Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (12 page)

— She could be a supermodel, Yves said. Those curves. Oh! I don’t know why she doesn’t get out of this place and be in, like, advertisements. Miss Haiti 2006. Shit.

— Just give me another year and she’ll be all over me, said Shades. I just gotta work on pumping up a bit. He flexed his meager biceps.

— Put those thoughts out of your heads. She’s Touss’ girl, Lolo said soberly. He pointed up the street where Touss and his entourage hovered around several parked motorcycles. The ringleader’s ego had healed from the beating at Dimanche’s hand a few weeks prior, but not his face. You go after
her
, Lolo continued, he’ll come after
you
.

— Man, but it would be
worth
it, said Shades.

— You’re an idiot, Lolo replied.

— An idiot for love, yoww!

They all chuckled.

— What about you, Davidson? said Yves. Who are you going to lay? Lolo coughed loudly to remind him that a seven-year-old was present.

— I mean, uh, show your love, Yves offered instead.

— I don’t have anyone in mind.

— That’s a lie! That’s a lie! He’s spitting lies!

— Shut your mouth, Shades!

— It’s Nathalie. He’s told me before. He’s eyed her for years.

— Nathalie from your row? She’s like, twelve, man!

Libète smiled.
Ah! I knew something was up between those two!

— She’s thirteen, Davidson corrected. And you’re forgetting I just turned fifteen. And it’s not about layin—I mean, loving her. I just want her to be my friend. My girlfriend.

— Well, she’s a ripening fruit, that’s for sure. I might just have to pluck it myself before long, Yves teased, making Davidson bristle. And with a face like yours, I don’t think she’s ever going to come your way.

Libète saw her cousin’s jaw clench.
Why is Yves being so mean? And why is Davidson taking it?

— I have a question, Libète interrupted.

All eyes turned to her.

— Wi? said Shades.

— Do you all know Gracita? And Therese and Rit? This was the buck-toothed girl and her friends who had taken the lead in taunting Libète the night of her arrival. She had learned the names through daily encounters with them on the way to the water kiosk. Libète now went out of her way to avoid them.

— I don’t know them. Why? Are they hassling you? said Shades.

— You need a lesson on life in Cité Soleil, I think, Lolo added.

— You need thick skin here, said Yves. Like a suit of armor.

— Don’t show fear, said Davidson. Fear makes them stronger.

— In fact, if someone says a bad word to you, you give them a worse one back. If they push you, you punch them.

This surprising advice came from mild Lolo.

— Here. For example. How much money do you have, Libète? Yves asked.

— That’s a silly question. I have none.

— Ah,
respè ou se lajan ou
. Your respect is your money here. You’ve got to protect your respect the same way you’d protect your money if a thief was trying to steal it from you.

Libète soured at the words. They were a hard teaching.

— Don’t be weak, even when you feel it, Davidson offered. You know Touss down there? Libète nodded. Look at him. He was a nobody, just like us. But he didn’t take crap from anyone. And look at him now. Girls, motorcycles, clothes, guns, money, power. All of it. There’s a lesson there.

The four boys seemed proud of their advice. Libète stood, uneasy in the silence.

— The Dyab! Look. It’s the Dyab, whispered Shades. All of them spun to watch the old man as he moved slowly and deliberately down the street trailed by a small, black creole pig. Libète was befuddled.

— A Dyab? In Bwa Nèf? How can that—

— Shhhh! Davidson quieted her, his harshness hurting her feelings.

They all watched him limp along, transfixed. Activity on the street halted. The only sounds, beyond the pig’s mild grunts, were an old French song about lost love flowing from a tinny radio and the cries of a colicky infant held in his mother’s arms.

The glares of all were icy, meant to tell this dark presence that there was neither hospitality nor home for him here. He continued on, supported by his strange metal cane. Though his face was obscured by the shadow cast by his hat, his gaze was trance-like, fixed straight-ahead, oblivious to the weight of the stares upon him.

Once the Dyab shuffled past Touss’ assembly, a shifty young man broke away and matched the old man’s step, a mime’s parody. He was tiny, much smaller than the Dyab, and probably a full foot shorter than Davidson.

