Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (4 page)

Libète could not meet his eyes. He looked intently at her and, with furrowed brow, tapped the truck’s fender. They were off.

The pickup wound its way along dark roads, often slowing to a lurch where the road was washed away. They took on more passengers on the descent, and soon the three became twenty, facing every possible direction with legs hanging off sides, one man even sliding atop the cab.

The peasant woman with the headscarf, fidgety in the silence, started to sing hymns to calm herself. Others soon joined in, the lyrics buffeting the overwhelming darkness.

Suffering from the type of exhaustion most people experience only a few times in their lives, Libète pressed into the woman and fell asleep to the voices of the singing strangers.

**

— Wake up. The boat will soon go.

After arriving at the dock, Libète had gotten out of the truck and immediately fell asleep on the ground, laying her head upon her burlap sack. The driver did as was asked and kept a watchful eye over the little girl.

As the Sun started to peek above the horizon and bring the world to life in brilliant hues of orange, the ferry’s engines started. The driver, a man with a moustache reminiscent of a broom, nudged her again. She stirred, rubbing her eyes as they adjusted to the stunning light.

She looked around the dock at the lovely, colorful, sailing ships with their stacks of cargo to be freighted to the mainland. She sighed. Libète had wanted to visit Anse-à-Galets and see these exact sights, but not under these circumstances.

— I’ll be back in a moment.

The driver went up to the ticket man and paid, returning moments later. The dock buzzed, a veritable beehive, as at least a hundred others bought their tickets and boarded the squat vessel.

— Go on board, the driver told her. The policeman said you would be met on the other side by a cousin, named Davidson, if I remember. He leaned in to whisper. And be careful of others on the ship—there are dangerous types about. If you need help, find an old woman and don’t leave your sack anywhere or it will be gone for good.

— 
Wi
, yes, I understand, mesye. Thank you.

— 
Bon chans
, little one. I hope you find better things where you are going.

**

Joy tried to creep in as the ferry made its hour-long trip, but every time she felt a hint of pleasure welling up, she pushed it down deep.
It’s not right so soon after manman’s passing.

When the ferry docked, Libète let the others disembark for fear of being crushed by the other eager passengers. One nearby man carried a rooster under each arm while another checked his expensive looking cell phone. A few passengers, mostly women, had piles of luggage that they paid fit, scrawny men to carry. A group of young men, carefully groomed and mostly overweight, wore some of the nicest clothes she had ever seen. They had elaborate buzz cuts and dark glasses shielding their eyes. While their features looked like normal, dark Haitians, their skin was fair. She had known of a few
milat
, or mixed people, on La Gonâve, but she had not seen so many together at the same time, like they were part of some exclusive club. There were even a few white people who waited to get off the ship, each carrying a large and expensive-looking pack on their backs. Up to now, Libète had seen approximately three
blan
in her life and still found their pink skin a curious novelty.

She shielded her eyes and watched the crowd move toward buildings at the end of the pier. Vendors descended like vultures, offering services, food, and wares that few wanted. The elite got into private SUVs and trucks while most packed into one of the many waiting taptaps or garishly painted buses. Others yet still haggled over the price of a mototaxi.

Libète finally stepped down the gangplank herself, putting foot to earth once again. She moved to stand in the narrow shadow of a tall, steel beam that jutted vertically from the dock, part of some unfinished structure. The newfound calm allowed Libète to take in the gargantuan mountains running along the coastline.
Mon dieu, how big they are! So many new things in one day.

— Libète? Is that you? a timid voice asked from behind. She spun, surprised to greet its owner.

She faced a young man—or maybe an old boy.

— Wi, mesye. I am Libète.

He was twice her height with a body that was gangly and awkward, confused in the throes of puberty. His closely cropped hair was stubby and uneven, framing a pleasant, thin face pocked by acne, and skin a shade lighter than Libète’s own. His mustard-colored polo, black denim jeans, and rubber sandals were all modest.

— Are you…my cousin? she asked.

