Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (14 page)

Now came the wait. It took nearly an hour and a half before the laughter inside gave way to snoring. Libète kept watch, shivering all the while.

— Let’s go, Jak, Libète said wearily, rousing the boy. They stood, yawned, and lurked across the street.

Libète touched the cool iron of the locked door, looking it up and down. Two-thirds was covered with sheets of iron welded together while the top third had a few bars permitting airflow and a view of whomever stood on the street.

There was no sophisticated lock on the other side to worry about, that much Libète knew. All it would take to unfasten the door was to reach through the bars and shift the bolt from right to left.

— Jak, get over here. She bent over and put out her hands to catch Jak’s foot, boosting him up onto her shoulders. This routine was familiar, rehearsed many times over years of getting into places where they should not be. Jak jumped up and snatched the bars, trying to pull himself up.

— Hurry up, Jak. You’re fatter than before.

— Shut up! I’m trying! He pressed his face hard into the bars, straining to reach the bolt. His fingertips just barely touched it. I…can’t…get…it!

— What?

— It’s too low—lower than most.

— Just do it!

She boosted him higher, forcing his face harder into the bars. He gritted his teeth and tried again.

A sudden, horrible noise came from down the lane: the sound of singing. Libète inadvertently dropped Jak down several inches, squirming to try to see who approached.

— Ouch!

— Shh! Someone’s coming…

It was a man. He shuffled down the little street with a bottle hanging from his left hand. His shirt was unbuttoned (or missing some buttons) and his slacks were too large a size. He sang a familiar song:

I left the village of Jacmel

And went to the city of LaValay

When I arrived at the crossroads of Difo

My hat fell off!

My hat fell off!

My hat fell off!

Whoever is in behind me

Please pick it up for me.

— We have to hide!

— There isn’t time! He’ll see us if we move, she hissed through gritted teeth.

The man came even closer and the children froze, Libète struggling to keep still and prevent Jak from falling. The smell of alcohol came off the drunken troubadour like a cheap cologne. He continued:

I left the village of Au Cap

And went to the city of Port-au-Prince

When I arrived at Ti Ginen

My hat fell off!

Their eyes followed him as he shambled past, the only parts of their bodies they let move. When he had gotten nearly fifteen feet away without noticing them, she exhaled long and hard.
He must be pretty drunk
.

He finished the last verse of his song and turned out of nowhere.

— Children! the man pronounced in a deep voice that matched his baritone singing. The word sent electricity coursing through Libète and Jak, their hearts near exploding with the surge of adrenaline.
Dear Lord! It’s all over
—
we’re caught!

— May God bless you and keep you! he slurred, returning to his path to wherever. The children could not make themselves move.

Libète spoke. Jak—open this door!
Now!

Though his nerves were shot, he strained once more, ignoring the crushing pressure placed on his bar-squeezed face until finally his fingers clasped the bolt and drew it aside. It produced the familiar shriek of metal rubbing metal, a seeming warning that to go forward was a poor idea.

She dropped Jak, shaking her numb arms. They felt as if she’d been lifting heavy buckets all day. The children peered into the dead room, hesitating.

I’m going to get beat bad for stealing that booze—I better make sure it’s worth it.
She took a step in and turned.

—
Jak, keep watch.

Jak replied with a nod, relieved he need not follow.

She surveyed everything. The light, a nearly exhausted candle, sat elevated on an old aluminum coffee can. Bottles were strewn about the floor. Dionald was slumped on a stool, leaning at an uncomfortable angle against the back wall. Davidson and Yves were both on mats, sleeping face down and still entirely clothed. The room’s few furnishings reminded her of Elize’s empty home, though where that felt like a deliberate decision this was the result of want.
They drank all of it?
she thought.
Vomit is going to be coating the place by morning.

Wadner lay on a mat of his own and snored loudly with his arms splayed in odd directions. He was partially covered by a sheet to protect against the evening’s surprise cold. It looked like he had managed to at least get his pants off before intoxication won out over consciousness.
Where are they?
Libète thought, looking about for the trousers in the dim light.

She noticed a line of sisal rope strung from one wall to the other, the pants resting there, folded over a hanger. She stepped gingerly—a small skip over Davidson’s arm, a dodge of a pair of bottles, and another tip-toed hop—before reaching them. Her hand immediately sought out the pockets.

She cursed.
Nothing
.

She scanned Wadner’s body once more and shook her head upon realizing the phone’s likely place of rest. His head lay upon a shirt stuffed with dirty laundry, a poor man’s pillow. She knelt down and planted her hands upon the ground, crawling toward the pillow like a hungry animal tempted by a baited trap.

