Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (7 page)

— Do you need help? the boy asked, noticing her dismay. She turned to him, biting her lip and gave a short nod.

— My Aunt, she wanted water. I spilled it all.

— I saw.

— She’ll be angry, and I don’t have money to pay for more.

The boy picked up the bucket and walked back toward the water kiosk wordlessly. She followed and watched as he reached into his pocket and took a one goud coin to pay the attendant. He was small, but there was an intelligence in his eyes and manner that signaled he might be older than he appeared.

— I’m not too strong, but I can help you get it back. We can carry it together.

Tears, born of gratefulness, formed in her eyes. She did not let these waters fall.

— What’s your name? she asked. You didn’t tell me.

The boy answered simply. It’s Jak.

— Mèsi, Jak. Mèsi anpil, anpil. You have saved me before knowing me. I’m called Libète.

She took the bucket’s handle but didn’t yet lift it. He placed his hands on it and prepared to lift.

— Why are you helping me? she asked abruptly.

He paused for a moment in thought. Because you need it, he said, and because I can.

She smiled. They lifted together and began back toward the house. He helped her make it inside before disappearing into the darkness without another word.

Not a drop was spilled.

The police truck trundles through the opening of the wall painted with a blue bottom and a white top, into the courtyard of the building painted with a blue bottom and a white top. It seems a villa looking out on a sea of shanty homes, but it is not. The letters
Commissariat de Police de Cité Soleil
appear in blue above the villa’s entryway, flanked by a painted Haitian flag and the national emblem depicting cannon, rifles, a palm, and the phrase “
L’Union Fait La Force
”
—
Unity Makes Strength.

Libète and Jak sit in the cab of the police truck, next to Officer Simeon. They are uneasy. The truck passes the contingent of United Nations soldiers posted next to the police station, with their tents, vehicles, and weapons. Many men with many guns patrol in front of the compound. But this does not make the children nervous. No, they shudder because they know they will soon face Inspector Dimanche, a man known by all, and feared by all.

— Take this, Simeon says, handing Jak an oversized shirt to cover his naked torso. They plucked him from the street where he was playing, not giving him the chance to go home and change. The shirt is bright yellow and new, and reads “
Ansanm pou lapè
,” together for peace. You can’t go in there naked. And you can keep it.

Jak smiles, for he has never been given a new shirt.

— Come on you two, Simeon smiles back. We need to talk to Dimanche.

The trio walk into the station. It is quieter than the children expect it to be.

— Most everyone is away for the weekend, Simeon explains. Dimanche worked most of yesterday even though he was off, inspecting the bodies, interviewing the family. Now he wants to talk to you.

Simeon rapped on an office door tagged with a sheet of paper on which was scrawled “Dimanche.”

— Come in, they heard barked from within.

Simeon opened the door to a white-walled office with no ostentation. Dimanche was seated at a desk, a pad of paper before him, pen in hand.

— Thank you for coming. Please, sit. He signaled toward two vacant seats in front of the desk. Libète sat down resolutely with arms crossed, while Jak hesitated before finally seating himself. The children’s feet dangled from the tall chairs. Simeon leaned against the wall near the door.

In truth, Libète was as nervous as Jak, though she had learned the value of feigning confidence in situations where she felt anything but.

— I’m glad you wanted to talk with us, Libète said matter-of-factly. It’s about time.

— Is that so? Dimanche said, shifting his formidable weight in his chair and raising an eyebrow.

— Yes. It shows you’re actually doing your job.

Dimanche’s lips curled into a bemused smile.

— We need to find out who killed Claire and her baby, she continued. Out there, we see lots of bad things happen and the police do nothing.

Jak was mortified, mouth agape.

— She doesn’t mean any of that, Inspector. She knows you work very, very hard and—

Dimanche held up a hand to silence Jak, his eyes locked on Libète.

— That’s quite the indictment of us, Dimanche said. She didn’t know what an indictment was but pushed on.

— Yes, it is. You sit on your asses and let all the vagabonds escape the law.

Simeon stifled a disbelieving chortle. Jak stared, still dumbfounded. She had seen Dimanche pummel a man to a pulp just as Jak had, and heard other stories of Dimanche’s reputation for using his fists rather than words. What possessed her to speak this way to the head inspector in Cité Soleil?

