There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) (5 page)

— Thanks for the soup, she said, giving him a peck on the cheek as she strode on toward the front gate. Jak reached up to the spot her lips had touched.

— Come
on
, Jak! Didi said, pulling him along. He nodded slowly, his thoughts trying to catch up.

— Véus, Libète said, open up.

He stepped out of his concrete booth, leaning on his gun like a cane. He looked ashamed. I . . . can’t do that, Libète.

— What? What the
hell
are you talking about?

He signaled with his head to the other end of the yard. On the second level, leaning against the wrought-iron railing, were two unfamiliar men: one was young and black, the other old and white.

Yon blan
. A foreigner.

The blan surveyed the three youths. He stood erect in an emerald guayabera, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes shrouded by a pair of sunglasses, his balding head blanketed by wisps of white hair. The man behind him had bulging eyes and an isosceles face with a chin that narrowed to a seemingly impossible point. The white man adjusted his belt and licked his lips as though he was preparing to speak.

—
Children
, he intoned in English.

—
Timoun yo,
said the black man, his apparent interpreter.

— What do you want? Libète spat back in Kreyòl, shielding her eyes against the Sun.

— Are you – he looked at a clipboard – Libète Limye?

She frowned. Non, she said. My name is Sophia Jean-Phillippe. It was a spur of the moment lie, mixing her deceased mother’s name with that of her favorite Haitian footballer. The blan’s eyes, still hidden behind dark lenses, bored a hole in her.

— My name is Mr. Brown. I am your new headmaster. Libète slouched. The Haitian man parroted Brown’s words in Kreyòl. And I do not appreciate games, he said coolly. The other man interpreted again.

— Well, we’re on our way out, Libète said.

— No, you’re not. My office. Now.

The Sun is gone, and the sky covered by a ceiling of cumulus cloud.

Libète sits atop the donkey. The man had said little to her for most of their climb, looking over his shoulder occasionally to glimpse her, the poor creature she was. Her eyes are vacant. He knows consolation is not his strong suit and does not attempt it.

— We are not so far now, not far at all, he says, his voice trailing off. He bites his lip. His hips and back cry out from the long day. They are nagging reminders that he is old, and failing. He steels himself. If he is to be master of anything in this life, it must be his limbs.

He passes the time singing a bit, and asking things, but they are all rhetorical dead ends, the kind of thoughts dressed as questions he would often ask Saint-Pierre, the donkey.

—
The air, it’s heavy today, no?

—
What a mountain we’re climbing, eh?

—
It will be good to lie under a roof tonight, yes?

For a man so accustomed to living half his time without conversation, the quiet unnerved him greatly. He often regaled Saint-Pierre with stories–the same stories, time and again–but the beast always maintained his same obstinate silence.
The donkey and girl have a similar way about them,
he thought.

He soon began to talk about himself, for as with many men, this was a much-favored subject.

He told her of his life spent near the water, breaking rock, sifting through earth, all to uncover something precious within it all. I’m blessed. I have a sense, you see. I can
feel
where the metals are, how they wish to be found by me, wish to be mine. They call to me.
Sa a se yon kado
.
Ki Bondye te ban mwen
. This is a gift. From God.

Libète offered no reply.

He told of his extraordinary strength that had been sapped because he’d proven too boastful about it. He shared that he was irresistible to women, evidenced by the twenty children he had peppered about the countryside. And, as if to help explain the seeming impossibility of the latter, how his good looks had been stripped from him because of this infidelity.

— He gives and he takes, you know. Bondye. Gives and takes away . . .

Libète still gave no answer, no matter the claim. He could tell she listened, though. He had saved his greatest tale for last.

— I’m blind, you know.

Libète inclined her head, and the man thrilled at this.
Ha!
A breakthrough!

— Completely blind, he said. I can’t see a thing.

— That’s ridiculous. Libète couldn’t help herself, the harsh words so easily slipping from her lips.

— Non. No, no, no. My vision was clouded by the Good Lord himself. He has never restored it.

— But you can see. Clearly. Clearly you can see.

— But I’m telling you, I can’t! A testament to his power, I suppose. I can sense all without my eyes.

— Prove it.

— But I have already, haven’t I? I walk and move and sense everything. But without my eyes working. If I understood how . . .

— I don’t want to hear it. Please, stop with these foolish, stupid stories, mesye . . . mesye . . .

She huffed. What
is
your name? With all of your blabbering, I know all about your bastard kids and present ugliness, but I don’t even have your name!

— Ah, ah, ah! He was smiling inwardly.
Such progress I’m making!
You are so right, my dear. Saint-Pierre and I, we don’t use names so often, the two of us! It is Dorsinus. Dorsinus Flavoril.

— Well, be quiet, Dorsinus. I don’t need your nonsense.

— But–

— I said I want my silence.

— I’m tryin–

—
Silans!

— But we’ve arrived! We’re finally here!

Libète looked around, taking in her surroundings. The mountains were dark and foreboding. She could see rare points of lamplight throbbing in the dark, marking the lay of homes on the mountainside.

— Foche, he said. You have stumbled from darkness into light.

— It’s still dark.

