There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) (24 page)

— Madanm? Madanm Manno?

Three times a week the maid comes to the villa. She is old and heavyset, her hair hidden in a wrap. Libète always greets the woman with a smile, though Madanm Manno never smiles back.

Is she mute?
Clearly not. She spoke when she wanted to, just not around Libète.

Is she embarrassed?
But of what? She was old and wizened.

Is she ashamed?
It made no sense. She carried on with Jak in conversation, but never Libète. She was at ease around Laurent, and the two joked. The humor was often ribald, and she would cackle and cackle and cackle. But with Libète, there was no hint of kindness or comradery.

Madanm Manno washes dishes now, standing at the kitchen sink, humming the climbing melody of a folk song while Libète listens from behind a corner, holding a stack of dishes collected from upstairs in her arms.

Laurent must have told her something about me. Something vicious.

Libète wears her best smile and glides into the kitchen. Bonswa, Madanm Manno. How are you today?

She gives a nervous acknowledgement, and her eyes dart back and forth as she scrubs.

— May I help you? Can I dry? Or possibly rinse?

— Non. That’s all right.

— But most of these are my own plates! It’s only right. I’d very much like to help you–

The woman plunged the plate in her hands back into the basin. Please, madmwazel. Please! Let me just do my job!

Libète recoiled at the words’ cutting tone. She dropped the plates on the counter, likely cracking the bottom one. What did Mesye Martinette tell you? What lies has he spread about me?

— About you? He’s said nothing!

— What’s so wrong with me, then? Why can’t you treat me like a human being?

Madanm Manno cocked her head, like the question made no sense. I . . . I’m sorry–but we’re from different places. You and me, different places. Her embarrassed eyes shot down to the bin of clean water, and she scrubbed even harder.

Libète went up to her room’s full-length mirror, looking at what lay before her. All she saw at first were her uncomprehending tears. But then she saw the surface. She wore new denim jeans, an attractive top, all bought on the Martinette’s tab. Her hair extensions and pristine nails. And she saw it. What the woman perceived her to be.

Madanm Manno did not see beneath the surface of things. She missed the scar marking her shoulder, earned by stepping between the bullets flying between her people and UN troops. The vanished welts from her Aunt’s blows, borne and absorbed deep into Libète’s body. The years of hunger pangs, first on La Gonâve, and then again in the tent city after the earthquake.

This woman saw none of these things. Instead she misinterpreted the girl’s aloofness and depression for the arrogance of the rich, the pampered, the apathetic. She mistook Libète’s attempts at solidarity for paternalism.

The woman thought that Libète–of all people–was
privileged!

Tearing up, the girl grabbed a pair of scissors and began cutting her braids, one by one by one, until not a single strand of the artificial hair remained on her head.

A Failure of the Heart

Rete twò lontan nan mache fè ou fè dèt.

Staying too long in the market puts you in debt.

A week or two, Stephanie had said she’d be away. It has become seven.

The days slip past. They are long and monotonous. Libète spins herself into a digital cocoon.

Log on, check inbox, assassinate Benoit’s character.

Early on she had created fake profiles to defend herself on the presses’ websites, but the articles about her had dried up. She became upset about the paucity of stories rather than slanderous ones. The world had moved on. She was forgotten. And so she turned from defense to offense, and before long, to hate. At any positive mention of Benoit or his businesses she left a string of comments attacking him, pouring the invective into her keyboard.

Research, wade through tweets, scan the news.

Jak tried to engage with her at first. He tried to lead her out of the anxiety of seeing herself forgotten. He knew she needed to heal, but that would be impossible if she mired herself in the past. Instead, he encouraged her toward more positive pursuits.

Engaging with the news
: Today, despite the accord, President Martelly was still dragging his feet when it came to scheduling new legislative elections, ostensibly to keep his grip on the reins of government. A moratorium on foreign companies’ mining was enacted in retaliation.

Researching the Numbers
: Twenty-one-digits long. They thought they might be a code, or maybe GPS coordinates. Jak tried inputting them every which way and they came up mostly in the Indian Ocean. They still had no idea what made them worth killing for.

Getting off the computer completely
: Jak tried to pull her outside into the Sun, but her preference was to haunt the Internet late into the night. She still slept through much of the day, mostly to avoid Laurent. Jak saw her take her pills, but she did so surreptitiously. He asked her what her medical condition was, but as always she was cagey. It’s nothing, she’d say.

