Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti Read online

  She plunged back into the dark, put the phone near Wadner’s hand, and checked to make sure nothing else was disturbed.

  Moments later, the door was closed and the children were sprinting down the street, leaving Wharf Soleil and this most unlikely evening behind.

  TAKEN BLOWS, BORN SCARS

  Analphabet pa bet

  An illiterate is not an animal

  Se pa tout bagay ki aprann lekòl

  Not everything is learned at school

  Little Libète examines herself in a mirror. She wears a light brown dress, with lovely straps that come up and over her gleaming white shirt. The uniform, tailor-made, is appointed with a delightful grid of intersecting brown lines that play over her whole body. Knee-high socks, the same brown color, along with black-buckled shoes, complete the ensemble. Her hair is pulled into braided strands with carefully tied brown bows adorning each one. She spins and twirls before the mirror, a shining smile playing across her face.

  She is a new creation, transcending her place, time, and predicament. Her Aunt admires from a nearby entryway, eager to show her off to neighbors. Libète does not mind because she is going to school for the first time.

  Out the door and on the street, Libète heads to the small schoolhouse down the way. She pulls the straps of her small pack to her body, holding each one like suspenders as she struts down the street, eying the other children who are in their finest clothes, and those who are not.

  Each school has a different uniform, and Libète is envious of the children wearing blue and red but is happy not to be among those who must wear yellow and green. Many children, even those in her preferred colors, wear old, frayed, and out-sized uniforms that have gone through several years of school and play. She feels strange in her new clothes, without words to describe the curious experience of feeling superior to others.

  When she makes a turn off the main street to enter her school, she’s surprised. Sitting upon the ground is Jak. He hugs his bony knees to his chest.

  Libète is shocked. Just as her small form has gained in stature and thrived in the past few months, his has equally and oppositely declined.

  — Sak pase, Libète? he asks. How are you doing?

  — Not too bad. E pou ou? And you yourself?

  — I’m fine.

  Neither looked the other in the eye.

  — So you’re going to school?

  — I am.

  Both the question and answer are obvious, but they say them anyway.

  — Well, have a good day, Jak.

  — You too.

  Libète searches for other words but none come. She continues into the school.

  Jak buries his head in his knees. He does this to hide his jealousy, and his tears.

  **

  Her first morning at school was nearly the last.

  Libète had found Lili and Célianne and sat sandwiched between the two acquaintances picked up over the course of her summer. She was dismayed to learn that Rit, one of her three tormentors, was also in her year. The vile girl intentionally sat behind her.

  Her teacher was a local pastor named Lucien, a short man with big ears and an ego to match. He stood at the front of their darkened cinder-block classroom before a slate board, deriving great pleasure from beating the chalked alphabet with his wooden pointer. Each thwack made Libète jump, wondering what he might do to an offending pupil if he struck innocent letters with such force.

  Français, the language of instruction, had not been a part of her childhood. It immediately befuddled her. Though French was read in church and present at weddings and funerals, she was still one of the illiterate many who was submerged in the language without being able to breathe, speak, or write it. The lessons proceeded with rote repetition and bored her greatly, though she took to the alphabet song with new enthusiasm. She hoped for a time when she could read the French newspapers on her walls at home and the few Kreyol and French schoolbooks shared in the classroom.

  Simple addition and subtraction came more easily, and Libète even answered a question correctly when pounced upon by Pastor Lucien. Congratulated with a pat on the back by kind Célianne, Rit decided this could not stand.

  Slithering down her desk and stretching out her long legs, Rit caught one of the straps to Libète’s backpack with the tips of her toes and dragged it back to her bench while Libète sat engrossed in the lesson. Rit rifled through her things, taking Libète’s pencils and snapping a pen in two. She let the ink drip over and inside Libète’s dark canvas bag before shifting it back under Libète’s bench, waiting with glee.

