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

  — You’ve forgotten?

  — No. Of course I haven’t forgotten . . . She grimaced. Aw, forgotten what?

  — Last night. The dead man on the radio. The station raid! The Numbers! Libète, something is very wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. . .

  — What do you mean, Jak? Didi asked.

  — I went to the computer lab, tried to do some searches to figure out what the Numbers might mean.

  — And?

  — Well, nothing. I didn’t find anything. But the man on the other end, he died for them. We have to be careful.

  The birthday card resting in the bag on Libète’s lap suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. She sighed as she produced it from her bag.

  — What’s this? Jak said, holding it up for him and Didi to read. He read the inscription. Libète could see his whole person deflate.

  — Where did this come from? Didi asked.

  — It was one of Véus’s two deliveries last night.

  Jak shook his head. You’ve not been threatened for months. Not here. Not like this.

  Libète shrugged. It’s nothing. Didi retreated into a nervous silence.

  — This is a real danger, Jak said. We do things, say things, and people get hurt. They die. We’ve seen it before. Even the man with the knife last night–

  — He was just some hired thug, Libète sneered. And we were protected by the People! Just as we’ll be today. No one could get to us. They’re our shield, Jak.

  — This is no game. We aren’t wandering around collecting bottles in the reeds. Even that meant corpses . . .

  Libète cringed at the memory of Claire and Ti Gaspar, mother and child, caked in mud and blood, wrapped together in death. Memories of the two were always with her, but the details were harder to recall. Maybe because the vicissitudes of time brought new troubles, or maybe because that was simply how memory worked, insulating one from past pain.

  — Aw, Jak. Jak, Jak, Jak.

  The boy thrust her reaching hand away. Don’t treat me like one of those kids who look up to you, Libète. Don’t.

  She forced a smile but resented him, his worry, and his fear.

  By the time Mr. Brown and his Kreyòl voice, Charles–it turned out he had a name too–entered the room, the three children were sitting in morose silence. Brown let his weight slide into the executive leather chair behind his desk and flipped up his sunglasses’ lenses to reveal normal glasses beneath. His flat gray eyes were just as unsettling as the dark lenses had been.

  Libète glanced around the office, noticing it had already changed since the new headmaster’s recent arrival. Haitian ephemera–flags, pictures of founding fathers–had been replaced by American counterparts. So many white men with wigs.

  — Just look at you all, Mr. Brown finally said. Though the accent was unidentifiable to the children’s ears, his words rolled with a southern lilt.

  Charles began to interpret, but the headmaster cut him off with a curt wave.

  — I have no patience for your nonsense, no patience at all.

  — But Mesye Brown, Charles said in English, they can’t understand what you say.

  — I know. I want them to be unnerved.

  Libète and Jak looked sidelong at each other. Libète cleared her throat and spoke. Mr. Brown, you know we study English at this school, no?

  Brown’s jowls sagged and his face flushed. He shifted his lumpy body. I see.

  Silence settled, but for the ticking of a clock.

  — Well, all of what I said still applies.

  Charles opened his mouth to speak, but when everyone else in the room glared at him, he shrank back.

  — Why is you unhappy with us? Libète’s comprehension was decidedly better than her spoken English.

  — I listened to your radio . . . performance. You are bringing unwanted attention to yourselves. As far as I’m concerned, I have been placed in a position of authority to protect you and your fellow students. We do not need thugs rallying outside to cheer you on, nor for you to become wrapped up in intrigue that gets a man killed.

  The way Brown spoke was so genteel, so patronizing, so soft that it unnerved Libète more than anything.

  — With the respect that you deserve, we didn’t ask for this attention.

  — I have to disagree. I’ve heard your story. I know what you’re about; you’re troublemakers.

  — For good reasons, Mr. Brown.

  — I don’t care about the reasons. I care about educating the children here. I care about lifting up this community through its instruction–

  A phone buzzed from Didi’s bag, and Mr. Brown’s eyes snapped to it. You have a phone? Of your own? Take it out.