— Oh, shit! What is Ti Simon
doing?
Yves whispered, biting down on his fist.

— That guy is crazy!

— Who is that? Libète asked Davidson.

— Ti Simon is a joker—big time, Davidson whispered now that the Dyab was out of earshot. But he’s got a wild mind, and he gets angry too. You piss him off, you better watch out. He’s killed a man. Took a bamboo spike and stuck it right up the guy’s ass.

Libète’s eyes widened.
What is this place? Devils and murderers walk down the street!

Ti Simon’s routine continued, egged on by his friends. The crowd’s fear turned to muffled laughter as Ti Simon copied the Dyab, and then turned to smile.

The Dyab stopped in his place and all laughter stopped. Ti Simon, facing his audience, missed the cue and plowed directly into the old man. Gasps were heard, Libète letting out one of them.

The Dyab turned and stared down Ti Simon without a word.

— Sorry, mesye
,
Simon bumbled, still as a corpse. I wasn’t watching where I was going.

The Dyab said nothing.

—
Eskize’m
.

Still no response.

Ti Simon looked around anxiously, swallowing hard. Well, uh, you wouldn’t have a goud or two, I could borrow? You see, I’m trying to save up for a donkey and—

Ignoring the request, the Dyab turned around and continued on his way, the demon pig in tow. Simon let out an enormous sigh and many burst into laughter, relieved that Ti Simon still walked among the living.

He was greeted by his group with chuckling and pats on his shoulders. Many onlookers, including Davidson and his friends, swarmed to hear Ti Simon’s account of the time he had touched the Dyab, looked into his eyes, and lived. Libète joined too but couldn’t help watching the man and his loyal pig continue on their way.

With a desultory plan in place, Libète and Jak set off toward the edges of Bwa Nèf. They move wordlessly, carrying empty buckets upon their heads as a pretense for what they’re about to do.

The Dyab’s legend waxed and waned in the years since Libète first saw him on Impasse Chavannes. Though many swore he had no powers, he was treated like Vodou itself: disparaged in open but feared in secret. Stories swirled. Some said he created a portal straight to Hell inside his shack. Others said he would shed his skin—like a jumpsuit, they said—and resume his true form, conjuring up troubles and woes to heap upon the poor residents of Bwa Nèf. Libète had heard the stories enough to figure at least some had to be true.

The children arrive at the outskirts of the watery marsh and pause, eyeing the lonely shack and remnants of former homes. The walk was no more than five minutes but felt like half an hour. Libète sets her bucket down and feels the throwing stones in her pocket, taking comfort in the security they provide.

A trail of rocks and old cinder blocks lay at their feet, placed as stepping stones to allow passage through the standing, muddy waters. A hot breeze swirled across the open ground, stirring up strange and unfamiliar odors.

— We can still turn around, Libète. We don’t have—

— Shut up. She took a deep breath and stepped onto the first stone.

They would simply watch him from afar, she had told Jak, to see if he betrayed anything by his actions. The buckets were an excuse, to make it seem they had a task at hand, but didn’t make much sense now. If she saw the Dyab up close and he tried to curse or kill, she planned to throw a stone at him, stun him, and hopefully escape before being turned into a pig. Now that her plan was underway, this all seemed ludicrous.

The familiar sounds of idle chatter, business deals, and joking—sounds of security—had now fallen away. A loud grunt shook them and Jak almost lost his balance—another pig, a massive one hidden while wallowing in the mud.

Libète pressed on, hopping from block to block. She paused when she reached the remains of a building, taking cover behind two dilapidated walls that formed a right angle. The Dyab’s shack was close now. She turned, waiting for Jak to catch up. He was increasingly terrified, nearing the point at which he could go no further.

When he joined Libète, he had reached it.

— I have to go back! he hissed.

Her eyes flashed. She turned to look at the shack, looked back at Jak, and back to the hovel again.

She stepped for the next stone, but missed, planting her foot in green sludge below. Unable to curse aloud, she balanced her bucket on two rocks, and pushing ahead, flung muck off her leg with each step. Jak tried to follow but simply couldn’t. He collected Libète’s bucket and retreated back to the safety of the broken home, watching as his friend advanced alone.

