There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) (38 page)

— Our enemies will be on the main roads north. More checkpoints. He shuddered. No, we’ll take a longer route. One they won’t bother with. She probably knows where we’re going by now.

Libète squinted. Who? Maxine? What makes you say that?

Dimanche didn’t answer.

— Really, why are we going to Cap-Haïtien? We could hide anywhere.

— I’ll tell you in time.

— Not ‘in time.’
Now.
She slapped the side of the bus.

He grimaced.
Fine.
There is a boat.

— A boat?

— A boat. And it will sail soon. And you must be on it.

— Where is it sailing?

Dimanche looked dyspeptic. He looked over his shoulder and said the words:
Etazini.

Libète gasped. The US? She leaned in and gritted her teeth. I never agreed to leave Haiti. Never.
Never.

— Your way has been paid. And I am to deliver you. There’s no choice.

— Says who?

— Ms. Stephanie.

— Bah!

— If you aren’t on that boat, you’ll die. You realize that, don’t you?

— Then I’ll die. Libète walked away from him.

He grabbed her elbow, and she tore it away. Please. These protests are unnecessary. It is the way things are, Libète. It is where we are.

She swept back toward him. If I am taken from this ground, I will waste away to nothing. Already, with all this time away from Cité Soleil, I can feel it. My soul. My heart. They’re withering.

— Cité Soleil will move on.

— Don’t you say that!

He spoke again. Cité Soleil doesn’t need you. Haiti doesn’t need you. You need them.

— How . . .
dare
you. How can you–you’ve never loved a place like me!

He held a pointed finger up to her face. You know nothing about me. You’re not the only one to have bled for a place. But places, they’re nothing. We float along, we never find a home. Not on this side of the water. Not on this side of life.

Libète didn’t want to give the notion credence.

Dimanche reached out to touch her. The fingers he laid on her shoulder were surprisingly gentle. Every person in this world who loves you most is desperate for you to go and be
safe
, he said. Please. For their sake. You must go and do this thing. Dimanche searched her dark brown eyes. For my sake.

She looked at him, taken aback by his pleading. To have Haiti ripped from beneath her seemed unfathomable
. . .

She found the details of the station fall away as the reality of things descended. Dimanche’s hand hovered just behind her back, and she let him guide her toward another staging bus where a man called out, Sen Rafeyel! Dondon! Menard!–the knots in their coming journey’s string. She boarded and Dimanche watched her climb the steps and find a seat. She hardly emoted. Hardly blinked.

He paid the caller the fare and grimaced. He knew he could not reach her in her sadness. All that was left was to guide her to where she must go.

Breathe. In and out. Out and in.

Félix and Libète hide on top of the axels of one of the thieving trucks.

The mining camp is roused. Boots on gravel tamp soft earth. Men holler at Dorsinus. He can give no explanation for the noise and damaged equipment. The camp dwellers’ flashlights land on the severed hoses, the generator fallen down deep. Swearing erupts. Two pair of legs walk just past Félix and Libète’s faces.

— Libète, Félix whispers. Prepare to run.

She glares at him.

— They’ll find us. There’s no way around it. But they don’t have to find
both
of us.

She shakes her head fiercely. It aches with a dull, feverish pain.

— Get ready. I’m going to give myself up. When you see a chance, run.

— Don’t you dare! Don’t you leave me!

— You promised you’d do as I say. Get down the mountain. You’ll be safe.

She longs to do this. To be rid of this moment and its fear.

They see a burly man on his hands and knees. He searches beneath one of the neighboring trucks with a sweep of his flashlight.

Félix lays his machete down and begins whispering prayers. He asks for protection, and for strength to take the blows he will soon bear.

It was she who dragged him into this. Why should he pay the consequences? But she had no choice. If she was taken, it would be the end. She would fall into Cinéus and Wilnor’s hands and be passed to whoever had sent Lolo to find her. She would be given to the people who had killed her friends and pursued her across the country. They would likely torture her till she gave them those accursed Numbers, whatever they were.

She must do as Félix says.

She has to.