  Didi reached in and withdrew it with a trembling hand. It’s . . . it’s–

  — Mine, Libète said. I keep it for emergencies.

  — You know phones aren’t allowed.

  She stripped it from Didi’s hand and slid it across the desk, muttering, Revèt pa gen janm rezon devan poul. Mr. Brown looked to Charles, who seemed to inflate at the opportunity to interpret. “A roach is never right standing before a chicken.”

  Mr. Brown set his lips straight, weighing his words. I want to tell you, there is nothing keeping you at St. Francis.

  — What do you mean? Didi is on a scholarship. And our school fees are covered by a . . . what is the word? Money . . . that is put to the side.

  — A trust, Jak murmured.

  — Yes, a trust. That our guardian, Stephanie Martinette, pays our fees from.

  Mr. Brown tapped his finger a few times on the desk. That’s not at all what I mean. Nothing entitles you to stay here. Your small tuition fees are not worth the trouble they bring. He said it so apologetically it took a moment to grasp his meaning.

  — What are you saying? Jak blurted, sitting up straight. We are to go? To leave? The boy shuddered. This school was his home, his entire life. This was a threat that cut deep. Libète set her jaw. For her, not so much.

  — No more trouble. That is all I’m saying. Bring this nonsense to an end. For the school’s safety. And for your own. Now go.

  The One Who Ran

  Pye pa gen rasin.

  Feet don’t have roots.

  After bathing, Libète slumps on the packed dirt floor and draws her legs close to her body. Her eyes are adrift and unfocused. The room is dark but for a flickering flame illuminating two mats and walls lined by narrow shelves filled with pots, plates, and mismatched mugs.

  Magdala observes Libète silently from the shack’s door. The woman’s heart, already a fragile and tender instrument, cracks at the sight. You say she asked for me? she whispers.

  — She did, Dorsinus replies at full volume, chewing with his mouth open. He scoops more cooked yams from the plastic plate Magdala had given him, popping the leftovers into his mouth. A similar plate sits before Libète on the floor, untouched.

  Magdala shakes her head. She pulls Dorsinus outside, out of earshot.

  — She told you nothing of herself?

  — Not a word. Not even her name, until you asked.

  The woman moves to join the girl on the ground, but hesitates; her clean nightgown would suffer for the act of solidarity. She drops anyway, lowering her head to try to meet Libète’s empty gaze. My dear Sophia–

  Libète flicks up her head and meets Magdala’s eyes with a hard stare.

  — How is it that you’ve come to be here?

  — Dorsinus.

  — But how is it you’ve come to me? To know my name? To ask for me?

  — I was told.

  — Told?

  — Told.

  — But by whom?

  — I cannot say.

  — You don’t know who?

  — I know who.

  — You can’t remember, then?

  — I cannot forget.

  — Then tell me.

  — I cannot.

  — How can you expect me to take you in without knowing a–

  — Souple. Pl
ease. There is new strength in her voice, but Magdala sees the gloss covering over Libète’s eyes. They drift, taking stock of the shadows that tremble as though tortured by the light.

  — For your good, Madanm. For my good. Please. I will be gone before long.

  — Before long, you say?

  Libète’s head dips.

  Magdala withdraws. Dorsinus smacks as he chews. She scowls at the man, who shrugs it off and chases the starch with a small cup of water. Magdala looks at the sky, starlight beginning to poke through parting cloud.

  — You can stay, Magdala says, over her shoulder.

  Libète laid awake in the dark, covered by a thin blanket to shield against the night’s cool touch. Thoughts flickered, stoking her mind’s fire. A far drum beat, ghostly and faint. She could not tell whether she imagined its dull sound.

  Magdala could be heard breathing from across the room, and Dorsinus’s snores could be heard from outside–where he slept beside his friend, the ass.

  Libète sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. Moonlight slipped between ramshackle boards. She reached for her bag. The zipper chattered as she opened it, bringing a torrent of memory that took her breath.

