Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (18 page)

—
You have our food?

— Yes.

— And you are from Bwa Nèf, yes?

— Yes.

— Is Estelle your mother?

— My aunt.

— So that makes Davidson your
kouzin
, yes?

Libète was surprised he knew of the relation. The light played off several gold teeth in his mouth, acquired after Dimanche had broken his face those months before.

— Yes. He is.

— He’s a good boy. A good young man. Touss took a large drag on his cigarette. He’s a smart one. I bet you probably are, too.

Libète shrugged.

— What are your names? I like to know everyone in my community.

— Libète, she offered.

— Jak, the boy croaked.

— Thank you for bringing our meal.

—
Pa gen pwoblem
. It’s nothing.

— Charles, take the food. And give them the money.

The doorman snapped to attention and took the bags, distributing the containers to each of the courtiers. They tore into the chicken, the pleasant aroma mingling with the smoke rolling off Touss’ cigarette. He shook the dead ashes to the floor.

— So,
Li
-
bè
-
te
— he emphasized each syllable — that’s a lovely name. A strong name. A freedom fighter’s, I’d say. You deliver things, do you?

— Yes.

Touss smiled before growing serious. You know, we’re fighting a war here. My people. Against the police, against the foreigners. We’re the only ones defending Bwa Nèf—all of Cité Soleil, really.

Libète didn’t answer.

— Without us, the elites, the rich and powerful would do what they want, stabbing us with their high heels, grinding us beneath their Armani shoes. But there’s a problem:
“Si gen divizyon nan yon fanmi, fanmi sa a pa la pou lontan.
” You know that one? “And if there is division in a house, that house will come to destruction.” It’s from the Bible. We—Cité Soleil—are a house divided. And I believe that needs to change. You agree?

A lump formed in her throat. Touss reached for a small green box labeled “
Comme il Faut
,” pulled out another cigarette, and lit it on the lamp’s open flame.

—
Dako
. I suppose, she mumbled.

— Ah, I’m glad to hear it. Because I need help. My boss, Belony, he’s in a tight spot. Everyone is out to get him. I have to help him. I’m supposed to be his hands and feet, but those bastards—the police, UN, even the other gangs—they have me wrapped up tight in chains. Touss held out his wrists like they were chafing from bonds. So I’m kept from my work. I want to make peace and end these divisions so Cité Soleil can stand united against these enemies. You hearing me?

Libète nodded.

— I’m glad you’re seeing things from my perspective, that you’re on my side.

Libète looked to Jak.

— If you walk away, it’s okay. Touss put his hands in the air as if accepting defeat. I understand. These are frightening times. No one would want you getting hurt. But if you help me, you could
change
things. You could bring peace, Libète. You. And all you have to do is deliver something — Libète held her breath — a message. That’s all. One single, simple message. I give it to you, you put it in one of your little food boxes, take it to a place in Project, and
bang
— he clapped
—
you’re finished. Job done. You’ll have written a peace treaty.

— What…what if I can’t do it?

The feasting stopped for a moment and all eyes turned to watch the king’s answer.

— Nothing. I mean, the killing continues like it has. These are bad, dangerous times, Libète. Bullets fly everywhere. Someone you care about might get hit—of course I’m not saying from
my
guns—we don’t hurt our people. But you can make sure that doesn’t happen.

— Just one message? She gulped. That’s all?

— That’s it.

She squirmed, looking at Jak out of the corner of her eye.

— When do you want it delivered?

— Tonight. Right now.

— But my Aunt—

— She can wait. She can wait a few minutes for peace. Look, take this. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a 500 goud note, got up, and placed it in the girl’s hand, forcing her fingers closed around it. Your aunt will surely understand if you give her that. Or you can keep it for yourself. Whatever—I don’t care. But just do this one, little,
tiny
thing to help us all.

Libète nodded. He pulled out a sheet of paper and began scribbling a note.

— One more thing,
Li-bè-te
, he said as he finished writing. If you tell anyone where I am, or what I asked you to do, I’ll kill you.

Libète’s heart lurched before plummeting into her stomach.