— Wi, he smiled. I’m called Davidson.

— Ah. I just learned you existed a few hours ago, Davidson, after my mother died and before my father sent me away.

His kind face became sad. I am sorry for all of this. He paused a beat. But I hope you can forgive me, because unlike you, I’m very happy. He offered a sympathetic smile. Do you know why?

She shook her head.

— Because just this morning I found out I have a new cousin, one who is coming to live with me. And that has made me happy.

This brought a small, bashful smile to her face.

— Come on, cousin. We need to get home. Are those your things? Here, I’ll carry them for you. You must be very tired. And hungry. Ah! I have some bread for you. Eat this.

Libète took it gratefully.

— I borrowed a motorcycle for the trip. It will take us some hours, but after that, you can rest.

Libète stands in the entrance to the box-like cinema lit by the open door. She breathes heavily. No one moves nor makes a sound—there is only the din of the television in the wake of Libète’s ghastly news.

Davidson speaks first. That’s a bad joke, Libète. It’s not at all funny.

—
Listen
to me. I was out in the marsh with Jak looking for bottles. We went into the reeds and found them, Claire and Gaspar. She was cut up all over, and I couldn’t tell what happened to Gaspar, but he’s dead too. Jak is with them, waiting for others to come.

The televised crowd moaned, a missed goal.

— You’re serious, then? said another.

—
Yes!
she shouted. Stop sitting around like a bunch of idiots!

They all shouted at once.

— Bondye!

— How can it be?

— Who? Who did this?

Libète didn’t know how or who to give an answer to, and then realized she had no answers to give.

Yves was the first to act.

— Laurent, go tell her mother. Get her whatever she needs. I’ll call Officer Simeon and he can get more police. Davidson, go back with Libète to the bodies. Once you get there, give me a call and tell me the
exact
spot.

— Someone should get some sheets—they’re laying out in the open, Libète interjected ruefully.

— OK. Samyèl, get something to cover them, too. We need the bodies hidden before family members arrive. Christ, I can’t believe this. Whoever did it is dead—I swear, this will not stand!

**

Libète and Davidson plunged into the reeds.

— Jak! Are you okay? Davidson shouted over the floating grasses, trying to locate the small clearing where the boy and bodies could be found.

— Wi, Jak sounded back, halfhearted.

They stumbled upon him, waiting as ordered, sitting on the ground cross-legged and staring at the corpses as if doing so might will them back to life. Libète walked to him and lifted him from the ground, feeling a pang of guilt.
It was bad to leave him for so long.

Seeking out Davidson and his friends had distracted her from the gruesomeness of what she had left behind. Confronting the woman and child again plunged her back into a deep sea of nausea and dread.

—
Se pa posib
, muttered Libète, shaking her head. This is not possible.

Davidson gagged, nearly vomiting. He pulled out his phone and stepped away, placing a call to Yves.

Other young men, the fast runners, were next to arrive. They were followed by other able-bodied men and women, and then women with children, and lastly the aged and disabled. Libète looked back toward Bwa Nèf and saw more people coming, so very eager to see a sight that would likely haunt them. She wished she could cast all these newcomers away, but knew they would swarm back.
Just as sick as the flies feeding off the dead.

Jak stood up and whispered something for only Libète to hear.

— While I waited, I recognized something. The way Claire was cut—it’s just like Ezili Dantò! Just like the pictures!

But Libète did not understand this. She was too distracted, too angry, every second the bodies being profaned by the growing crowd.

— Let me through! Let…me…
through!
came a cry. The crowd separated, opening a path for Claire’s mother. All of the murmuring and fevered speculation silenced.

Only the reeds shifting in the breeze could be heard. Some looked away, uncomfortable at this new development.

The mother staggered toward the bodies and nearly faltered, but Bertrand, another of Davidson’s friends, held her up. She proceeded in silence, step after agonizing step, each one taking her closer to a new reality that could not be undone.