She held her breath as best she could, feeling around the edges of the shirt for signs of the phone. Wadner’s mouth, open wide, permitted his strange breathing. He inhaled and held his breath for a pregnant moment before giving birth to a loud snore. Her hand hovered near the top of the crinkled shirt halo, waiting for the moment when further exploration had the least chance of waking him. Libète couldn’t find a reliable pattern. Fear began dripping out of her pores.

He inhaled deeply again. Her hand shot under the shirt, feeling for the phone. Wadner shook his head aggressively in response, his eyes flashing open.

Libète shot onto her backside as if she’d touched a livewire. She sat for a moment, cradling her prying hand, terror gripping her. His eyes, heavy-lidded, soon closed again. Still, quiet tears began bubbling out of Libète’s eyes. The phone was not there.

She sat there for some moments wondering what to do next. Leaving meant failure—failing Jak, San Figi, and most of all, Claire and Gaspar. Staying meant risk—endangering herself and Jak at the hands of these drunken men. The choice seemed impossible.

Suddenly, to her right and near Wadner’s hand, a small chime sounded, a few musical notes piercing the quiet stillness. It was followed by a set of three, short metallic vibrations. Her eyes followed the sound.
The phone! It’s been sitting in that damned can all along!

The sound awakened Wadner and he bolted upright. Libète covered her mouth and froze.
As long as he doesn’t turn around
…

He reached for his phone, knocking over the aluminum can, his movement uncoordinated. He grunted as he looked at the device, pressing some buttons before abruptly flopping back onto his mat and rolling over on his side. The phone remained in his hand.

What he did, it seemed, he did while still asleep.

No time was wasted. Her nimble fingers pried the phone from his clasping hand. She had it.

Within a moment she was advancing through its menus. Those in Cité Soleil could afford only the cheapest phones, and Wadner’s was a standard Nokia, popular among his set. She had spent hours playing with her cousin’s own and knew its features well. Each press made an annoying beep, and she quickly silenced it.

She first looked at the phone book. Lolo’s number had been deleted. The call log was unhelpful, too. A lot of unfamiliar numbers appeared, but it was impossible to know which, if any, was Lolo’s.

She moved into text messages and began scrolling through, inundated with messages from different girls Wadner was trying to woo simultaneously. Libète looked at Wadner and shook her head in disgust.

The most recent one, the one that had awoken Wadner, had been from such a girl. She scrolled through others from the last few days, all unremarkable in the extreme.

Was Jak wrong?

She re-read one that had seemed strange on first glance.

“Swiv Jean, ki se mawon, e li pral traverse Jean-Jacques. Yo toujou rasanble nan kay la vèt.”

It was strange on second glance too. “Follow Jean, who is brown, and he will cross Jean-Jacques. They always meet in a green house.” She needed Jak and his keen memory.

She moved toward the door.

— Finally! What was happening in th—

— Shut up. Look at this. She held the phone to his face. Remember the message, and the phone number.

— Oh—OK. He looked at it intently, mouthing it to himself and trapping it inside his mind. Got it.

She plunged back into the dark, put the phone near Wadner’s hand, and checked to make sure nothing else was disturbed.

Moments later, the door was closed and the children were sprinting down the street, leaving Wharf Soleil and this most unlikely evening behind.

Analphabet pa bet

An illiterate is not an animal

Se pa tout bagay ki aprann lekòl

Not everything is learned at school

Little Libète examines herself in a mirror. She wears a light brown dress, with lovely straps that come up and over her gleaming white shirt. The uniform, tailor-made, is appointed with a delightful grid of intersecting brown lines that play over her whole body. Knee-high socks, the same brown color, along with black-buckled shoes, complete the ensemble. Her hair is pulled into braided strands with carefully tied brown bows adorning each one. She spins and twirls before the mirror, a shining smile playing across her face.

She is a new creation, transcending her place, time, and predicament. Her Aunt admires from a nearby entryway, eager to show her off to neighbors. Libète does not mind because she is going to school for the first time.

Out the door and on the street, Libète heads to the small schoolhouse down the way. She pulls the straps of her small pack to her body, holding each one like suspenders as she struts down the street, eying the other children who are in their finest clothes, and those who are not.

Each school has a different uniform, and Libète is envious of the children wearing blue and red but is happy not to be among those who must wear yellow and green. Many children, even those in her preferred colors, wear old, frayed, and out-sized uniforms that have gone through several years of school and play. She feels strange in her new clothes, without words to describe the curious experience of feeling superior to others.

