There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) Read online

  — Thank you, Uncle. He gave a meek nod.

  They faced the nearby lane so that they could at least see someone approach. Their conversation was mostly perfunctory: about weather, new violence in the slums, marriages and deaths, business, and a host of unchallenging things that fill one’s thoughts and permit a retreat from the dull pains of life.

  Partway through a recounting of his day’s hauls through Bwa Nèf, her Uncle stopped midsentence.

  — Do you think–the one behind this all–could it be . . . him?

  She knew at once he spoke of his son, Davidson. The young man had fled the night of Benoit’s arrest, recruited by the villain along with other youths to catapult themselves into a pitched battle with the local contingent of UN peacekeepers. It was believed all over that the troops had been kidnapping and prostituting local girls.

  — Maybe, she told him. It was appealing: in all of the intrigue in which she found herself embroiled, perhaps her cousin was a watchful presence and protector after all. It’s a comforting thought, no?

  His face was laden with sadness or regret, Libète couldn’t tell which. A very comforting one, he said. He reached for the orange, shared another piece, and retreated into himself. A good man beneath it all, she mused. Mèsi, Tonton. For everything.

  — The least I could–

  — Psst! Psst!

  Libète shot up. The soft, vulnerable version of herself was engulfed in an instant. Who are you? she barked. What do you want? She dropped her orange into the flames and picked up a rock. She stood, arm cocked, her body again tense and mean.

  Uncle, quick to remember her past furies, was clearly more afraid of this girl possessed than whoever lurked in the shadows. He stumbled back against the outside wall of his shack and cowered, bottom lip bobbing.

  — Peace! the voice called. Peace!

  It was familiar, but vague, somewhat distant, and impossible for Libète to place. She loosed a feral growl. Show yourself!

  And he did.

  And she smiled.

  Libète hears music: beautiful, majestic even, keeping time with her heart’s mad rhythm. It sounds like old symphony recordings she’d listen to with Elize in his shack on the edge of Cité Soleil, or with Stephanie when they cooked meals together. Her subconscious mind toggles through these associations gingerly while her body and being are engaged by a strong grip that forces her fingers together.

  Délira screams. Lucid now, the girl giving birth forces herself up against Philomene’s backstop and writhes, and the blood, it pours. Still, the girl’s efforts are weakening.

  — Pouse, Magdala hollers, you must! The head is out and you must push!

  Libète wishes she knew how to help. Délira strains and breathes, and in the briefest of moments their eyes latch and Libète squeezes the hand back, hard, as if to say, I am here, we are here, you are not alone. All the while the beautiful music swells inside Libète’s head.

  — Bondye, protect these lives, Magdala mutters, keep them safe, bring them through, you are good, you are good–pouse!

  The child–the living, breathing child–is out, and it is a miracle.

  Magdala cradles the child and Libète nearly lets loose a whoop and Philomene sighs and Délira lets her head slip to the side, a small smile on her face as she pants and pants.

  The music quiets, slipping away as unexpectedly as it came.

  — Sophia, dip the knife in the boiling water and bring it.

  Within a minute the cord is cut and placed in a nearby bowl. The babe–a boy, it turns out–is passed to Philomene to wash and swaddle. Libète takes the woman’s place holding Délira up.

  But Délira, she is faded. Magdala is worried. It must be the madichon, the spell that lingers over this family, she mutters.

  — What is it? Libète asks, bewildered.

  — The blood, Magdala says. It does not stop!

  Magdala brings the lamp close. It is true. The puddle on the bed was sopping and spreading. Délira is limp, again on the verge of unconsciousness.

  — We need to boil my herbs, put her over the steam! Magdala shouts. That will purify her, help stop the bleeding!

  Libète’s mouth dropped. She knew little, but enough to see this was a preposterous idea. Délira was still hemorrhaging and the rising steam would burn her while having no medicinal effect at all, Libète was sure. She knew from a similar case what might be done. The music swelled again with her fears.

