Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (8 page)

There was a small group of spectators, maybe six children on first glance, standing by while three boys pinned a smaller one in a puddle of brackish water. Libète squinted to see who the victim was but recognized him from his cries for help before laying eyes on him.

It was Jak.

Little Libète wakes up in her dark room as if from a bad dream, only to find herself in what seemed another.

— You’ve slept long enough. Up! Up! her Aunt says, prodding her with a broomstick. It’s a busy day and you’re still lying around as worthless as trash in the street. Unacceptable! Get dressed. Get moving.

Libète heard her Uncle groan and roll over in the other room.

She was still shaken by the blood spilt on Impasse Chavannes the night before, the formidable Dimanche, the cruel Touss, and brave Jak. Her Aunt had little sympathy for what Libète had experienced.
If you had brought the water faster, you wouldn’t have been in the middle of all that drama
, she had said. Libète had carefully omitted the part about how it was only with Jak’s coin and help that she brought any water at all.

Libète rubbed her tired eyes and stretched her legs and arms, supine on her slatted reed mat. She stirred before she suffered another poke from the broom, walking through the louvered doorway carefully so as not to wake her sleeping cousin. She saw out the barred window that it was indeed still dark—roosters singing their ugly songs only confirmed it.

Aunt Estelle moved in the darkness with ease, knowing the locations for every pot, pan, and spoon. Libète moved to her side, sensing that she was about to start giving orders. Her Aunt struck a match and lit a tall candle, the type used by Catholics to pray.

— This morning we’ll make pate. I went shopping for the ingredients yesterday. Each day, while I make the food, you must sweep the whole house, wash the floors, get more water for drinking and washing, do any leftover dishes after I cook, scrub the stove, and burn any trash. Every morning this is what you will do. When there are clothes to be washed or other chores I assign, you will do them before you eat. This will inspire discipline and—

She paused, seeing Libète was overwhelmed.

— Don’t be afraid, my little doll.
Moun pa se dra
. The words confused Libète. “A protector is like a cloak,” her Aunt explained. As long as you do all I tell you, you will be safe and provided for. I shall be your cloak. I may be unwise for being so kind and taking you in and giving you so much, but to your benefit, I am a fool who can’t learn better ways.

— Mèsi, my Aunt. Thank you for your kindness.

— What can I say? God has blessed me and so I bless others, she said with complete sincerity. I know what you are thinking, Libète, and it is true. I am a very special woman.

Libète nodded.
It would be rude not to agree
.

— Ah, you must change out of that horrid pink dress. Bring that bag over here. Libète did as she was told. These are my leftovers that I’ve not been able to sell on the side. Pick out whatever you want—I can’t have you looking like you’re from the hills, even while you scrub the floors.

— Truly? These are mine? All of them?

— As I said, I provide for you while you’re in my home. Now choose something quickly and get to work. I noticed you brought much dust into the house with you from La Gonâve, and now you need to put it where it belongs—back outside.

Libète shed her frayed dress and looked through the bag that seemed as big a bounty as she had ever seen. Marie Elise, the kindly old woman, had packed a few items with Libète for her travels, but these were dirty rags compared to the secondhand riches here. She looked at her dress on the floor, pleased to be rid of it with such horrible memories now stitched into its fabric. She would replace it with what people in Cité Soleil wore,
closer to what those three mean girls had on last night
.

She donned a light green shirt with a cartoon watermelon that delighted her, and a white headscarf worn in the style of the
machann
, the women who sold at the market. She also pulled on a pair of light purple shorts with a stitched blue bird, a satisfactory friend to keep the watermelon company. She didn’t have a mirror, but simply wearing the clothes made her feel like a new girl. A better girl.

Libète set to work, learning the rhythm of the home. The Sun rose at last, bathing Cité Soleil in its rays. Her cousin woke but was quick to bathe and leave the home after a short greeting. Her Uncle stirred later, urinated outside when no one was watching (or when he thought no one was watching), and returned inside, grunting a greeting to Libète as he shambled past. Libète watched him surreptitiously as he went to a corner and lifted a rug. Under it was a piece of jagged plywood. He lifted the board and reached into a compartment in the floor, removing a bottle of cheap Dominican rum to take a hearty draught. He replaced the bottle, board, and rug before collapsing on his stool outside in the shade. Aunt Estelle continued laboring over the restaurant’s morning fare.

Libète finished sweeping the bedrooms with her hand broom. She emptied her dustpan into the walk between homes and leaned against the outside wall, watching as neighbors sauntered about, sweating laborers carried sacks of cement on their shoulders, and salesmen passed down the row calling out their wares:
salt, water sachets, charcoal, sodas!
A pack of half-naked boys—some without shirts, some without pants—went by again and again, chasing each other without end.

— Libète, get in here! her Aunt hollered. Libète bolted back indoors. I need you to get me four onions for tonight’s soup. Mine have rotted. You can find some sellers on the street.

— Wi, madam.

— Come back quick. I need to chop these. And you better not overspend. I know exactly how much they cost, she said, digging with her fat hands through the recesses of her oily apron’s front pocket.

— I won’t. She took the tattered blue twenty-five goud note from her Aunt’s outstretched hand.

The money had the distinct odor of sweat and looked a mere tug away from permanent destruction. It was the most money the girl had ever held. She folded it gingerly and placed it within the safety of her new shorts’ elastic waistband, setting off to please her most “special” Aunt.

As she turned onto Impasse Sara, she spied a trio of vegetable sellers laughing and chattering under a makeshift awning built with scrap wood and cardboard.