No one in the crowd dared intrude upon the silence. Finally, the mother exploded in a shrill cry. Other women moved by the scene joined in, a chorus of anguished ululations breaking out. Confused children mewled, and several men wiped at their own budding tears.

Libète watched as cold pinpricks on her neck and arms caused her to quiver. She felt a stifling presence pass by, equal parts dark and oppressive.

She’s here!

She turned with great care, shifting her gaze from the wailing mother until her eyes latched onto the faceless visitor hovering at the back of the circle of onlookers, a phantom visible only to her.

It’s been so long
…

The plaintive chorus continued. Accompanied by the grim and ghostly presence of the faceless woman known only to Libète as
San Figi,
the girl descended into a fit of chills and shakes even though bathed in the oppressive rays of the late-morning Sun.

Piti se riches malere

Children are the wealth of the poor

Yo pa ranmase dlo ki tonbe

Spilled water is not picked up

The little girl rides on the back of the motorcycle with the old boy.

— We’re almost to Cité Soleil, Davidson says, turning his head against the wind to make his words heard.

Libète nods. She has whispered prayers much of the trip, partly to stay awake.

Thank you God for bringing me a kind cousin.

The highway is so very long, ebony, and smooth.

Thank you for bringing me a new home where I will be loved.

The mountains are larger than she imagined, staggeringly so.

Bless manman as she meets you. I am not happy you took her from me; you should not have done that.

She marvels at the shoreline when its white sand explodes into view.

And bless Marie Elise; she was always good to me.

But where are the trees? And why do the people on the roadsides, who look so similar to those on La Gonâve, seem so different?

And please do nothing for my father, for he has been very, very bad to me.

Amen.

As they neared the place called Cité Soleil, Sun City, she saw the wide emerald expanses of open fields and undeveloped land transform into a vast plain of tin-roofed shacks and hovels. It was not what she pictured.

— Ah! There are so many homes! she remarked, even though she had meant her words only for herself.

Above the tin roofs she saw countless wires running from poles.
Elektrisite?
she asked her cousin. He chuckled. Wi, he replied. Electricity.

— In our home?

— Only when God or the electric company decide to give it. He could tell by her silence that his answer confused her. Yes, we have electricity, but only sometimes, and we don’t know when.

— Ah. And what about latrines?

— We have one. But most people just find a place to go when no one’s looking, or do their business in a bag.

— Are we rich then?

Davidson did not respond right away. No, we are not rich. But we aren’t the poorest. You’ll see what I mean.

Davidson slowed and turned the motorcycle off the main road and onto Impasse Chavannes, the access road into Bwa Nèf. She was amazed by how many people were out, though most sat in shadows to escape the Sun. She had not noticed the heat radiating from the pavement and concrete homes until the bike slowed and cool air ceased flowing past. It was very hot, more so than on her island.

Davidson brought the cycle to a stop at the entrance to a stretch of homes built along a straight concrete path, each one uniform and sharing a wall with the next. Narrow channels had been left when the walkway was laid to let waste water run into a ditch at the opposite end. Davidson helped Libète off the bike and carried her sack. She hopped over the channel, touching a light blue wall as if it was a precious metal.

These homes seemed more solid than those she’d seen on the drive in, shelters that were cobbled together from metal debris, junk lumber, and cardboard. No, these were built with brick and stucco, and equipped with cast iron doors and colorful barred windows. She caught up to him, counting the number of doors they passed before reaching Davidson’s:
en, de, twa, kat, senk
. Just as in La Gonâve, her new home was the fifth! This was a good sign.

Davidson tried to open the door but found it locked. He rested a hand on the barred window and shouted inside.

— Manman! We’re back!

Libète was suddenly horribly aware she wore her same frayed pink dress with the broken zipper, hardly the clothes to make a first impression. She squirmed, worried what her not-rich-but-not-poor aunt might think.

— I’m coming! was shouted back.

Davidson turned to Libète. My mom runs a restaurant,
Restaurant Estelle
, out of the back of the house. It’s pretty good food. This house is ours, and so are the next two as well, all joined together with wide holes in the walls. You’ll see why.