Libète arrived at the shack, cobbled together from rusted tin and lumber. Hearing nothing, she peered carefully into a makeshift window before moving to the front door where a brown sheet blew, doing a slow, aimless dance.

Before crossing the threshold, she spun around to make eye contact with Jak who, now dripping sweat, could barely watch. He saw her take a deep breath. A moment later, she pulled the sheet aside and disappeared.

Jak started to count, anything to occupy his busy mind. He reached forty, and she still hadn’t come out. He wondered if she was under some spell, or if she had fallen into a trap, or—

Jak saw movement on the side of the house, his head pounding.

He sighed in relief and kicked himself. It wasn’t the man—just another stupid pig. He was getting tired of swine getting the best of him.

But it wasn’t just any pig, he realized—it was
the
pig, the small black one. Jak threw himself behind the wall, peeking ever so slightly around its side. The Dyab came into view, hobbling around the corner and pulling back the sheet to enter the shack before Jak, now frozen, could summon a response. He heard a shout and a rattling boom, a stone hitting the wall of the shack. Jak nearly shrieked in terror, horrible visions flashing in his mind.

Without another thought, he scooped up a chunk of broken block from the ground and sprinted toward the shack, oblivious to the sludge splashing wildly with his every step. He screamed and shouted, anything to distract the old man and see his friend spared, his small body barreling toward the doorway, ready to dash straight through it. The curtain was suddenly yanked back to reveal the Dyab, imperious and angry.

Jak’s courage left him. His arm, previously cocked and ready to throw, now fell to his side. He held his breath and trembled, preparing for his own death.

It did not come. The two simply stared at each other, Jak in abject horror, the old man’s feelings unknowable.

— Come in, the Dyab said curtly. But first, put down that stone. His eyes drifted to Jak’s legs. And please, wipe your feet.

Moun ki mache nan nwi se li ki kontre ak dyab

The one who walks around at night is the one who meets up with the devil

Silence lingers over the room. The Dyab falls upon a creaky stool, his joints stiff and unreasonable. Libète sits upon his bed looking ashamed and Jak joins her.

He eyes the children with a calculating stare. They cannot meet it. The pig sits two feet in front of them like a dog, close enough for Libète to reach out and touch its flexing snout.

Libète had explored the shack before the Dyab came upon her. The room had no decoration except for a Catholic crucifix on the wall next to the door.
Strange thing for a devil to keep,
she had thought. A few well-read books sat on an upended milk crate next to the bed, the titles of which she hadn’t ascertained. Even calling it a bed was generous. It was really a mat on top of plywood on top of cinder blocks.

The most interesting discovery sat in the opposite corner of the room, a small cubical container made of metal, complete with a built-in lock. Atop that was a radio. These sat amid some foodstuffs (rice mostly), a small charcoal stove, two stacked bowls, a beat-up pot, and an aged frying pan. A plastic water barrel towered over the cooking supplies.

Where’s the portal to Hell?
Libète now wondered, the mundane reality of it all making her uneasy, and if she was honest, a little disappointed. Jak remained frozen, still expecting a horrible fate.

The Dyab finally spoke.

— Who are you? His voice was gravelly, his teeth yellowed.

Libète looked at Jak out of the corner of her eye, and then returned her gaze to the floor.

— I’m Yannick, and this is Frantz.

— Why are you in my house? He spoke with an unfamiliar Kreyol accent.

— We…were trying to find out if things were true.

— Stop lying.

Libète gulped.

— I know you, “Yannick,” if that’s your name. You think I would forget so soon? From the reeds. You ran into me, fleeing from the murdered woman and her child.

He let his words linger in the open air, and Libète’s eyes widened. Ah—ah ha, he said, nodding. That’s why you’re here.

— We don’t know what you mean.

— I told you to stop lying.

Libète finally looked up at him and cocked her head. Fine. We thought you killed them.

— No we didn’t! Jak ejaculated. I told her you had nothing to do with it, that this was a bad idea. I told her we shouldn’t come—

The Dyab clapped his hands, cutting the boy off. Finally some honesty! And I suppose you were looking for something? A bloody knife? Evidence that I might be a slave of Ezili Freda?

