There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) Page 2

  A lull settled over the studio. Mesye Gerry began to speak, but Libète cut him off.

  — I thank you for posing that question, Madanm. We must all remember Dimanche and those like him who stand up for what is right and true and suffer for it.

  — But you fear not? Gerry asked.

  — Our voices protect us, Jak said.

  — It’s true, Libète said. Here we are, three years later, without incident, because we stood up. The more well-known we are, the more protected. If harm comes to us by one hand, the same hand points straight back to Benoit. And we have counted the cost.

  — We have counted the cost, Jak echoed feebly, as if a well-rehearsed refrain.

  Stephanie began to pace at the back of the room. Her face was tight and impassive.

  Why does she let us do these shows if what we say makes her so nervous? Libète sighed, returning her attention to Gerry.

  — Dear listeners, let this be a sobering call to you–pran kouraj, take heart! To Libète and Jak, know that you are not alone in the struggle! Gerry cleared his throat. All right. Next caller.

  — Am I on? came a hissed whisper.

  — Yes, mesye, you are–

  — I say this for the world. I only have a moment–

  — Slow down, mesye, please–

  — Take this down! The children looked at each other. Terror accented every syllable of the man’s speech.

  — Dear listener, what is–

  A loud crash and thud was heard in the background.

  — Write this down! 2563–

  Libète scrambled, trying to pull a pencil and paper from her book bag.

  — 3214-3149–

  — Mesye, you must slow down–where are you? What’s this number–

  — 2563, the caller said. He began repeating the entire sequence, 3214–

  Two explosions were heard, gunshots, rendered almost comical in their smallness through the tinny phone receiver. A gasp followed.

  — Mesye? Are you, mesye, are you all right?

  Muffled footsteps followed. The phone clicked silent.

  Gerry attempted to redial the caller. Mesye? Are you there?

  Libète had only the first few digits committed to paper and cursed herself. Her wide eyes jumped from Stephanie, who stood with her hand clasped over her mouth, to Jak, who sat with his hands to his temples as he mumbled. Libète ripped off her headset.

  — Did you get that, Jak? Did you get the numbers tucked away in your head?

  His eyes opened, full of dread.

  He nodded slowly.

  The dogs creep closer.

  Libète screams, trying to frighten them, waving the red, sizzling light in her hand. Though adrenaline courses through her, she feels impossibly weak. The rain falls over her in torrents.

  — Get away! she shouts. Get away! she whimpers.

  Their eyes reflect her light. As do their teeth.

  She shifts the flare to the opposite hand and stumbles backward. Leave me alone! she cries.

  Voices shout in the distance. The beasts’ owners, the more vicious animals, are nearly upon her. She turns to run, and one of the dogs rushes after her. She thrusts the flare out as a weapon, jamming it into the dog’s face. It gives a brief cry. The other dogs pause, and Libète does not wait a moment longer.

  Go.

  She shot off again, running straight into a dense cluster of trees in hopes of slowing the dogs’ pursuit. With both feet bare, every step brought shooting pain from the rocky soil and fallen branches.

  The flare’s light helped her slalom the trees. The dogs grew closer. They nipped at her heels, and their growling, huffing, and barking played in Libète’s ears. She wagged the flare behind her, praying it might keep them at bay.

  She slammed into a tree. Her knee plowed into the trunk, and it felt like it was punctured by a branch’s stub. But there, ahead, she saw it: a break in the darkness. A clearing! She threw herself forward.

  Dear God, protect me!

  But it was not a clearing. As a lightning bolt slashed the sky, she reached the tree line and crossed, realizing what it was: a ledge, and a swollen river below. The water caught the lightning, reflecting it back with cold menace.

  Her heart stopped.

  The two remaining dogs bounced around her now, closing in as they cut back and forth to block an escape. Libète stepped back tentatively toward the edge, stifling a cry. She broke a toe or two in her sprint, she is sure.

  Bondye, Bondye, Bondye . . .

  The flare trembled in her hand, its power waning.

