Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (10 page)

— I’m sorry that I lost your soup. She held up the empty mug in her hand. Jak took it and began to wipe the residue with his finger and plopped it into his mouth.

— Mmm, Jak sighed in pleasure. Your Aunt is a bitter woman, but she makes such sweet soup!

— I wish I had more for you.

— It’s no problem. You tore those three to pieces—that was something to see! Besides, I think it tastes even better on Franswa’s face than sitting in my stomach.

Jak began chewing the small piece of bread still clutched in his hand. Libète looked at the short boy, watching the food travel down his gullet and into his distended belly.
Poor Jak
, she thought. He looked like he hadn’t eaten for some time.

— Come on, she said. Let’s climb.

The old house at which their sprint ended was their fort, albeit a breached one. Hardly any buildings were built with two levels in Bwa Nèf, making this one seem like a tower. Other children sometimes played in or around the structure, but it was well understood that it was Libète and Jak’s first.

The building was riddled with hundreds of holes from high-caliber bullets, and the casings could still be found on the ground without too much searching. Large sections of walls had collapsed, and the second floor, really just a few remaining planks, was weak in places, though still able to support the weight of two small children. All of the furnishings had long since been removed, weeds springing up in their place. The iron staircase to the second floor was stolen to turn to scrap, so reaching the second floor required exceptionally long legs, or in their case, scaling the wall using a series of small cracks and holes as handholds. As Libète climbed, she looked at six names painted on one of the intact walls, memorializing several young men and one woman who had died there some years before in a fight between gang members and the United Nations troops. She looked away and focused on her climbing. These were events Libète tried her best to forget.

After Jak reached the second floor too, they sat down on the edge of a wall with their feet dangling over, surveying the familiar view. It was the best outlook they had found, with the ocean to their backs and Cité Soleil, Port-au-Prince, and Haiti’s peaks spread out before them.

After several moments of silence, Libète spoke.

— Jak, I’ve been thinking about Claire and Gaspar.

He sighed and nodded.

— Me too. I keep seeing them when I close my eyes. Especially when I try to sleep.

She did not mention her own dream of San Figi.

— There’s that, she said. But I’ve been thinking about more than seeing them when they’re not there—thinking about finding out who killed them.

Jak’s brow creased.

— Libète…it’s a sad thing, but, there’s nothing we can do. We should leave it to Dimanche and Simeon.

— Jak, I can’t. I don’t know why—I just have this feeling—

— That’s nonsense.

She grimaced. You’re just scared.

— That’s not true! We’ve hit a wall, just like everyone else. We don’t have any ideas about where to go next.

— No, no,
no. That’s
not true. What about the Dyab?

— That old man is
not
a demon in man’s flesh, Libète. It’s strange he was out by the reeds when you crashed into him, but he’s too feeble. He couldn’t have overpowered Claire.

— Maybe he’s faking? I’m telling you, the way he looked at me, he knows something. He’s involved.

— Only because you want him to be!

— Well what about your idea? How does Ezili Dantò fit in? Some lwa?

— I told you what I know about Dantò. She’s the goddess of love, and she protects women and children. Look, all I did was recognize that the bodies were laid out like her and her child in paintings. You know I stay away from all that Voudou stuff. That actually does scare me.

—
Everything
scares you. Maybe we could go talk to the
houngan,
the shaman over in Project
?
He might be able to give us more. He could tell us more about Ezili, and maybe about how we can trap the Dyab!

Jak was exasperated.

— The Dyab. Is. Not. Involved!

Libète sulked, arms crossed, her pride keeping her from meeting Jak’s eyes. He continued. I’m telling you, this is not our wrong to right! All we did was step on some bodies. We didn’t even really know Claire, so I can’t understand why you care so much.

Libète turned with fire in her eyes. You heard what Dimanche said, Jak.

— Right—he said it’s hopeless. That we should give up.