He didn’t like this one bit. She had no reason to keep the truth from him. He wanted to help her, to cure all that tore at the Libète he knew. The Libète he loved.

Bouncing between Laurent and Libète’s grimness drained him. Exhaustion and apathy became his other friends.

Reading material around the house was too niche. Jak tried plunging into Laurent’s collection of academic texts. These were mostly in English and littered with jargon that was beyond him. He was fourteen years old, after all. Other diversions were few.

He took to sketching. He had never taken time to indulge the hobby before, but now discovered he had an astute eye and a measured hand. His favorite subject was Libète. He could content himself for hours capturing her features–the perfect spacing of her eyes, the slope of her nose, and her lovely cheekbones. He drew her as she was a few months ago, brave and at ease with herself–not slouched before a computer screen.

— What are you sketching now, Jak? Libète looked over from the computer. She often didn’t show interest.

He subtly slipped a prior page down to show her.

— Just another one of a rock.

It was a beautifully rendered picture of a stone near the water outside. Libète shook her head. All that time drawing a
rock
? You’re so
odd
sometimes . . .

It was a close call. He made sure to hide the notebook to avoid anyone from accidentally coming across his stippled renderings of her.

He had kept the lizard in an emptied fish tank. The Martinettes had let its prior occupants go belly up long ago. Jak had scavenged through the compound’s debris for materials to build a more authentic habitat for the creature. His favorite touch was a coconut, hollowed and halved; it made for a lovely little hut for the green fellow.

Every day Jak carried the tank out in the Sun so that the rocks in its bottom would warm. The lizard would creep out of the shell and linger on the stones for hours.
Even in captivity you can find pleasure,
Jak thought.
If you can,
I can
.

He had bonded with Laurent, much to Libète’s dismay. He had no problem sitting with the man and asking an endless string of questions. Absent from his students, Laurent was eager to offer full seminars for the boy. They could talk for hours. And yet, the closer he grew to the teacher, the more Libète drifted from Jak. He found himself keeping a careful balance between the two, for in the balance was peace.

Early on, after Jak had taken in the lizard and as he was just beginning to draw, Laurent pulled Jak aside. I see you have a way with animals, he said. What is your opinion of birds?

— You have a bird here? Of your own?

Laurent smiled and escorted him to a door in the upper-floor corridor. Jak always assumed it was some kind of closet.

— When do you take care of it?

— It’s the last thing I do before I go to sleep. They ascended the stairs. No matter what has happened in the day, Laurent said, it feels good to know you’re responsible for something.

— And when you’re away? Who takes care of the bird?

— Birds, Jak. When the family is away, Madanm Manno keeps them.

They opened a hatch onto a level surface covered in linoleum in the midst of the roof’s sloping red tiles. There was a cage of pigeons, gray and white with black-flecked wings. Jak gaped. Why so many?

— When I was a kid–a little younger than you, I think–this is how my friends and I communicated. Before cell phones and e-mail, before phone lines were affordable.

— They can find their way back here?

— They can find their way between homes. One of which happens to be here. Laurent smirked. It’s how I best communicate with my father. Little messages here and there. Let’s send the old man a message. He reached for a wooden box mounted on the side of the cage, pulling open the hinged lid to extract a pen and a strip of paper. He scrawled and let Jak glimpse the paper.

All is well with the
ti pwofesè
. The ti pwofet is the same as always
.

— I’m the professor? Jak asked, marveling at the association.

Laurent smiled and rolled the paper narrowly so it resembled a cigarette. Father asks after you often. In fact it seems you two children are all we discuss these days. He’s deeply troubled by these developments.

— And Steffi? Have you heard from her?

Laurent seemed unsure how to answer. Not really. She checks in with Father. But I’m sure she’s well.

— Why don’t you text her? Or e-mail?

— Fear of being monitored, I’m afraid. He opened the cage. When the phones and Internet are run by only a few companies and the government can access such information, people like Benoit, the monied – he reached for a bird – can sort through our messages as easily as their own. He withdrew a dark gray one and it cooed at the touch. How about you, Hermès? Have you eaten well, my friend? Yes? Ready for another trip?

— How often do they travel?

