Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti Read online

  Jak refused to follow, picking up pebbles from where he sat and casting them away in defiance. He hated it when she pressured him like this.

  — Fine! he shouted. I’m coming. But I’m telling you now: no good will come of this! You’ll see!

  Libète turned back and gave a smug smile.

  — You’ll see, Jak. You’ll see!

  THE BLOODY BASIN

  Fòk ou bat tanbou a pou tande son l’

  You must beat the drum to hear its sound

  Le yo vle touye yon chen, yo di l’ fou

  When they want to kill a dog, they say it’s mad

  Boukman Junior Christophe Ketna is a big man in Cité Soleil. He is a boko, a wizard who merits respect, known to heal secret illnesses or curse enemies, able to lighten darkness or darken light.

  In more mundane terms, he’s a functionary, an agent working on behalf of his principals. Unlike some normal lackey, his overseers are not stiff men with creased brows in tailored suits, but fickle powers not of this plane at all.

  The children proceed through Project, as Project Drouillard is commonly known. Boukman has been here for a long time, a fixture known to everyone in Cité Soleil regardless of religious persuasion.

  During the gang wars of years prior, Boukman and the curtilage of his compound were a haven where gang leaders would put their arms aside to be empowered by spirits that could aid in their turf wars against each other, the police, and the U.N. One time, it was whispered, a cocky youth had foolishly entered Boukman’s house armed. When Boukman would not create the young man’s desired curse, he had the temerity to point his weapon in the aging boko’s face. By all accounts, Boukman simply touched a small scar on his arm and the young man fell to the ground, dead.

  Libète walks up to the gate of Boukman’s residence, a tall complex of peach-colored walls lined with the shards of broken bottles cemented in place. Painted figures blanket the exterior, Catholic saints assimilated into the Voudou pantheon, each representing one of the many lwa. The hair on Libète’s neck stands on edge at the sight of Ezili and her child.

  She summons the courage to rap upon the great iron gate and is first met by silence. She pounds upon the door again. Still no response. She turns to Jak, who crouches fifteen feet away behind a motorcycle parked on a side road. She frowns.

  A thought occurs, the universal mot-de-passe the world over.

  — M’ vin achte! she yells. I come to buy!

  Almost instantly, a small square in the door slides open filled by a single intimidating eyeball. By its looks, it belongs to a woman.

  — What do you want? the Eye intones. Libète steps back involuntarily.

  — I…I wish to purchase a cure for my mother’s gout. She sends me in her place because she can’t walk herself.

  — Who’s your mother? The Eye narrows to a slit.

  Libète hesitates. You don’t know her. She lives in Cité Boston, and has never come to see the boko before. She keeps a booth in the market and is desperate for medicine.

  — Show me your money, the Eye makes a demand.

  — I’ll do no such thing, Libète retorts. I am a customer, even though a small one, and you will show respect to me or I’ll go elsewhere.

  — Oh? To whom?

  — To the boko in La Plaine. I’d rather see Boukman but will settle for less if his—what are you? His daughter? Wife? Domestik?—continues to be so rude.

  The Eye disappears for a moment, possibly conferring with its twin.

  — Move back. Get out of the way.

  The gate shudders and overcomes its inertia, screeching as it slides along its unoiled track.

  The Eye, it turns out, belongs to a young woman. Libète walks through the now-open wall into the compound, chin held high with feigned indignity. The woman scowls, moving to close the gate.

  — Wait! I brought my brother, Libète added, signaling with her head. He’s the one hiding behind the bike.

  **

  The two children sat upon the cool concrete floor, leaning against a pink-spackled wall as they waited for Boukman to finish his prior appointment. Each child explored their surroundings, bouncing their eyes from one curiosity to the next.

