There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) (22 page)

Back on La Gonâve, her first home, she passed hours with her mother tending to their own small supply of plants. In her memory, her manman stood tall, healthy and strong, with a perpetual smile–brilliant, like the Sun, but at a more bearable strength. All colors were vibrant and alive, and their bellies were always full. They were perfect days.

In fact, the Sun had been blistering hot. Green life mingled with brown decay. Hunger lingered like an unwelcome guest. Her mother’s face blurred now–there was never a photograph taken of her to refocus the memory. Even though Libète knew her glamorized remembrances were faulty, she had good reason to indulge in a bit of misremembering when life had treated her so harshly.

Her fingers reached into the loam and pinched the weedy roots that fought to remain and choke out other life. An hour passed.

— If you do that in the dark, you’ll pull up the good with the bad.

Libète jumped, but didn’t look over her shoulder. I hadn’t noticed how dark it had become, Libète said. She continued pulling at the weeds; she was close to finishing. I thought you’d have rested, Libète said. You sounded spent after our time in the fields.

— New life called, Magdala said, laying her bag down. Over the hill. The family hired a moto to carry me most of the way there and back.

Libète looked alarmed. Did you need help?

— The baby came easily. She was small–very, very small.

— And well?

— We can hope. I’ll check back tomorrow. Any food ready?

Libète’s dirt-tipped hand flew toward her forehead. I’m so sorry–I would have, I just . . . just wasn’t hungry.

— You must wear a tight belt! Magdala laughed. It’s no matter. I’ll start some water if you can still cook.

— Of course. Of course. Mèsi. Libète yanked another obstinate weed up. She took the small pile of dead weeds she’d collected and stepped toward the fire pit where Magdala had coaxed the flame into life. She dropped them in and watched them take light as they curled and writhed. She felt a wave of satisfaction.

— How was Félix?

— He had work today. With Anton. And he’s coming along with his reading. He’s smart. A good student.

Magdala beamed as she dumped a bucket of water into the pot. I am glad to hear it. Magdala leaned over and planted an unexpected kiss upon Libète’s head. You’re doing well here. Foche’s people are warming to you. Good things come from their lips. That baka business is old news,
gras a Dieu
–everyone seems to have forgotten.

I’m old news
. Libète cringed inwardly.
Forgotten
.

— That’s wonderful, Libète said, evenly. She went back to her weeding.

Magdala’s gaze trailed after her. I know it’s hard for you, being here, with us. I know! But you are safe, and that’s all I meant. I’m sure there’s a good reason your friends haven’t come for you.

Old fears crept in. Libète’s hand quickened at its work. She began retreating into herself, and the fear became anger. She tried hard to keep herself from turning sullen, from turning on Magdala–

— Oh God! Libète shouted, flinging something into the air. Magdala let her spoon clatter into the pot.

— What? What is it?

Libète clapped her left hand over her mouth as her eyes jumped between her right hand and what she had thrown.

— A lizard, Libète said, forcing it out of her mouth.

Magdala sighed. Just a fright then! No matter, at–

—
No
, Libète said. It’s dead. Left there. For me.

— That’s a silly thought. How could you know?

— Its head – she swallowed – it was cut off.

Libète wakes to a green gecko on her pillow.

He–or she–lays staring at the wall, its eyes narrow slits. Its body inflates with the same speed it deflates, quick and sharp, as if it just crossed a finish line.

Libète lays there, numb and unthinking. The bed’s white linens still look pristine. Choosing not to pry the top sheet back is a quiet rebellion.

The Sun is high already, and the shadow of a hanging lacquered charm in the window sways and twists, casting flecks of light throughout the room. She rubs her eyes and yawns before brushing the creature away. It moves with indifference.

— Are you awake?

Jak’s voice came from the other side of her door.

— What?

— Are you up? Dressed and all that?

— Yes.

— Can I come in?

Her brow furrowed. As you wish.

He entered, looking sheepish.

— Were you just sitting there? she said. Listening?

— Laurent is still asleep. You two seem made for the night.

— Me for good reason.

— Did you dream?