—
No!
That’s only what your pinhole ears wanted to hear! He said if we wanted justice we had to find it for
ourselves
. The thought of San Figi hovering over her made her pause and shiver. We have to try, Jak, we have to. She reached out to touch him. I’ll hate myself if we don’t even try.

Without another word she climbed down from their tower, leaving Jak and walking toward Project Drouillard where she would find the man who could stir spirits.

Jak refused to follow, picking up pebbles from where he sat and casting them away in defiance. He hated it when she pressured him like this.

— Fine! he shouted. I’m coming. But I’m telling you now: no good will come of this! You’ll see!

Libète turned back and gave a smug smile.

— You’ll see, Jak. You’ll see!

Fòk ou bat tanbou a pou tande son l’

You must beat the drum to hear its sound

Le yo vle touye yon chen, yo di l’ fou

When they want to kill a dog, they say it’s mad

Boukman Junior Christophe Ketna is a big man in Cité Soleil. He is a
boko
, a wizard who merits respect, known to heal secret illnesses or curse enemies, able to lighten darkness or darken light.

In more mundane terms, he’s a functionary, an agent working on behalf of his principals. Unlike some normal lackey, his overseers are not stiff men with creased brows in tailored suits, but fickle powers not of this plane at all.

The children proceed through Project, as Project Drouillard is commonly known. Boukman has been here for a long time, a fixture known to everyone in Cité Soleil regardless of religious persuasion.

During the gang wars of years prior, Boukman and the curtilage of his compound were a haven where gang leaders would put their arms aside to be empowered by spirits that could aid in their turf wars against each other, the police, and the U.N. One time, it was whispered, a cocky youth had foolishly entered Boukman’s house armed. When Boukman would not create the young man’s desired curse, he had the temerity to point his weapon in the aging boko’s face. By all accounts, Boukman simply touched a small scar on his arm and the young man fell to the ground, dead.

Libète walks up to the gate of Boukman’s residence, a tall complex of peach-colored walls lined with the shards of broken bottles cemented in place. Painted figures blanket the exterior, Catholic saints assimilated into the Voudou pantheon, each representing one of the many lwa. The hair on Libète’s neck stands on edge at the sight of Ezili and her child.

She summons the courage to rap upon the great iron gate and is first met by silence. She pounds upon the door again. Still no response. She turns to Jak, who crouches fifteen feet away behind a motorcycle parked on a side road. She frowns.

A thought occurs, the universal
mot-de-passe
the world over.

—
M’ vin achte
! she yells. I come to buy!

Almost instantly, a small square in the door slides open filled by a single intimidating eyeball. By its looks, it belongs to a woman.

— What do you want? the Eye intones. Libète steps back involuntarily.

— I…I wish to purchase a cure for my mother’s gout. She sends me in her place because she can’t walk herself.

— Who’s your mother? The Eye narrows to a slit.

Libète hesitates. You don’t know her. She lives in Cité Boston, and has never come to see the boko before. She keeps a booth in the market and is desperate for medicine.

— Show me your money, the Eye makes a demand.

— I’ll do no such thing, Libète retorts. I am a customer, even though a small one, and you will show respect to me or I’ll go elsewhere.

— Oh? To whom?

— To the boko in La Plaine. I’d rather see Boukman but will settle for less if his—what are you? His daughter? Wife?
Domestik
?—continues to be so rude.

The Eye disappears for a moment, possibly conferring with its twin.

— Move back. Get out of the way.

The gate shudders and overcomes its inertia, screeching as it slides along its unoiled track.

The Eye, it turns out, belongs to a young woman. Libète walks through the now-open wall into the compound, chin held high with feigned indignity. The woman scowls, moving to close the gate.

— Wait! I brought my brother, Libète added, signaling with her head. He’s the one hiding behind the bike.

**

The two children sat upon the cool concrete floor, leaning against a pink-spackled wall as they waited for Boukman to finish his prior appointment. Each child explored their surroundings, bouncing their eyes from one curiosity to the next.