  The space was used as a peristyle, a meeting area for Voudou ceremonies. In front of them and in the middle of the space stood a thick wooden shaft, the poto mitan, bracing the vaulted ceiling with the help of lesser pillars running the perimeter of the concrete. Colorful triangular flags were strung along wires above the floor, and even more carefully painted murals of saint-lwas occupied the walls of the house attached to the assembly area.

  Music streamed from a radio inside the house, and the children could hear the lyrical lilt and sway of casual chatting from within as well. Libète tapped the floor with her index finger and thumb in rhythm with the song’s beat as she watched the gatekeeper seated in a folding chair in the far corner of the compound. The Eye occasionally looked up from her work washing dishes in a plastic basin, watching Libète and Jak suspiciously. Libète made it a point to stare her down whenever this happened.

  Jak fidgeted as he watched fourteen roosters occupying the yard next to the concrete, each chained to the ground, each a prisoner. Boukman had a reputation as a top cock-fighter in the area and this was his personal army. Many of the birds showed the scars of past battles, boasting patches of missing feathers and festering wounds.

  One particular bird caught Jak’s eye. It was a glorious creature with beautiful hazel feathering, regal even, seemingly spared the ring. Small piles of feed had been left for each of the birds. Libète noticed where Jak’s attention lay.

  — Even birds raised for death eat better than you, she said joking.

  Jak didn’t laugh.

  A nearby door opened and an exceptionally tall woman was ushered out by Boukman. She looked about like a nervous wren.

  — Mèsi, madam, for your patronage. You will find yourself satisfied, I think, and soon. She nodded anxiously and hurried to the gate held open by the obedient Eye. Boukman noticed the waiting children.

  — Ah, and who are you two? Mother gone missing, eh?

  Libète stood up and wiped the dust off her bottom. She sized him up. It was only then that she realized the man was not much taller than herself. Decked out in loose blue flip-flops, he wore puffy grey sport pants cinched with drawstrings slightly below the knees. His T-shirt was red with some inscrutable English text and a ball designed to look like it was hit by a person and flying toward the viewer. His features were friendly, but shadowed by the narrow brim of a woven hat.

  — We come with just ourselves, she said, glancing involuntarily at the squinting, scowling Eye. Our mother has gout and we are here to have you make a cure.

  — Come in. We can discuss it. His moving lips and smile revealed a broad, unsettling gap between his front teeth.

  As they entered Boukman’s den, Libète sat in an open chair while Jak settled on a metal box. Light streamed in from a small opening at the top of the room, and a half-burned candle—now a deformed mess spilling its wax—allowed them to better make things out.

  The walls were utterly grey. The floors and racks held various talismans whose provenance and purpose were unknown to Libète. A quarter-full bottle of Barbancourt sat next to an intimidating ceremonial knife, a tarnished silver amulet, and a small icon of Baron Samdi, the lwa of the dead. This doll showed him in his grim tuxedo and dark glasses, a skull for a face. Jak was engrossed by a genuine human skull on a side table, peering into the boy with its cavernous sockets.

  Boukman planted himself on a creaky stool and stretched his legs, placing his hands in his lap and sighing in the clinical manner of a doctor.

  — You have a range of options to treat the gout, Boukman said. And this depends on how many coins you carry in your little hands. Ingredients cost money, you know.

  — Of course.

  — Before we get to that, give me her symptoms and I’ll tell you what I can do.

  Libète bit her lip, w
eighing the size of the lie she should tell.

  — She has much trouble walking, she said. You should see how she lets on when she goes to market! Libète thought of Madam Fleur, her neighbor with the condition. Such a big sore on her foot, she continued. She’s been to the clinics and hospitals. Nothing fixes it.

  — So she turns to Voudou last?

  — That’s right—you see, she’s a Protestant, big time, and so can’t come here. There’d be big trouble at church, so she sent us. To keep things quiet.

  — Is that so?

  She landed on a big lie.