  — Madanm, she is slipping away. The bleeding has to be stopped. What if we keep the water aside and massage her uterus–

  — What are you talking about?

  — It will help stop the bleeding. I promise. It must be done.

  — How would you–

  — Please. Trade places with me. And bring the baby back.

  — What? But Philomene is cleaning him. That’s–

  — Listen to me. Trust me.

  — But how–

  — Take her! Libète shouted, her worry impossible to conceal.

  Magdala did, this slight tempered only by shock. Libète rushed to the child and pulled him from Philomene’s arms.

  — Délira, you must hold your baby to your breast. You must.

  But Délira couldn’t lift her arms. Libète cursed. Philomene! Hold the child to Délira’s chest so that he might feed. Now! Libète pulled at Délira’s shirt until it ripped.

  — Why? Magdala asked.

  Libète didn’t know how much to say. It releases a chemical–in the body–that helps stop the bleeding. Libète’s hands had already flown down to Délira’s pelvis, massaging the outside of the uterus.

  — What are you doing? How do you know these things? Magdala cried out. She needs to be steamed!

  Libète shot Magdala a murderous look. Please! I beg you–just–silence.

  By coming closer Libète saw the blood still flowed. Terrified, she kept pressing but eased off, knowing that too much pressure would go beyond making the uterus contract and actually invert it, creating all manner of new complications. The child had taken the breast, and Libète was grateful for this. She kept at the uterus, pressing, pressing, pressing.

  In time, the bleeding slowed. And then, it stopped.

  One never forgets those they save.

  Lolo!

  In that moment, thoughts collide in Libète’s mind.

  So thin. Her arms slip around his gaunt frame.

  So nervous. Her touch shocks him.

  So tortured. His eyes speak fear.

  It was a long embrace. She grasped him desperately, as if he might otherwise slip from her life again.

  She finally pulled back. Her smile was wide, and unexpected warmth shot from her core to the tips of her toes and fingers. You’ve returned! she said. You’ve returned!

  Lolo’s smile strained his face, and he threw a nod to her Uncle, who floated off to the side.

  — I wasn’t sure you’d be happy to see me.

  Libète feigned slapping him. How could I not be?

  She had been his salvation. When Lolo was arrested for Claire and Gaspar’s murders, it had been Libète who had exonerated him, freed him from his cell, let him reenter a world that had accused him, condemned him without trial, forgotten him. No matter what may happen later, such a person is a token to be touched and kept close, remembered on those long, sad days when fear creeps in and casts doubt on who we might believe we are.

  Yon jou tankou jodi a. A day like today.

  She wrapped one arm around him to usher him to the fire.

  — So you’re the one? The one who brought me here?

  He gave a sheepish grin. The smile came easier now, like the muscles in his face had warmed up. The fear etching his features vanished.

  — Uncle? Some space, please?

  — The mule, he muttered, I’ll go . . .

  The man was hurt by her dismissal, she could tell. She turned back to Lolo anyway. So you left the notes?

  — That’s right.

  — You snuck inside the scho
ol?

  He shook his head. The interpreter delivered it.

  — Charles?

  He gave a nod. He slipped it under your door and let you out, as I asked. I gave the note for your Uncle to the machann, and she passed it to him.

  — Ah. Ah ha. And what of the third note? The same woman?

  — The third?

  — The third. The two for my Uncle and I, and the warning yesterday.

  He nodded, slowly at first. Of course. Yesterday’s warning note. The same woman. She passed the two.

  Libète picked at a scab, the remnant from a day-old mosquito bite. I wish your warning had been more of a warning.

  He was uneasy again, his eyes flicking between her gaze and the flame.

  — My friend, Libète added. The death meant for me came to her.

  Lolo swallowed. That’s . . . why I had to get you out of the school. Why I’m here this very moment. Benoit, the beast, he’s coming for you. He killed your friend.

  — I knew it! But . . . why now? After so long?

  Lolo reached into his pocket and registered the time from the face of his cell phone. Libète, we must go.

