Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti Page 14

  Libète advanced with the knife, slowly, dreadfully.

  — Bay kou bliye, pote mak sonje, Libète recited. “The giver of the blow forgets, the scarred one remembers.” You know that one?

  She took a step closer, the blade trembling in her grasp.

  — I have all the scars. You have none.

  Another step. Estelle winced.

  — My mother dies and you turn me into a slave. “I give you clothes, I give you food, I give you a home” you say. So what, I say. You beat me when I’m too slow, when I’m too fast, when I drop something, when I pick it up! Her head seared from this exertion, Jak could tell, but she pressed on with her indictment.

  Estelle slid down the wall, becoming a sorry puddle. She held her hands out to shield her from the knife, the words, the truth. Libète hovered just out of reach, the blade capable of cutting Estelle’s palms.

  Estelle made to open her mouth, and Jak braced for a fury as he’d never before seen. He pictured Libète plunging the knife into her Aunt and her fat absorbing the blade then sucking Libète in until there was no girl at all, leaving only him and Estelle. Jak wanted to curl up under the table and die, on his own terms before Estelle could exact her revenge.

  To his surprise, only a hiss escaped her lips.

  The woman tried to speak again.

  — But…I love you! I give you everything. Don’t you…don’t you see?

  — You don’t! Libète spat. You don’t! I’m a toy dressed up, a doll for show!

  Estelle balled her fists. Libète braced herself. Jak cringed.

  She put the fist to her mouth and bit down, and she began to shake with low, quiet sobs. I am sorry, she mewled. I am sorry.

  — In public I’m your daughter, in the house your dog! Libète barked. Jak saw her words did all the necessary cutting.

  — I am sorry, she cried quietly, hiding her face, covering her mouth.

  — You call Jak trash, but he treats me well.

  — I am sorry, she said to the boy. Please, put the knife down. I repent, I repent before Jezi, forgive me!

  Libète breathed deeply, the words loosening her anger’s vise. Reality came crashing in. To Jak, it seemed she saw the situation anew. A knife. In her hand. Aimed at another.

  Libète unclenched the blade, and it bounced to a rest upon the hard ground.

  — I’m…I’m sorry too, she said in a daze. That was a very wrong thing, a very bad thing to do.

  She collapsed to her knees, reflecting her Aunt’s pitiable state. Estelle still shook, unable to take her hands from her face and be seen unmasked.

  Libète wiped her tears with her wrists, terrified by this new and foreign anger.

  She looked to Jak now, her eyes hollow. Jak could only look away.

  Libète was thrown out the door of the school and told not to come back until she had “appropriate” shoes.

  Now on Impasse Chavannes, she made as if heading home, wearing a scowl on her face. She ducked into an alley once far from school. Beyond watching eyes, her grin returned.

  — Libète! Jak said in exasperation, calling out from behind a barrel used to hide. What took so long?

  — Féthière is blind! She didn’t even notice my feet till I practically put them in her face.

  Libète plopped down on an upended cinder block and opened her bag. She took out black-buckled school shoes and put them on, dropping the colored flip-flops inside.

  — Let’s go.

  The two rushed down a discrete path to reach Route 9 and board their first taptap in search of Lolo. One of the garish pick-ups soon came along, and the children piled in with four other passengers, setting off to a place neither had been before.

  As she sat on one of the benches, her bruises smarted. The text message from Wadner’s phone, the fruit of her beatings, had vexed her and Jak for more than a day, but not longer. “Follow Jean, who is brown, and he will cross Jean-Jacques. They always meet in a green house.” She repeated it to herself each time, a reminder that her suffering was needless unless she could figure it out.