  Faced with divergent paths shooting out as branches from a bough, how does she decide which to follow? Chance a dash toward the hungry dogs and the hands of the sinister forces who had unleashed them? Or leap blindly into the rushing river?

  But there was no choice. Not anymore. With reason stifled, free will and fear stripped away, instinct was all that remained.

  Libète threw the flare at one of the dogs and stepped from earth into air, plummeting into the dark water below.

  Stephanie saw fit to stop the interview. Libète did not argue.

  The trio leave Gerry and his technician and rush to Stephanie’s Land Rover parked in the station compound.

  Stephanie unlocks the rusting vehicle and glides into the driver’s seat. Jak opens the back door and slides to the other side to make space for Libète. They buckle up. The seatbelts provide a fleeting sense of security.

  — Are you two all right?

  Silence is their reply.

  — Dear Lord, that was horrible, Stephanie says. Jak nods, biting his lip. Libète only gazes out the window.

  Stephanie turns the key, but the engine is reluctant to turn over. Come on, Tòti, she huffs. That was the Land Rover’s name, christened by Jak because it was slow, green, and ancient, like many tortoises. With a new and brimming sense of danger, Stephanie finds these features less endearing. Stupid hunk of . . .

  Stephanie waits a moment and tries again to no avail.

  Libète’s eyes floated to the sliding gate ahead. The radio station was part of a larger compound, right off Delmas Road, one of Port-au-Prince’s main thoroughfares. The crowd of protestors who had assembled before the show had swelled, but hired security–a man with a shotgun–kept the gate locked and his finger hovering near the gun’s trigger. Libète slid her window down to listen to the crowd’s chanting.

  She had grown used to being cursed in public. Aba Libète, a popular one, meant “Down with Liberty.” Small protests were routine these days, as regular as the Sun trading places with the Moon. They didn’t affect her, but she hated how the protesters’ threats made Jak retreat into himself.

  She inclined her ear and listened more carefully. This was different.

  — Libète, put that window up. You don’t need to hear that.

  — But Steffi–listen!

  They heard cheering. Any curses were drowned out by praise. By applause!

  — A counter protest! Jak exclaimed.

  In the hour since they had arrived at the studio, more people had come out to quiet the voices for hire!

  — Ha! Libète smiled. Benoit loses again.

  Stephanie tried the engine again. It grumbled and finally turned over, unhappy to be ripped from the afterlife.

  — We need to get out of here, Stephanie said, shifting into first gear. Tòti lurched toward the gate. I just wish we didn’t have to pass through this crowd . . .

  — The good half will keep us from the bad half, Libète said definitively.

  The guard unlocked the gate and slid it back. Jak noticed that the watchman’s bald head was covered in beaded sweat. Libète wore a wide smile and waved as Tòti inched through the thicket of people. There was pounding all over the car, and Stephanie let her horn blare.

  Hands reached in through Libète’s window, and she shook them with aplomb. Kenbe fèm! she called. Hold strong!

  — Libète! Stephanie shouted. Get that window up!

  — But they’r
e friends!

  — Now!

  Libète muttered while turning the window’s handle.

  — Libète, watch out!

  A knife slid through the window. Jak tried to follow his shout by springing across the seat, but found himself trapped by his seatbelt’s webbing. Libète struggled to focus on the blade. She reeled back as the knife’s owner pounded on the window.

  — You watch yourself, you little bitch! he shouted. You watch yourself! We’re coming! He was young, and his features were contorted in fury. Libète unclasped her seatbelt and scooted across the seat, into Jak.

  In a blur of motion, a large hand reached around the thug’s face and yanked him backward. The knife slipped from the window, and the thug disappeared among the crowd. Libète breathed only through her nose, her chest heaving as her hand grasped blindly until it clasped Jak’s.

  Stephanie began shouting as she sounded endless short honks. Tòti, finally extricated from the crowd, careened onto Delmas Road.

  — Dear Lord! Stephanie cried. Did they get you?

  No reply came.

  — Answer me!

  — N-non, Libète whispered. No. I’m okay. I think.

  — Jak?

  — Me too.

