There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) Read online

  She looked away and scratched the stone with her half-bitten fingernail. Jak was right, of course. Her life had been transformed the day she met Stephanie, just as Stephanie’s was changed when the Martinettes took her in decades ago. I’m sorry, Libète said. Today hasn’t gone like I thought it would.

  He looked back down on their city. You were wonderful–on the radio.

  Libète flashed a smile. I was, wasn’t I? She rested her elbow up high on Jak’s shoulder and listed into him as she’d done since they were small. She let her eyes furtively slip down to the other end of the veranda where Remi and Stephanie talked alone. Moïse had retired after another glass of wine. The conversation, he had said, has been too vigorous for me. He had bid them bonne nuit.

  She watched Stephanie laugh and sway, her winning smile on full display; Stephanie did not usually allow herself to be so unguarded. She reminded Libète of one of her school peers shamelessly flirting. Libète didn’t like the association.

  Jak stood straight as a sentry at Libète’s touch, proving a willing prop in Libète’s eavesdropping. She noticed he smelled of citrus, a cheap cologne he’d adopted as of late. Though he had grown taller, his slight build and short stature seemed fixed, as though his sole chance to thrive had come and gone. His bad leg had kept him from most sports, leaving him to exercise his mind. In that regard, Libète had found, he remained unmatched.

  — What do you think of Remi? Libète said, still stealing glances. The children had only seen him twice before, both times around the holidays when he returned from the US to visit his family in Haiti. Jak shifted Libète’s elbow and peeked at Stephanie and Remi as well. He caught a whiff of Libète’s hair, and its sweetness stopped him cold. He forced himself to pay attention to the adults and noted their postures that were so open and friendly. He unconsciously copied Remi’s pose.

  — He seems like a bon nèg, Jak said, a good guy. A lawyer who actually cares about justice, Steffi called him. He seems a rarity.

  — Not that stuff. I mean, what do you think she thinks of him? Do you think they . . .

  — It’s obvious, wi?

  Libète smiled, but her smile drooped, giving way to sadness. What’s happening, Jak? To us?

  Jak sputtered. With a shock, he pulled back, straightened his tie. What do you mean?

  — Laurent, I hate to say it . . . but was he right? What are we doing? Who are we?

  Jak sighed, immeasurably relieved at her question’s turn.

  — We’re . . . where we are.

  — But in a place like this? Eating like queens and kings with lawyers and poets and intellectuals, up in Boutilier? So far from Cité Soleil, from tent cities, from the real world . . .

  — It’s only a meal. You don’t lose who you are, what you’ve experienced, just because of what’s on the surface.

  She sighed, recalling how this day had begun in a not-so-unordinary way. She awoke at her boarding school. Ate a full meal. Studied, even though it was a day off. Forced herself to pray. Served at the hospital. Played football. Then was whisked away by her guardian to be featured on a nationally aired radio show? She was somehow a public figure leading a mass of disaffected, slum-dwelling youths in between school hours? It was unreal.

  — But when you wade into privilege enough, doesn’t it make you something else? she asked.

  — I can’t say. I look at you and see, well, you.

  — And I look at you and see you.

  They both smiled.

  A phone rang, shouting for attention from the other end of the veranda. It was Stephanie’s ringtone. Libète saw the faces of the two reunited friends dampen, like a cloud bank crowding out moonlight.

  Steffi’s face fell as she answered.

  Something’s wrong, Jak said. The children approached warily, mirroring Remi’s concern.

  — What is it? Remi mouthed. She held up a forceful finger. Gerry, she whispered. She strained to listen to the torrent of Kreyòl pouring from the phone.

  — Wi, dakò, wi, wi . . . Orevwa. She put her phone down.

  — What’s wrong? Libète said.

  — We need to go.

  — Tell us what’s wrong! Libète blurted.

  — That was Gerry. The studio was broken into. Ransacked. A group of thugs. Gerry’s producer – she shuddered – he was beaten to a pulp. The assailants wanted the tapes–

  — The tapes? Of the show?

  — But there were none. No recordings to give. They don’t keep them.

