Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti Page 11

  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.

  DEVILS

  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.

  Minutes pass and Libète has eulogized the animals in silent prayers. She has repented for her callousness, sitting by and watching the mouse suffer at the cat’s claws.

  The man is still listless, lost in the maze of his mind.

  — Mesye, you must wait one minute, Libète says. He turns to her.

  — Ehh? he groans.

  — Wait—for one minute. I’m going, but I’m coming back.

  She took off before he could question again, returning to the cement cemetery, something hidden within her T-shirt.

  — Here, she said, handing the man a portion of bread stolen from her aunt. Take this.

  Libète runs awkwardly with the large, empty bucket. Jak is close behind.

  — Who is it, Libète? Who did Elize see in the grasses?

  — I don’t want to say until I’m certain.

  This frustrates Jak to no end, his own mind trying to catch up and determine the suspect’s identity.

  They wind through crowded streets, past the church school, beyond the hardware shop, the Three Queens, and their cardboard awning, before arriving at Impasse Chavannes.

  Davidson, Yves, and Shades sit along with two other younger boys under a pilfered blue tarp. They are in the middle of a heated argument.

  — No! I can’t accept it! I won’t accept it! Yves fumed.

  — Yes, you will! I have slaved over this, and you will take it or I’ll leave! For good this time, Shades yelled back, matching Yves’ bluster. They stood a mere foot from each other, eyes ablaze, chests puffed with unmerited pride. The subject of their argument was entirely unclear.

  Most of the people in the street had stopped what they were doing and watched as Yves and Shades came closer and closer to exchanging blows.

  — What are they fighting about? Libète whispered to Rodolphe, the lotto booth man at the edge of the crowd.

  — The typeface of
a press release, Rodolphe whispered back.

  Libète rolled her eyes. So was the existence of FFPOP, one of the most pathetic “political organizations” to exist in Haiti’s history.

  She could never remember what FFPOP stood for even though Davidson had told her a hundred times. All she knew was the group met infrequently and its few members thought themselves very important.

  They occupied a space that used to be a home, though all but one of its walls had collapsed some time ago. Two wooden poles were inserted into the ground on the side facing the street, the tarp strung from the wall to the two lonely pillars.

  Libète surveyed the group. Yves was the organization’s president, with Shades its vice-president and Davidson the secretary. The other members sat in a circle of borrowed chairs, all of them sporting lanyards and specially-made identification cards.

  Yves and Davidson very much resembled the versions of themselves Libète first met three years ago. Shades, in a push for more respect, had recently renounced his nickname and shed his precious protective eyewear to revert to Wadner. The other two members weren’t really known to Libète—as far as she knew they stuck around to get beers after the meetings.

  Libète looked over the group one more time. He’s not here…

  — Come on, you two—you’re making a scene! Davidson growled.

  — Shut up, Davidson! roared Yves. This is a matter of respect for the organization. Of dignite!

  Davidson had kept these friends for reasons unknown to Libète. This was one of the few things she ever agreed with her Aunt upon. Davidson was smarter than them, and more grounded. Where petty ambitions had twisted their personalities the last few years, he remained the same generous person she met at the ferry dock those three years before. Now he clung to them even though he remained the brunt of their jokes.

  She could only tolerate the bickering for so long.

  — I’m sorry to interrupt your—debate—but I have a question, Libète shouted. All eyes turned to her. It’s about Claire and Ti Gaspar.