  — Bondye. She exhaled as slowly as she could and palmed her forehead. Should we still even go to my family’s party?

  Libète looked to Jak. His face was set with fear. She let loose her grip of his hand and puffed her cheeks before taking a deep breath. Patting him on the shoulder, she cleared her throat. But of course! We’re safe now, she said. We’re safe, she repeated, as if to convince herself.

  Libète swims poorly.

  She struggles to keep from sinking below the river’s surface.

  Breath comes with a struggle. The current is strong, and the water just cool enough to deaden her muscles and shock her lungs. Libète finds herself losing against the swift water that fills her nose and mouth. She paddles to break the water’s ceiling and take in air.

  An eddy carries her into a hard bank and knocks out her breath. She sinks back under, choking violently.

  This is the end. The thought registers with a surprising calm.

  The end. A peace beyond understanding descends on her, and through the layer of water she glimpses, or maybe only senses, a familiar presence.

  Libète grasps for what seems like a leaf-covered arm extended toward her and collides with a half-submerged tree.

  Silence lingers over the dining room. It is trespassed against only by the sounds of forks scraping dishes, knives piercing steaks, chewing, and swallowing.

  — I suppose the evening’s events have cast a pall over our little party, Moïse Martinette said. The old man took a swig of wine and swished it about his mouth. He looked down his glasses around the table, taking in his daughter Stephanie, his son Laurent, his guest Remi and, at the opposite end of the polished mahogany table, Libète and Jak.

  Libète met Moïse’s eyes. He was as grim and imperious and august as ever. She gulped hard and choked on a bite of meat. Drowning it with a swig of fizzy La Couronne, she forced out “Wi.”

  — It was horrible, Stephanie declared flatly. A man killed on air.

  — This new danger. This violence at every turn. Haiti is relapsing, said Remi.

  There was resignation at the aired opinion. Laurent looked at Remi and used his tongue to pick at a steak fiber caught in his teeth. He finally chortled and swallowed a draught of wine. Remi laid his silverware flat.

  — Relapsing into what, pray tell? Laurent asked. He rested his elbows on the table, the sleeves of his tailored dress shirt rolled up.

  Remi, still in his suit, lifted his napkin to wipe around his goatee. Where we were only a few years ago. Assassination. I mean, threatening a girl with a knife for speaking her mind? Political intimidation. Endless corruption. It’s a downward spiral.

  — But what gives you the right to make such pronouncements?

  Remi waved off Laurent. Just because I live in the US doesn’t mean I can’t give an opinion. You and I both went abroad for our studies, Laurent.

  — Ah, but one of us stayed on the other side.

  — Laurent, calm down. He’s a guest, Moïse interrupted. Leave this bickering behind.

  Laurent puckered his lips and poured himself another glass of wine. But Father, surely I can say what I will, no? We can’t silence debate, can we? Your words, Libète, from the radio show, no? To silence me would be a crime.

  Libète cleared her throat to speak.

  — The Truth defies all silencing, Jak blurted. That’s what she said.

  — La Vérité! Ah, yes. Ha! Is that with a big V or little v?

  — The big one, Libète hissed. Oh, how this man tests my patience. If he wasn’t a relation of Steffi’s . . .

  — Why don’t you let these things rest for now? Stephanie said without losing her composure. She placed her hand on her older brother’s wrist. Tonight is a celebration, no? A new year on the way? Her eyes pleaded.

  Laurent looked at her blankly before turning back to Libète. I’ve heard your “truth,” my esteemed guest, and I find it lacking.

  Stephanie rubbed her temple and sighed.

  — Heard it many times before, Laurent continued. On the lips of my students, ever so naive, decrying the way things are. Neo-Marxist mumbo jumbo. Progressive claptrap. Religious pandering. It’s as dated as Jesus’s cross, Marx’s corpse. He paused, then smiled. Obama’s hope.

  Libète clenched her teeth. You ridicule our struggle? Jak’s and mine? Our organizing?

  — Dress-up theater, Laurent said.

  — Back off, Laurent, Stephanie said.

