to tackle him. The law will be respected! Dimanche shouted for all to hear. It will be respected! He freed himself of one man’s grasp and moved with a steady intensity straight through the crowd of reporters.

— Look how I’m maligned by my enemies, Benoit shouted. Surely this is Bienamié’s doing!

Dimanche had lost control, pulling his handcuffs from behind his back and moving toward the candidate. The proof is against you, Jean-Pierre. You tried to bribe me to put another in prison in your place for murdering your own son and his mother! You have organized this violence so that you can play the peacemaker! You have caused the very abuse of women you now denounce!

Some tried to come to Benoit’s defense, trying to keep Dimanche from advancing closer, but he plowed on with unstoppable force. The lives taken tonight are on you, Benoit! he shouted. They are innocents caught in your game, and I tell you the law will be
respected!

Benoit froze, waiting for someone to stop him for good, but the reporters were more interested in capturing the scene, a wild policeman arresting a sure-to-be Senator. Dimanche reached Benoit and took him to the ground before the pair fell out of view of Libète and Jak.

— Should we try to help? Jak asked.

Libète shook her head. We need to do something about the shooting in Bwa Nèf. Benoit is stopped but that won’t stop the fighting!

— But what can we do?

Libète looked around and settled on the still-running police truck. Without a word, she ran toward the vehicle.

— Wait up, Jak called, limping as fast as he could to catch her.

She jumped into the driver’s seat and locked both doors before Jak could get inside.

— What are you doing, Libète? He began pounding on the window. Let me come with you!

She shook her head and mouthed “I’m sorry” over the rumbling engine. She stretched and pushed the accelerator down hard before Jak could put himself between the truck and the heart of Bwa Nèf where Libète now headed so recklessly.

— Don’t leave me! he shouted as she sped away. Don’t leave me!

Libète walks halfway up the gangway to get a better view, looking about wildly for the Nurse in the faces of the crowd gathered at the dock.
Still nowhere
.

Like a clap of thunder come the words: Run, Libète! They’re coming! Her eyes dart to find the speaker, and she sees a man cupping his hand over the Nurse’s mouth, dragging her away behind a small shipping container with his other arm. Another man from near the struggle breaks from the pair and runs toward the ship, toward Libète.
They’re after me!