Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti Read online

  The truck sped away. They’re even more scared than we are, she thought. That made sense. The gangs targeted police patrols, and even though things had been quieter since the December attacks, there was no reason to expect it to stay that way.

  — Come on, Libète. Let’s finish this. I don’t want to be out any longer than we have to, Jak said, tugging at her sweater.

  They continued on toward the customer’s house to finish the delivery. When they reached the row, they counted to the fourth home per the caller’s instructions. It was dark inside, leading Libète to wonder if they had made a mistake. She rapped on the door with three quick taps before each child stepped back a few feet.

  — Who is it? a voice said. The speaker tried to peer through the door’s bars without letting his face be seen.

  — We brought food. From Restaurant Estelle. She held up the bags to validate her claim.

  — Ah. Ah ha.

  A flurry of muted speech could be heard behind the door.

  — You have any weapons on you? The question unnerved Jak and emboldened Libète.

  — Do I look like I have weapons? she sneered. I’m a child. Come on, you want the food or not? Don’t waste my time.

  They could hear the metal bolt being drawn back before the door opened.

  — Come inside, the voice said.

  — We’ll stay out here. Just give the money and we’ll go.

  — I said, “come inside.” There was menace in the words.

  Libète looked to Jak and swallowed hard. The things I do for a few goud in my pocket, she thought, stepping over the threshold and into the darkness.

  One hour of wiping dirt from rich people’s cars proved more lucrative than expected.

  At first they thought the big cars driven by blan would be the best; white people love to give away their money, after all. This hypothesis had proven false for the better part of the hour until one blonde-haired university student in a hulking white tour bus passed by. She surreptitiously slipped a crisp hundred goud note into Jak’s outstretched hand through her narrowly cracked window. It was rolled around a green-wrapped bar that read “g-r-a-n-o-l-a.” He eyed it curiously, looked at the passing vehicle, and then turned to face Libète.

  — All you need is one! he shouted triumphantly, a wide smile on his face as he waved the bar and money.

  Libète rushed to his side from her supervisor’s post in the nearby shade. This money was enough to cover the unaccounted legs of the trip and replace the “borrowed” money!

  Like any sensible children, Libète and Jak promptly walked over to a man on the side of the road and bought two Star Colas. They sipped their sodas for twenty minutes, laughing at their good fortune before boarding their next taptap.

  Though it would take a bird only a few minutes to reach the crossing of John Brown and Jean-Jacques from their street corner, by truck it took another forty-five minutes. Blokis, the driver had said. Traffic. An understatement, the cars and trucks on the road moved as well as thick blood through plated arteries.

  As they disembarked from the truck at the intersection of John Brown and Jean-Jacques Dessalines, any frustrations evaporated. It was a sight to behold.

  Thousands of people and hundreds of vehicles moved up and down these roads. Merengue music wafted out of a window, setting a hectic rhythm for the streets below. Directly across was a row of young men selling school books piled on top of folding tables. Other vendors camped under umbrellas or the overhangs of second story-buildings on a street that extended so far that it seemed to run straight into the ocean.

  Cité Soleil was alive, but not like this.

  They looked for the green house. School kids were gathered on the corner, released from their studies for a midday break. They eyed Libète, in her unfamiliar red and blue uniform, and Jak, shirtless with a dirty rag hanging out the back of his shorts. The two children stepped carefully around filthy, green puddles and discarded rubbish in the gutters, avoiding their stares. Trying to look as if they knew what they were doing, they leaned against an explosively colorful passenger bus resting wheeless upon cinder blocks. The green house was nowhere to be seen.

  Libète’s eyes darted about the streets faster and faster. Were they at the right place? Had they interpreted the clues correctly?

  Libète turned and noticed “Faites Confiance à Dieu” written in looping blue script on the side of the inert bus. Trust God. She tapped the writing.

  — Jak, let’s pray. She lowered her head and whispered her petition, the boy doing the same.

  Bondye, we ask for your help.