—
Bonjou
,
medam
, she called as she approached.

— Bonjou, little one, they said in chorus.

The sellers were ancient and gaunt, each boasting networks of lines running across their faces from hard years under the Sun, each sporting a different configuration of missing teeth.

— And who are you? asked the one on the left.

— And where are you from? said the one on the right.

— We don’t know you, and we know everyone around here, said the one in the middle.

— That’s right. No one comes or goes without passing before our eyes!

— My name is Libète, she said, not sure to whom she should direct her answer. And I’m from La Gonâve. She preempted them with a question before they could poke fun at her name. And you all, what are your names?

— I’m the Queen of France.

— And I’m the Queen of England.

— And I’m the Queen of Spain, they each said, running down the row from left to right.

Libète was perplexed.
I know France, but what are England and Spain?
You all don’t look like Queens, she said in an attempt to hide her ignorance. You just look like a bunch of machann to me.

— Well you don’t look like liberty to us! said the one called the Queen of Spain, leading to laughter.

— The eye betrays the truth beneath things, my little subject, the Queen of England said.

— It’s true, said the Queen of France. You look at us and see three old women.

— But that’s not what we are.

— That’s right.

— We’ve had hard lives.

— We’ve seen woes.

— We’ve lost children.

— And we’re still here.
Nou led, nou la
. You heard that before, little subject?

— You’re ugly, but you’re here? Libète said, repeating the words. No, I haven’t heard it before.

— We’ve been treated like trash by our men, by our children, by the government—by everyone!

— And you know what that makes us?

— No.

— Queens, of course. Queens!

— We’ve suffered more and come through to the other side.

— And we’re still here! So while it looks like we’re only in charge of these little mats and these few vegetables, we
are
royalty at heart!

Libète looked at them in turn, thinking through their well-rehearsed words.

— I’ve lost my mother, and my father doesn’t want me. I’ve been taken from La Gonâve and brought to Cité Soleil when I didn’t want to come. And I’m alone. She paused. So what am I?

The Three Queens looked amongst each other.

— Cherie, that makes you a princess! If your hardships keep piling up you may soon become a queen yourself.

— Queen Libète of La Gonâve! called out another. That’s a good name! Something to look forward to.

Libète smiled, the first time since coming to Cité Soleil.

— So what did Princess Libète come to ask of us, one royal to another?

— Ah! Right. My Aunt Estelle, the restaurant owner, needs four onions.

Grim looks crossed the Three Queens’ faces.

— Poor child, you have our sympathy.

— You will become a queen even faster in that home.

Libète was taken aback.

— Here are your onions. Libète took them in exchange for her concealed goud. The Queen of Spain handed over her change.

— Libète, do greet us when you pass by, and we’ll do the same. We are happy to welcome you to Cité Soleil.

— It is a hard place, though there are many good people here. They can seem hard to find because the bad are always first to show themselves. But rest knowing they are here.

— Thank you, she said with a slight bow. She returned to the row of homes and saw Jak watching her from across the way. She smiled slightly and walked over to him.

— Bonjou, Jak.

— Bonjou, Libète.

They stood in silence for a moment, unsure of what to say. Jak scratched his head, light red in places, unable to look her in the eye. His bones protruded everywhere, his face marked by an open sore on his lip and sunken, sad eyes. If these weren’t enough, his swollen belly made it plain.

— How are you? Libète asked.

—
M’ byen
. I saw you out and wanted to say hello. And you?

— I’m well, too. My Aunt has had me cleaning all morning.

Another awkward pause.

— Thank you again for your help last night, Jak.

— Would you like me to show you more of Bwa Nèf? he blurted out. So you can find your way?

She nodded. I need to take these — she signaled to the onions — to my Aunt. I’ll see if she’ll let me come with you.

Jak brightened.

— Good, I’ll wait here.

Libète ran to her Aunt and handed her the onions and money. She was greeted with some skepticism as her Aunt counted the change and looked over the vegetables. Took long enough, she said before continuing her cooking. Libète decided not to ask her if she could go with Jak.
It might lead to more work, and I finished everything she told me to do
.

She snuck away without another word, her Aunt engrossed in her cooking.

Jak smiled upon seeing Libète step from the home and hurry his way.

— I don’t have long, so let’s go.

Jak walked Libète down to the small community stage where four children were playing with a ball while three older men caught up in quiet conversation leaned against a shaded wall.

— The main roads, Jak told her, the ones we’re walking on, were built with American money a few years back. And the community toilets and showers across the way were too. Libète could see groups of women collecting water and lining up to use the stalls. A few people watched her, possibly because she was new to Bwa Nèf, but more likely because she was pretty and wore nice clothes while being led by an ugly boy in rags.

— Where do you live? And who do you live with, Jak?

He quieted. I live nearby. At the north edge of Bwa Nèf, where the homes turn to fields. I have a grandmother I stay with.

— No parents?

— I don’t know anything of them. My
grann
will not tell me.

— We’re the same then. My mother is dead and my father, who I just met, didn’t want me. So my Aunt has taken me in.

— That is good. She is a big woman in Bwa Nèf, your aunt.

Libète chortled. Jak didn’t understand at first then chuckled himself.

— She is
big,
but then she is BIG. She speaks and others listen, even if she doesn’t say anything worth listening to.

— I‘m learning this. But she will feed me, and clothe me, and send me to school. I have never been. Do you go to school? Do you know what it’s like?

Jak looked to his toes. No. My grann cannot send me. But I want to go, he said looking up. So badly.