When she makes a turn off the main street to enter her school, she’s surprised. Sitting upon the ground is Jak. He hugs his bony knees to his chest.

Libète is shocked. Just as her small form has gained in stature and thrived in the past few months, his has equally and oppositely declined.

—
Sak pase
, Libète? he asks. How are you doing?

— Not too bad.
E pou ou
? And you yourself?

— I’m fine.

Neither looked the other in the eye.

— So you’re going to school?

— I am.

Both the question and answer are obvious, but they say them anyway.

— Well, have a good day, Jak.

— You too.

Libète searches for other words but none come. She continues into the school.

Jak buries his head in his knees. He does this to hide his jealousy, and his tears.

**

Her first morning at school was nearly the last.

Libète had found Lili and Célianne and sat sandwiched between the two acquaintances picked up over the course of her summer. She was dismayed to learn that Rit, one of her three tormentors, was also in her year. The vile girl intentionally sat behind her.

Her teacher was a local pastor named Lucien, a short man with big ears and an ego to match. He stood at the front of their darkened cinder-block classroom before a slate board, deriving great pleasure from beating the chalked alphabet with his wooden pointer. Each thwack made Libète jump, wondering what he might do to an offending pupil if he struck innocent letters with such force.

Français
, the language of instruction, had not been a part of her childhood. It immediately befuddled her. Though French was read in church and present at weddings and funerals, she was still one of the illiterate many who was submerged in the language without being able to breathe, speak, or write it. The lessons proceeded with rote repetition and bored her greatly, though she took to the alphabet song with new enthusiasm. She hoped for a time when she could read the French newspapers on her walls at home and the few Kreyol and French schoolbooks shared in the classroom.

Simple addition and subtraction came more easily, and Libète even answered a question correctly when pounced upon by Pastor Lucien. Congratulated with a pat on the back by kind Célianne, Rit decided this could not stand.

Slithering down her desk and stretching out her long legs, Rit caught one of the straps to Libète’s backpack with the tips of her toes and dragged it back to her bench while Libète sat engrossed in the lesson. Rit rifled through her things, taking Libète’s pencils and snapping a pen in two. She let the ink drip over and inside Libète’s dark canvas bag before shifting it back under Libète’s bench, waiting with glee.

With math finished, Pastor Lucien released the students for an hour to go home and eat. The lethargic children, hot and hungry in the suffocating midday heat, suddenly came back to life. Each grabbed at their bags and rushed for the door. Libète followed, pushing in the throng of students until she too stepped into the scorching noonday Sun.

Many rushed home to eat. Others, those who knew there would be no food at home, decided to stretch their playtime. It was not till Libète was outside that she noticed her hands blackened with the ink.

She ripped off her bag. Rummaging through her things, she found the pen, broken, and her pencils gone missing. Horror shot across her face. She asked two nearby students if the ink had spread to her back, seeping into her white shirt and new dress. They nodded sadly.

The stains could have been fresh blood. Her Aunt would beat her severely. She knew in an instant Rit was the culprit.

Searching the yard, she saw Rit standing with Gracita, Therese, and three other girls. Tears full of hatred poured from her eyes as she strode toward them. Davidson and his friends’ words swirled in her head.
Don’t show any fear…don’t be weak, even when you feel it…if they push you, you punch them
.

She ran. Plunging headlong into the circle of girls, Libète clawed and pried, trying to reach Rit. She was yelling obscenities and wildly kicking at the cluster until she reached Rit herself and began to pummel her. The other children in the yard encircled the fight and began to shout, rooting for the different parties involved. Even adults on the street watched the girls brawl instead of intervening, spectators around the cock-fighting ring.

Libète was trance-like, and indefatigable. Rit lay upon the ground shielding her head from Libète’s blows while trying to scratch at her enemy’s face. The other girls punched and kicked Libète, but she fended them off.

Then, out of nowhere, a boy sprung into the ring armed with a rock the size of a handball. He held it up, ready to fling it at anyone who would step closer.

— Get out of here, Jak! Gracita shouted viciously.

— No! he bellowed. This has to stop! Everyone stop!

Libète looked up at Jak, surprised. Relenting permitted one of the girls to box Libète’s ear, stunning her. Libète turned and leapt upon the other girl, leaving Rit reeling upon the ground.

Jak shouted. Libète! Don’t do thi— but Therese pushed him hard and rushed to pull at Libète’s hair. This yanking forced Libète backwards, but she twirled around like a dervish, channeled her fury into a new attack upon Therese.