— Not if you could see as I do! The people, they are good here. They light the land, burning like those little lamps, but brighter! She looked at the man, who was taken by his surveying of the hills. Though I am not at home here, he said, I am home.

Libète’s shoulders sagged.
Home.
Such a thought, such a wonderful one, seemed to let her breathe deep and long.

But this, of course, wasn’t her home. She had none, not anymore.

— Come. We must reach Dieudonné.

They continued up, passing one lakou yard lined with cacti followed by another, until they left the road and stepped upon a narrow side path. Even Saint-Pierre’s spirits seemed to lift from treading this coarse, familiar earth. Dorsinus began to hum a melody. His steps quickened and the weariness of his joints seemed forgotten in this final stretch.

— There it is, he said pointing. A lone house stood by a lone tree. Man and animal pushed forward, but Libète cried out.

— Wait! He turned to her, noticing her unconsciously clutching the sides of her capri pants. Dorsinus felt his heart sink.
What
does
this girl carry?

He tugged at Saint-Pierre’s lead. All will be well, Dorsinus said, encouraging her gently.

There was stirring within the house, and a voice. Is that–is that you, Dorsinus? came a call.

The man thrilled at the recognition.

— Ha ha! What good ears you have, Magdala!

The sheet entrance swung open, and a woman, tall and thick, thrust herself through. He moved to hug her, but she dodged the hug. Hands to yourself, old man! She patted him on the back and laughed heartily. How is the old saint? She pointed to the ass.

— He’s well, he’s well. His face clouded. He removed his hat. There’s something else, though.
Someone
else.

— Oh? She looked about. The dark kept her from seeing the girl slumped on the beast’s back.

Dorsinus tried to summon the girl’s name to his lips, but realized he had not yet learned it. Girl, he called to her. Come close.

Libète slipped off Saint-Pierre, cringing as she took painful steps forward. She stood silent before them, eyes downcast. The woman’s brows leaped up. Who is this? One of your own?

He shook his head. Someone I found. She . . . asked for you.

Magdala’s eyes traveled from the man to this stranger and back again. Can she speak for herself? Is she okay? There was softness there, a genuine concern. Still, Libète could not look up and meet the wide, caring eyes.

—
Eske ou byen?
Are you well? Magdala asked.
Kijan ou rele?
What are you called? She extended a warm hand to Libète’s chin, coaxing her head up to allow their eyes to finally meet.

Stilling her trembling lips, Libète looked straight into Magdala’s face. My name? My name is Sophia.

Jak squirms in his seat. This unnerves Libète tremendously.

— Relax, Jak, she growls.
Tout byen
. All is well.

— Why should I relax? At least when Mèt Valcin was headmaster I didn’t have to watch my back all the time! He even
liked
me. The first day with this Brown and we’re on his bad list.

— Stop
worrying
.

— He’s right to worry, Didi says.

— Bah! Libète crosses her arms and looks away.

Mr. Brown and his interpreter were still outside the office. Libète assumes they do this to intimidate her, Jak, and Didi. It only makes her angry.
These fools are making us late!

In a sense, this was her fault. Libète had seen the last headmaster, a man, dismissed from his post after she had uncovered certain . . . improprieties. The school had been without a head teacher for the past month, leading to lax discipline and general ease around campus before the holidays. It had been wonderful. Now, seeing this Mr. Brown come onto the scene, the nagging proverb came to mind:
Dyab ou konn pi bon pase dyab ou pa konn
. The devil you know is better than the devil you do not.

— You two aren’t in trouble. I’m the one who lied and gave him the stupid false name.

— Libète, open your eyes! This has nothing to do with that name.

— Then because we got the other headmaster fired?

— You’ve forgotten?

—
No
. Of course I haven’t forgotten . . . She grimaced. Aw, forgotten
what?

— Last night. The dead man on the radio. The station raid! The Numbers! Libète, something is very wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. . .

— What do you mean, Jak? Didi asked.

— I went to the computer lab, tried to do some searches to figure out what the Numbers might mean.

— And?

— Well, nothing. I didn’t find anything. But the man on the other end, he
died
for them. We have to be careful.

The birthday card resting in the bag on Libète’s lap suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. She sighed as she produced it from her bag.

— What’s this? Jak said, holding it up for him and Didi to read. He read the inscription. Libète could see his whole person deflate.

— Where did this come from? Didi asked.

— It was one of Véus’s two deliveries last night.

Jak shook his head. You’ve not been threatened for months. Not here. Not like this.

Libète shrugged. It’s nothing. Didi retreated into a nervous silence.

— This is a real danger, Jak said. We do things, say things, and people get hurt. They
die
. We’ve seen it before. Even the man with the knife last night–

— He was just some hired thug, Libète sneered. And we were protected by the People! Just as we’ll be today. No one could get to us. They’re our shield, Jak.

—
This is no game
. We aren’t wandering around collecting bottles in the reeds. Even that meant corpses . . .

Libète cringed at the memory of Claire and Ti Gaspar, mother and child, caked in mud and blood, wrapped together in death. Memories of the two were always with her, but the details were harder to recall. Maybe because the vicissitudes of time brought new troubles, or maybe because that was simply how memory worked, insulating one from past pain.