— I’ll let you know, child, that I don’t disagree with you. Too many of my men are lazy and it is a constant battle I fight. I appreciate that you are forthright with your opinions. Too few are. My only defense is that I work hard, but crimes mount on top of crimes. Already there was a shooting last night—

— You should have spoken to us yesterday, Libète interrupted him. We have important things to share.

— I offer you my apology, and I’m speaking with you now. Libète looked self-satisfied. But child, I have entertained your smart mouth. Know that I won’t do so any longer. Interrupt me again and you’ll have a bruised cheek to keep that sharp tongue of yours company.

Libète shrunk, and nodded, looking to the floor.

— Now, you say you have something to share. Why didn’t you tell the police who were there?

— I
did
try. They didn’t want to listen.

— And you, Jak?

— I was scared, he whimpered.

Dimanche sucked his teeth, unimpressed. He turned back to Libète.

— You could have come to the station.

She laughed. Living with my aunt? She would not let me. And you think those guards outside with big guns would have let a kid in to see the inspector?

— Maybe so, maybe not. But you’re here now. Tell me what you wish to say.

Libète took a deep breath and collected her thoughts.

— Well, we were in the marshes, looking for bottles. We came upon the bodies—Jak found them first. We inspected them. I closed Claire’s open eyes and mouth and tore a piece of my dress to cover her face. I ran to tell others and Jak stayed with them. Here’s the important part. When I reached the edge of the reeds, I almost ran into the Dya — she paused, not wanting to sound foolish — the old man who lives on the edge of Bwa Nèf. The one with the little black pig. I almost knocked him over and the look in his eyes—I just know that he had something to do with the murders. He was the only person I saw anywhere close to them. After that, I came back with my cousin and other people started to show up. Before long, the police were there and my aunt made me leave. So I left.

Dimanche looked at Libète, unimpressed. Is that all?

Libète thought about mentioning the apparition of the faceless woman, San Figi, but decided against it. They would surely disbelieve her, and a ghost couldn’t have killed the mother and child.

— Well, yes. I’m telling you the old man with the pig did it.

Another lull followed. Dimanche looked to Simeon, who shrugged, and then back to Libète.

— I appreciate your insight. That’s…very helpful. I’ll look into it.

— Good.

Dimanche deflated slightly, realizing that tasking Simeon with bringing these children had been a fool’s errand.

— And what about you, Jak? Simeon interjected. Did you see anything Libète didn’t mention?

Jak paused, looking at each person in the room. He was always eager to defer to Libète but there was something gnawing at him.

— The way they were killed—it reminded me of something. It was just like when they killed Ezili Dantò.

— The lwa? Simeon asked.

— Well, it
looked
like it was supposed to be Ezili. You know the paintings of the black Madonna, with her black baby Jesus? When I was sitting there, alone with the bodies, it popped into my head. She was scratched on her cheek. Had her tongue cut out, a knife in her heart, and a baby in her arms. I don’t know too much about Ezili, and I don’t know why someone would kill these two like that, but it seemed like they wanted to, you know, make it seem the same.

The room was silent. Dimanche eyed Simeon while Libète beamed, realizing Jak had touched upon something that the police hadn’t yet considered. Jak didn’t look like much, but she knew better than anyone that he was smart.
Really
smart.

— Maybe the old man did it because he has a crazy spirit and thought that she was being ridden by Dantò’s lwa and so he had to put her to death? Libète hypothesized out loud.

— Be quiet, Dimanche snapped. Any other thoughts, Jak? The boy shrugged, shaking his head. No? I don’t know if you’re right, but I’ll look into this. Dimanche shot up out of his chair. Thank you for coming. Simeon will take you home now.

— Wait. We told you what we know and saw, so you need to tell us what you know.

—
Libète
, Simeon warned.

— It’s alright, Dimanche said. You two have proven useful. Though there’s not much to share. Claire was well-liked. We spoke to her mother and some of her friends, including your cousin and his group. None could think of a reason why anyone would do this. There are many questions, and few leads. Even if Jak is correct about this Ezili connection, it doesn’t explain much. Why was she alone in the marshes? How did she get there? She wasn’t dragged.