  How funny the power of the small to herald the enormous.

  She bit her lip to stifle a whimper, and then, with her eyes squeezed tight, mouthed silent words.

  Such loss.

  Such pain.

  All comfort you take from me.

  When did you cease giving?

  You have won, you know.

  And we are finished.

  I am broken, I am broken, I am broken, I am broken . . .

  She opened her eyes. Her words were empty, aimed at the inscrutable, the distant, the absent. To a god no longer known.

  Her soul had been darkened. Her mind polluted. With her heart’s every beat, anger rippled throughout her being.

  Libète shuddered. I will not cry.

  She reached into the bag and took out the pills.

  She palmed one before swallowing it without water.

  She laid back down on her own mat. There would be no sleep for her. For among all the things that weighed upon her, one of the heaviest was that only five pills remained.

  Libète storms out of Mr. Brown’s office, bag slung over her shoulder, leaving Jak and Didi behind.

  — Libète, wait! Jak hollers. She is down the corridor, now the stairs. He tries to follow, but his leg fails him. Didi hangs back, her head held low.

  — Of all the . . . how could . . . getting my phone taken! Libète shouts. Today, of all days!

  — She didn’t mean to! Jak said. How could she have known it would ring?

  — How are we going to get to the rally? She slapped the back of one hand into the palm of her other. Steffi was waiting for our call!

  Jak’s brow creased. You would think she’d have come already . . .

  — She was probably the one who called! Libète held out her arms. Ridiculous! If we walk, we’ll miss the whole thing! My own speech! I’ve spent days on it! What good is a congress without its president?!

  — It’s a congress, Jak said. It’s not about the president.

  — Bah!

  — The others are capable, Jak reassured. It isn’t about us, is it, Libète? It’s about the community. To celebrate it. To celebrate everyone in it.

  — But–how can they–without–ah! She pounded on a wall. Damn it!

  He was right, of course. As always. She took three deep breaths, collecting herself.

  — I’m sorry, Didi whispered. I’m sorry. It was an accident.

  Libète stepped toward Didi and looked her hard in the eye. Libète hugged her. I know it’s not your fault. It’s that fool, Mistur Bro-wn, she said, in her best attempt at a drawl. I’m the one who’s sorry. I could never blame you, not for a thing, my heart. Libète kissed her on both cheeks. Whether we make it or miss it, all will be well. Maybe we can at least be there for the march.

  After her speech–which would have been exemplary–and the resulting applause–which would have been interminable–the march was what Libète anticipated the most.

  They rushed to the school’s gate. We need out, Libète called to Véus. He had watched their argument and reconciliation unfold but stepped out from his booth pretending to have seen and heard nothing.

  — What’s this, now?

  Libète gave a grand gesture from left to right, as if to part the Red Sea’s waters.

  Véus shot out of his chair. I’m sorry for all that with Brown.

  — No time for apologies. Libète repeated the sweep. You can do so later. Let us go!

  He nodded. But I wonder about the wisdom of–

  — There’s no need to worry, Didi said. We’ll be back before dinner.

  Véus squinted. It’s just that Madanm Stephanie, well, she raised the alarm last night. We’re at threat level red here, you know!

  Libète’s jaw dropped. Véus. Please. Just open the gate. There’s no danger in going to the fields today. We’ll be surrounded by people. Our people. Any villains who mess with us will have a battle on their hands.

  He sighed and took his keys from his belt in a jerky, stubborn motion. He grumbled as he undid the door-within-a-gate’s padlock and chain.

  Didi went through first, and then Jak. Libète followed, but at the last second poked her head back in the door.

  — Oh, and Véus: a question. Who left those gifts yesterday?

  — Why do you ask?

  — Uh, I want to tell them thank you. If I see them.

  — It was two merchant women. Both unknown to me. One old, one young. Again, I ask. Why?

  Libète bit her upper lip. No reason, she said coyly. Letting on about the note would ensure that Véus locked them away for good.