— Maybe, Libète said.

— And how do I know that you two didn’t kill them?

— That’s a stupid question, she said. Jak’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.

— And why is that?

— We had no reason to. We’re just children.

— I had no reason to. I’m just an old man.

— You’re a devil! Libète retorted. Everyone says so. Boukman didn’t deny it, and he knows about such things.

The Dyab’s mouth curled into a small smile.

— So you spoke with Boukman, eh? He bit the inside of his cheek and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Children, I am many things, but I am not a devil.

— A devil would deny being the devil, Jak said ruefully.

The old man smiled again. I suppose there’s little I can do to rid you of such ideas. I was unhappy to see you lurking about my home, but any anger at your trespass is gone. Your honesty was slow in coming. And I can understand your beliefs—mistaken, though they are.

He rose, steadying himself with his golf club cane.

— It has been sometime since I have spoken with anyone outside my inner circle, and that circle, for good or bad, is mostly swine, he said, signaling to his pig. It gave a grunt.

— Titid, please open the door. These two are leaving.

The pig rushed to the old sheet and pulled it back.

— Bondye! Libète exclaimed. I’ve never seen such a thing before!

She and Jak got up and walked toward the door, but the boy stopped before fully exiting.

— A question. You call him Titid. Did you capture the old president’s spirit and put him in that pig?

— Ha! He paused, thought in silence for a moment, and then chuckled.

Jak didn’t approve being mocked. It was just a question, he muttered. You don’t have to make fun of me.

— No, no. I’m not laughing at you. The idea of the thing is amusing. Of course, your question makes sense, from your view of things. I forgot to introduce you to my friend, Aristide, indeed named after our former president. He’s one of my pigs.

— You have others? Like Titid here? Libète asked.

— No—he’s unique. He’s a creole pig. There aren’t all that many left after the government killed them all, because of a disease. The others are a different kind. They came from the U.S. sometime ago.

— What are they called? Jak asked. Do they know their names, too?

— They do, but not much else. There’s Preval, Boniface, Nerette, Trouillot, Prosper—and over there is Namphy. Papa and Baby Doc, their parents, have long since been turned into a pork dish at a local restaurant. Unlike Aristide here, they wallow around in the mud all day, ignore the world around them, and do little of use for anyone. Not unlike their namesakes.

Jak’s eyebrows shot up. Those are the names of other past presidents, no?

— Ah! Very good! You’re young but you know some history. That’s important.

— But why pigs? Libète interjected.

— I live simply, but I must make a living somehow.

The more the Dyab warmed to them, the more she felt uncomfortable.

— Come on, Jak. Let’s go. We’ve bothered the man long enough. I’m sorry we called you a devil.

— It’s alright. He sighed. It’s a shame you’re leaving so soon.

— Why is that?

— Because I have my own thoughts about who killed those two. My body makes me unable to pursue them on my own. He clapped his bad leg a few times. It fails me, you see.

Libète took several steps back into the home and toward the man, forgetting herself. What thoughts? What do you know?

— You weren’t the only one I saw fleeing from the grasses during my morning walk that day.

— What? Her eyes widened. But who?

— Can I trust you with it?

She nodded anxiously.

— He was a young man. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty—thereabouts. Tall, with short hair and a small beard. He wore a bright green football jersey—it read “Digicel” and was covered in blood. We made eye contact at a distance, and he looked crazed.

The old man grimaced.

— I feared for myself at first, but he seemed as afraid of me as I was of him. He said nothing and sprinted away, as if in a race, running toward the heart of Bwa Nèf. I only later discovered what he was fleeing when news of the murders spread.

— Why didn’t you tell the police about him? That could help them find the killer!

The man’s countenance darkened. I do not trust those in authority. I did not—do not—want their attention. That is all I will say on that. You can tell it to them, but do not share where you learned it. His face became solemn. I have told you both something that has required me to trust you. I’d ask you to do the same. The children looked at each other. What are your names? Your real names, I mean.

The girl looked at him for a moment before speaking. I am Libète.