— I’ll do it myself, he added. I’m sorry. I just can’t risk anyone knowing I’m here. It’d ruin everything. More division, more death, no peace. You understand?

He said this so sympathetically, so reluctantly, that it seemed there was no real choice to be made. Libète mustered another slight nod, her vision beginning to spin.

— Ah,
byen
. We’re agreed then. This will be good for everyone. For Jak here, Davidson, your tantie Estelle, Bwa Nèf—all of Cité Soleil. You’ll be a hero, Libète, a real hero. “The girl who brought peace.”

Jak stands alone on the balcony.

He is paralyzed, his mind reeling. Suddenly, clear thoughts break through the adrenaline and fear clouding his mind.

Run
. Get away.

He dashes out of the first empty apartment, Libète’s pack in hand.

Help
. Get others.

He tears out of the swinging apartment door, reaching the landing. The door to Lolo’s apartment explodes a moment later, but Jak rushes down the stairs, not looking back. Lolo bears down upon him.
Reach the street,
his mind shouts.
Reach the street and all can be well
.

He nears the bottom of the staircase but something collides with his lower back, a bottle, and he howls in pain, spinning out of control and falling down the few remaining steps before landing with a deafening thud against the door leading to the street. He is stunned, the breath knocked out of him. Glass shards spread over the floor. He cannot make himself move.

Lolo is upon him.

He struggles and tries to scream. As with Libète, Lolo claps his hand over the boy’s mouth. He pants in weighty breaths as he hauls Jak back to his apartment.

— What the hell are you two doing here? Damn it! God, what am I going to do? he mutters, kicking the wall out of frustration.

His grip is tight but doesn’t hurt the boy. He nudges open the half-closed door and carries the boy over the threshold. He freezes.

The muzzle of a pistol greets him, pointed directly at his head, held by the small girl he had already forgotten.

Pa kontrarye danje si twou poko fouye pou antere male

Don’t annoy danger if misfortune’s grave is not yet dug

Lè w’ap manje ak dyab, ou kenbe kiyè ou long

When eating with the devil, hold your spoon out far

— Oy! Put that gun down! Lolo yells.

— Let him go! Libète shouts, the pistol shaking in her sweaty grip.

— Sure, sure, whatever. Don’t shoot—this isn’t what you think! He releases Jak, who shoots out of Lolo’s reach and into the doorway.

— Jak, go get help on the street.

— Don’t do it, Lolo whimpers. Please, I beg you. You’ve got it wrong!

— What do I have wrong? demands Libète. That you killed Claire and Ti Gaspar? That you’re hiding out here?

— Killed them? What? No. No! I didn’t touch them! Please, just listen to me. You
know
me. You
know
I wouldn’t do such a thing, Libète. I–I didn’t mean to lash out. I didn’t know what was happening—I just did it.

Libète glares at him.

— Sit on the sofa. If you move, I’ll pull this trigger.

— Alright, sure, whatever. I promise, just let me tell you my story—you’ll understand everything.

— Then tell us. Explain well or Jak calls the police.

Lolo sighs, collecting his thoughts, rubbing his face and eyes wearily. Libète steps back, lets the gun point to the floor, her finger on the trigger.

— I am hiding, Lolo says. But not because I hurt them. I need to start from the beginning. After I tell you, you’ll know that everything I say is the truth.

Lolo is twelve. He stands in a line with Davidson and Wadner. They wear school uniforms and joke with one another. The boys stand separate from the girls, waiting for the school day to begin.

He ignores Wadner and Davidson, his eyes passing over the girls as they stand quietly, chatting and laughing. His eyes stop.

Who is this?
he wonders.

There is a new girl in the familiar line, one unknown to him.

It is Claire.

**

— How was your day, Claire?

— Ah, fine, Lolo. And yours?

Four years passed by, and Claire had not left Lolo’s attention.

— Where are you heading? Lolo asked.

— Home. And you?

— Well, I need to, uh, talk to someone…near your home.

— Is that so? she said coyly.

— Yes, it
is
so. Do you mind the company?

— I suppose not.

They walked in silence, but only for a moment.

— So how do you do it? he asks.

— What do you mean?

— Everything. You do everything well.

She laughed. That’s not true.

