Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (26 page)

Through the crowd she glimpsed her Uncle seated in front of their home, his head hung low. She moved toward him, careful to avoid others so that her aching arm would not be jarred. As she grew closer, she was shocked by what she saw, her thirst forgotten.

Her adoptive home, the one she had lived in for the past three years, was no more. The homes to its right and left still stood, making the contrast with her own seem like an enormous giant had stumbled through, carelessly flattening it.

Her Uncle eased his head back, raising a bottle to his lips. He wiped his eyes.

She called out to him. Uncle! Are you alright?

He looked back at her, his face half-lit by a woman’s nearby candle. His stare was wide and glassy while his face troubled, a combination of rum-drenched fear. Libète wondered if he was even able to recognize her. He finally shook his head, slowly. She noticed that the skin on his hand holding the bottle was torn and bloodied. A dreadful realization came to her.

— Uncle, she asked, fearful of what the answer might be. Where is Auntie?

He turned his gaze back to his crushed home and motioned with his chin.

Libète stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do. She sat down next to him and stared.

Libète sits on a small crate, her cousin crouching opposite her, unwilling to sit because he doesn’t want to soil his clothes. They are in front of the tent, a pot of
mayi
sitting atop a charcoal-burning stove sitting between them.

— Mèsi
,
cousin
,
for the food.

The steaming cornmeal was bubbling and popping. Both looked at it instead of at each other.

— You’re welcome. I wish there was more, that I could help more.

She nods, unwilling to take her eyes from the yellow mush.

— Papa says you were away for a few days, Davidson said.

— I was.

— Where did you go?

— Away.

— You won’t tell me?

— I won’t.

— But you’re back?

— I am.

He eyed Libète suspiciously. She decided to change the subject.

— So where have you been? You’re looking good.

He surveyed the camp. He knew he could not similarly commend Libète.

— I’ve been busy. Campaigning.

— “Campaigning,” huh? With that little political club of yours?

— No. This is different. FFPOP reached its end. The earthquake changed things, requiring us to organize on a much greater level than before. That we take our collective voices to the national stage and ensure we’re heard.

This sounded rehearsed to Libète’s ears.

— Food’s ready, she said. Uncle, can you hand me the plates?

Her Uncle, sitting inside the threshold of the tent and listening to their conversation, reached for the plastic plates and handed them to her. Davidson was nonplussed.

— I’m an official assistant for a senatorial candidate for Cité Soleil. He’s a good man, and we’re doing everything we can to get him elected in November.

— Oh, Uncle, and some spoons? She turned back to Davidson. Libète scooped the portions of mayi into the plates. Huh. Who’s your candidate?

— Jean-Pierre Benoit. He’s a visionary, Libète. An entrepreneur. He is just. Compassionate. An advocate for the poor, for
us
. And he’s going to move Cité Soleil forward.

— Is that so?

— It is.

— Well, I’ll be sure to vote for him, then.

Davidson grimaced. She blew on a bite of her steaming porridge before popping it into her mouth, moving it around with her tongue.

— Hmm. It needs more spice, she remarked. Cousin, if this Benoit is elected will he be able to get us back into a home and out of these tents?

Davidson scowled.

— Or at least get us some spice for our mayi?

**

Davidson didn’t linger much longer. Libète had been too flippant, she knew that, but bringing a few handfuls of crushed corn wasn’t enough to wipe away the past few months of neglect. In truth, she had been happy to see him and told him that before he left. He simply nodded and departed.

This left her with her Uncle. Living with him was like being kept company by a ghost, barely felt until a proper haunting was necessary to remind those around him of his presence. These outbursts usually occurred during his less-sober moments.

She set to cleaning the dried scum on her plates and pot. Having heavy food sit in her stomach felt good and helped her plan for the difficult afternoon ahead. When she finished, her Uncle was still seated on his old stool outside, watching a neighboring couple bicker. Libète picked up her black bag and tried to slip away.

— Where are you going?

Facing away from her Uncle, she cursed silently. I’m going — she searched quickly for an answer that would satisfy him — to see my teacher. We’re having a lesson today.

He harrumphed. This was a lie, but it satisfied his curiosity.

— What’s in the bag? he asked, his attention was only partly engaged as he watched the woman, now back inside her tent, throwing out her man’s possessions while he accused her of cheating on him.

— Nothing special. Just some things I was asked to bring.

— You’ll be back though, right? You won’t stay away too long? You need to make dinner. René will be coming, and he says he’ll bring some rice for us. Libète rolled her eyes and shuddered, the mere mention of the man making her nauseous.

— Wi, tonton. I’ll be back after my lesson. To make you dinner. She knew this would placate him.