Heavy footsteps herald the approach of the man with the flashlight. The light pours from the cylinder in his hand and plays across the ground just under the truck. Félix’s eyes are closed. He takes a deep breath, and a second, and a third. The man crouches.

Libète drops and grabs the machete. As she rolls out, she shouts: I surrender! I surrender!

A Split Soul

Ti kou ti kou bay fè mò.

Little blow by little blow brings death.

Fòk ou konn la pou ou al la.

You must know there to go there.

Dimanche and Libète arrive in Menard. The hour is late.

A group of men linger around a crank radio. They drink warm beer by candlelight. An old woman plaits a younger woman’s hair, and they break into laughter. Pentecostals filter out of a late prayer service, heavy Bibles in their hands, heavy lids about their eyes.

Dimanche spins, taking it in, breathing in deeply. Libète watches him carefully. Do you . . . know this place?

He nods.

— These people. Some of them. The one with the radio, that’s Daniel. He’s a philanderer. And that woman, Magalie, I know her from her voice.

— This was your home?

— For a time. A gateway to other things.

— Better things?

He doesn’t answer.

— Should you say hello, Dimanche? To Daniel? To Magalie? A reunion. That’d be nice, no?

— They wouldn’t recognize me.

Libète is perplexed.

— No, he says. But there is one we need to see.

He started walking, stepping off the main road that bisected the town’s thicket of homes. He struck a path among their fenced yards. Libète carried all their possessions and struggled to keep pace.

They came to a home–two floors, columned, covered in spackle–that even by night looked run down. It was the largest home she had seen in the town and it seemed sinister in its disrepair.

Dimanche knocked. Honor! he called out. His voice cracked.

A moment passed. Respect! came called back. The home’s front door opened to a prudent width, and a white shock of hair poked from behind. Who’s there?

Dimanche looked to Libète, and she noticed fear in his misshapen face. Dimanche, he called back.

The old man stepped out into the yard and took in his visitor. His hands lay limp at his sides. His mouth was agape. If he saw Libète, he didn’t note it.

He came forward with tentative steps before embracing Dimanche wholly.

— Forgive me, but the generator, it’s out of service, the old man said.

— Don’t worry.

— Ah, and the fridge. I have no ice.

— It’s not a proble–

— No delivery today. The sodas, they’re all warm. Picot! he called. Picot! Get me ice! Ice!

A boy appeared from the shadows. He kept his eyes downcast and took a pair of crinkled goud notes from the old man’s outstretched hand. The boy’s defeated and tired movements reminded Libète of herself when she was a child servant. She thought to speak to the boy and acknowledge him by thanking him. Instead she floated to the entryway corner and watched the two men’s ongoing awkward exchange in fascination.

— Sit. The man pulled out a chair for Dimanche. My boy, sit, he said. His hand ran through his bushy hair. You’re here.

— I am.

They stared at each other. You’re here, he repeated.

A clock ticked in the background.

— And did you–have you–

— Done what I set out to do?

The old man nodded.

— My task – he looked at Libète, suddenly wary of her presence – is complete. They’re gone.

The man collapsed into his own chair. He stroked his cheek’s stubble. My God. He turned to look upon her. And this one–I’m sorry, dear girl. Who is this one? He turned to her and spoke directly. Who are you? He gasped before she could answer. Your daughter, Dimanche? His face lit with a hopeful smile.

Dimanche shook his head, as if in shame. Like his life had been measured and came up lacking. She is a charge of mine, he said.

— My name is Lourd–

— In this house, Dimanche interrupted her, we can use real names.

— Libète, she offered. The old man came and knelt at her feet. So confused and taken aback, she nearly fell. He sized up her face before meeting her eyes. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m called Celestine. He took her right hand and kissed it.

He rose as quickly as his rickety knees allowed. When Picot returns, he can take your things upstairs. You’re staying? Of course you are.

— Only for a night, Dimanche said. If that’s all right.

— It’s been nearly twenty years, my boy! Celestine’s hand met his forehead again. For only one night?

— We’re off. To Cap-Haïtien. In the morning.

Celestine sighed. We have much to catch up on.