— But it is! You need help to see it? Here. I’ll help you.

— You don’t need to, Lolo. Really.

— Ah, ah, ah. Please. Let me try. He breathed deeply, as if preparing to gather thoughts spilled all over the floor. He held out his right hand to count. Let’s see: you answer every question right in class. That’s a big one. You sing like an angel.

— Lolo—

— Don’t deny it! Please. Let me continue. I’ve never seen you be mean to another soul. You’re in church every week. You’re always put together well. That is to say — he paused, mustering his courage — you’re beautiful.

Lolo saw her blush through her dark cheeks and forgot the rest of his list.

— You do things well too, Lolo.

— Oh? Like what?

— You are kind, to most at least. Pretty good at football, I suppose. Funny, if you have a certain sense of humor. And you, my friend, are very, very — he waited for her to say handsome —
tall
.

Lolo laughed.

— I’m tall, am I?

— Yes. You are…
extremely
…tall.

— I’m glad you think so.

Another pause.

— You’re always caught up in those books of yours, you know. Books, church, books, church. Where do you fit in the other important things?

She frowned.

— It’s because those are the only things I
need
, Lolo. Faith and education. I’m satisfied with those. They carry me.

— Ah! I can’t believe it.

— No?

— I just can’t. A girl like you? As pretty as you?

— Pretty as me, huh?

— Yes! Absolutely. What about love? What about that?

— There are different kinds of love, Lolo. And I have all the love I need already.

Lolo was dumbfounded. Are you going to be a nun then? Move to a convent? Shut yourself away from the world?

— I’m no Catholic, but that doesn’t sound that bad.

— Hmph. You just need to meet the right guy, I think.

— You know the
right guy
then? she said coquettishly.

— I know a few. Some, uh, really tall ones.

She chuckled. Let me guess—any of their names begin with an “L”?

They turned a corner, nearing her home.

— So, you mind if I walk you home again tomor—

—
Claire
. A growling baritone uttered the name. Both Lolo and Claire turned to see her father, a carpenter, sanding a small table outside the front of her home.

— Go inside, he told her brusquely. She did so, eyes cast down to the ground.

— Hello Mesye Conille, Lolo said, trying to salvage the situation. Mr. Conille did not return his greeting.

Lolo tried to regain his composure and dignity, but they had already left him. He walked away shaken, trying to see if he might find them once again.

**

A hearse carried the coffin, preceded by a brass band and followed by a trail of mourners on foot.

— I can’t believe Marcel did this, Yves said in a low voice, shuffling deep within the pack on their way to the cemetery.

— It was wrong. A guy gets a gun, thinks he’s a gangster, thinks he has power. And what for? To take an old television and a cell phone. He’ll pay for it, Davidson said.

— Yeah, I hear they’ve got him in the National Penitentiary already. Crammed in a cell with 40 other guys. Sounds like hell, said Lolo.

— Too many funerals, Wadner said ruefully.

— I’m scared man. This shit is crazy. A
neg
walks outside to take a piss and if MINUSTAH doesn’t shoot him, his neighbor does.

— Damn Chimè, said Davidson. These gangs are ruining everything.

— Shhh! Lolo hushed him. Not so loud! They’re everywhere. Listening, watching. You’ll be next if you don’t watch your mouth. Bad-mouthing Marcel is one thing, but if word gets up to Touss or Belony that you’re dragging down Bwa Nèf’s gang, they’ll be knocking on your door tonight, calling you a traitor.

— This is a mess. I just want peace, Davidson continued, quieter than before. I want them out—MINUSTAH, the police, the gangs, for all of them to go.

— I don’t know, guys. I mean, this is bad, but don’t you want Aristide back? Wadner asked. That’s what the gangs are fighting for, after all. Our freedom. Our rights to have our own president returned, to be in charge of ourselves without an occupation by blan troops. We’ve got to make Titid’s vision a reality—we’ve got to fight for it!

— Oh, shut up, Wadner, Yves said. Don’t talk to us like we’re stupid. We know that’s what the Chimè say, but they aren’t fighting for me.

