There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) Page 4

  — Where . . . where are my things?

  — Your bag?

  — My bag.

  — You know, you’re rude. He said this as he rummaged through a pack on the donkey’s back and withdrew her book bag. Here I am with Saint-Pierre and we take you from the edge of the abyss and trouble ourselves to carry you up this mountain.

  — I didn’t ask for your help, she barked. I didn’t ask for–

  She paused. Did he say mountain?

  Turning her head, she gasped. Before her was a vast panorama she had not yet glimpsed. They had left the river and valley and were on a mountain road, and she saw only a vast range of patchwork green and brown mountains.

  He threw the bag to her, and she failed to catch it thanks to her unresponsive arms. She tried again, picked it up, and undid the zipper.

  — What’s . . . uh . . . in the bag? the man asked, as innocently as he could manage.

  Libète’s features curled together. Don’t act like you didn’t open it. She looked inside. Her face softened and a tear crept to her eye. The bird, she said. What happened to him?

  The old man slit his throat with his finger. Libète stiffened. Have any water? she asked.

  — A little.

  — Give me some.

  He tsked but did not refuse her. He handed her a corked glass Coke bottle. She reached into her bag and extracted the sheet of pills, popped one of the bulky things into her throat, and swallowed with a gulp. She threw the bottle back to him from where she sat. Rising, she took a moment to test her legs and lungs.

  — Which way to Dieudonné? Libète said.

  He pointed up the mountain. Where did you think I was taking you?

  Her mouth twisted, trying not to let her confusion show. I didn’t know Dieudonné was up on a mountain. I thought it was somewhere below. Near the ocean.

  — I know these mountains well, the families in them well, and the only Dieudonné I know lives that way, higher up.

  — What? What do you mean? Families? No, no, you don’t understand. I’m looking for a town, a place called Dieudonné.

  — And I’m telling you, in this part of Haiti, there is no such town. Only people. Dieudonné, it’s the name of a family, I tell you, a family. The one to which Saint-Pierre and I were carrying you.

  With this, her eyes widened. Her mind seized.

  Libète collapsed again, for with this new blow, hope died.

  She stays in bed late, only pulled from the undreaming void of sleep by a blunt prodding on her arm.

  Libète shields her eyes and squints, blocking out the light of the risen Sun.

  — Happy birthday, Libète, Didi says with a smile.

  — Ugghh. She rolls over, forces her head beneath her pillow. What time is it?

  — It’s late o’clock. We let you sleep in, but we’re running behind. The others have been knocking on the gate all morning, waiting for your instructions.

  Libète slept the night before, but fitfully. Her perverse birthday card and the night’s events had left her mind uneasy as she scaled suppositions and rappelled conclusions. Funnily enough, among the horror of threats and mysterious numbers and the dead man at the other end of the phone line, it was Laurent’s condescending words that continued to trouble her the most. Exhaustion had finally descended like a fog on the mountains of her mind and claimed her.

  — Come on, come on, come on, Didi said. There’s not time for this. We need to get ready. Besides, I have something you’ll enjoy. She brought a bowl from behind her back, the scent of its steaming contents filling the air.

  — That’s – Libète pulled the pillow from her face and squealed – joumou! She claimed the squash soup, a New Year’s standard forever linked in Libète’s mind with her birthday, and used the spoon wading in the bowl to scoop up her first bite. You made this?

  Didi smiled. Jak did. Got special permission to use the kitchen.

  — Mmm. He’s a saint.

  — He is. Didi sat on the bed, the mattress sagging under her added weight. Eat as you go, Libète. There’s much to do.

  Libète slipped in spoonfuls as she flitted about the wing getting ready. In the bathroom, she stood behind a plastic curtain, taking a bucket shower while Didi rattled off updates.

  — The banners are all finished and up on site. Tomas told Adonis and Adonis told Gesner. Pastor Formètus has the sound system set up at the stage. They’ve already got the music playing, and each section’s runner is knocking on doors, getting their people out. MINUSTAH is there, along with some police, but staying inside the law enforcement section as requested.