The space was used as a peristyle, a meeting area for Voudou ceremonies. In front of them and in the middle of the space stood a thick wooden shaft, the
poto mitan,
bracing the vaulted ceiling with the help of lesser pillars running the perimeter of the concrete. Colorful triangular flags were strung along wires above the floor, and even more carefully painted murals of saint-lwas occupied the walls of the house attached to the assembly area.

Music streamed from a radio inside the house, and the children could hear the lyrical lilt and sway of casual chatting from within as well. Libète tapped the floor with her index finger and thumb in rhythm with the song’s beat as she watched the gatekeeper seated in a folding chair in the far corner of the compound. The Eye occasionally looked up from her work washing dishes in a plastic basin, watching Libète and Jak suspiciously. Libète made it a point to stare her down whenever this happened.

Jak fidgeted as he watched fourteen roosters occupying the yard next to the concrete, each chained to the ground, each a prisoner. Boukman had a reputation as a top cock-fighter in the area and this was his personal army. Many of the birds showed the scars of past battles, boasting patches of missing feathers and festering wounds.

One particular bird caught Jak’s eye. It was a glorious creature with beautiful hazel feathering, regal even, seemingly spared the ring. Small piles of feed had been left for each of the birds. Libète noticed where Jak’s attention lay.

— Even birds raised for death eat better than you, she said joking.

Jak didn’t laugh.

A nearby door opened and an exceptionally tall woman was ushered out by Boukman. She looked about like a nervous wren.

— Mèsi, madam, for your patronage. You will find yourself satisfied, I think, and soon. She nodded anxiously and hurried to the gate held open by the obedient Eye. Boukman noticed the waiting children.

— Ah, and who are you two? Mother gone missing, eh?

Libète stood up and wiped the dust off her bottom. She sized him up. It was only then that she realized the man was not much taller than herself. Decked out in loose blue flip-flops, he wore puffy grey sport pants cinched with drawstrings slightly below the knees. His T-shirt was red with some inscrutable English text and a ball designed to look like it was hit by a person and flying toward the viewer. His features were friendly, but shadowed by the narrow brim of a woven hat.

— We come with just ourselves, she said, glancing involuntarily at the squinting, scowling Eye. Our mother has gout and we are here to have you make a cure.

— Come in. We can discuss it. His moving lips and smile revealed a broad, unsettling gap between his front teeth.

As they entered Boukman’s den, Libète sat in an open chair while Jak settled on a metal box. Light streamed in from a small opening at the top of the room, and a half-burned candle—now a deformed mess spilling its wax—allowed them to better make things out.

The walls were utterly grey. The floors and racks held various talismans whose provenance and purpose were unknown to Libète. A quarter-full bottle of Barbancourt sat next to an intimidating ceremonial knife, a tarnished silver amulet, and a small icon of Baron Samdi, the lwa of the dead. This doll showed him in his grim tuxedo and dark glasses, a skull for a face. Jak was engrossed by a genuine human skull on a side table, peering into the boy with its cavernous sockets.

Boukman planted himself on a creaky stool and stretched his legs, placing his hands in his lap and sighing in the clinical manner of a doctor.

— You have a range of options to treat the gout, Boukman said. And this depends on how many coins you carry in your little hands. Ingredients cost money, you know.

— Of course.

— Before we get to that, give me her symptoms and I’ll tell you what I can do.

Libète bit her lip, weighing the size of the lie she should tell.

— She has much trouble walking, she said. You should see how she lets on when she goes to market! Libète thought of Madam Fleur, her neighbor with the condition. Such a big sore on her foot, she continued. She’s been to the clinics and hospitals. Nothing fixes it.

— So she turns to Voudou last?

— That’s right—you see, she’s a Protestant, big time, and so can’t come here. There’d be big trouble at church, so she sent us. To keep things quiet.

— Is that so?

She landed on a big lie.

— Yes. Though there’s more. She had strange dreams lately, frightening ones. There is a cruel spirit who haunts her. She wonders now if the gout is a curse sent from a jealous seller at market. I—s
he
wanted me to ask about her dreams too, because we know so little of Voudou, you see.