  — What do you mean? Wait. I don’t . . . don’t understand. Where did you go, Lolo? How do you know what Benoit has done?

  — There’s time to explain, but we have to leave.

  She tried to form a sentence, a second, a third, but none took. Finally: Where? Why?

  — Libète, he meant to kill you. But he’s done even better.

  She clenched her eyes, trying to comprehend. Lolo, mark my words. I will never flee Cité Soleil. Nothing could make me abandon it.

  — But Libète, you’re–. He slid at an angle, his sallow cheeks puffing. You’ve fallen into a trap. I’ve pulled you out, but only for a moment. He’s bribed the police before, and he’s doing it again. They weren’t going to question you first thing in the morning. They were going to disappear you. Make it seem like you were running.

  — But I am running.

  — He’s decided discrediting you, turning you into a criminal before he kills you, is even better.

  Libète fell into a vertiginous haze. She took Lolo’s arm to brace herself.

  — Libète, we must go. Now.

  One never forgets those they save.

  They left the shack elated, even though their clothes were stained with blood and sweat. The child was alive. The mother was alive. Delivrans was the new boy’s name. Deliverance.

  Magdala had hugged Libète. It was not a polite and reserved embrace, but a joyous, abandoned one. The kind touch felt good to Libète, indescribably so.

  Philomene tended to Délira as Libète watched Magdala clean and swaddle the boy, massage his misshapen head with castor oil till it was rounded, and then stuff the umbilical cord with herbs before burying it and the placenta under a nearby sapling. They walked the child around the home three times to ward off spirits. Libète was pleased that the piqued tension between her and Magdala had disappeared. They bid Délira farewell and left her in Philomene’s care. Délira’s hovering father had strangely vanished.

  It is a perfect morning, crisp but not too cool. The Sun creeps over the peaks to reach out and stroke their skin, making them radiant. Exhaustion is nothing, not in a world as pure and merciful and hopeful as this one.

  They walk hand in hand, recounting the night: their fears, each crisis, every prayer. After a time of sudden silence, Magdala speaks.

  — Where did you learn such things, Sophia?

  Libète shrugs demurely, looking away. As I said, I saw such things done once before. That is all.

  When Libète looks back, there was such pride in Magdala’s eyes; it feels as good as a second embrace.

  The pair approach Magdala’s lone shack. Saint-Pierre is there, and the beast’s form is as reassuring as a solid marble column.

  But then there is also a cluster of men on the road. Maybe a konbit, a work team? Breaking from early labor in the fields?

  No, Libète realizes. They have another purpose. Their tools are laid down. Their arms are crossed, brows knit, and legs straddling earth. She sees that a terrible thing has been deposited at their feet.

  — What do you suppose that is? Magdala asks.

  All joy the pair share gives way. A familiar hat had been dropped by its owner. His empty bottle is beside it on the ground. Magdala claps her mouth and lets loose a cry. Libète trembles.

  New life and new death.

  Always the two come together.

  That is our world.

  Always.

  The Open Question

  Lanmò toujou gen koz.

  Death always has a reason.

  Libète’s soul aches. Lolo has her by the hand.

  Her mind sputters. She thinks of Didi’s parents. Their faces broken by emotions too deep for words. Their sadness would turn to hatred–not aimed at some unknown murderer, but Libète herself.

  Lolo led her through dark corridors and passages, each turn making her lose her bearings. He whispered: . . . Such a blow . . . I was too slow to come . . . Benoit will pay . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . .

  I didn’t thank him. Her ncle. Another reason to hate herself. He didn’t utter a word as she was led away in a daze. Maybe he has changed for the better and I for the worse. She hoped he wouldn’t hold it against her, if she saw him again.

  Her feet were cinder blocks and her churning mind was barely able to make her body move. She couldn’t reconcile this new reality. Slander of all types could be tolerated, but Benoit’s plan to make her face the charge of murder from the grave? With no chance to speak out?

  — What of Jak? The thought parted her haze.

  She thought she saw Lolo bristle. Surely a trick of shadow and light. Is Jak all right? He wasn’t in his room.

