Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (11 page)

— She remained her own woman, though. You remember she is a perfect mother? She is strong and tough to control, the perfect symbol of independence. So strong she can’t be easily killed. Do you know her song?

The children shook their heads. Boukman began to chant the lyrics:

Seven stabs of the knife, seven stabs of the sword

Hand me that basin, I am going to vomit blood

the blood runs down

The two children looked at each other, the same thought occurring to each:
seven stabs! That’s how many wounds Claire had!

— Do you understand? Boukman said after finishing his song.

They couldn’t help but shake their heads.

— Though she suffers greatly, is even dying, she keeps on. She remains strong, grasping her basin and catching all of the blood that leaves her, not giving way to death.

Boukman let this sit with the children. He repeated the lines again, now with the zeal of an evangelist.

— So, after hearing about our common mother, what do you think your mother’s dream means?

— Dream? Libète had forgotten about that matter entirely. Oh, yes, her dream. Maybe she has been betrayed by someone, she grasped, and Dantò wishes to tell her? To warn her?

— Yes, to tell her who has put the gout on her. That must be it, Jak added.

— Maybe so. But dreams are hard to interpret. The surface seems simple, but there are mysteries beyond mysteries, just as there are mountains beyond mountains.

Libète thought of her own dream, of San Figi and her silent command to settle these murders. She pushed those thoughts down deep.

— I have another question, she said. You know the murders, out in the reeds, of Claire and Ti Gaspar?

Boukman soured. I heard of them.

Libète knew she had to ask before the boko’s goodwill expired. Could someone…possessed…have killed them? Maybe someone ridden by Ezili Freda? Who mistook them for Dantò?

— Listen
well
. That was
not
the work of a lwa—to kill an innocent, especially a child. Freda hates Dantò, to be sure. But this was not the work of a Voudouist.

— How can you know? Libète pried.

— Because! Because I
know
Voudou. I have seen what
lwa yo
can do, and this was not them. What happened there was plain murder, a cold-blooded one.

And with that, his goodwill vanished.

— Why are you here? Why are you really here?

Libète chose not to answer. Jak could not answer even if he wanted to.

— Ah! Ah ha! he said, a quick snap of his fingers. I know it! You are the two who found them! I heard of you! And you suspect I was a part of it?

— You are right and you are wrong, Libète blurted. We found them, yes. And Jak noticed the wounds were like Dantò’s. But we came to you only for
knowledge
, not to accuse. We only want to discover who did this, and you are not the one we suspect.

— Then there is no gout.

— There is no gout. And no mother.

— Then you are a good liar.

— And I am sorry to say a liar who is poor. I have nothing to give for your help. But you are a good teacher. You have taken two Protestants who have been kept from more than the mention of Voudou and given us something new. We leave with much.

— All the chatter in the streets about the murder had confused everything for us, Jak said. I’m sorry if we’ve taken your time. We can now put this mystery behind us, as we have nowhere left to explore.

— Then it is well, Boukman relented.

The two rose from their seats and shuffled to the door.

— I have one last question, before we go.

He took another deep breath. My patience is near its end, but not yet reached. What?

— If not someone possessed by a lwa, what about one possessed by the devil? A dyab? You know the man who lives alone on the edge of Bwa Nèf, the one with the demon pig? You see, I saw him when I ran from the bodies to get help and wonder if—

— Out! Get out of here! Boukman shouted, trembling with new and unexpected rage. Jak and Libète were both taken aback by the fury sparked by the old man’s mention.

Boukman threw open his door and shooed them outside. You will not bring
him
into
this
, you hear me? You do not know who or what you are dealing with!

The children ran out of the room and across the concrete floor, straight through the gate dutifully pried open by the Eye.

— Leave him be, Boukman shouted after them. LEAVE HIM BE!

They rushed down the small road leading to Project’s main street, both panting, their adrenaline pumping.

— Libète! You fool! We just pissed off the most powerful boko in Cité Soleil. I can’t stand to have my life get any worse, and now I’m going to be cursed!

— Oh shut up, Jak. It didn’t go so well at the end, but we know a lot more than when we went in. She gasped for air.
That
was progress.

She stood up straight, grasping her aching sides.

— And what can he do anyway? We’re protected by
Jezi ak Sentespri
, Jesus and the Holy Spirit. Boukman’s Voudou can’t touch us.

Jak couldn’t help but shake in exasperation. Progress? What are you talking about? All he said was he didn’t think this was a supernatural murder, just a sickening one!

— Wrong! Libète flicked Jak’s head. I told you, the Dyab
is
connected. Boukman knows something big about him and the murders—that’s the only reason he exploded.

— So what? What can we do about that?

— Isn’t it obvious? We visit the devil!

— Come clean this up! And be quick about it! Aunt Estelle hollers from across the house.

The girl springs up from where she sits in the open doorway, grabbing her hand broom and dustpan to rush to the fenced kitchen.

Libète was fearful many weeks after her Aunt’s explosion over Jak, working without end to avoid confronting the same force and fury. This work meant no time for others—no time for finding friends.

Libète steps into the kitchen.

— Wi
,
auntie?

— I spilled sauce all over the floor. Wipe it up.

Libète put aside her pan and broom, going to the corner where a pink plastic basin was kept with soapy water. She took a soiled rag and dipped it in the water, returning to the puddle of sauce. A lovely aroma came from it, of spice and onion, taking hold of her. She was tempted to lick it up but used her rag instead, wiping the spot over and over to satisfy her Aunt.