— And the child’s paternity, Simeon added.

— Right. No one, not even her mother, knows who the father of the child was. It’s something Claire didn’t tell a soul. This is a difficult case. We have few resources and as I said, there are too many crimes to investigate them all to their conclusion. The world does not stand still for anything.

His ambivalence troubled Libète.

— But certainly these two, before anyone, must deserve justice! So young! So innocent!

Dimanche’s brow furrowed.

— I appreciate your earnestness. But it’s no surprise that such a thing would happen in Cité Soleil. If you want justice you must go and find it for yourself. And then, if you happen to come upon it, you must tell me where it is. I have been looking for justice here in Haiti for a long time, too long, and I am more and more afraid it cannot be found.

This was a heavy thing for the girl. She looked at Jak, who seemed much more ready to accept Dimanche’s resignation. Simeon signaled that it was time to go and opened the door. The two children filed out of the office and Simeon closed the door behind him.

Dimanche chuckled to himself, thinking of Libète’s unfiltered boldness and Jak’s quiet intelligence, before his investigation sobered him again. He returned to his chair and grimly resumed committing his thoughts to his pad of paper.

Bat chen an, tanm mét li

Beat the dog, wait for its master

Merite pa mande

Deserving doesn’t beg

The Sun is magnificent, proceeding along its course and flooding the marshlands with a light that makes one’s skin tingle and come alive.

Libète is here, and alone. The tall, proud reeds are still laid low from the crowd’s trampling. The spilled blood has dried and is hard to see, absorbed into the muddy earth.

She sits carefully to avoid soiling her dress, and closes her eyes, breathing deeply.
Is it strange to be back here? To be stuck on these deaths, to carry them with me?

An acute tingling sensation begins to crawl up the ridges of her spine. The muscles of her neck and shoulders tense and she clenches her teeth until they shoot with pain. She is no longer alone.

It is San Figi, suddenly appearing before her.

— I saw you the other day, Libète says. In the crowd. She tries to avoid the spirit’s vacant face, a swirling void of black and color. I’m sorry that I ignored you.

The figure stands there. She looks like other middle-aged women, heavyset with large arms, a stooped frame, and sagging curves in places not likely there in her youth. Her face has no features, no mouth to speak. She wears the same dark green dress full of patterned shapes of leaves, corals, and berries that Libète has seen many times before. The large blood stain is of course there as well, spilling out over her abdomen and covering her front and backside.

— Why are you here? She hated the feeling of gravity intensifying whenever San Figi was close.

The woman pointed to the ground with a flick of her wrist, drawing a circle in the air to mark where the bodies had been found.

— It’s been so long since we last met. I had nearly forgotten.

The figure drew the circle again and this time pointed at Libète.

— What? What is it you want? The child’s temper began overtaking her fears. The apparition took a step closer and repeated the gesture, circling the air and pointing more emphatically to Libète. Yes, I know you want me to do something about the murders, but what? I’m ten years old! I have no money. I am chained to an Aunt who works me to death.

Libète stood and stepped toward San Figi.

— You’re asking too much of me—too much of a little girl! Claire and Gaspar are dead, and there is nothing,
nothing
, that I can do about it.

San Figi rushed at Libète, producing a powerful gale of cold that crashed into her and knocked her back into the reeds.
I’ve wronged her
.

San Figi knelt down next to the girl, causing her to convulse in shivers as she struggled to pull away.
She’s never come this close before
, Libète realized. She thought that San Figi was about to touch her, and she cringed, not knowing what dark thing that touch might accomplish. Instead, San Figi pointed to the swirling darkness of her face. Libète reluctantly gazed into it, awed at what she saw.

Libète awoke on her mat and shot upright. She rubbed her eyes. Horizontal shafts of light shone through bullet holes in the wall left by errant machine gun fire some years ago.

She remained on her mat for a few minutes, collecting her thoughts and registering the sights and smells around her. She blocked the din coming from outside the home, making out the low and angry voices of her Aunt and cousin. She smelled charcoal, and something else, something unusual. She gave a yawn, surprised that her Aunt had prepared food without forcing her to get up and help.

Then, like fog parting, she remembered.