— Tell me more.

Libète looked to Jak for support but received a disbelieving stare.

— Well, she thinks she sees one of the Ezilis—

— Dantò or Freda?

— Dantò, that’s the one, she said. She wanted to know why Ezili Dantò might appear to her.

— Dantò is one of the biggest, most famous lwa, and I could tell you much.

— Well, in the dream, my mother sees the black Madonna who holds the child, and she is covered in blood. She wants to know what this could mean.

— Hmmm. This is interesting, seeing as she has shunned the spirits. Why would Dantò appear to her? You see, Dantò is a perfect mother. One who cares for her children, longs for their well-being. When she sees a child who does not heed her, there’s no tolerance. She punishes harshly to correct the wrong.

— That doesn’t sound perfect, Libète grumbled.

— Ah, you shouldn’t speak so soon. Dantò would die protecting her children. Her discipline is in complete love. That is what makes it perfection.

— But why the blood? What did she suffer so? Jak asked, his first words. This happened often, his curiosity taking over, immunizing him against his fears.

— She has been slashed with a knife, Boukman responded clinically.

— But why? Libète chimed in. By who?

— These are many questions. There are different reasons for her different wounds. Which interest you?

— The scars on her face and wounds to her body, Libète said.

— And her cut-out tongue, Jak added.

— I see, he said, sighing. You’re interested in all of them. Well, the first is her fault. The second is because she was betrayed.

He took a deep breath, as if to prepare for a long speech.

— Dantò is the sister of Ezili Freda. Like many conflicts between sisters, they fought over love—the love of another lwa. It was a fight that turned ugly, more so than most. You see, Dantò took a knife and stabbed Freda, right here — he pointed to his heart — and Freda took out the blade. In hatred, she slashed Dantò’s face. His hand flew to his own face and ran down his right cheek with two fingers, feigning the cuts. The two have been rivals since.

— And the tongue?

— Freda is not responsible for the tongue. That is rooted in the story of Haiti and Haitians. The story of us. You two know the start of the revolution, yes? Of my namesake, Boukman Dutty?

The children shrugged. They knew it, but not so well.

— I will remind you, he said reprovingly, as it is one of our most important stories. The revolt started in the north of Sen Domeng, our dear island, at a gathering of slaves, a really big one, in
Bwa Kayiman
, the Alligator Wood. There was a big storm on, with rain swirling and lightning nearly tearing the sky apart.

Libète and Jak watched, eyes as wide as they could be. The boko continued.

— In the middle of the slaves stood Boukman, a grand man—huge, strong, powerful—all of it. He was Jamaican, and a houngan like me. He slaughtered a pig, a black one, and lapped up its blood. He used the rest as ink to write a lasting pact among the slaves. He uttered a prayer, one to be remembered by all Haitians for all time:

“The god who created the sun which gives us light, who rouses the waves and rules the storm, though hidden in the clouds, he watches us. He sees all that the white man does. The god of the white man inspires him with crime, but our god calls upon us to do good works. Our god who is good to us orders us to revenge our wrongs. He will direct our arms and aid us. Throw away the symbol of the god of the whites who has so often caused us to weep, and listen to the voice of liberty, which speaks in the hearts of us all.”

— But how does Dantò fit in? Libète asked, breaking the spell cast by the boko’s recitation.

— Ah, you see, at the same ceremony was
Mambo
Marinette, a priestess of the first order. She was possessed by Dantò and at the heart of it all. As the battles in the revolution took place all over Haiti, Dantò took an interest in the people’s fighting and sometimes joined in. She was too quick to speak though, and those with her believed her loose lips would cost them the revolution if she was ever captured. So they acted.

Boukman shook his head. They took her, held her down, and used a knife to take her tongue. They stripped her of speech to save themselves. This betrayal has wedged itself in Dantò’s heart. She has no words, and uses her children as in-betweens, translating her clicking sounds into something her followers can understand.

Libète and Jak had lost themselves in the story and they stared at Boukman with gaping mouths.