In the scraps of downtime she scavenged between chores, she tried to teach herself to read as Jak had. The old newspapers used to decorate the walls offered fodder for her attempts, but the countless small repeating shapes making up the French text were an unsolvable puzzle. While her mind hungered, she had at least eaten every day since her arrival. This was never true in La Gonâve. But she missed other things from her island, greater things than a mostly-full stomach could provide.

Her losses of home and mother were sorrows felt deep in her bones, and no one looking on could know what costs had been extracted in coming to Cité Soleil. The three horrible girls met on her first night had been mostly right about Libète’s place in her Aunt’s home. She was indeed a restavek, replacing a prior 12-year old girl named Kalencia, a “lazy, insolent, braggart who ought to rot in hell for her thievery,” her Aunt had said. Davidson later told Libète that the girl had, on one occasion, snuck food because his mother refused to give her more than a pig’s ration. She was beaten for it, and then ran away.

The absence of peace outside the home also took its toll. She overheard stories of the gangs and became accustomed to gunfire waking her in the night. There was also the violent shouting between tense neighbors. Nearly all walked on edge here.

— Is this good enough? Libète asked, looking up from the floor.

Her Aunt spoke without even looking at the spot. Of course it isn’t if you have to ask.

Sighing, the girl continued to scrub.

Her cousin Davidson was a candle in this darkness. And there were others she had met who had been kind—the three queens who sold on the street, Nathalie and her sisters who lived at the end of the row of homes, and her cousin’s circle of friends who kindly tolerated her presence. But Jak—her most-willing helper, guide, and first friend—had not spoken to Libète since her Aunt cast him away. They had since seen each other at a distance twice, but both looked away as if the other was an object of scorn.

Libète finally rose from the floor and shook out bits of onion caught in her rag outside the enclosure.

— How are you doing today, child? her Aunt said as she tended to some slow-frying plantains.

—
Pa pli mal
, my Aunt. Not too bad. It’s a cool day and there is not too much work to do. I am blessed.

— I’m glad to hear this.

— You are kind to me. She said this as she returned her rag to the basin and collected the hand broom.

— It is true. Her Aunt smiled to herself. Although it is against my good judgment, I have some news for you. She took a deep breath. Because it is Saturday, and because my cooking is near an end, and because I am good, I will give you an afternoon for yourself, my daughter.

Libète looked up from the floor, eyes wide.
Se vre
? A whole afternoon! Mèsi anpil! It was mere minutes before she shot out the front door.

Libète skipped down the street, nearly flying with joy, her tiny braids bouncing, white shirt bobbing, and flip-flops smacking. The Sun’s rays washing over her body made her feel radiant as they once had on La Gonâve.

Arriving on Impasse Chavannes, she saw a group of kids, boys and girls, sprint through a passage on the street. She followed at a tentative distance. They moved into an area not seen before by Libète, one enclosed on three sides by walls painted with dancing cartoon characters, splashes of color, and a lovely smooth floor. She watched, concealed behind a corner wall. The children were wonderfully disheveled. Many had bare feet caked in mud and two of the boys were exposed, wearing just T-shirts. They were all young, around Libète’ seven years, and unlike her strange extended family, reminded her of herself.

The children began kicking about a small rubber ball and divided into teams. Small goal posts had been built into the walls, made from bricks formed in a rectangle the width and height of two chickens placed side-by-side.

Please Bondye, let them let me play.

— Hey you! Our team needs another, shouted one boy, noticing her peeking from the corner.

She stepped out and walked sheepishly to the smaller team, feeling the different children’s stares as they sized her up. She smiled. Though timid at first, once the game broke out she forgot herself.

It lasted for nearly an hour before Libète’s team, the undeniable losers, finally gave up. Still, she felt she had won a great prize: new friends who didn’t care if she was named Libète, wore a ratty dress, or came from faraway La Gonâve.

She followed a fraction of the group back out to the main street, chatting idly before she saw Davidson at the mouth of an alleyway between two homes, one green and one grey. She told the others
“orevwa”
and went out to meet him.

— Ah! What are you doing out on a Saturday? he called, spotting her as she approached. Doesn’t manman have you cleaning the ceilings today?

Libète grinned.

— Here comes the little cousin! Bonswa
madmwazel,
said the one they called Shades.

— If there isn’t enough cleaning to do, you can always wash my feet, said Yves.

— Alo, Libète. Good to see you again, said Lolo.

Libète was pleased by the warm welcome and stood next to her cousin, letting him lean into her and rest his arm on her shoulder.

She had met Davidson’s friends in the prior weeks. Yves was large, loud, and also a bit dim. Still, his looks made him get on well with girls his age and older.

Lolo was somehow different. The tallest of the four, an air of equanimity surrounded him, his kindness tangible like Davidson’s own. Slower to speak than the others, he had an assuredness the others lacked, visible in the way he stood and in his eyes.

Wadner, the last companion, was wearing his thick plastic glasses and had recently re-christened himself “Shades.” An English word rappers used in music videos for sunglasses, he had used the name enough that the others reluctantly followed suit. Unknown to them all—and fortunate for Wadner’s pride—they were actually protective glasses used by those who trim the lawns and pull the weeds of the rappers he watched in the music videos.

— So what are you doing with your chains broken, Libète? Lolo asked.

— Nothing. Just playing. She looked to the ground, moving a pebble about with her sandal. She wanted to linger and listen rather than sit at the center of attention.

The boys’ conversation floated back to its original subject, a young woman named Antoinette.

Each member of the quartet was near 15 or 16 years old and had one preoccupation that guided their thoughts and actions: girls. Each was more awkward than Yves to varying degrees, Davidson more than any of them. His muscles had yet to develop or his voice deepen, leaving him to play along with the banter though he knew he was at a sore disadvantage. He and Lolo did have the advantage of schooling—the other two had to drop out years before.