  With math finished, Pastor Lucien released the students for an hour to go home and eat. The lethargic children, hot and hungry in the suffocating midday heat, suddenly came back to life. Each grabbed at their bags and rushed for the door. Libète followed, pushing in the throng of students until she too stepped into the scorching noonday Sun.

  Many rushed home to eat. Others, those who knew there would be no food at home, decided to stretch their playtime. It was not till Libète was outside that she noticed her hands blackened with the ink.

  She ripped off her bag. Rummaging through her things, she found the pen, broken, and her pencils gone missing. Horror shot across her face. She asked two nearby students if the ink had spread to her back, seeping into her white shirt and new dress. They nodded sadly.

  The stains could have been fresh blood. Her Aunt would beat her severely. She knew in an instant Rit was the culprit.

  Searching the yard, she saw Rit standing with Gracita, Therese, and three other girls. Tears full of hatred poured from her eyes as she strode toward them. Davidson and his friends’ words swirled in her head. Don’t show any fear…don’t be weak, even when you feel it…if they push you, you punch them.

  She ran. Plunging headlong into the circle of girls, Libète clawed and pried, trying to reach Rit. She was yelling obscenities and wildly kicking at the cluster until she reached Rit herself and began to pummel her. The other children in the yard encircled the fight and began to shout, rooting for the different parties involved. Even adults on the street watched the girls brawl instead of intervening, spectators around the cock-fighting ring.

  Libète was trance-like, and indefatigable. Rit lay upon the ground shielding her head from Libète’s blows while trying to scratch at her enemy’s face. The other girls punched and kicked Libète, but she fended them off.

  Then, out of nowhere, a boy sprung into the ring armed with a rock the size of a handball. He held it up, ready to fling it at anyone who would step closer.

  — Get out of here, Jak! Gracita shouted viciously.

  — No! he bellowed. This has to stop! Everyone stop!

  Libète looked up at Jak, surprised. Relenting permitted one of the girls to box Libète’s ear, stunning her. Libète turned and leapt upon the other girl, leaving Rit reeling upon the ground.

  Jak shouted. Libète! Don’t do thi— but Therese pushed him hard and rushed to pull at Libète’s hair. This yanking forced Libète backwards, but she twirled around like a dervish, channeled her fury into a new attack upon Therese.

  Gracita was fed up. She picked a rock up from the ground and swung her arm from back to front with all the force she could muster, connecting with Libète’s head.

  This blow was final. Libète fell to the ground. Her vision blurred and she remained disoriented, her front-side burning against the street’s hot brick.

  — Are you alright? Jak asked, rushing to her side. Libète could not find words. A teacher who finally noticed the fight soon pulled Jak away.

  Don’t show any fear…don’t be weak, even when you feel it…they push, you punch, Libète thought, the words crashing and swirling in her head.

  — Class. What is 24 plus 36?

  No one hazards an answer.

  Madam Féthière frowns, looking out over the 38 children crammed into the small room, her left eyebrow peaked like a circumflex. She taps the numbers on the board with a worn-down piece of chalk. Is th
e whole class deaf? she intones.

  On this Monday morning, the first one with classes in session after Christmas and New Year’s, not one child is ready to trouble themselves with sums. But Madam Féthière is not trying to educate the children today. No, she seeks the approval of strangers.

  In the corner stand two blan, white women from strange places with the names “Missouri” and “Iowa.” One of the women is squat and old, wearing a floppy canvas hat. The other is younger with blonde hair pulled back and legs of different length that make her stand off-kilter. They watch the children with broad, inexplicable smiles. While Madam Féthière desires the children’s attention to impress the blan, their attention is fixed upon the blan.

  — Children! the Madam snaps. The foreigners turn to look at her, and the teacher regains her composure. Please, the answer. One of you, she pleads sweetly.

  Libète is at the back of the classroom, the soreness of her backside causing her to shift uncomfortably in her seat. She feels like an escaped inmate returned to the National Penitentiary.

