Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti Read online

Libète stood from her chair and put the gun on the floor. She moved to Lolo and placed a hand on his trembling shoulders. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to quell the tears.

  — Let’s go, Jak. We need to get back to Bwa Nèf. Before we’re missed.

  — Look, you two. I’m sorry for earlier. Please forgive me. And whatever you do, don’t let anyone know I’m here. They’ll find me, arrest me, kill me—who knows.

  Libète looked Lolo directly in the eye.

  — I believe your story, Lolo. And I promise, on my mother’s grave, that no one, not one single person, will know you’re here who doesn’t already.

  IT WILL MEAN PEACE

  Avan ou monte bwa, gade si ou ka desann li

  Before you climb a tree, look to see if you can climb down

  Pousyè pa leve san van

  Dust doesn’t rise without wind

  — So that’s how it happened. How I know. That’s why Lolo is hiding downtown.

  Libète stands outside the walls of the Commisariat de Police. It is another day, but the Sun has already started its slow descent and Libète is finished with school. Jak is not with her, and does not know the promise she has just broken.

  — He’s innocent, she says. You’ve got to know that, and make sure he’s not arrested. Or worse.

  Officer Simeon raises an eyebrow. He has listened to Libète’s story, asking few questions. All has been told: stealing Wadner’s phone, finding the apartment, the struggle as Lolo entered, his love and woe, and her own solemn promise to tell no one.

  Simeon grimaces.

  — This is a story, Libète. A big one. But I don’t understand why you’re telling me. If you swore—

  — Because, she interjected. I know I can trust you Simeon, trust you to help us. To help him. You’re good, not like the other officers. You can protect him from the one who did all this, and from being arrested for the crime!

  Simeon averted his eyes, looking down the road and rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. I’m happy to hear you trust me.

  This lack of reassurance put Libète on edge. But Simeon, she said while wagging her finger. You must promise not to tell Dimanche! This is not for him!

  The officer sighed. Libète, I’ve worked with him for a long time. He’s a good man, but a hard one. He’s seen many things that can spoil a soul.

  — I don’t care! I gave this to you. Promise me—

  — Libète, I can’t do that.

  — You must! She stomped her foot, eyes widening, face contorted. You have to!

  He forced an uneasy laugh and held up his hands, relenting. Fine. It will be kept silent. No one will know while I investigate, including Dimanche. If need be, I’ll question Lolo, but only informally.

  — What’s that mean? she snapped. “Informally”?

  — We won’t arrest him. Unless we have to. That’s what it means.

  Libète nearly burst in frustration but Simeon cut her off.

  — Listen! I have promised I will do all I can to protect him and will do as I say.

  She crossed her arms. You sound like w’ap pale franse, like you’re speaking French.

  Simeon frowned, his eyes rolling upward as he searched for words. He replied in a measured tone.

  — You think I’m deceiving you, but I’m not. I’ll make sure harm doesn’t come to Lolo. That’s my final word.

  — That’s what I needed to hear.

  — Now go, Libète. I need to get back to work.

  She gave a wordless nod and turned to walk away.

  — And thank you, Libète, he said. For trusting me.

  She gave a faint smile before continuing to cross Route 9, back toward Bwa Nèf, back toward home. A slight drizzle began to fall from the heavy, sagging clouds above. Part way, she changed direction.

  There was another she needed to speak with before returning home.

  Little Libète runs to Project Drouillard in the dark, a bag in her hand, a container with food in the bag, and a message in the container.

  Peace, Touss said. It will mean peace, she remembered.

  And I’ll be a hero.

  In her other hand she clenches the 500 goud note, a talisman to ensure good fortune on this delivery.

  Upon leaving Touss’ hideout, she sent Jak away. His nerves were frayed and he’d only slow her down. When they parted for good near Jak’s hovel, he blurted out, “Don’t trust him.” Libète saw little choice in the matter: she could smuggle the message Touss had scribbled and placed in the styrofoam container, keep the money, and hope for some small measure of peace, or find her life at an early end.