— Not after the last nightmare that woke me. It was a mercy. Like my mind flipped a switch. I’d still be out if not for Mesye
Zandolit
on my pillow. Jak lit up at the sight of the creature. He collected him from the bed and cradled him in his hand.

— I’ll keep him! Some company when you sleep all day.

She smiled, struggling to hide that she thought the sentiment was very childish. He felt her disapproval and quietly slipped the lizard into his shirt pocket for safekeeping as he sat on the edge of the bed. This place is no good, Jak muttered. Everyone sleeps till the middle of the day. It’s like ghosts speak in the silence, in the sounds of the ocean outside. Libète rubbed her face. She didn’t say anything. Jak touched her knee.

— Ah! His eyes lit up and his index finger stood erect. He went out into the hall and brought in a plate covered with a plastic mesh dome. I made you breakfast.

They went outside, to the back of the property. There was the villa itself, which was white and clean. Its classic architecture was reminiscent of the old wooden gingerbread homes in Port-au-Prince they’d seen when they strolled downtown near the Champs de Mars. Either its interior had been rehabilitated, as it was all stuccoed white, or the exterior was faux, made to match the neighborhood.

The house was set into an open yard of smoothed white gravel. Palm trees were carefully planted along the property, and a high, barbed wall made it feel lonely–except along the shore, where a concrete lip had been poured and a short ladder extended into the water. There were other trees too, peppered throughout, and one could walk among them and pick bananas, mandarins, and almonds still in their hard, hard shells.

They sat on the lip and dipped their bare feet into the water that calmly lapped against the wall. They saw a woman, surely the maid Laurent had mentioned, keeping a wary distance from the two as she swept out the entryway.

Libète stared out over the placid ocean. The sea could care less about all that’s going on, she said. Very self-centered, Nature is.

Jak didn’t know what to say. He dipped his baguette into his mug of coffee – black and with sugar, lots of it – and took another bite. It was an excuse to keep quiet. He had snuck out the front gate to the bakery, a subsidiary of the corner restaurant, and used his little pocket money to get the bread and some wedges of
Bongú
. Libète spread the cheese on her own bread and chewed slowly.

He swallowed with a gulp. I always forget how beautiful it is here. Strange, huh?

There was a lone, small boat floating in the water about a hundred yards off. It was late in the day for a fisherman to be out–they usually started early in the morning.
Maybe it’s a diver
, Jak thought before reeling in his curiosity. These have been hard days. I’m grateful for this escape.

Libète darkened. Our world is all one piece. We can’t pretend it’s separated into nice little sections. She picked up a long, smooth rock and threw it as far as she could. Evil in one place can’t just be imagined away by looking the other direction.

He bit his bread again, speaking with his mouth full. I’m mourning too, he snapped. Mourning Didi. His voice cracked. And I’m here with you, Libète. My world’s as broken as yours.

— Sorry, she said, and meant it. He looked away and itched at his scrawny forearm. He placed his arm on Libète’s back and patted her–it was an awkward gesture. She looked him in the eye, her features softening. She leaned into Jak. With her arm wrapped around him, the two cried softly.

Rites

Se pa tout moun ki ale legliz pou priye.

Not everyone goes to church to pray.

Se pa lè yon moun ap neye pou ou montre l naje.

When a person is drowning is not the time to teach him how to swim.

— Christ! she shouts. She flails, trying to rid herself of the upward-drag of the man’s grip.

All had seemed so very quiet and beautiful under the water just a moment before . . .

Neither she nor Jak could swim, at least not before coming to the villa with Stephanie. Though they grew up on the edge of the sea, the water was something to be feared. Dipping their toes in had been as far as their courage extended. In Cité Soleil they had a friend, Girard, who in great courage ventured out to show his arms’ and legs’ strength. He was dragged back to the shore with empty eyes and water-filled lungs. With Stephanie’s encouragement–she had bought them swimsuits–they descended into the water, at first with hands in reach of the ladder. Over time, they waded, but never ventured far from the concrete lip.

Today, she and Jak compete to see who can hold their breath the longest, but Jak has stopped the game. He never wins.

This round, Libète hovers just beneath the surface of the water. She clasps her nostrils just below where a pair of goggles digs into her face.