They spent the balance of the evening in the home’s covered gallery, looking out on the yard and Menard, sipping sweating sodas, letting the crickets’ songs fill the gaps in conversation. They talked in stops and starts about the weather, the failing soil, and politics in Port-au-Prince.

— So they’re all gone, Celestine finally said as he rocked in his chair, circling back to an earlier subject and the one that most intrigued Libète. All gone . . .

Libète cradled the pigeon in her hands, stroking the creature. She sat up and inclined her ear. She didn’t understand what topic these two tiptoed about. She decided to help them along and spoke up.

— Dimanche. Your accent–your ways–I always thought you were from the south, from the city. And you’ve not been back to Menard in all this time? Not in years?

— My work. It kept me away.

Celestine whistled. But this work is done? You’re free?

Dimanche suddenly looked extremely tired. I’ve told you. Irritability claims him. Excuse me, he said. I can see by my manners I’m in need of rest.

Celestine stopped rocking. I’m sorry. I–I didn’t mean to push–

— We’ll talk tomorrow . . . been a long day. Dimanche’s voice trailed off as he headed into the house, upstairs.

Libète
tsked
. He hasn’t seen you in years, you show us such kindness, and this is his behavior? I’m sorry, Mesye Celestine. He can behave like such a . . . teenager.

Celestine showed a smile. No need, my dear, no need. My curiosity keeps me asking about what he’s done rather than who he’s become. That’s my own fault.

Libète had so many questions. What’s this work he’s talking about? When he was an inspector?

— Ah, if you don’t know, it’s not for me to tell. A man at my age, I’d rather not think on it too much.

Libète nodded. Well, what about before then? How did you meet?

— Heh. I can remember the day well. Celestine nursed his soda. I can picture him as he was then. Fewer pounds, more hair. Ha. Ha! Did you see the rice fields on the way into town?

Libète searched her memory. With her thoughts consumed with the day’s events, she noticed little on their hours-long journey to Menard.

— Yes, she lied.

— They’re mine. They’ve been stolen out from under me over the years, though they’re my heritage. All of my kids–a worthless lot–ran to Canada, France, the US. All of them dyaspora. He said the word like a curse. I’m no farmer. I’m not even smart! Bad deal after bad deal added up. He threw out the remainder of his drink into the yard. I’m just glad my ancestors can’t see the mess I’ve made.

— Dimanche farmed?

— He has a gift!
Had
a gift, maybe. My only good years were when Dimanche was in charge of it all. Between you and me, he looks terrible these days. Like his spirit has been wrung out of him. He gestured. Like water from a sponge.

— Whatever’s happened, he’s still a good man. Libète said this begrudgingly.

— Maybe so. But hard to recognize these days, Celestine said. Hard to recognize . . .

The Son puts his parents into the ground.

He prepared the bodies himself. Dragged them on a makeshift sled himself. Dug the graves himself.

No one was willing to join in a burial for the murdered when the murderers still roamed about, meting out senseless death.

His father had been strung up on a tree before being shot. It was a villain’s end. The type of callous murder slavers would commit to send a message beyond words. Today, though the method was the same, the message was different: to oppose the coup was to face this end. His father had not been a perfect man, but he had been good. As far as the Son was concerned, his mother had been a saint.

Day turns to night. He tamps the graves with his foot, slides the shovel into the earth beside the newly filled holes. The sweat and tears dampen him and make him cold.

He had climbed the mapou tree like he did as a child, when he would practice going up and down so that he could retrieve fruit from other trees that no one else was brave enough to reach. He climbed today to loosen the ropes that suspended his father’s drained body in the air. The man’s head slumped down as he spun in a lazy pirouette. The Son loosed the knot, watched the body slip. His father was at last returned to the ground that had given him life, sustained him, and would now swallow him.

He reunited his father and mother, laying them side by side.

Shots came in the distance, but the Son, he did not care. He fell to his knees and wept. For his parents, they were no more.

The murderers camped in the open, under a cloudless sky and slivered, silent Moon.

They slept soundly, as if judgment would never visit them for their crimes.

The Son watched their circle, lit by two weak fires. There was a watchman, but he was debauched. Before long he would fall asleep like the others.