  It was a code, of this they were certain. They also knew it couldn’t be too sophisticated because, well, Lolo and Wadner weren’t sophisticated. Jak had stepped into Libète’s house to check on her when her Aunt and Uncle were out. He soon took to reading the old newspapers and magazine articles pasted to the walls, a favorite activity. Before long his eyes settled on a map of Port-au-Prince’s downtown, and he spotted landmarks he had never seen with his own eyes. There was the National Palace, different government ministries, and famous streets of which he had only previously read their names. Champs de Mars, Ave. Jean-Jacques Dessalines, Ave. John Brown…

  It struck Jak like a bolt of lightning. It was so obvious, but only because Jak had taught himself colors in English. Jean, ki se mawon, the John who is Brown.

  — Libète! Get over here!

  Libète was reclining on the sofa in the living room.

  — You’re making me get up with these aches? It better be worth it!

  She edged over stiffly and found him with his finger to the map. He was tracing the streets carefully and soon saw as he expected.

  — I’ve got it! Follow John Brown and he will cross Jean-Jacques! They’re talking about where the two streets meet! Lolo must be hiding downtown, somewhere near there—in a green house? That’s where we’ve got to look for him!

  And on that basis alone they now did.

  Once settled in the taptap, the other passengers gave the two children sidelong looks: her in school clothes but not in school, and Jak in a threadbare shirt and shorts. Detecting the stares, she blurted out, We’re going to visit our mother…at the hospital. It’s downtown, near Avni Jean-Jacques Dessalines. Can anyone tell us how to get there?

  An older man with a network of hard lines criss-crossing his face spoke. You will have to stop at least two times and transfer before walking some distance to reach it.

  Libète’s spirits sank, but she hid this from Jak. She had only borrowed (stolen, really) enough money from her Aunt for one transfer and then for the return trip. Twenty goud each, forty total. The prospect of being stranded did not appeal to her.

  — Mèsi, Mesye. Tell us when we should transfer, souple? She felt an inexplicable calm, a sense that this is what San Figi’s lingering spirit was encouraging her toward. They would find a way to make up the difference, she knew it.

  She looked at Jak. He was peering out of the small crack between the plastic shell covering the passengers and the truck bed. She did the same. Libète had been to a family wedding up high on Delmas road, but that was a few years ago. Jak, she realized, had never been out of Cité Soleil, not even once. Within minutes the familiar landmarks and signs of their world had vanished, replaced by places and people unknown.

  They made their first transfer, and the taptap assistant called out the next stop. The man with the lined face spoke again.

  — We’re not so far now. If you alight here, you can catch a taptap to John Brown. You must head straight one more block, and then go left. Two more blocks, and you’ll be there, my friends.

  — Many thanks, mesye. Jak, let’s do as he says.

  When the lumbering truck stopped, they handed their five goud coins to the assistant and descended.

  The two stood on the busy street corner for a while, a subtle excitement creeping up their bodies and making their heads light. The corner was wild with street sellers carrying belts, medicines, hats, or cardboard boxes with cold sodas and energy drinks that sweat in the heat. A shoeshine boy drummed upon his case of polishes with an impressive beat, and pedestrians danced as they walked, their courses and purposes known only to them.

  Libète pondered their situation silently. They could either use their reserves to cover the last leg, or seek out some way to make up the balance now.

  — What are we waiting for?

  — Jak, let’s stay here for a bit.

  — What? Why?

  Libète pulled the empty pockets of
her uniform inside out.

  — Not enough?

  — I didn’t know how many transfers there would be.

  — Libète!

  — What? Have you ever been to Jean-Jacques and John Brown? I haven’t! So I guessed.

  — Why didn’t you tell me?

  — Because, she said derisively, poking Jak on the chest. I knew you would back out. We need to find a way to make twenty goud.

  — Twenty!? But that could take all day!

  Libète surveyed the street. She knew that they could beg, but that was beneath them. Telling a story to pry the money from the hand of a trusting soul was always an option. No, swindling was too unsavory, as was stealing from anyone but her Aunt. She set her mind on the only other possibility: they would have to work.

  But what could they do?

  Up the street, Libète spied a young boy waiting at a broad intersection. Each time the traffic signal turned red, the boy set to wiping down the dirty cars and trucks with an old rag. Libète’s eyes lit up. Jak had carefully watched her gaze focus on the boy.