  An old and rotund man with wiry hair and a grizzled beard was still out on Route 9, a seller of small snacks and candies. Everyone in their right senses was already inside in the event of another night raid.

  The seller’s display, a large wooden suitcase of sorts seated on a low table, was lit by a candle stuck in place by its melting wax. She situated herself close to the candle, pulled the food container from the bag, and unwrapped Touss’ folded message from its clear plastic sachet.

  — What is that? What are you doing?

  — None of your business! Libète sneered.

  — Accursed child! Get away from my light! It’s mine!

  Libète made an obscene gesture she had used many times since learning it in Cité Soleil. The seller, mumbling slurs, relented. She squinted to interpret Touss’ script. It was simple enough for Libète’s rudimentary reading skills to slowly spell out and understand:

  “We must talk fas-a-fas. MINUSTAH on the move next week. Need to plan our response. Better to fight them than each other, no? Meet at the edge of Bwa Nèf and Wharf Jeremie. Lone two-story house, at 2am, this Friday. No weapons. It will mean peace between Belony and Evens. My word.”

  He had signed it “Toussaint Laguerre,” his full name. It was everything he had said to Libète—an overture of peace, at least between two of the gangs running Cité Soleil. She returned the note to its sachet and, cursing the seller once more, ran further into Project Drouillard.

  She continued through the streets, trying to follow Touss’ less-than-clear directions to her point of delivery. As Touss had explained, he sent her because one of his men would be summarily shot. No such thing would happen to a small girl, he had said. So far he was right.

  She plowed down a small turn-off and stumbled onto a main road directly into the path of a white armored U.N. vehicle lumbering down the road. The behemoth’s searchlight immediately flashed upon her and she thrust up her hands, blinded.

  — Não atire! she shouted in the Portuguese tongue the Brazilian U.N. troops spoke, “Don’t shoot!” She had heard this uttered by youth many times before when searched by the troops at gunpoint.

  — Ale, ale! the response came, a hurried reply telling her to be off.

  She shot to the safety of shadows. This is where they told me to go, but I don’t see anyone! She lurked about, heart thumping, looking for the watchmen she was told to find. A hand thrust out from black shadows and lay upon her shoulder, making her nearly jump out of her skin.

  — What are you doing out? the stern voice bellowed. Evens’ ordered everyone indoors for their safety. The sentry, his features impossible to see in the dark, brandished a pistol, the sheen of which was now altogether visible.

  — You’re one of Evens’ guys? she said, swallowing her fear.

  — Yes.

  — I need to find the Dominikèn. I have a message to give him.

  — A message? You can give it to me. I’ll give it to him.

  — I can’t and won’t. Her tone was brash, maybe too much so. Look, I was given instructions, exact ones, and I’ll be in trouble if I do it wrong.

  The sentry thought this over. Come on then. But be quiet.

  The two proceeded further up the road before halting at the entrance to an alley marked with an archway made from fused scrapmetal. He made a bird call, and Libète heard a similar call echo back from the other end of the alley. A minute l
ater, a squat runner materialized out of nowhere, and the sentry whispered a hushed explanation. The runner listened and ran back the way he had come.

  Two long minutes later, a hulking form emerged from the shadows. He eyed Libète with great displeasure.

  — Are you the Dominikèn? Libète questioned timidly.

  — I am. He held a flashlight in his hand, the ambient light outlining his frame and face. He was nearly three times Libète’s height, or at least it seemed that way, his sinewy muscles the largest Libète had ever seen.

  — I’m from Touss. He wanted me to give you this. He said it would mean peace for Cité Soleil. She opened her bag and handed the man the container.

  He eyed it suspiciously. Food?

  — There’s a message inside.

  He opened the box and took the message, dropping the container to the ground. He brought the paper close to his eyes, using the flashlight to read the looping cursive.

  — Hmm. Mmhmm, he grunted to himself, as if an oral argument was going on inside his head. Libète waited anxiously for the magistrate inside to render his decision.

