Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti Page 10

  — 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 playin
g. 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.

  — 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.