  Libète poured cool water over herself, watching it splash around her feet on the orange tile floor. Any problems besides those gun-toting idiots being there?

  — Eh. Well, Garcelle is complaining. Again. She wants ten minutes for her speech rather than five.

  — She would, the little demagog. We agreed on five. She doesn’t get a minute more.

  — I told her you’d say as much. Leaving out the demagogue part.

  Libète smiled. She and Didi had a bond that had little to do with the mere fact their beds were welded together. Both were originally from far away, Libète from remote La Gonâve and Didi from Hinche, the capital of the Centre département. The year prior, when Didi arrived at the school, she had been teased mercilessly for both her weight and, unexpectedly, for her keen intelligence. Libète put a stop to that, and they became fast friends.

  — Hey . . . how do you know all these updates already? Libète asked. I thought you hadn’t been outside the school yet.

  Hearing the boop boop of a cell phone’s buttons being pressed answered her question.

  — Have you been texting with my phone? Hide that! Libète said. Student phones were considered contraband.

  — Don’t worry. Everybody’s been out of here for ages.

  Another splash. I can’t believe you let me sleep so long.

  — Jak told me about last night. You needed the rest.

  — Towel, s’il-vous plaît. Libète reached from behind the curtain. Didi obliged, putting the rag in her hand. I’ve still got to decide what to wear!

  — Cheri, why all this worrying? Didi said. I picked out an outfit and had Claudette iron it. Your gray suit, blue top.

  Libète poked her head out from the stall’s curtain with a megawatt smile. Kè mwen, you’re simply the best.

  Stomach full, deodorant applied, hair up, makeup on, jewelry in place.

  Libète sighed, looking herself over in the wing’s one full-length mirror. She was composed. She was lovely. She was ready.

  — We’re late, Libète! Even for you!

  — I’m coming! Libète rushed to her bed and reached into a locker beneath. She pulled out her red book bag and stuffed her notebook with her talk’s notes inside it. She grimaced at the sight of the cryptic birthday card and put it in to show Jak. The gifted sweets went in too. Just in case.

  She took a fleeting glance in the mirror as she walked past and paused. I look so old. Her eyes were the same, though. She tripped back through time to worse days, hungry and lonely ones, passed under a tent with a body in revolt against puberty. Look at me now. She spun around. Libète’s wardrobe had benefited from Stephanie’s tasteful eye and open wallet. But the eyes, they’re the same no matter what. She saw Didi’s reflection join her own. Her friend wore her church clothes, but couldn’t hide their restitched seams and crooked hem.

  — You look good, Libète said, meaning it. Didi looked away. You do too, she replied. Aw, don’t forget! Your pill.

  Libète nodded soberly. She took the capsule from Didi’s hand, popped it in her mouth, and took a gulp of water from Didi’s proffered glass. They did not speak of it further.

  As they stepped into the yard, they spotted Jak sitting on a planter under the shade of a moringa tree, absentmindedly tapping his heels on the ground. He was dressed in navy slacks, a pristine white shirt, and a striped tie–the same ensemble from the night before.


  — Let’s go, Jak! Libète shouted, signaling with grand, sweeping motions as if he were the reason they were late. He hurried over as best he could, hobbled by his leg.

  — Thanks for the soup, she said, giving him a peck on the cheek as she strode on toward the front gate. Jak reached up to the spot her lips had touched.

  — Come on, Jak! Didi said, pulling him along. He nodded slowly, his thoughts trying to catch up.

  — Véus, Libète said, open up.

  He stepped out of his concrete booth, leaning on his gun like a cane. He looked ashamed. I . . . can’t do that, Libète.

  — What? What the hell are you talking about?

  He signaled with his head to the other end of the yard. On the second level, leaning against the wrought-iron railing, were two unfamiliar men: one was young and black, the other old and white.

  Yon blan. A foreigner.

  The blan surveyed the three youths. He stood erect in an emerald guayabera, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes shrouded by a pair of sunglasses, his balding head blanketed by wisps of white hair. The man behind him had bulging eyes and an isosceles face with a chin that narrowed to a seemingly impossible point. The white man adjusted his belt and licked his lips as though he was preparing to speak.