— You shut up! You’re okay with the way things are here? With the rich on top shoveling their shit on us down here? Paying us nothing? Shooting us with their hired guns when we protest? Erasing our votes like they never existed? For
democracy,
man, that’s why the Chimè do it. So we need to tolerate it until things are set right. They’re the ones on the frontlines, dying for this stuff. All you do is sit by and watch.

— Is that why Marcel killed a man? To bring back Titid? To protect democracy? Lolo rebuked. No way. He did that for
himself
. The gangs always dress it up differently, just like the rich. Maybe they started with good reasons, but they have short memories. I’m all for Titid coming back. I am. I know he cares for us more than the
provisional government
blowing us to bits. But I’m not going to die for Titid, or his party. Look, my family is dying slow deaths, just like all yours. All we want is work, food, and peace. I don’t want to see manman and papa finished off before their time because some wannabe gangster blows away a policeman and MINUSTAH comes pouring into Bwa Nèf, machine guns blazing. No way. The gangs aren’t working for me.

Wadner waited for another chance to speak. All I’ll say is they fight for change when no one else does. They do bad stuff, fine, I give you that. But at least they do
something
.

All four were now sullen. Davidson tried to change the subject.

— Poor, poor Claire. She looks pretty broken up. The other three looked at her, walking directly behind the slow-moving hearse. Claire wore a black dress and veil along with her mother and sister.

The other three young men nodded their agreement.

— It’s a shame.

— A real shame, Lolo said, and he meant these words. But what he did not express was that there was a place inside him, a deep and unacknowledged one, where he was actually pleased that Gaspar Garry Frantz Conille, Claire’s stern father, was now gone.

**

Lolo sat in an anonymous row of chairs toward the back of a packed Baptist church in distant Pétionville, wearing his nicest shirt, a black one, with a shiny blue tie. His eyes were fixed on the stage as one musical act, a choral group of youth from Delmas dressed entirely in red, exited. They made way for another group from the large Nazarene church in Cité Soleil, finely appointed in matching white shirts and navy slacks and skirts. He searched the faces, some familiar, others not so much, not content until he lay eyes upon his reason for being there: Claire.

Her father’s funeral was months before, and he had not seen her since. Her family had sold their home and father’s business to move to another part of Cité Soleil, one reputed to be more peaceful than volatile Bwa Nèf. This also meant she departed his school.

Class had always afforded the chance to talk to her, to be with her, to watch her glisten and shine at the center of attention. She wore hope like a sweet perfume, carrying the aroma wherever she went. Her peacefulness and contentedness, her
raison d’être
, was contagious. For Lolo, they were intoxicating too. When she moved away, he had no real reason to remain. He left school a week later.

Looking for work had been a dead end. No one was taking apprentices, nor could anyone give him a steady job. He found piecemeal work as a day laborer, but that was too inconsistent. His family, a father and mother and four other children, needed his support, but he could not provide it. He felt horrible that he was coming to nothing after they had invested so much in his education.

One of Claire’s friends, a mutual classmate, had said that Claire and her family were doing poorly as well. Her father had provided steady income, now dried up. Word was that Claire had to drop out of school, crushing news to those who knew her in Bwa Nèf. She had a reputation for being one who had a “winning ticket,” one who could make it out of Cité, go to college, go abroad, do something important, and send money home. They had seen the pattern before. It was rare, but real. The thought of Claire, her sister, and mother going hungry saddened Lolo.

Looking upon Claire now, one would never think that she was suffering. She was radiant in the strong light cast upon her and the rest of the choir. As she sang, lost in the lyrics and rhythm, all of the world’s woes seemed to fall away. Lolo did not let anyone know about his yearnings for Claire. No one—not his family, not his closest friends—knew where he was this evening.

Claire sang the chorus alone and soared above the rest of the choir. Lolo would almost have been satisfied if that was all he got to see of Claire.
Almost
.

After the concert ran its course, Claire stood outside, congregating with the rest of the choir. She felt a tap on her shoulder.

— Hello Claire.

— Yes? she said, turning. When she recognized Lolo, she gave him a grand hug before releasing him. Lolo! Why are you here?

— I heard that your choir—that you—were performing tonight. I wanted to see you.