— And I am Jak.

— And I am Elize. He smiled again. Despite the rough start, I’ve enjoyed this small meeting. But I won’t hold it against you if you don’t wish to speak to me again. If that’s the case, bon chans.

The children moved again toward the door.

— Protect yourselves, he said suddenly. And protect one another. It’s a grim soul that would kill a mother and her child, especially in the way he did. This man must be stopped, but I do not want to see you hurt.

The children nodded.

— Orevwa, Jak said, and Libète echoed him.

They hopped along the half-submerged blocks in deep thought, not speaking until they reached their buckets and the broken home.

— We should go tell the police, Jak finally said.

— No. Not yet. That description he gave…it all sounds so familiar. A green jersey, she trailed off, digging through her memory.

Jak balked. You think we’re friends with the murderer?

— No—it’s just that it’s famili—
Jesus, Mary and Joseph!
she shouted. I know! I know
exactly
who it is!

A solitary mouse can be seen peeking out from beneath a large pile of cement debris. Its small nose extends beyond its shelter, crossing the threshold from shadow into light. It twitches nervously, testing the air for threats.

There is the stagnant puddle, standing in the heat of the day because it was replenished with a man’s urine a bit ago. Then there is the shit, deposited in a plastic bag and sitting in the corner. Ah, and finally, cutting through the noise of these unpleasant distractions was the bounty the little mouse seeks: a rotting banana.

Not ten feet away, on what had been the floor of a one-room residence, someone had piled their rubbish and set it aflame. Most burned up, leaving soot and scorched metal. The one who lit the match left the peel with its last bit of fruit uneaten, sparing it from the fire.

The mouse steps out, cautious at first, seeing if any movement follows its own. It speeds toward the fruit, singeing its feet on the hot ground.

But tragedy is about to beset him.

Above the mouse, on the heights of a half-broken wall, is an unseen and unheard predator, a cat, both tawny and scrawny. He slinks, his narrow eyes honing in upon the prey.

The cat is a pathetic creature and rare here. Most of his kind have disappeared, and no one knows why or to where they’ve gone. For whatever reason, this one persists in his stalking, and his starving.

The mouse detects something is wrong. Very, very wrong. Its mouth closes, body snapping still, whiskers twitching, hoping that the keen sense of wrongness is a mistake, a fleeting feeling.

The cat lunges, landing squarely in the open space between the blackened ground and the safety of the debris.

The mouse scurries to the right.

The cat is there.

It rushes back and left.

The cat is there.

It tries to find another place to escape.

But there is none—only a corner. The cat bats the mouse as it tries to run, its paws blocking every path. He toys with the prey, knowing that any further life the mouse lives is by his grace alone. It is a perverse power this cat indulges.

Out of nowhere, a human hand sweeps down and grasps the cat’s neck. It is a ferocious grip that picks it up, and in a moment of savagery the cat is dashed against the nearby wall. The man repeats this, over and over, the cracking bones making a sickening sound.

The cat’s cries have ceased and yet the man continues battering the new corpse until he finally relents. He stands over the broken body, heaving terribly. He is grown but wears only a pair of bedraggled shorts. His face is marred by confusion.

Libète watches this scene unfold from the cover of a nearby hiding place. A footpath that leads away from her row of homes ends at this cement cemetery, a space strewn with homes destroyed in gang fighting. Now it is a true place of death.

The man collapses onto his knees next to the cat’s mangled body and looks upon it. Libète holds her breath.

He begins to weep.

— I am…so…
fucking
…hungry, he cries. He says it again through tears, louder and louder, over and over.

Her fear turns to compassion.

The small girl steps out and toward the man, who sobs at what he has done because he does not understand why he has done it. She reaches out her hand to comfort him but cannot bring herself to bridge the final few inches.

She finally pushes herself, laying her hand on him.

— It is alright, mesye. It is alright, mesye. It is alright… She repeats, patting him on the back as her mother would do when she was inconsolable.

He is surprised and looks to her, his mind still muddled. Libète kneels down beside him over the body of the dead cat and the nearly-dead mouse, and small tears bead in her eyes.