  Her thoughts remained centered on finding Lolo ever since she and Jak extracted the information from Wadner’s phone the Friday prior. She wondered what hungover conclusion her cousin, Yves, and Wadner must have reached when they thought twice about the good fortune of having a retarded man turn up on their doorstep with a crate of booze. No accusations had yet been levied against her, but then again, she had not seen them since.

  As expected, Sunday had proved most unpleasant. Her Uncle found his stash stolen upon returning in the early morning. He whipped Libète with a switch despite her protestations of ignorance. When her Aunt returned from the distant funeral, Libète had already steeled herself for another round of beatings, and oh, what a beating it turned out to be. Her Aunt was always careful to strike her buttocks and torso, for these were not visible to others. They were a dignified family after all, and no one in public could be allowed to see that they beat their restavek child, even if the neighbors heard her cry out. A favorite proverb of her Aunt and Uncle was “Si ou pè bat pitit gason ou, ou pa renmen l’. Si ou renmen l’, se pou ou korije l’.” “Whoever spares the rod hates their children, but the one who loves their children is careful to discipline.”

  By this measure, Libète was loved—very, very much.

  — Libète, I see your mind is floating up in the clouds, Madam Féthière said, swooping down upon her like a preying hawk. Come up here and solve this.

  Libète sighed heavily for all 37 of her peers to see. She exited her bench shared with five other young girls and made the slow walk up to the board. Inexplicably, the other students began to snicker, working hard to stifle their laughter.

  Féthière, bemused, did not see what the children found amusing until Libète reached the board.

  — Libète! What are you wearing?

  The girl looked up confused.

  — What do you mean, Madam? My school uniform. Blue and red. It’s a little dirty, yes, but what’s the problem?

  — Not that! On…your…feet! the teacher hissed. What am I seeing?

  The class burst out laughing. The blan were lost.

  — Ohhhh. My sandals? I got them for Christmas. She squirmed uncomfortably, making the mismatched pair of worn down rubber flip-flops squeak. Is there a problem?

  — But where…where are your shoes? she replied, stunned. If you don’t have school shoes, she said, then you simply cannot come to school. You know the rules! she barked, trying to contain her anger, knowing the visitors were watching closely.

  — But you don’t understand, Madam. I didn’t want to wear my school shoes. I wanted to wear these.

  Madam Féthière trembled. Get your bag! To the headmaster! Go! Now! She choked out the words. Libète shrugged, returned to her bench to retrieve her satchel and left the classroom. When out of view, a devious grin crept onto her face.

  The blan watched this scene unfold in bewilderment—what had the child done? The teacher noticed their confusion and elaborated.

  — You see, Madam Féthière hazarded in lilting, unconfident English, Ze child…she was bad behaving. Her cloth-es was not so — she struggled to find the word, spinning her hand in the air — coordinated.

  The blan nodded, feigning understanding where there was none.

  The days run together.

  Libète lays facedown on her sleeping mat and sweats heavily, even though it is early morning. It is the third one that she has been here.

  The wound on the back of her head sings the most intense, operatic songs when touched. Even when left alone it causes lancing pain inside her head, making her stomach nearly rend itself in two.

  But she is getting better. Physically, at least.

  After the fight, she was expelled from her new school. This blow equaled the one to her head. Her Aunt was furious, but not because her “daughter” was injured. When she confronted the parents of cruel Rit, Libète thought it was to stand in her defense. She actually demanded payment for the spoiled school clothes. When confronting Pastor Lucien, Libète thought it was to ask for her reinstatement. It was actually because he refused to return her tuition fees.

  Her Aunt did not speak to Libète in the days after. It was Davidson who, looking upon her wound, took her to the local free medical clinic run by foreigners. The doctor gave her some small pills and told her to come back the following week. Her Aunt muttered that she would have gotten around to taking her.

  — I will send you to school again, Aunt Estelle had said, her first words spoken to Libète in the two days after the fight. But you will wait a while. As punishment. And don’t think I can get you in as good a school. Lucien’s was the best in the area. After the Catholics’, of course. It will be hard though. No one will want you now after what you’ve done.