Gracita was fed up. She picked a rock up from the ground and swung her arm from back to front with all the force she could muster, connecting with Libète’s head.

This blow was final. Libète fell to the ground. Her vision blurred and she remained disoriented, her front-side burning against the street’s hot brick.

— Are you alright? Jak asked, rushing to her side. Libète could not find words. A teacher who finally noticed the fight soon pulled Jak away.

Don’t show any fear…don’t be weak, even when you feel it…they push, you punch,
Libète thought, the words crashing and swirling in her head.

— Class. What is 24 plus 36?

No one hazards an answer.

Madam Féthière frowns, looking out over the 38 children crammed into the small room, her left eyebrow peaked like a circumflex. She taps the numbers on the board with a worn-down piece of chalk. Is the whole class deaf? she intones.

On this Monday morning, the first one with classes in session after Christmas and New Year’s, not one child is ready to trouble themselves with sums. But Madam Féthière is not trying to educate the children today. No, she seeks the approval of strangers.

In the corner stand two blan, white women from strange places with the names “Missouri” and “Iowa.” One of the women is squat and old, wearing a floppy canvas hat. The other is younger with blonde hair pulled back and legs of different length that make her stand off-kilter. They watch the children with broad, inexplicable smiles. While Madam Féthière desires the children’s attention to impress the blan, their attention is fixed upon the blan.

—
Children!
the Madam snaps. The foreigners turn to look at her, and the teacher regains her composure. Please, the answer. One of you, she pleads sweetly.

Libète is at the back of the classroom, the soreness of her backside causing her to shift uncomfortably in her seat. She feels like an escaped inmate returned to the National Penitentiary.

Her thoughts remained centered on finding Lolo ever since she and Jak extracted the information from Wadner’s phone the Friday prior. She wondered what hungover conclusion her cousin, Yves, and Wadner must have reached when they thought twice about the good fortune of having a retarded man turn up on their doorstep with a crate of booze. No accusations had yet been levied against her, but then again, she had not seen them since.

As expected, Sunday had proved most unpleasant. Her Uncle found his stash stolen upon returning in the early morning. He whipped Libète with a switch despite her protestations of ignorance. When her Aunt returned from the distant funeral, Libète had already steeled herself for another round of beatings, and oh, what a beating it turned out to be. Her Aunt was always careful to strike her buttocks and torso, for these were not visible to others. They were a dignified family after all, and no one in public could be allowed to
see
that they beat their restavek child, even if the neighbors heard her cry out. A favorite proverb of her Aunt and Uncle was “
Si ou pè bat pitit gason ou, ou pa renmen l’. Si ou renmen l’, se pou ou korije l’.”
“Whoever spares the rod hates their children, but the one who loves their children is careful to discipline.”

By this measure, Libète was loved—very,
very
much.

— Libète, I see your mind is floating up in the clouds, Madam Féthière said, swooping down upon her like a preying hawk. Come up here and solve this.

Libète sighed heavily for all 37 of her peers to see. She exited her bench shared with five other young girls and made the slow walk up to the board. Inexplicably, the other students began to snicker, working hard to stifle their laughter.

Féthière, bemused, did not see what the children found amusing until Libète reached the board.

— Libète! What
are
you wearing?

The girl looked up confused.

— What do you mean,
Madam
? My school uniform. Blue and red. It’s a little dirty, yes, but what’s the problem?

— Not that! On…your…
feet!
the teacher hissed. What am I seeing?

The class burst out laughing. The blan were lost.

— Ohhhh. My sandals? I got them for Christmas. She squirmed uncomfortably, making the mismatched pair of worn down rubber flip-flops squeak. Is there a problem?

— But where…where are your
shoes
? she replied, stunned. If you don’t have school shoes, she said, then you simply cannot come to school. You know the rules! she barked, trying to contain her anger, knowing the visitors were watching closely.

— But you don’t understand, Madam. I didn’t want to wear my school shoes. I wanted to wear these.

Madam Féthière trembled. Get your bag! To the headmaster! Go! Now! She choked out the words. Libète shrugged, returned to her bench to retrieve her satchel and left the classroom. When out of view, a devious grin crept onto her face.

The blan watched this scene unfold in bewilderment—what had the child done? The teacher noticed their confusion and elaborated.

— You see, Madam Féthière hazarded in lilting, unconfident English, Ze child…she was bad behaving. Her cloth-es was not so — she struggled to find the word, spinning her hand in the air —
coordinated
.