  Lolo paused. I made arrangements for him too. He’ll be joining us.

  This relieved Libète tremendously. Her hand wanted her friend’s reassuring touch.

  Lolo led her along before stopping abruptly in a wide, brick road in front of a squat building. She heard the dull hum of current passing through power lines overhead and realized she knew the place, and well: Bwa Nèf’s old, green-painted cinema, set on Impasse Chavannes. A chain was wrapped around its entrance, padlocked. It snapped open as Lolo inserted a key. She’d not been inside the place since the day Claire and Gaspar had been murdered and she barged in, voicing that unthinkable reality to a room full of Claire’s friends.

  — Why now, Lolo? she blurted. Why is this coming now?

  He shushed her, looking this way then that, and herded her inside. I’m not sure.

  The cinema was black as pitch, its windows covered to keep out the light. Lolo withdrew his phone, hit some buttons, and the screen stayed lit, casting a blue glow over them.

  — We missed you, you know. I missed you. Leaving us so quickly, without a word!

  Lolo looked away before turning back, locking eyes with Libète. His face was hollowed.

  — After my release from prison, I was targeted by Benoit. Blamed along with you for what happened in the election. Forced to hide. But I was a nobody while you became a somebody. I’ve been hiding all over Port-au-Prince. Struggling to survive.

  — Have you been in touch with Davidson? Yves and Wadner?

  He wiped away the memory of his childhood friends with a dismissive wave. I don’t know where they are or what they’re doing. They abandoned me when I was in jail. I want nothing to do with them.

  Libète found this unsurprising. But you’ve been all on your own? What of your family? Other friends?

  He arranged some chairs into a row.

  — You look . . . terrible, she murmured.

  His eyes flashed before he stifled the flame. I’m sick still, wi.

  — The tibèkiloz?

  Lolo coughed as if in reflex to the word. Still TB, he said. But in treatment. Always in treatment.

  He walked around the room, testing the metal sheets covering
the windows. I may be gone for a while, but I’m coming back. It may be a few hours, maybe not till morning. No one will disturb you here. He reached into his pocket and fished out a bag of peanuts and a square sachet of water. Take this.

  — I’m not hungry.

  — Good. That’s good. But you’ll need to eat. He forced them into her hand. I’m sorry that’s all I have. There will be more. Later.

  — Why are you leaving me?

  He bit his lip. I need to get Jak. And I’ll be back before long to collect you. I’ve been in touch with Stephanie Martinette. We’ll all be together soon. He picked up his phone and stowed it away. In a moment, the door slid to a close, the chain was replaced, the lock clamped shut.

  Collect me?

  Plunged into new darkness, Libète shook. She was unable to shake the sense of being laid within a coffin before its lid is nailed into place.

  Death. Libète shakes her head. It is ever-present these days.

  She looks on Dorsinus’s face. His eyes are closed. His clothes are mud-streaked, more so than usual. A long rope is tied around his ankles, its excess coiled near his heels. Four men are there. Jeune, his adult son, and another familiar-looking young man Libète hadn’t yet met. The final one is Prosper. Libète cannot look at him, and so studies the dead body lying among the rocks, dirt, and weeds.

  — Ladies, no need to come close, Jeune says. Junior, grab the old drunk’s ankles, will you? We’ll carry him.

  Junior, the other man Libète had encountered carrying sugar cane the day before, gestures. He mimes what looks like the unravelling of a knot in midair.

  Jeune nods in acknowledgement. Right, he says. Prosper, undo that knot at Dorsinus’s feet. Libète cocks her head and looks at Junior, at the others, but they avoid her eyes. Junior’s tight-drawn lips and gesturing seem to surprise only her.

  — We found him this morning, down there, Jeune proffers, pointing to the nearby ravine. Prosper climbed down with the rope. We dragged him up.

  — But how? Magdala chokes out, looking at each of the men in turn, disbelieving.

  The mime holds out the bottle. The sweet scent of evaporating kleren fills the air.