  — Got any more of that dous makos? Véus asked, his eyes lighting up.

  Libète smiled, rubbing her belly. It’s all gone, sorry to say!

  He gave a small, dutiful bow.

  He’s a good man. She decided she would give him a piece later, should any happen to make it through the day uneaten.

  They awaken to shouting.

  The argument’s participants are some distance from Magdala’s shack, its sentry tree and lonely privy, and the long, worn, dirt path that leads down to Foche’s main road. Its volume grows. Those shouting are approaching.

  Magdala rises to peek out between the doorframe and sheet, only to pull herself back a moment later. Libète assumes it is for modesty’s sake. The woman is still in her nightgown, her hair carefully wrapped. But as the woman changes into a work dress, the girl sees wariness tugging on her features. Magdala utters clipped prayers as she flits around the room, so preoccupied she doesn’t even acknowledge her guest.

  There’s something else going on here. Libète changes into her one other set of clothes: T-shirt and jeans. It reminds her of her flight and all she has escaped. All I’ve left and lost . . .

  The voices outside reach new heights.

  Libète sighs. This new day has worries all its own.

  She tied her headscarf, long and blue, over her stubby hair only now starting to grow again. She stirred from her place on the floor and went to the sheet, stepping outside. Magdala knows who’s fighting. The woman had settled against the wall opposite the door, her hand to her mouth, eyes clenched shut. She sounded as if she were crying. Libète noticed Dorsinus outdoors, already awake, reclining on the ground against his burlap saddlebag. He lowered the brim of his hat and hummed, whittling away at a piece of wood in his hand. Unfazed by the approaching fight, he was fashioning what looked like some kind of fowl. She thought she heard him tsk tsk tsk.

  The morning Sun flooded her vision, and it demanded her obeisance. Libète refused to pay it heed. She shielded her eyes and instead followed the sounds to the source of the commotion.

  A struggle was underway. The words had become wrestling. Two figures had locked their arms and bodies. One, the larger, was dominating.

  She gravita
ted toward them.

  Moving toward conflict, despite all that had happened in the past week, was odd. Maybe some peacemaker’s reflex, or a product of her curiosity. She did not run, nor rush, but stayed light on her aching toes. The shouted words grew more distinct.

  — Get your hands off me!

  — Give back the kòb!

  To her surprise, they were not men, merely grown boys.

  — The money is gone! You hear me! The speaker was tall and thin, his muscles coiled and sinewy. The smaller one ripped himself away only to lunge back and land a punch squarely on the other boy’s jaw. The recipient reeled back.

  The one who delivered the blow was only slightly shorter. Despite his contorted features and hunched body, she could see he was particularly handsome. Seeing an opening, the taller boy leaped on the other and grasped him in a chokehold. The smaller tensed, struggling in vain. He soon stilled, humiliated.

  The two remained there, their bodies heaving as they gasped for air.

  — I’ve told everyone already! the victor said. The money. It’s gone!

  It was only then the victor glimpsed Libète. She stood on a berm, looking down at them, her face inscrutable but for eyebrows that slanted in a subtle show of disapproval.

  The one on the bottom spat another curse. The victor bent toward the loser’s ear and whispered words, low and calm.

  The victor released the other and stood to full height. He looked into Libète’s eyes. He had a round face and head, hair growing unkempt, and clothes both dirty and worn. She thought she saw shame in his eyes. He turned and jogged off.

  It was all so curious.

  The loser rose and dusted off his clothes. He watched the victor slip away, and Libète saw his fists tighten and forearms tense. He spun and gasped at taking in Libète.

  — Who . . . who are you? He stuttered the question as if speech was a forgotten, foreign thing.

  She looked away from him. I’m . . . Sophia.

  He took an unconscious step toward her. His frame, his well-set features, his intense eyes: the way every piece of him fit together so very well made her blush.

  — You . . . you saw that? All of that?

  She nodded. The loser looked crestfallen.

  She felt her hand tugged, her arm pulled. She jumped. It was Dorsinus.