  He sighed. Alright. But where do we get a rag?

  She eyed Jak.

  — Take off your shirt.

  — What? No! What am I going to wear if my shirt is covered in dirt?

  — Jak, your clothes are always covered in dirt. What difference does it make?

  He was downcast.

  — I’m sorry, Jak, I’m sorry. But help me do this. I’ve already been beaten twice to get here and I’m going to get hit even more for missing school and stealing money!

  Jak brow crinkled as he pulled his shirt over his head. Libète hid a frown from Jak, regretting that she had heaped more indignity upon her friend.

  The two found another intersection nearby. Jak approached his first car, an expensive looking one that had “Mercedes” in silver lettering along the back. Shirt in hand, he started wiping dirt off the hood. The driver, a light-skinned woman, didn’t acknowledge him and drove off at the traffic signal’s turn to green, colliding with his shoulder and spinning him to the ground.

  Libète rushed to his side and helped him up. A breath of car exhaust nearly made her choke.

  — You’re not doing it right! Libète hissed. Make your face look like you’re sick and haven’t eaten today!

  — I haven’t eaten today, he muttered.

  — Well, she paused. Then make it three days! She modeled a pitiable face.

  Jak swore at her.

  That Libète was not kicked from her Aunt’s home surprised everyone, Libète and Estelle included. But there was something true in their confrontation, something undeniable and valuable that cut through their layers of self-deception and forced them to face the stark reality of what kicked around the corners of their souls. For Estelle, it was her pride and brutality. For Libète, an anger that could cause her to injure another.

  Despite these glimmers of clarity, no one chooses to view themselves in a poor light for long. They were soon at odds again, falling into the same arguments and patterns. But things had changed, irrevocably so. Libète knew she would never be her aunt’s daughter, but now saw that while still a restavek, a child servant, she was something less than a ti bòn, a bonded slave. And while Estelle now permitted Libète more freedom, including keeping company with Jak, she wouldn’t hesitate to beat the girl if provoked.

  This thawing of their relationship was reflected in Estelle’s new business model. Always the entrepreneur, she recently acquired a telefòn mobil and was eager to use it to expand her business. She posted a new painted sign on the side of the fence surrounding her kitchen. It read “Restauraunt Estelle” followed by her phone number and the words nou delivre, “we deliver.” In truth it should have read “Libète delivers.”

  Libète resumed school a month after her expulsion from Pastor Lucien’s academy, but found herself relegated to Madam Féthière’s school. Widely regarded as the worst in Bwa Nèf, its red and blue uniforms were some consolation to Libète. She had to regularly remind herself of her good fortune in having a school to attend, and that her Aunt was still willing to pay the fees. Most days after school, Libète would be busy taking plastic bags filled with foam containers of food to this house or church, that funeral or wedding.

  Through this, the whole of Bwa Nèf was opened up to her. She learned back routes and alleyways and became acquainted with many more people in the community. Jak, with little else to do, accompanied her on these trips. When Libète discovered that her Aunt would let her keep small tips from speedy deliveries, it gave her an idea. Without her Aunt’s knowledge, she began employing Jak’s services so that Libète would deliver one order while Jak another, increasing their take. Libète secreted most of hers away—not because she was saving up for any particular candy or toy, but because it made her feel more important than other children with no money. Jak’s share went to help him buy food for himself and his grandmother.

  It was not safe work in those increasingly dark and violent months, but profit outweighed her Aunt’s prudence in most instances. More than once, when the report of gunfire was heard, Estelle remarked, “That was just a moto’s engine backfiring. Out you go, and be quick! The food will be cold when it reaches our customers!” So Libète scurried about in shadows, hoping to avoid the gun battles, arrests, and bloody executions so rampant in the streets.

  From what she had gathered since coming to Cité Soleil six months earlier, the violence between the Chimè, the gangbangers in that area, started when President Aristide was forced to leave the country in February 2004. People rallied against the forces that had expelled him and his family, but the police in the pocket of the elites were used to put down demonstrators supportive of Aristide and his Lavalas political party. This often meant killing them.