  — Children, he intoned in English.

  — Timoun yo, said the black man, his apparent interpreter.

  — What do you want? Libète spat back in Kreyòl, shielding her eyes against the Sun.

  — Are you – he looked at a clipboard – Libète Limye?

  She frowned. Non, she said. My name is Sophia Jean-Phillippe. It was a spur of the moment lie, mixing her deceased mother’s name with that of her favorite Haitian footballer. The blan’s eyes, still hidden behind dark lenses, bored a hole in her.

  — My name is Mr. Brown. I am your new headmaster. Libète slouched. The Haitian man parroted Brown’s words in Kreyòl. And I do not appreciate games, he said coolly. The other man interpreted again.

  — Well, we’re on our way out, Libète said.

  — No, you’re not. My office. Now.

  The Sun is gone, and the sky covered by a ceiling of cumulus cloud.

  Libète sits atop the donkey. The man had said little to her for most of their climb, looking over his shoulder occasionally to glimpse her, the poor creature she was. Her eyes are vacant. He knows consolation is not his strong suit and does not attempt it.

  — We are not so far now, not far at all, he says, his voice trailing off. He bites his lip. His hips and back cry out from the long day. They are nagging reminders that he is old, and failing. He steels himself. If he is to be master of anything in this life, it must be his limbs.

  He passes the time singing a bit, and asking things, but they are all rhetorical dead ends, the kind of thoughts dressed as questions he would often ask Saint-Pierre, the donkey.

  — The air, it’s heavy today, no?

  — What a mountain we’re climbing, eh?

  — It will be good to lie under a roof tonight, yes?

  For a man so accustomed to living half his time without conversation, the quiet unnerved him greatly. He often regaled Saint-Pierre with stories–the same stories, time and again–but the beast always maintained his same obstinate silence. The donkey and girl have a similar way about them, he thought.

  He soon began to talk about himself, for as with many men, this was a much-favored subject.

  He told her of his life spent near the water, breaking rock, sifting through earth, all to uncover something precious within it all. I’m blessed. I have a sense, you see. I can feel where the metals are, how they wish to be found by me, wish to be mine. They call to me. Sa a se yon kado. Ki Bondye te ban mwen. This is a gift. From God.

  Libète offered no reply.

  He told of his extraordinary strength that had been sapped because he’d proven too boastful about it. He shared that he was irresistible to women, evidenced by the twenty children he had peppered about the countryside. And, as if to help explain the seeming impossibility of the latter, how his good looks had been stripped from him because of this infidelity.

  — He gives and he takes, you know. Bondye. Gives and takes away . . .

  Libète still gave no answer, no matter the claim. He could tell she listened, though. He had saved his greatest tale for last.

  — I’m blind, you know.

  Libète inclined her head, and the man thrilled at this. Ha! A breakthrough!

  — Completely blind, he said. I can’t see a thing.

  — That’s ridiculous. Libète couldn’t help herself, the harsh words so easily slipping from her lips.

  — Non. No, no, no. My vision was clouded by the Good Lord himself. He has never restored it.

  — But you can see. Clearly. Clearly you can see.

  — But I’m telling you, I can’t! A testament to his power, I suppose. I can sense all without my eyes.

  — Prove it.

  — But I have already, haven’t I? I walk and move and sense everything. But without my eyes working. If I understood how . . .

  — I don’t want to hear it. Please, stop with these foolish, stupid stories, mesye . . . mesye . . .

  She huffed. What is your name? With all of your blabbering, I know all about your bastard kids and present ugliness, but I don’t even have your name!

  — Ah, ah, ah! He was smiling inwardly. Such progress I’m making! You are so right, my dear. Saint-Pierre and I, we don’t use names so often, the two of us! It is Dorsinus. Dorsinus Flavoril.

  — Well, be quiet, Dorsinus. I don’t need your nonsense.

  — But–

  — I said I want my silence.