  — But why would anyone care about that show, grisly affair such as it was? Remi asked.

  — The Numbers, Libète and Jak said in unison.

  The Land, Dark and Close

  Jan ou vini se jan yo resevwa ou.

  The way you come is the way you are received.

  Komisyon pa chay.

  Messages are not burdens.

  He watches her from the woods.

  Gawking, listening, stretching his neck. Prowling into the light with the grace of a vulture two days out from its last meal. The man steps closer.

  He is so very, very still. Facedown. Or is it a she? the watcher wonders. Her hair is uncovered, closely cropped. Definitely a she, he decides. She is out under the blazing Sun and full sky. Her bare feet still touch the water. Her deflated book bag lies next to her. He sees the dirt and rock of the river bank scattered where she crawled and notices that her torso does indeed rise and fall, rise and fall.

  He slips close and takes her bag gingerly, his eyes locked on her as he rifles through its contents. A soggy bread crust. Clothing. A drowned composition book with pages and pages of slightly blurred ink that mean nothing to his illiterate eyes. A mostly punched blister pack of pills.

  He is not happy. This take is nothing, nothing at all.

  He spreads the bag open once more and puts his head in deep, like a showman between a lion’s jaws. He recoils, dropping it all. Could it be? he murmurs aloud. He reaches in again and extracts a pigeon with a small band around its sagging foot. The creature is dead.

  The man throws the bird into the water. Too far gone to eat, he says under his breath.

  A loud bray arises, and the man leaps into action, shushing and cursing and shushing the beast.

  And then comes the groan, from the ground, from the girl. She stirs.

  He moves quickly, taking the bag, then dropping it, then grabbing it again, then preparing to run and make an escape. She makes another sound, a curious one. Sneezing? Sniffling?

  This girl, who has clearly cheated death, is awake. And crying.

  The man is struck. Vulture no more, he puts the bag down definitively, and approaches the girl.

  He reaches out to touch her, wondering momentarily if his touch might break her. When he grows closer, he makes out the faintest of words escaping her chapped lips, repeated over and over as if in dazed prayer:

  Dieudonné, she sounds, Dieudonné, she sounds, Dieudonné, she sounds, Dieudonné . . .

  They leave the Martinette home immediately. Though the clock creeps toward midnight, all hope and enthusiasm for the new year and its new beginnings are vanquished.

  With the hosts already asleep, the three exchanged hasty good-byes with Remi and the house staff and began the long, lonely ride down the winding mountain road. The air they shared in the rickety Land Rover was heavy. Steffi, though tired, drove at the frenzied speed of her thoughts. Jak somehow fell asleep. Libète looked at him jealously.

  The radio caller.

  Libète rested her head against the window, feeling its dull vibrations rattle her skull.

  Killed, for . . . what?

  Tòti’s illuminated dashboard clock clicked past midnight.

  Numbers? Of all things, a life lost over numbers?

  The digits were spoken in a breath and then . . . gone. What purpose was a message if its meaning went unexplained? As far as she was concerned, the caller’s death was for nothing. This saddened her greatly.

  Wan road lights streamed past as they reentered
the city. Others who had left parties and clubs in the hills were also descending back into the world, the real one, full of tent dwellers in between collapsed structures, roaming youth, and finally, the sea of glinting tin-roofed shacks: Cité Soleil, her home.

  Everything beyond Cité Soleil’s boundaries was so unnecessarily complicated. In Cité, she spoke about compassion and love, rattled off proverbs like a sage, criticized selfishness, and railed against power. Raising the consciousness, as she called it, came so very easily. Outside Cité’s thirty-four sections, cynicism crept in. It sucked the hope and power right out of her words until even she doubted.

  When they reached St. Francis Boarding School, Stephanie flicked the headlights on and off, and a night watchman, their grizzled friend Véus, stirred. He pulled open the tall iron gate. His shotgun hung tiredly from one hand.

  Stephanie pushed Tòti through the gate’s threshold.

  — Bonswa, Madanm Steffi, Véus said through a smile missing a few teeth. A long night, eh? He gave a wink.