  We are trying to find the one who killed Claire and Gaspar—I know you are familiar with them, and I am sure they’re with you now.

  But I wish to ask for your help to find the green house.

  Even as we search for Lolo, protect us and keep us safe.

  I can’t tell Jak, but I’m afraid. Very afraid.

  We go forward, trusting you to do for us what you didn’t for Claire and Gaspar.

  She gulped at the realization that there would be no earthly power standing between them and the hands of a murderer. She shivered before offering a quiet “amen” and looking up to the sky.

  — Jezi, Marie, Josef! Jak, there it is!

  Many second story apartments rested high above the columned rows of shops running up and down John Brown, and she saw that only a single green one was visible from the intersection. Besides its color, it looked like all the others. It had two small balconies that would permit just a single person to step out and view the entire intersection. The doors to both were open.

  — We’ve got to get up there.

  Libète moved about the street until she reached a street-level door, testing it. It was open.

  She was about to enter when Jak tugged at her uniform.

  — Stop. Libète, I feel like we’re just playing one of our games. I came out here for an adventure, to see if I was right about their riddle. But we’ve reached the end. We’ve found him. What are we going to do if we actually see him face to face?

  — We’re in the middle of the city! All we have to do is shout and these people will come help us. It’s not like the empty grasses where he killed Claire. Besides, I’m armed. She shook her school bag. Jak heard a number of stones rattle around.

  He grimaced, unimpressed. No.

  — Then I’m going alone.

  — Don’t do this, Libète—

  She stepped inside the door anyway and ascended the stairs. Jak waited a full minute before following.

  It was dark inside, and each step higher became a more cautious one. A single light bulb at the top of the stairwell showed the walls were stained stucco, darkened from years of exposure to the street’s grime and pollution.

  She palmed one of the stones in her hand. For all of her over-confident bluster with Jak, she knew this was not wise. Still, it just felt right, like her actions were being guided—maybe by God, maybe by San Figi herself.

  At the top of the stairwell was a narrow passage that led to two doors.

  Lolo could be behind either one. Or not. How to decide which one to knock on first?

  Libète looked at the closest door, white with paint chips falling off, and noticed it was ajar. She sidled along the wall and peeked in.

  It was unoccupied, or at least seemed so. She pried the door open, a slow creak emanating from its raw hinges. Not a single piece of furniture filled the room. The walls had yellowed and parts were covered in mold or mildew. Food wrappers littered the floor, along with cigarette butts crunched underfoot.

  Libète paused. If this room was unoccupied, it meant that Lolo was likely next door. Knowing that, they would be foolish to simply rap on his door. No, there has to be another way.

  Jak thought of it first. He leaned in, close to her ear. Remember the balconies? We could go out and look into the other apartment.

  Libète nodded excitedly and patted him on the back. She pushed open the door completely and rushed to the balcony
landing. Surveying the streetscape from above made her head spin. She had never been this high before, even though just twenty feet up. It was like being God, it just had to be, watching people utterly oblivious to your presence.

  She refocused. The two tried to peer through the doorway to the second balcony but only caught short glimpses as a pink curtain blew gently in the afternoon breeze. They could hear the sound of a transistor radio playing in the room. This wasn’t telling them anything.

  She looked at the distance between the two balconies. A dangerous maneuver, but they were close enough that they could jump from one to the other. Jak saw what needed to be done. Libète boosted him up, and he went across without any trouble. Libète followed, but had trouble getting on top of the railing without another’s help. She tossed her pack to Jak. Unencumbered, she soon stood on the second balcony with him. No one on the street had seen them make the leap.

  Libète reached into her bag and lifted one of the stones, ready for a confrontation. The radio wasn’t playing typical konpa or rap, but instead music listened to by the bourgeois—orchestral stuff, and mournful. She wicked away sweat forming on her brow with her wrist. It was doubtful that the radio would be left to play in an empty apartment.