  — I’m tryin–

  — Silans!

  — But we’ve arrived! We’re finally here!

  Libète looked around, taking in her surroundings. The mountains were dark and foreboding. She could see rare points of lamplight throbbing in the dark, marking the lay of homes on the mountainside.

  — Foche, he said. You have stumbled from darkness into light.

  — It’s still dark.

  — Not if you could see as I do! The people, they are good here. They light the land, burning like those little lamps, but brighter! She looked at the man, who was taken by his surveying of the hills. Though I am not at home here, he said, I am home.

  Libète’s shoulders sagged. Home. Such a thought, such a wonderful one, seemed to let her breathe deep and long.

  But this, of course, wasn’t her home. She had none, not anymore.

  — Come. We must reach Dieudonné.

  They continued up, passing one lakou yard lined with cacti followed by another, until they left the road and stepped upon a narrow side path. Even Saint-Pierre’s spirits seemed to lift from treading this coarse, familiar earth. Dorsinus began to hum a melody. His steps quickened and the weariness of his joints seemed forgotten in this final stretch.

  — There it is, he said pointing. A lone house stood by a lone tree. Man and animal pushed forward, but Libète cried out.

  — Wait! He turned to her, noticing her unconsciously clutching the sides of her capri pants. Dorsinus felt his heart sink. What does this girl carry?

  He tugged at Saint-Pierre’s lead. All will be well, Dorsinus said, encouraging her gently.

  There was stirring within the house, and a voice. Is that–is that you, Dorsinus? came a call.

  The man thrilled at the recognition.

  — Ha ha! What good ears you have, Magdala!

  The sheet entrance swung open, and a woman, tall and thick, thrust herself through. He moved to hug her, but she dodged the hug. Hands to yourself, old man! She patted him on the back and laughed heartily. How is the old saint? She pointed to the ass.

  — He’s well, he’s well. His face clouded. He removed his hat. There’s something else, though. Someone else.

  — Oh? She looked about. The dark kept her from seeing the girl slumped on the beast’s back.

  Dorsinus tried to summon the gi
rl’s name to his lips, but realized he had not yet learned it. Girl, he called to her. Come close.

  Libète slipped off Saint-Pierre, cringing as she took painful steps forward. She stood silent before them, eyes downcast. The woman’s brows leaped up. Who is this? One of your own?

  He shook his head. Someone I found. She . . . asked for you.

  Magdala’s eyes traveled from the man to this stranger and back again. Can she speak for herself? Is she okay? There was softness there, a genuine concern. Still, Libète could not look up and meet the wide, caring eyes.

  — Eske ou byen? Are you well? Magdala asked. Kijan ou rele? What are you called? She extended a warm hand to Libète’s chin, coaxing her head up to allow their eyes to finally meet.

  Stilling her trembling lips, Libète looked straight into Magdala’s face. My name? My name is Sophia.

  Jak squirms in his seat. This unnerves Libète tremendously.

  — Relax, Jak, she growls. Tout byen. All is well.

  — Why should I relax? At least when Mèt Valcin was headmaster I didn’t have to watch my back all the time! He even liked me. The first day with this Brown and we’re on his bad list.

  — Stop worrying.

  — He’s right to worry, Didi says.

  — Bah! Libète crosses her arms and looks away.

  Mr. Brown and his interpreter were still outside the office. Libète assumes they do this to intimidate her, Jak, and Didi. It only makes her angry. These fools are making us late!

  In a sense, this was her fault. Libète had seen the last headmaster, a man, dismissed from his post after she had uncovered certain . . . improprieties. The school had been without a head teacher for the past month, leading to lax discipline and general ease around campus before the holidays. It had been wonderful. Now, seeing this Mr. Brown come onto the scene, the nagging proverb came to mind: Dyab ou konn pi bon pase dyab ou pa konn. The devil you know is better than the devil you do not.

  — You two aren’t in trouble. I’m the one who lied and gave him the stupid false name.

  — Libète, open your eyes! This has nothing to do with that name.

  — Then because we got the other headmaster fired?