Though she doubted the existence of mermaids, she nevertheless hoped she might spy one under the water. They supposedly dragged the drowned–including her ancestors cast over the bows of slave ships–down to new life in the underworld beneath the sea. Fishermen swore they saw them all the time, and to Libète it seemed the sight of the supernatural might make all of this mess of a world actually make sense. Until recently she had believed there was a certain teleology to everything. Despite the past’s massive heartaches, she believed all things were progressing toward a more peaceful and more just future for Haiti, and for herself. If there was no shadow realm, no existence or rest after death, no God, the flagrant injustice of the world would simply be too much to bear. It would lead one to despair . . .

A thought occurs and it is mad.

It would be a test. A small one. Maybe if she let herself go just a
bit
, let a little air escape her lungs, a little water come in, she could fool one of the sea maidens into showing herself.
Just a little . . .

She lets her lips slip open, just barely.

A gargantuan splash broke the water’s surface, followed by thick arms wrapping around her and a tug upward. She burst through the barrier between the world below and the world above.

She cursed and thrashed.

— Calm down, calm down! Laurent shouted.

— What the
hell
were you thinking? She extricated herself and spun before battering his chest.
Are
you thinking?

— I thought you were drowning! he hollered. Jak ran out of the house. The juices he had gone inside to retrieve splashed all over as he coursed toward their shouting. I thought you needed help! Laurent said.

She shrieked, ripping off the goggles and throwing them at him. She climbed out of the water and walked toward the house, vitriol dripping from her lips. Laurent muttered too as he left the sea and held out his arms to let the water sop off. He next sat and peeled off his penny loafers before looking at his watch closely to see if it was waterlogged. He swore.

— Is she okay? Jak asked.

— She’s an ingrate is what she is. Laurent trudged off.

Délira stands before Libète in the gray-block church as Reginald Honorat speaks the liturgy into the air, lifting scriptures from their tattered pages so that the words flutter up to roost in the hearts of their hearers.

Délira holds her child. Delivrans’s eyes peer over the edge of his mother’s shoulder. His round and pleasant face is shadowed by a low brow that makes him appear as if he is skeptical of everything the preacher recites. Libète smiles. His face reflects her heart.

The decapitated lizard, of the same family as the baka found under Dorsinus, had been a cruel warning. Magdala tried to dismiss it as an accident: its head was surely severed by the chop of a hoe.

Libète disagreed.

She had tended to the small garden the day before, and hadn’t used a hoe on it for a long while. The body was placed there. Why? To tell her she was being watched? That she was a stranger? That accusations against her weren’t forgotten? To Libète’s dismay, word swept through Foche about the headless creature–gossip surely spread by the culprit.

Libète watched the old lay priest as his book seemed to weigh down his hands. He gave a speech on the rite of baptism without even looking at the words.
Can he even read them?
The audience’s tightly drawn faces and absent stares made it clear the speech had been repeated many times over at many similar gatherings over many years. Only Délira stood entranced, and she hosted a wide smile and light in her eyes. She gently rocked her increasingly fussy baby.

Reginald produced a glass chalice from his satchel, and an assistant filled it with water boiled to such an extent as to confer holiness.

— Délira, what name do you give your child?

— Delivrans.

— And what do you ask for your child?

— Baptism.

— You’re going to bring this one up Catholic?

She nodded.

— And where’s his father?

— There is . . . none.

An anonymous cough rose up from the back of the church, followed by another’s disapproving grunt. Délira looked so very sad standing there alone, Libète thought. She moved a step closer to her friend.

With a sigh and a tightening of his lips, Reginald reached for the chalice after anointing Delivrans’s head. You’re going to renounce Satan from here on out? He signaled down low, to her pelvis. Keep things closed tight? he whispered.

She nodded bashfully.

— Say it aloud, for everyone.

— I will.

Reginald closed his eyes and began a recitation:

Powerful Bondye, Jezi’s Papa,

by water flowing and the Sentespri

you made free from sin all sons and daughters

and handed them all new life to put on.

Put your Holy Spirit over them

to lead them.