  She poked her head through the curtains into the room, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the low light. Unlike the other apartment, this one was furnished, albeit sparsely, and had more side rooms. An old sofa, covered in slashed vinyl cushions, sat along one side of the room facing a timber hutch containing an assortment of fake flowers, small stuffed animals, and a medium-sized television. Hung next to that was a tacky portrait featuring the semi-nude backside of a Haitian woman. How would Lolo have come by this place?

  Seeing no signs of a presence, the two tiptoed across the threshold. The ground was covered with white tile, and they could also spy a small propane stove, sink, and cube-sized refrigerator off to one corner. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink. Back in the corner she saw another doorway that led to either a bedroom or toilet.

  Libète noticed a red Digicel knapsack on the sofa, triggering memories of Lolo with one like it in Bwa Nèf. She signaled silently to Jak and he nodded, agreeing that it must be Lolo’s. Where is he?

  Libète edged over and began rifling through it. A stack of 1000 goud notes grabbed her attention, more money than she had ever seen before. She next pulled out a cell phone, the one that Lolo had used to send messages to Wadner. And then a scrawled note stained with what looked like dried blood, reading simply, “Kore Lolo.” Run Lolo. The last item in the knapsack sent a chill through Libète. She opened the mouth of the bag wide so that Jak could see it too.

  — Yon zam, she mouthed. A gun.

  Good judgment dictated that they should leave, evidence in hand, and report it to Dimanche. But Libète could not stifle her curiosity. She crept toward the bedroom, her arm still loaded and cocked with a stone, ready to fire. Jak did not follow. He shook his head, mouthing at her, “Don’t go! No!” Libète approached the bedroom door and took a long, deep breath. All that sat in the room was a large bed with some clothes strewn about. She turned back to Jak and shrugged.

  Then, piercing the quiet, came the horrible sound of a key turning in the apartment door.

  Someone was coming.

  Lolo was coming.

  Libète sprinted toward the balcony. Jak was already there, trying to climb the high railing on his own. Libète reached Jak and gave him the needed push to get to the other side. With her heart about to explode, she dropped her rock to free up her hands, clumsily threw her pack to the other balcony before climbing the railing and readying to launch herself.

  Lolo grabbed Libète, now in midair, his long arm reaching around her waist and pulling her backwards. Jak turned just in time to see Libète’s expression morph from one of fear to abject horror an instant before Lolo clapped his hand over her mouth and dragged her back through the curtains, into the dark.

  The children heed the menacing invitation telling them to come inside from the street and deliver their food.

  The thug at the door brings them into an utterly black central room and lets them stand there. Each child holds a sack of meals in one hand. They hear the sound of heavy breaths encircle them. As their pupils dilate, they can count the ghostly forms of at least seven people. Libète senses Jak shake. She squeezes his hand to still him.

  A scratching sound, new and frightening, comes from the corner, accompanied by a flash of light. The children spin around to see a lit match illuminate the face of a sitting man, used first to singe the tip of his cigarette before lighting a small kerosene lamp atop a crate.

  It is Touss.

  He sits in a gold-painted chair with a pretty woman on a stool by his side. The light lets Libète glimpse two young men and a woman at a table in another corner, with rows of white powder before them. The doorman and another lanky figure loom off to the side. Bottles sit throughout the room. He is slum royalty, presiding over his court.

  — Bonswa, children, Touss says.

  — Bonswa, Libète replies timidly.

  — You have our food?

  — Yes.

  — And you are from Bwa Nèf, yes?

  — Yes.

  — Is Estelle your mother?

  — My aunt.

  — So that makes Davidson your kouzin, yes?

  Libète was surprised he knew of the relation. The light played off several gold teeth in his mouth, acquired after Dimanche had broken his face those months before.

  — Yes. He is.

  — He’s a good boy. A good young man. Touss took a large drag on his cigarette. He’s a smart one. I bet you probably are, too.

  Libète shrugged.

  — What are your names? I like to know everyone in my community.

  — Libète, she offered.

  — Jak, the boy croaked.

  — Thank you for bringing our meal.