The bolt holding the door in place slid and screeched before opening inward. Out of the dark interior appeared a huge woman dripping in her own sweat.

— Oh, my son! You’ve returned. And with my new daughter! Davidson kissed her cheek, and she bent as low as she could so that Libète could do the same. She next shook Libète’s hand, drew her own back, eyed it, and reached for a small towel hanging from a pocket in her grease-stained apron. She offered a strained smile.

— Come inside, come inside, she invited. I’m busy preparing for evening business. I musn’t be distracted for too long!

The two followed, stepping into the entry room, much cooler than under the harsh sunlight outside. Libète couldn’t help staring at her Aunt Estelle lumbering about the room before collapsing in a chair that looked specially reinforced to support her extraordinary girth.

— It must be nice to have finished your travels, girl. It sounds like you’ve had a very bad day. But you can put all of that behind you now that you’re here.

Libète remained silent. She struggled to look her Aunt in the eye.

— Are all of your clothes in…such condition? Libète opened her mouth to answer. Well, I’m sure they are, her Aunt interrupted. Coming from La Gonâve, you probably all look like — she waved her hand trying to summon the word —
that.

Libète deflated.

— You poor, poor thing. To be so far from
sivilizasyon
— that was a word Libète did not know — I can’t imagine it. We shall improve your dress situation.
Absoliman
. No new daughter of mine can be looked down upon in the community on account of her clothes!

Libète forced a smile. There was shame at having her clothes ridiculed, and excitement that she might be given something nicer. Davidson, who had taken up a stool in the corner of the room, intuited Libète’s feelings and rolled his eyes. He was careful not to let it be seen.

— You must be hungry, my girl! her Aunt nearly shouted, shooting up and out of her creaking seat with surprising dexterity. After a long trip and a sleepless night, you need some nourishment. And you’re so scrawny to begin with! Did your mother even feed you, child? Come, come, come.

Libète followed timidly to the back entrance of the home.

She first noticed the wide stove with its four propane-fueled burners supporting three covered pots and one large skillet, frying what smelled like
griot
. An unfamiliar
konpa
tune emanated from a wind-up radio, the song’s beats mingling with wafting aromas to create an intoxicating combination. The radio sat perched on a wooden fence that surrounded the cooking area, forming a three-sided pen.

The space was covered by a grey tarp, and at the edge of the shadow cast by the tent sat a blob of a man that Libète had not noticed at first, slumped in his chair.

— Aren’t you going to greet your uncle? questioned her Aunt.

I have an uncle?
There had been no mention of him thus far.

He turned and looked at her with the addled eyes of someone who has drunk too much rum.

— Hello, Uncle. I am happy to meet you. Libète went to gave the shirtless man a kiss on his cheek but he reeled back in surprise.

— Who are you? he slurred. His teeth were yellowed, and he had wiry hair protruding from the sides of his head. His tall moustache above his lip reminded Libète of a hairy caterpillar. She did not know how to answer his question.

— She is our new daughter, her Aunt said sweetly. My brother’s bastard, from La Gonâve. She continued stirring her sauce while checking the contents of another pot.

— Of course, of course. I remember now. I’m glad you’re here—there’s much work to be done.

— Come get something to eat, Libète!
Libète
—such an odd name for a little girl, her Aunt remarked aloud. Anyway, take your food.

She began filling two plates. Libète was used to suppressing her hunger, but with so much food of the type usually reserved for the most special of occasions, she could not keep from salivating. The last time she had meat was when Marie Elise spared a morsel several months before.

The first plate was stacked high with plantains, griot, mushroom rice, and beans, and even a macaroni dish. Her Aunt served up a modest scoop of rice and a bean sauce on the second plate, and stopped there, putting this one in Libète’s hands. And that is for you, she said.

— My Aunt, I think you forgot some of the other foods for my plate.

— Ha! Who do you think you are? Her Aunt’s cheerful disposition clouded. Are you a paying customer?