Give this one smarts and wisdom,

level thinking and a brave heart,

a spirit of know-how and big, big respect for You.

Give them open eyes to see what You made.

We ask this in the name of Jezi.

Libète watched, but did not listen.

She still struggled to understand
why
the dead lizard had been left. She had been so careful to not stand out these past months. It’s that you stay, Magdala had said. That’s the ‘why.’

When she was unable to rattle off the Catholic prayers there were murmurs that only fueled suspicions about the baka. It was Magdala who recommended Libète go through this bit of ceremony in the hope it might convince Foche that Sophia was a good Catholic who wouldn’t dabble in bakas and other dark arts. Libète at first balked–though generally ambivalent toward all things religious these days, her Protestant roots ran deep. Please, Magdala had asked. Convince them. For me.

Libète acquiesced.

She looked up from her musing just in time to witness Reginald say, Then I baptize your child in the name of the Father. Of the Son. And of the Holy Spirit. He poured the water three times, anointing and then wiping the child with a white cloth. Amen, he said. Finished.

Delivrans had given a cry at the water’s touch. Délira’s tears mingled with the holy water in the basin on the floor. Délira smiled, kissed Delivrans, and her joy spread through the congregation’s members. She whispered sweet words into the child’s ears and cupped his head. My jewel, my gem, my prize, she said quietly. Libète, standing close to her now, could overhear. She smiled herself.

— Sophia, you may come.

Libète nodded and stepped forward.

— My child, are you ready to proceed with your confirmation?

— I am.

— Very good. Reginald again let his eyes slip closed. He reached far back in his mind to pull out the required words.

— Can I say something first? Libète said.

The preacher, pulled from his trance, was caught by surprise. It’s, uh,
unusual
. But you may. If you must.

— Right. She turned to face the assembly, and made a point to silently lock eyes with every person, every soul. It took a full minute.

— I thank you for welcoming me into the fold. Foche is my new home, and I am grateful for it, and for you all. Libète felt confusion set in; these words she had prepared somehow felt . . .
sincere
. Not forced at all! An impossibility!

There was little time to let the thought linger. She scanned the audience again, wondering if she had missed the one for whom she looked. Her face stiffened on noticing two of the private security guards who hovered at the door to the church with shotguns slung over their shoulders. She kept looking. No, she was certain now. Félix had not come.

She turned back to the priest, and he began to speak:

Remember you have been given a spiritual seal,

the spirit of wisdom and understanding,

the spirit of good judgment and courage,

the spirit of knowledge and reverence,

the spirit of holy fear in Bondye’s presence.

Guard what you have received.

Bondye has marked you with his sign;

Jezi has confirmed you

and has placed his pledge, the Sentespri, in your heart
.

And with that he anointed her forehead with oil in the shape of a cross.

Reginald smiled. You are welcomed, Sophia, into this church, into this community, and into Bondye’s open arms.

Her lips parted, and she raised her hand to them in shock. Despite her knowledge, her doubts, and the fact this act was empty, in the moment, she felt an impossible wash of peace that had been absent for so very long.

Another week passes.

Libète spends only an hour or two out of her room each day. It is a sort of vague protest against being in Jacmel, in this house, and under Laurent’s supervision. She sleeps. She writes in her notebook. She reads. She cries.

Jak and she play card games, dominoes, chess, but these diversions are fleeting. Libète is always distracted. All of her moves are defensive, and Jak routs her easily. She has always been a sore loser, but something is changed. There’s new fear wrapped up in each and every match, and each mounting loss seems to chip away at some greater sense of identity. Jak lost on purpose once, but it ended poorly when, after a moment of pleasure, Libète realized what he’d done and cast the board and game pieces across the room, only to then slam the door behind her on a dumbfounded, cowering Jak.

Stephanie was supposed to have returned by now. Libète had written a catalog of the harsh things she would say to the woman, but superstition made her feel like this act might be behind her delayed return. One day Libète pulled Stephanie’s first collection of verse from a bookcase downstairs. Published while Stephanie was still at university, the poems are beautiful and return time and again to themes of the world’s stupid brokenness and the impossible hope that manages to break through its cracks. Libète hated them.