  No one will want me. The words echoed in her head.

  She resented herself and everything else about this horrible, dry, treeless, miserable, motherless place. She hated most of all knowing that her tormentors, the true culprits, were laughing at her absence.

  Libète moved from her mat and decided today would be different than the previous two. Her Aunt had stepped out to get some sacks of rice for the day’s menu. She ate some stale bread left on the table for breakfast, took her pills, and sat outside their front door in the shade.

  The row of blue houses was bustling, and she was pleased to see neighbors enjoying life more than herself. Mesye Charles kissed his wife goodbye for the day, Laurent passed down the row with a wheelbarrow full of cement, and young Madeline bounced her smiling baby in her arms. Each had waved or greeted Libète warmly, and this made her feel as if the world had not—counter to her Aunt’s words—disowned her.

  She could see far down the lane that Jak was running about with a boy his junior. They were pulling a string tied to a plastic Tampico bottle repurposed into a toy car. How sad, she thought, that only the littlest children play with Jak. She then realized not even little children played with her.

  Jak saw her and paused. He lifted his hand in a faint wave. She waved back before looking away, remembering her Aunt’s order to stay away from the boy. Jak returned to his play.

  She had faded memories of Jak jumping into the fray to stop the fight when no one else would. This is stupid, she grumbled. I have one friend who stands by me and my Aunt keeps him away.

  She stood up and walked intently down the row toward Jak. He stopped again, nervous this time, flinching under her stare.

  Libète hugged the small boy, tears welling in her eyes. Mèsi, my friend. Mèsi.

  **

  She brought Jak back to her deserted home for a meal.

  — Don’t worry about her, Libète had told him. She’s gone for the afternoon. And I don’t care what she thinks anymore.

  Libète had seated Jak at their table, bringing out dish after dish of leftover chicken, plantains, and rice, serving him with heaping spoonfuls. The mound on his plate grew higher till it was more than he could ever gorge himself on in a
sitting.

  — I think that’s enough, he said.

  She looked at him mid-scoop and shrugged.

  — Suit yourself.

  She dropped the dish, letting it clatter onto the table before making one last trip to a counter to collect a knife, a long, sharp-pointed one with a fat blade. She laid it on the table and rested her hand upon it, giving Jak a tight-lipped grin. He smiled back, no time for words between mouthfuls.

  It was the sound of a key turning, slow and hard, and the creaking door that made him stop. His eyes shot to Libète, grains of rice clinging about his gaping mouth. Libète looked cold, her eyes fixed on the door. Her Aunt pushed through the doorway, streaming sweat, reclaiming a forty-pound bag of rice from its rest on the ground and holding its twin steady on her head.

  Upon seeing Jak, both bags dropped to the floor with a deadening thud.

  — What is he doing here?

  Libète stood up, erect, her eyes fusing with her Aunt’s.

  — Answer me!

  — I asked him to come. Libète spoke with quiet, measured words.

  — Into my home? You trample upon my rules again? You vile, ungrateful bastard! She advanced toward the middle of the floor, her step faltering under her swinging weight. In a fluid motion, Libète reached for the knife, its point squarely aimed at her Aunt.

  The woman seized, an incredulous laugh forced to fit through her pursed lips.

  She took another step.

  — Don’t. Don’t come closer.

  — I–I will kick you out so quickly! You’ll rot in the street like this boy, bake in the Sun until your flesh melts off! The pigs will eat your remains and vomit you—

  — Shut up.

  — I will not! She lifted her flabby arm to hit the girl, daring another step forward.

  — Shut UP! Libète screamed banshee-like, as only small children can, and jabbed with the knife, furious tears spilling onto her cheeks. Her Aunt recoiled at the sudden move, sparing herself from a sure cut.

  Jak was a spectator, disbelieving the scene playing out before him. Estelle stumbled backward, colliding with her back to the wall, her face inscrutable but for eyes that shouted fear.