  The flirt, Libète thought. He has no idea all that’s on our minds.

  — Good night to you as well, Steffi said, forcing a smile. Mesye Véus, I’m pleased to see you, but some bad things have happened. I will explain more tomorrow when I return. I need you to show extra prekasyon these next few days. The rally is tomorrow. Make sure these two are protected, you hear?

  Véus straightened up at the charge.

  — Anything for you, Madanm. No harm will come while I’m on watch. He gave a humble salute. Steffi nodded gratefully and pressed the accelerator.

  — Ah! But wait! he said. There are more gifts left for our Ti Pwofet!

  This was his pet name for Libète: the Little Prophet. She perked up. Gifts! Give them to me! Libète shouted from the back seat.

  — Manners, Libète.

  — Sorry, Steffi. Mesye Véus, I would greatly appreciate it if the items left in my honor would be turned over to me.

  Véus grinned again. But of course. A card, it looks like, and a bag of dous makos.

  Steffi rolled her eyes and let a chuckle escape her lips. The goods changed hands, and Libète began to slip her hand into the bag to tear off a piece of the sticky-sweet candy.

  — Not now, Libète. Save it for tomorrow.

  Libète opened her mouth to protest but decided it was not the time.

  — Mèsi, Véus. We appreciate you.

  — My pleasure, my pleasure . . .

  As they idled in the courtyard between dormitories, Jak and Libète popped their doors’ locks.

  — Are you sure you two are all right here?

  The children looked at each other before turning to Stephanie and nodding in unison.

  — This is home, Jak said. This is safe.

  — That’s right. Happy Independence Day, Steffi.

  — And happy birthday to you, Libète.

  The girl grinned. Why, thank you, thank you very much.

  — Maybe we can go somewhere else for the rest of the school holiday, get away from all this heaviness? Stephanie said. Maybe the house in Jacmel?

  — That would be lovely, Libète said.

  They slid out the sides of the Rover and waved as Stephanie reversed out of the school grounds.

  — Quite a night, Jak said. Libète gave him a quick hug. I’m glad I had you there with me through it all, Jak. You keep things sane. He smiled, grateful his reddening cheeks were hidden in the dark.

  They split off, Jak to the boys’ wing, Libète to the girls’.

  The dormitory was quiet. It was a large chamber with bunk beds lining the walls and usually housed girls from ages five to eighteen in its different sections. The majority who boarded were on scholarship from distant parts of the country, and most of them had left for the holidays. The poorest had already returned after Christmas celebrations for the consistent meals. Libète crept down the rows of bunks. She had no desire to stir the girls and recount the night’s events, decidedly more bitter than sweet.

  Other students lived in the neighborhoods surrounding the school and streamed in each day for classes. Because Jak and Libète were orphaned and still refused to live with Stephanie outside Cité Soleil, Stephanie had lobbied the administration to secure them bed space in the dorms. Leaving school grounds at night was strictly against the rules, but Stephanie was a gifted advocate: her resolve, spiced with kindness and unselfishness, often prevailed. Special dispensations were common from the teachers, school staff, and old headmaster.

  — Libète?

  — Is that you?

  — She’s back! Libète’s back!

  Those in the bunks weren’t as asleep as they’d seemed. Clapping broke out. Libète smiled, giving up on her attempt at silence. They waited up for me! She soaked up the claps like rain on parched earth.

  — Hey! Hey, you all! Quiet down! shouted the night matron from where she slept in an adjacent room. There’s trouble for the next one I hear who makes a sound! Big trouble!

  The applause cut, but the girls’ voices now traveled like wisps throughout the stuffy room.

  — Bon travay!

  — You were great!

  Libète landed with a satisfied thud on her bunk.

  — Mèsi! Thank you all!

  She smiled. More bitter than sweet. The story of her life.

  —You really were wonderful, came whispered from the bunk above Libète’s own. A thick hand extended down.

  Didi. Her bunkmate and friend. Libète reached for the hand and gave it a loving tug.