  — Tell Touss that I’ll run this by Evens. But I think he’ll be interested. Yes, tell Touss we’ll be there. If not, we’ll let him know.

  Libète exhaled deeply, words starting to tumble from her lips. That’s wonderful. I’m glad to hear—

  — Go, the Dominikèn growled, cutting her off.

  Libète shut up, for once not hesitating to do as told.

  The former devil known as Elize Jean-Baptiste stirred at the sound of a faint rapping on the side of his door. He had drifted into sleep as the rain began tip-a-tapping against his shack’s anodized aluminum sheeting. At first he didn’t hear the sound over the plunking rain, but Titid did. The pig roused, notifying Elize someone was outside.

  — Who’s there? he called with some alarm, sitting upright.

  — It’s me, Mesye Elize. Libète.

  — Just a moment.

  Because of the worsening weather, he kept his mat elevated upon a sheet of salvaged plywood and several cinderblocks. His shack often flooded, leaving behind unsightly green sludge. He knew as the season’s heavy rains came and went he could expect the sludge to do the same.

  He looked about for his cane, picking up the golf club and bracing himself on Titid’s back. Getting up was a great struggle with his arthritic joints. He breathed out, pushing himself up, bones creaking and cracking. He stood for a moment, collecting himself before pulling the curtain aside.

  Libète stood before him in full school uniform, sopping wet. Her legs were covered in mud from her walk through the marshes. Can I come in?

  — Of course, Libète. Please. You can wipe off first. He signaled to an old scrap of a T-shirt near the doorway.

  — Forgive me for sitting, he said as he moved back toward his stool and collapsed. I’m in some pain lately. I wish I had another chair to offer.

  — It’s OK, she said as she ran the rag over her legs. I’m used to the floor.

  Elize cleared his throat, coughing twice. I’m surprised to see you again, me being a “dyab” and all.

  She looked away bashfully.

  — I wanted to update you. That’s all, she replied. We tried to find out more about the young man you saw. And we did. His name is Lolo, and he didn’t do anything wrong. We found him, downtown, and he told us everything. He was lured to the place after the thing was done. The killer wanted him to look guilty.

  Elize pondered this slowly. Is that so? he said. You’ve discovered much. He looked at her with a penetrating stare. But again, why did you return to tell me?

  — I felt like you should know.

  — But why?

  — Because…because you trusted us, Jak and I. You thought we could do something to help and told us to continue. She shrugged. No one else did.

  He gave a small smile and nod before a grim expression overtook his face. So this—Lolo, you said his name is?—didn’t kill them. And you’re convinced of this?

  — That’s right.

  — Hmm. Yes. That makes me more nervous.

  — What?

  — It means someone—someone else—someone who we know is very dangerous still prowls about. The danger is not over.

  — Why say that? What if he just wanted Claire and Gaspar dead?

  — Ah, but we don’t know why the killer killed. This is the big question, and it leads to many more. The woman and child were targeted. That is clear. And the killer wanted others to believe this Lolo was behind the crime. If Lolo was not guilty—

  — Yes?

  — And he was framed—

  — Yes?

  — And if others, such as yourself, show he’s not responsible—

  — Yes?

  — Then it will ruin the killer’s plans, whatever they may be. It draws attention to those who ruined those plans—potentially to you and Jak.

  — This–this is bad. Very bad.

  — And I’m to blame. I see now that by pushing you on, I may have pushed you into danger.

  A long silence overcame them and they sat for some moments, the sound of rain falling to fill the gap.

  — What should I do? What can I do?

  Elize sighed heavily. Be more careful than before. Tell no one else about Lolo. Doing so now, until we know more, is like spreading a sickness. Sharing with others endangers them—you, Jak, even myself, I suppose.

  Crestfallen, Libète spoke. I’ve already told another.

  — Who?

  — A policeman.

  Elize’s expression hardened like graven stone.

  Libète tried to explain further. A trusted one! she added quickly. He can protect Lolo when no one else can.

  This vouching did nothing to change Elize’s spirits. They are the same as they always were and are, Libète—not to be trusted.