It had been a long night spent at church, praying and celebrating the arrival of New Year’s Day, Independence Day, and most important of all, Libète’s eleventh birthday. She smiled to herself, her encounter with San Figi passing into the recesses of her mind.

She stood and gave a grand stretch, taking another deep yawn before listening again to make out her family’s indistinguishable words. She moved close to the dividing curtain to eavesdrop.

—…you can’t tell me where to go and what to do any longer—you hear me? I’m my own man and you’re too blind to see it!

— OOooohhh, you are ailing your mother. You know that? Are you trying to strike me down, right here, right now? My heart, my heart—it’s stopping! Thanks to you! I give you life and you’re going to take mine, piling suffering upon suffering on me, woe upon woe!

Davidson let out an exasperated moan.

— You’re so—so—blind! Deaf! Things have changed here and I’m not your mule of a son, willing to accept the shit you heap on me and everyone else. I’m out of here! Tell Libète I came to see her.

— Get out. Get out you ungrateful monster. Out!

He was already gone. Libète thought it best not to step out until her Aunt’s boiling temper reduced to a simmer.

Her sleeping room was cramped as she had grown in the last three years but had opened up of late when her older cousin moved his things and himself to a home rented by friends. She puttered about and changed her clothes.

Meeting with Dimanche left her subdued, and for the next four days she and Jak were forced to resume their normal lives though it was impossible to escape the gossiping surrounding the murders. Wild theories seemed to crop up in every corner and byway of Bwa Nèf. Others had since made Jak’s connection to Ezili Dantò, but spun it off into fantastical territory. The wildest thought was that Ezili Freda Dahomey was the culprit. Dahomey was another lwa known for vanity and jealousy, the idea being that Dahomey had possessed someone and the ridden person had spotted the mother and child, mistaking them for Ezili and her baby. In a fit, Dahomey swept in and killed the mother and child. The most superstitious mothers entrusted their children to men or older siblings so that Dahomey would not mistakenly strike them down, too.

— Libète? Her Aunt’s voice called from the other room. Are you awake?

— Wi! she said, manufacturing a yawn to pretend she had heard nothing. I’m coming!

— Good! I have something you’ll be happy about. Her usual irritability had seemed to return.

Libète peeked into the other room to see her Aunt squatting, leaning over a pot situated atop their small stove. Her uncle was seated on his old stool in the corner, shirtless.
Spineless as usual
, she thought. He had sat through the argument between Davidson and Aunt Estelle without uttering a word.

Estelle rose, and with her brow dripping with sweat, removed her long metal spoon used to stir the simmering soup inside. Libète moved over to her and surveyed the pot’s bubbling yellow contents.

—
Joumou!
she exclaimed. A staple on New Year’s day, it had become one of her favorites since coming to Cité Soleil. Her Aunt sometimes shared a portion from the vat she prepared for her restaurant.

— You can have some of what I made, but not too much. Each year you get bigger and eat more, you cut into my profits. She scooped the soup into a plastic bowl. I’m making a big sacrifice giving you a whole day without work for your birthday. My parents never gave me such a privilege. I worked every day of my life. Holidays and birthdays? No one cared…

Aunt Estelle was still caught up in her argument with Davidson, that was obvious. Libète had little patience and knew what had to be done to quiet her. She breathed deeply, steeling her mind for the difficult words she had to utter.

— Thank you, thank you, thank you! Libète said and gave Estelle a hug around her vast waistline. Her Aunt was surprised by the embrace. Libète knew she walked the line between insincerity and ingratitude but decided more cloying seemed safer than appearing ungracious.

— I know you’re lying, her Aunt said. But I don’t care today. You can do whatever you want. Libète’s face lit up, this time for real. Her Aunt held up a quick hand to silence her. Ah! But first get me water for my bath.

**

After finishing her joumou, Libète rushed out the door, coins in one hand, her faithful bucket in the other.

She stepped out along the sky blue row of homes, barefoot, seeing who was about. The Sun had started drying the pools of standing water left over from rains the night before, though much of the ground remained a wet and muddy mess. No matter, though. She started down the row toward Impasse Sara.

Upon turning the corner, she was pleased to see her cousin had lingered, but dismayed to see why he had done so.

— Ah, Libète! Happy birthday! Davidson exclaimed.