  — Thank you, kè mwen. My heart. Libète’s lips were not prone to such sentiment, but kind Didi merited it.

  — You’re welcome, cherie. What are you bringing back this time?

  — A treat. Here, I’ll give you some–

  — What do you think I am? I brushed my teeth! Save them for tomorrow. I’ll enjoy the wait.

  — Quiet down! the matron called. Silans!

  Libète stifled a laugh. They were opposites, she and Didi. Where Libète was lithe and comely, Didi was pudgy and homely. Libète would curse an offender with a blue streak, while Didi would offer a blessing. Probably why we fit together so well.

  She put the dous makous in the gap between her mattress and the wall so that the matron wouldn’t happen upon it, and took out the card. This need not wait.

  Libète strained her eyes in the low light streaming from the night matron’s room. With a finger’s slide she tore the envelope and pulled out a greeting card. It had two brown, cartoonish children with big, exaggerated heads as they held hands. Bon Aniversaire, it read, a birthday greeting.

  She smiled, unfolding it to read the rough script inside:

  Stay away from the rally, she whispered aloud, surprised. Enemies are close.

  The girl awakens in the most unusual of states.

  There is sweet singing there, the lone voice of a man rising up against the sounds of clanking metal and burlap rubbing against burlap.

  But there is another sensation, more pressing: her body, contorted into the most undesirable of shapes.

  Her sight comes next, but all she sees is her arms dangling in an indecipherable tangle of shadows upon the ground. She feels as if the Sun wraps her in a hot blanket.

  There, in her memory’s haze, she recalls a heavy truck charging past, kicking up dirt and fury and making her cough, and children, children who sang sweetly.

  Then there is the rhythmic bump, bump, bump, and her body’s rise and fall. All of these sensations are noted before her final faculty slots back into its proper place: her speech.

  — What are you doing to me? she mutters.

  The singing stopped, the bumping stopped, they stopped.

  — Ah! So you’re alive? the man said, a genuine question. He stepped close, but she only saw oversized work boots and frayed trousers, dirt embedded in their seams.

  He was curiously upside down. Or rather, Libète finally realized, she was.

  — Release me! she rasped, her voice’s volume unable
to match her command’s desired strength. She tugged against the ropes that held her folded in half, over–what is this thing?

  A tail whipped her face like she was a trespassing fly.

  A donkey. The beast was spurred by her thrashing, and her kidnapper tugged hard at a sisal harness to keep the ass in place.

  — Calm down! Calm down, you idiot!

  — Don’t call me that!

  — I speak to the bourik, you silly girl!

  — Why am I tied? What are you doing with me? Adrenaline coursed through her, inflaming her senses, cutting through the fog. Untie me, you pig!

  He punched the donkey’s front quarter hard, and it finally settled. She still had not seen the man’s face.

  — Fine. Fine! he shouted. But I won’t let you ruin me! I won’t let you steal my peace! He slipped his fingers to a top knot that secured her body to the beast. What rudeness . . . what ingratitude, he grumbled.

  With one final pull at the knot, she was free. She slid off and hit the ground, hard. The road’s dust went everywhere, into her hair, eyes, and mouth. Rolling, she pulled herself away from her captor and the beast’s indiscriminate hoofs. Her limbs proved unresponsive, but she tried to stand nonetheless.

  I must escape. I must get away.

  She stood and staggered one step, another, before crashing again on the ground. Her broken toes brought her sharp pain.

  — Be careful, be careful, you stupid girl! Slow down!

  — Don’t you touch me! she snapped. Don’t you come near!

  Her vision blurred, from the heat or exertion she did not know. The floating forms before her soon coalesced into the singular vision of an old ass and an old man.

  The various fragmented details finally came together. He stood there with a straw hat. His pursed lips were surrounded by budding stubble and a growth under his chin that was so wild and uneven it could hardly count as a beard. His tank top was soiled and stretched and ripped, and displayed his ribs and the tight skin of lean arms. His donkey was weighed down with large packs strung together. The beast gave a little kick, like it was relieved to be rid of Libète’s dead weight.

  The man clicked his tongue. You’re not well.