— No, it’s just—

— You should be grateful for what you’re given.

— I am grateful, I’m sorr—

— Take this plate to your cousin.

— Wi,
madam
. I am sorry for asking.

— Don’t let it happen again, her Aunt snapped.

Libète looked to the ground in deep shame, unable to muster another word.

Her Aunt’s expression softened.

— Aww, my child. All is forgiven. This is a Christian home, but run like a big business, you see? This petit restaurant pays for everything. Work must be done for food, and you, cherie, have not yet worked.

— Yes, Auntie. Libète looked up from the ground, somehow surprised anew at her Aunt’s intimidating size.

— Good. I’m glad you understand. Now give this to your cousin. You must be tired, so ask him to show you to your mat and you can rest for a few hours. I need to finish my cooking.

Libète did as asked, carrying one plate in each hand. Her cousin was laying down and reading a school book while half-heartedly listening to all that happened outside. He took the plate from Libète’s hands, and Libète sat down on the floor. She offered a silent prayer and began devouring her rice in shoveled spoonfuls. Davidson glimpsed her bony frame and small portion.

— Don’t let her see, but take some of my food. He pushed some from his plate to hers with his spoon. She accepted gratefully.

— Thank you, my cousin.

— It’s nothing, he whispered, smiling at her.

**

Libète slept unlike any other time in her life. After packing her stomach full, there was almost nothing that could prevent her eyes from sealing shut.

When she awoke, low light crept into her dark room. Her head was clouded as densely as the sky before a hurricane. Music blared from speakers somewhere in the distance, and strange whirring sounds came from outside. She lifted herself off her mat in the home’s second room, a thin curtain segregating her space from the third chamber where her Aunt and Uncle slept. Davidson slept in the front room, painted the color of peaches, on an improvised sofa made from a small mattress elevated on cinder blocks and covered with a floral bed sheet. She noticed for the first time that the walls of her room were covered with old newspaper clippings and scenes from magazines, plastered in place using a paste derived from limestone and manioc. The light came from one electric lamp in the front room.
God is giving electricity!

She staggered into the entryway to find her Aunt plopped on her reinforced stool. Her uncle and cousin were not present.

— Aww, my little
zombi
, someone must have salted you! Libète squinted and cocked her head in confusion before remembering the taste of salt is the sole way to stir one of the enslaved dead. Salt had not been used. She still felt dead.

— You are lucky, her Aunt said. I was going to rouse you hours ago to help me clean but Davidson took care of the dishes.

— He is a good cousin.

— But only an alright son. Lazy most of the time. You should thank him later.

— I will.

— I’m glad you’re awake.

— Oh?

— I need help.

— I see.

— It’s been a long day and I wish to rest my feet. We’re out of water in the barrel, so I need you to fill a bucket.

Libète felt anxiety lunge the distance from her heart to her fingertips.

— I…I don’t know where to find a bucket. And I don’t know where to find water. And it is dark now.

— Don’t make excuses, her Aunt snapped. Simply go back out to the main road, the one you rode in on with your cousin. There’s a water kiosk.

— I don’t know what that means.

— Don’t be stupid! It’s a big tank where the water is stored. There’s a room in front and a man is inside. Here’s a
goud
, and there’s the bucket in the corner. Pay the attendant and he’ll fill it up.

Libète took the coin and picked up the bucket. It was bigger than any she used back home and didn’t have a lid to keep it from spilling.

— How full do I fill it?

— The whole bucket, of course! One goud, one bucket.

— But it’s very big and I’m very small.

— I see they raise insolent children out on that island you washed up from! her Aunt bristled.

Libète knew better than to ask more questions. She grasped the coin tightly in her closed palm and held the bucket in her other. She hurried out into the dark.

Remembering how to get to the end of the row of homes was easy—that was only a few feet away. From there, her sense of direction was askew. She had clung to her cousin’s back on the motorcycle the entire way in, paying more attention to faces as they streamed by rather than the lay of things.