Libète walked toward Bwa Nèf quickly as the fight between the couple escalated. She looked back to make sure her Uncle was not paying attention before cutting behind a row of tents and doubling back toward the main road where she could catch a taptap to take her downtown.

She sighed. She would have much preferred sitting through a lesson than what lay before her.

It is the morning after the quake. A trio of men follow behind Libète. Davidson is one of them.

When Davidson arrived to find Libète and his father sitting side-by-side, he was shocked to discover his mother dead. Despite the tumult of their relationship, he cried for her, buried under the blocks of the home she worked so hard to provide. He worked along with a neighbor to recover the body. They would have to see it disposed of soon, along with the other victims.

The three slept beside the corpse for a few hours, bodies weary and aching. Aftershocks were felt in the night, and each wave saw panic and prayers erupt anew.

The next morning, Libète’s arm still ached miserably. Davidson woke and began walking in a daze, leaving Libète and her Uncle together. She watched him talk to Nathalie, his crush from down the row. They spoke briefly and comforted one another before returning to their families. She had lost a sister.

Survivors were becoming hungry and thirsty, the realization setting in that assistance, if there was any, was far off. Where so many scavenged for bodies at first, now they dug through debris for food.

When Davidson returned, Libète told him about what had befallen her the previous day, of the murderer and fallen fort. He listened grimly, and spoke only when she finished.

— We must find this man.

He rounded up two acquaintances and convinced them to leave their families, explaining that if they took the murderer into their hands it might be enough to see Lolo walk free.

Libète runs ahead of the three, surveying the scene. Her lips contort in a frown. In the light of day and from a hundred yards off, it looks like any pile of rubble. It tells no stories: there is no sign of her near death, all of the times spent at play climbing its walls with Jak, nor of the lives of six men betrayed and laid to waste by U.N. troops. But it is more than that. When she steps even closer, there is another problem.

Scouring the pile, she looks at the three as they approach with quick, anxious eyes.

— What is it? Davidson says.

She is horrified.

— He’s gone—his body is gone. You have to believe me, she murmurs. She thinks to show them the man’s watch concealed in her underpants, but knows it might be confiscated, if not by Davidson then the two unhappy acquaintances, frustrated their time is wasted. She turns and examines the pile more closely and with new desperation.

— Look, look here! she says, pointing to the bloody stone she used to break the man’s hand. See! He was here, she says. He was here!

The guard opens the door and pulls a man through.

The inmate nearly trips and swears at the jailor. The guard, a short man who thinks himself a big man, lifts his club as if to hit the prisoner but the inmate lifts his hands to relent.

He is a young man, hobbled, weak, and pathetic, his pants slipping off his hips. His eyes and palms are an unhealthy pallor, his breath labored and heavy. He coughs, covers his mouth, and looks around.

It is a large room, and there are many on both sides of its bars. On his side stand the inmates. On the other are their visitors.

— Lolo! Libète shouts, competing to be heard over other conversations. A great din can be heard outside as others clamor to have their own chance to set foot inside.

The sick man’s eyes light up and he moves over to her. She watches him approach, a faded picture of who he once was.

— Libète! They told me my sister came! I wasn’t expecting you.

— I lied, she whispered. I thought I had a better chance of getting in this time. She lifted up her bag still hanging from her wrist. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring more food. Things are difficult.

His hair was cropped short as always, but he permitted himself a spotty and ugly beard. He wiped his moustache and nose, salivating at the unexpected gift. She handed him the bag.

— Thanks so much, he said as he bit into a stale roll, quick to tear another piece before he finished the last. They don’t care about us in here.

— Have you seen a magistrate yet?

— No. I never will. There are guys here longer than me who have never seen a judge. Damned constitution says I’m supposed to see one within twenty-four hours of arrest! His voice rose at the end, loud enough for the short jailor to hear his complaint.

— Shut up, the guard muttered.

— I’ll be standing before the ultimate judge before I see a magistrate. It’s horrible in here. We’re like canned fish, pushed up against one another. We take turns sitting or sleeping, because for you to lay down, three guys have to stand to make room. It’s inhuman! This last bit was once again for the benefit of the guard.

— I said shut up!

— You’ve told me before, Libète said quietly, her eyes darting to the side. All of it.

— Ah. Forgive me for repeating myself. He peeled the banana and took a bite. I don’t have any other news to share, you see. I’m sick. That’s something. Tons of bacteria are crawling around my lungs and it takes foreign doctors to come in and treat me.

— Tuberculosis?

— Wi. Slowly turning my lungs to rocks. Breathing is hard. I cough all the time. Probably getting everyone else sick, too.

Libète took an unconscious step away. He sighed.

— I can’t blame you. But you’ll be fine. You won’t be here long. He took another large bite of the fruit, dropping the peel at his feet for the guard to later clean up.