  — I kept you a secret, Elize. I promise. The officer knows nothing about you seeing Lolo in the marshes.

  A sudden sadness overcame him.

  — I appreciate it, Libète, but that’s not my concern. I fear for this young man. Without knowing more about this officer and the killer, I fear for Lolo. I hope yours was the right choice, my friend, I truly do.

  The familiar sound of bullets ricocheting and ripping through walls opens the day. At first there are a few shots, and little Libète does not even wake up. But the gunfire, coming in short, individual explosions and then sustained automatic bursts, grows closer.

  Her eyes shoot open. She breathes fast and deep in the dark, orienting herself. It is Friday morning, and she is confused. Today was supposed to be the early morning when the gangs would meet, the day of peace.

  Worried shouting echoes close by, and the rumble of heavy vehicles can also be heard. There are strange metallic sounds when the bullets collide with the vehicles’ steel plating. Libète’s Aunt and Uncle leap from their bed to cower on the floor. Her Aunt prays to Jesus, and God, and the Holy Spirit for them to protect her and her business. Her Uncle stays silent in his fear.

  Since making her delivery to the Dominikèn, she had counted down the days with much anticipation. She dreamed of awakening to the sound of joyous celebration in Bwa Nèf, to news the gangs had reached a truce, imagining being lifted high on the shoulders of friends and cheered as word of the surprise peace spread, lavished with ice cream and Coca-Cola, and loved by all, even her enemies Gracita, Rit, and Therese. The sound of each new bullet steadily chipped away at these dreams.

  She told no one of her delivery, lying successfully to her aunt about her extraordinary delay (difficulty in finding the customer, she had said). She tried to tell Jak, and while he was glad she came away unscathed, he looked on the entire experience with Touss as a nightmare. He didn’t want to talk about it any further.

  Libète huffs and puffs on her sleeping mat, staring at her ceiling in the dark. She hears cursing right outside her door. Two men’s voices warn of soldiers and police on the move. She reaches under her ratty, discolored pillow,
and clasps Touss’ money in her palm. Her hand trembles, wrapped around the false promise.

  Aunt Estelle’s ejaculatory prayers grow in fervor and volume before she is quieted by weapons’ fire so close it shakes her soul. Libète sees muzzle flashes illuminate the main room and forces her face into her pillow.

  What sounds like hundreds of bullets tear down the row in their scattered search for the two men. One is hit. Libète can tell because he screams. The other mindless shots miss their mark and pour into the homes, tearing through wall after flimsy wall with their bullish velocity. The wall above Libète’s body erupts in a spray of concrete and stucco that rains down on her.

  She cries out.

  The gunfire ceases.

  There is silence.

  Libète’s Aunt lets out a plaintive moan. Libète breathes fast, short, and hard, consumed by a single, reverberating question.

  Where is the peace?

  It thrashes around her crowded mind.

  Where did it go?

  Libète sits inside her doorway the morning after telling Simeon and Elize what she promised Lolo she would not.

  She watches as rain falls in torrential waves upon her row of homes, hard then soft, soft then hard. Her Aunt has made her responsible for three buckets positioned around the living room, catching water from leaks in their roof. She empties them every hour or so, always returning to her spot in the doorway to fret and watch the grim grey sky.

  Jak rounds the corner, running up the lane. He is shirtless, and each barefooted step sends water splashing everywhere.

  — Libète! he hollers. Are you free? Can you play?

  The house is clean, and her Aunt is not cooking because the rain dampens morning business. She nods, emptying the buckets again before locking the door behind her.

  Jak leads her to the concrete disco, and as Libète suspected, they come upon nearly thirty kids of all ages and various states of undress, running, diving, and sliding on the ground.

  Joy permeates the place. Met by the others’ laughter, Libète tears off her wet clothes down to her underpants while Jak disrobes entirely, just like the other small children. In that moment, all of Libète’s cares—about Claire and Gaspar, Lolo and her loose lips, and the lingering murderer—mercifully slip out of her head.