— Thank you, cousin. She gave him a sideways hug.

— Yes, Libète,
bonn fet
. I’m so happy for you, said the teenage girl with whom Davidson spoke.
Whore
, Libète thought, still smiling pleasantly. It was Nathalie, one of Libète’s neighbors. Ti Gaston, her toddler brother, was totally naked and played in the loamy mud.

— Mèsi, Nathalie. And how are you? Davidson was oblivious to the false pleasantries.

The “whore” was not actually a prostitute. Nathalie was a flower whose nectar had intoxicated her cousin; Libète was quick to apply the label to any girl who caught Davidson’s attention, always suspicious of their motives.

Nathalie was a pretty girl with a full and round face, and lovely skin. She was even nice sometimes. Libète admired her beauty (though she would never tell her this) and hoped that she too might blossom as Nathalie had when she reached fifteen. Right now, she relished the fact that Nathalie’s clothes were unwashed and her hair looked like a bush.

— You’re looking nice today, Libète said, a bit too wryly.

— Me? Oh, I’m such a mess. Aren’t I, Davidson?

— Oh, yeah, you look horrible, Nathalie.

The girl pushed him playfully. Libète wretched.

She turned to look at the small child, anything to take the focus away from Nathalie. And you, Gaston? How are you
?
she asked in an exaggerated tone reserved for small children.

The little boy looked up from his play, ant-smashing by the looks of it. I’m good, he said matter-of-factly before going back to his merry work.

— Libète, Davidson said. It looks like you have a job to do. How about I catch up with you later and get you a Coke for your birthday?

She stalled, not wanting to leave him with the hussy. Davidson, I’m sorry you and your mom were fighting. I agree with you complete—

— We can talk about that later, he interrupted. Go and finish what you’re doing.

She lingered for a moment, looking at Nathalie out of the corner of her eye. She was torn between making her cousin happy by leaving and making Nathalie unhappy by remaining.

— Sure. Sounds good, she said, defeated.

— Ok—I’ll see you later.

— Bye-bye, Libète. I’ll see you soon. Libète grimaced at Nathalie behind her cousin’s back, and Nathalie gave a smug smile, claiming victory.
If I can’t even keep his attention on my birthday
…

Libète continued on to the water station, her spirits lightening again. Impasse Chavannes was bustling, busier than her quiet row of homes. People bought, sold, chatted, and laughed on a day where many did not work. She went back and forth as quickly as possible with the three buckets needed for Aunt Estelle to bathe her massive body but almost lost one bucket of water in an accident when Joseph, a small child living a few homes from Libète, shot out in her way while riding a bike for the first time. His young father, Pierre, usually busy unloading freight trucks down at the Croix-des-Bossales market, rushed out to catch him before he got in a collision or toppled over.

— Sorry, Libète! he shouted, nearly running into her himself.

— Watch where you’re going! she shouted after them, her bright spirits darkening again.

With the last bucket turned over, she was free to help herself to another bowl of hot soup. She listened to her Aunt’s warbling soprano, monitoring the progress of her bathing in the curtained off cooking area. Estelle would string a loose tarp to hide herself from onlookers and sing three songs, usually lasting the length of her bathing routine. By the time she reached the middle of the third song, Libète was ready.

— Libète! Estelle called. I forgot my towel. Bring it to me!

No answer came.

— Libète? she bellowed. Libète! Where are you?

But Libète was gone, snuck out of the house with a mug of soup and a piece of bread hidden underneath her magenta tank top. She rushed to the corner and turned right, passing down another stretch of homes in more disrepair than her own. She moved quickly though not quite approaching a run, appearing suspicious to her neighbors who watched her scurry past. They were neither surprised nor concerned by her behavior, merely shaking their heads and chuckling at the odd girl.

She made a left-hand turn at the end of the row, turning onto one cement walkway that terminated in a passageway that led through a brick wall into an area often used for play. Instead of the coarse rock and cement found everywhere else, it was paved with smooth concrete, enclosed by tall walls, and painted with colorful cartoon characters and musical instruments.

As Libète approached the passage, she heard what sounded like laughing, but also shouts of protest.
What’s going on?
she wondered, leaping through the hole in the wall.