  — You’re no better, Steffi. Haiti’s poet laureate who pens a couple of angsty verses about changing the world. Writes a few stories. Your solutions to our society’s ills?

  — What’s come over you? Leave this alone, Remi said. Stephanie looked to Moïse at the head of the table, imploring him to intervene.

  — Am I the only one ready to say that this world is broken? Laurent asked. Just simply, irredeemably broken? To be able to look down at this mess of ours and see there’s no fixing it?

  — I know what’s true, Libète said. I’ve seen it. I know it.

  Laurent replied with a roll of his eyes. What do you really know?

  — Love. Love is true. And I know myself. What’s inside me.

  — Ha. Ha ha! You claim what the greatest minds have sought and never found.

  — Great minds and empty hearts go together.

  — To know yourself, ti fi? Laurent broke from his French to utter “little girl” in Kreyòl. The words stung. Laurent proclaimed, Be wary all, when we’re guided by the truth of fourteen-year-old girls!

  — Even if I don’t know myself, I certainly know what you are. An ass! Libète said, pointing her fork at him.

  Moïse chuckled at the name-calling. Stephanie and Jak nervously played with the steamed vegetables on their plates. Remi watched Laurent slack-jawed.

  — Only you could take a terrible evening where we’ve all been frightened out of our minds by what took place over the radio and choose to make it worse, Remi said. To see noble actions and challenge them as empty! You, Laurent, you are a frightened little boy without an ounce of this girl’s courage!

  — Ah, ad hominem, the refuge of the feeble-minded and limp-tongued. Don’t worry. At least you two have company. Not knowing who you really are, Laurent said, turning back to Libète. It’s as common as cholera these days. All the same, I know what you are. You’re a symbol. But dear child, before life sweeps you away, remember that symbols bleed and break just like the rest of us. You’ll learn soon enough that the call to do something simply for the sake of doing something accomplishes nothing. Just talk to those past generations of true heroes who have struggled valiantly and squandered much. My esteemed father, perhaps?

  — Laurent! Moïse finally bellowed, slamming down his hand. Enough. This is beyond good humor.

  Laurent rais
ed his hands, and his palms faced the company. Forgive me, father, he said with great sobriety. I know not what I do. He chortled.

  — You’ve always pushed when you should have pulled, Stephanie said under her breath. Taken instead of given. She crossed her arms.

  — Always, Remi added.

  Laurent’s face soured into a sneer. The wine, it speaks too much. He crumpled his napkin and pushed out his chair from the table. Will you excuse me, dear guests? Today has been quite the day: a sad punctuation mark on another pathetic year. And I . . . I have a cigarette that must be smoked with utmost urgency. He stood to his full height and strode toward the door.

  — Laur-ent, Stephanie said, halfheartedly. Don’t do this. He paused at the dining room’s arched exit, inclined his head, and pushed forward.

  — He’s never made good dinner company, Moïse said, stirring his rice with his fork before taking a small bite.

  — Aw, I hate those intellectuals. Like having a PhD permits Laurent to be a prick! All talk, all criticism, nothing useful! Blah, blah, blah.

  — Elize had a Ph.D., Jak said.

  — Elize was different, Libète said, reflecting on her departed mentor. A different breed from him. Bleh!

  The two leaned against the veranda’s railing and looked down from Boutilier on Port-au-Prince below. The Martinette estate was practically palatial, gleaming white, and stunningly lit. The puttering of the electric generator that made their evening possible could be heard coming from whatever corner in which it was tucked away.

  — Moïse is nice enough, Jak added. He was a professor.

  — He’s the same, as far as I’m concerned. Just sitting there. Taking it all in through those wine-lidded eyes.

  — He’s written some good books. Steffi’s let me read them. I think you’d like them. He’s against the state of things. Very antiestablishment.

  — Look around, Jak. Someone living in a place like this, allied with people like us?

  — Well, Steffi respects him. I won’t judge him.

  Libète arched an eyebrow. Maybe Steffi is the same. Growing up in a home like this. There’s no way to avoid having privilege infect you.

  Jak stood up straight. Watch yourself, Libète. You know better.