— From here to Boutilier, they can be back and forth in a day. But they sadly outpace our desire to communicate. And anyway, it’s not good to trouble the old man, and
everything
seems to trouble him these days. Even if our dear Libète were on the ground, bleeding out, I’d simply tell the old man tout byen! Everything’s fine! Just to keep him from worrying out of his head.

Jak didn’t appreciate the conjecture.

— Sorry. But you take my point. When we retreat from the world after shaping it, we realize our powerlessness. It can frighten. He wrapped the message about Hermès’s ankle and clasped it secure with a small metal band.

— Could we send Steffi a message? Maybe?

— I’d . . . like to. He stroked his chin and exhaled, turning glum. Where I think she is right now? No, I don’t think so. But soon, it may be possible. I’ll let you know.

Jak became very quiet.

— How are you doing with all this, Jak?

— I’m scared. I think.

— That’s understandable.

— Not for myself! Jak blurted, as if fear for oneself was a sin. For her. I’m afraid. She’s not well.

— You care for her much. I see it.

The boy touched the wire mesh of the cage, looked away. He was going to protest, but couldn’t. He sighed.

Laurent’s lips curled into a small, sad smile. With a grand flourish, he tossed the bird into the air. It shot to the north, and the two watched it go until it was lost in the turning sky.

— You’re a good friend, Jak. If you weren’t here, who knows which of us might have killed the other first.

Jak smiled. Thank you for sharing your flock with me.

— I should have sooner. I’m very protective. They’re like my children.

The thought was very nice, but also very sad. Jak forced a smile and stepped back down the stairs.

He knocked on Libète’s door. She absently bid him come. Her eyes were locked on the screen as she tapped away furiously.

— Where were you?

— I’ll tell you later. When you’re done. She gave a distant nod.

Jak positioned the terrarium on a chair sitting between him and the girl and pulled out his pad and pen. He started a new sketch, yet again of Libète, and he mused over Laurent, a man of wealth and status and position who was most content while tending to a cage full of birds.

— Is sketching another stone really that satisfying? Libète said.

He hastily flipped the page to an older sketch.

— Just another one of my lizard, he said with a smile, showing her his work.

— You’ve got that?

Libète grunts, hefting a basket brimming with mangoes. I do. She lets it spill over into one of Saint-Pierre’s saddlebags. Magdala does the same, draining a full sack of beans pulled up from the fields.

— Well, let’s go then.

They started down the mountain path with the old donkey clomping along, greeting the Sun and the sky and the others who come up and over the earthen banks to meet on the road.

— The more I think on it, we must beware of Jeune, Magdala murmurs between well-wishing. You already saw what he wanted to do to Félix over the stolen money. String him up in a tree! She spit. He’s had it in for our family for a long,
long
time. Since I was your age he–why, good morning, Madanm Brizard! she hollers. Libète gives a wave to the woman just cresting a nearby hill. They let Madanm Brizard walk in front of them.

— Why’s that? Libète whispers, turning back to Magdala.

— Who can know? He knew my father, knew him well. They worked the fields together. I remember when I was young, around your age–before my parents died. Jeune started acting strange toward us.

This piques the girl’s curiosity. How did they die? Libète asks.

— Killed. Murdered. In a way that no one should be. No one
ever
should be.

— Do you–do you think Jeune was involved?

— No, no. Not a chance. He’s not really a killer, I don’t think. They exchanged greetings and smiles with a trio of women. A boy followed them, leading ten piglets with the help of a switch.

Magdala patted Saint-Pierre carefully. I think it was guilt. A heavy, heavy guilt, Magdala said. That his friend suffered, and he did not. At least that’s what I told myself. But this treatment of Félix and you! Well! She grunted. It makes one ask questions, no? We’ll keep our eyes on him. He’s made other enemies in the village. Back when times were so, so bad. If he tries something, we’ll have friends in high places to stand beside us. She pointed to the sky, intimating God. Libète gave a patronizing nod.

They tipped the last hill, and the flattened ground came into view, like an open palm with beckoning fingers:
the market.

Many had already set up their stalls. Most stalls were carefully balanced poles, and some were covered with tarps. There were already a few hundred who had come to dicker, and the din of it all was powerful.

They reached their spot, familiar now to Libète after these past months. There were so many outsiders at each market, she still wondered from where in the hills they could possibly spring. Thanks to the road, there were even men and women with a small fleet of trucks who would buy here and sell down the mountain.