  Most all in Cité Soleil loved Aristide. He was seen as the first president to have the interests of the poor at heart. When many died in the fighting, the U.N. peacekeepers were invited in by the stricken government to “stabilize” the country using armored vehicles and machine guns.

  While this occurred, many gangs began to take advantage of the situation. They sprang up in each of the different zones of Cité Soleil, with three big leaders that ran most everything. Evens Jeune ran things in Boston, Amaral Duclona in Belecourt, and in Bwa Nèf, Belony was the big chef. Touss, Libète had finally worked out, was one of Belony’s top lieutenants and was seen in public much more frequently than the top gangster himself.

  The people in Bwa Nèf were sick of this fighting. Violence was as endemic as fulminating diarrhea in the neighborhood, and MINUSTAH, the peacekeepers, had been especially active in recent months. The largest invasion in 2006 occurred three days before Christmas. Nearly 400 troops in their armored vehicles entered the slums along with Haitian police at three in the morning, prompting a firefight that lasted much of the day. The size and ferocity rivaled the largest previous fight, dating back to July when MINUSTAH had targeted and killed one of the main Aristide supporters named Dread Wilmè, a figure celebrated by the slum dwellers and castigated by the elites.

  The damage to the community proved inestimable. By the time smoke had cleared and the rubble and remains were taken into account, it was the innocents who had suffered most. Scores of civilians were killed. The high-caliber weapons’ fire tore through the shacks and shanties, striking people dead in their beds and bereaving families. Libète had stood at the funeral for many of the dead, held in front of the community stage in Bwa Nèf. She wept with others over the collected caskets of her neighbors, crying bitter tears because the deaths were unjust, stupid, and wrong. All of this warring made her long for the quiet and simple peace of La Gonâve, when her greatest concerns were an empty stomach, her mother’s love, and the health of her goats.

  On this particular night, Libète and Jak carried a large order—seven styrofoam containers brimming with chicken legs, sos pwa, and rice to an unfamiliar house in the northeastern corner of Bwa Nèf, not far from the sea. It was an unseasonably cool ni
ght, and wet. Libète had put on her favorite knit sweater appointed with wild animals to help with the crisp air while Jak donned a stained, pink button-down shirt he had found discarded a week before. Meant for a child twice his size, he rolled the sleeves halfway up just so he could use his hands.

  There was an uneasiness permeating the streets, but this was nothing new. As soon as the two stepped off the main road, a truck approached, flicking on its dormant lights. They rushed into an alley to ensure they were not hit, but it slowed down instead of speeding past. The passenger-side window rolled down. Sitting behind it was Officer Simeon, from the National Police.

  — Children! he half-shouted, half-whispered, signaling for them to come closer. They approached his truck cautiously. There was a shadowy figure sitting behind the wheel, and it was Jak who first recognized his round, bald head.

  — It’s Dimanche! Jak whispered, inaudible to the officers over the sound of their idling pickup. Both children gulped.

  — You shouldn’t be out, Simeon said.

  — But we must, ofisye. She lifted her bags. We are delivering food, and it cannot deliver itself.

  — I don’t care if someone misses an evening meal! I care that children don’t get killed. It’s a bad night to be on the streets. We’ve heard Touss is back in this zone, already stirring up trouble.

  — Ah, but if I don’t deliver this order, then it will be me who’s in trouble. Right now, I’m afraid of my Aunt’s fists more than Touss’.

  Simeon grimaced.

  — Who is your aunt, child? I must tell her not to let her niece and her niece’s friend out after dark.

  — My name is Libète, and my aunt is Estelle—of Restaurant Estelle. My friend here is Jak.

  — Hurry up, then, Dimanche growled, speaking for the first time. Deliver your food. But get home quick. I don’t want to find you out this late again, nor your bodies in the streets.

  Libète gulped. Wi, ofisye.