  — Pa gen pwoblem. It’s nothing.

  — Charles, take the food. And give them the money.

  The doorman snapped to attention and took the bags, distributing the containers to each of the courtiers. They tore into the chicken, the pleasant aroma mingling with the smoke rolling off Touss’ cigarette. He shook the dead ashes to the floor.

  — So, Li-bè-te — he emphasized each syllable — that’s a lovely name. A strong name. A freedom fighter’s, I’d say. You deliver things, do you?

  — Yes.

  Touss smiled before growing serious. You know, we’re fighting a war here. My people. Against the police, against the foreigners. We’re the only ones defending Bwa Nèf—all of Cité Soleil, really.

  Libète didn’t answer.

  — Without us, the elites, the rich and powerful would do what they want, stabbing us with their high heels, grinding us beneath their Armani shoes. But there’s a problem: “Si gen divizyon nan yon fanmi, fanmi sa a pa la pou lontan.” You know that one? “And if there is division in a house, that house will come to destruction.” It’s from the Bible. We—Cité Soleil—are a house divided. And I believe that needs to change. You agree?

  A lump formed in her throat. Touss reached for a small green box labeled “Comme il Faut,” pulled out another cigarette, and lit it on the lamp’s open flame.

  — Dako. I suppose, she mumbled.

  — Ah, I’m glad to hear it. Because I need help. My boss, Belony, he’s in a tight spot. Everyone is out to get him. I have to help him. I’m supposed to be his hands and feet, but those bastards—the police, UN, even the other gangs—they have me wrapped up tight in chains. Touss held out his wrists like they were chafing from bonds. So I’m kept from my work. I want to make peace and end these divisions so Cité Soleil can stand united against these enemies. You hearing me?

  Libète nodded.

  — I’m glad you’re seeing things from my perspective, that you’re on my side.

  Libète looked to Jak.

  — If you walk away, it’s okay. Touss put his hands in the air as if acceptin
g defeat. I understand. These are frightening times. No one would want you getting hurt. But if you help me, you could change things. You could bring peace, Libète. You. And all you have to do is deliver something — Libète held her breath — a message. That’s all. One single, simple message. I give it to you, you put it in one of your little food boxes, take it to a place in Project, and bang — he clapped — you’re finished. Job done. You’ll have written a peace treaty.

  — What…what if I can’t do it?

  The feasting stopped for a moment and all eyes turned to watch the king’s answer.

  — Nothing. I mean, the killing continues like it has. These are bad, dangerous times, Libète. Bullets fly everywhere. Someone you care about might get hit—of course I’m not saying from my guns—we don’t hurt our people. But you can make sure that doesn’t happen.

  — Just one message? She gulped. That’s all?

  — That’s it.

  She squirmed, looking at Jak out of the corner of her eye.

  — When do you want it delivered?

  — Tonight. Right now.

  — But my Aunt—

  — She can wait. She can wait a few minutes for peace. Look, take this. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a 500 goud note, got up, and placed it in the girl’s hand, forcing her fingers closed around it. Your aunt will surely understand if you give her that. Or you can keep it for yourself. Whatever—I don’t care. But just do this one, little, tiny thing to help us all.

  Libète nodded. He pulled out a sheet of paper and began scribbling a note.

  — One more thing, Li-bè-te, he said as he finished writing. If you tell anyone where I am, or what I asked you to do, I’ll kill you.

  Libète’s heart lurched before plummeting into her stomach.

  — I’ll do it myself, he added. I’m sorry. I just can’t risk anyone knowing I’m here. It’d ruin everything. More division, more death, no peace. You understand?

  He said this so sympathetically, so reluctantly, that it seemed there was no real choice to be made. Libète mustered another slight nod, her vision beginning to spin.

  — Ah, byen. We’re agreed then. This will be good for everyone. For Jak here, Davidson, your tantie Estelle, Bwa Nèf—all of Cité Soleil. You’ll be a hero, Libète, a real hero. “The girl who brought peace.”