  — Yes. Though there’s more. She had strange dreams lately, frightening ones. There is a cruel spirit who haunts her. She wonders now if the gout is a curse sent from a jealous seller at market. I—she wanted me to ask about her dreams too, because we know so little of Voudou, you see.

  — Tell me more.

  Libète looked to Jak for support but received a disbelieving stare.

  — Well, she thinks she sees one of the Ezilis—

  — Dantò or Freda?

  — Dantò, that’s the one, she said. She wanted to know why Ezili Dantò might appear to her.

  — Dantò is one of the biggest, most famous lwa, and I could tell you much.

  — Well, in the dream, my mother sees the black Madonna who holds the child, and she is covered in blood. She wants to know what this could mean.

  — Hmmm. This is interesting, seeing as she has shunned the spirits. Why would Dantò appear to her? You see, Dantò is a perfect mother. One who cares for her children, longs for their well-being. When she sees a child who does not heed her, there’s no tolerance. She punishes harshly to correct the wrong.

  — That doesn’t sound perfect, Libète grumbled.

  — Ah, you shouldn’t speak so soon. Dantò would die protecting her children. Her discipline is in complete love. That is what makes it perfection.

  — But why the blood? What did she suffer so? Jak asked, his first words. This happened often, his curiosity taking over, immunizing him against his fears.

  — She has been slashed with a knife, Boukman responded clinically.

  — But why? Libète chimed in. By who?

  — These are many questions. There are different reasons for her different wounds. Which interest you?

  — The scars on her face and wounds to her body, Libète said.

  — And her cut-out tongue, Jak added.

  — I see, he said, sighing. You’re interested in all of them. Well, the first is her fault. The second is because she was betrayed.

  He took a deep breath, as if to prepare for a long speech.

  — Dantò is the sister of Ezili Freda. Like many conflicts between sisters, they fought over love—the love of another lwa. It was a fight that turned ugly, more so than most. You see, Dantò took a knife and stabbed Freda, right here — he pointed to his heart — and Freda took out the blade. In hatred, she slashed Dantò’s face. His hand flew to his own face and ran down his right cheek with two fingers, feigning the cuts. The two have been rivals since.

  — And the tongue?

  — Freda is not responsible for the tongue. That is rooted in the story of Haiti and Haitians. The story of us. You two know the start of the revolution, yes? Of my namesake, Boukman Dutty?

  The children shrugged. They knew it, but not so well.

  — I will remind you, he said reprovingly, as it is one of our most important stories. The revolt started in the north of Sen Domeng, our dear island, at a gathering of slaves, a really big one, in Bwa Kayiman, the Alligator Wood. There was a big storm on, with rain swirling and lightning nearly tearing the sky apart.

  Libète and Jak watched, eyes as wide as they could be. The boko continued.

  — In the middle of the slaves stood Boukman, a grand man—huge, strong, powerful—all of it. He was Jamaican, and a houngan like me. He slaughtered a pig, a black one, and lapped up its blood. He used the rest as ink to write a lasting pact among the slaves. He uttered a prayer, one to be remembered by all Haitians for all time:

  “The god who created the sun which gives us light, who rouses the waves and rules the storm, though hidden in the clouds, he watches us. He sees all that the white man does. The god of the white man inspires him with crime, but our god calls upon us to do good works. Our god who is good to us orders us to revenge our wrongs. He will direct our arms and aid us. Throw away the symbol of the god of the whites who has so often caused us to weep, and listen to the voice of liberty, which speaks in the hearts of us all.”

  — But how does Dantò fit in? Libète asked, breaking the spell cast by the boko’s recitation.

  — Ah, you see, at the same ceremony was Mambo Marinette, a priestess of the first order. She was possessed by Dantò and at the heart of it all. As the battles in the revolution took place all over Haiti, Dantò took an interest in the people’s fighting and sometimes joined in. She was too quick to speak though, and those with her believed her loose lips would cost them the revolution if she was ever captured. So they acted.

  Boukman shook his head. They took her, held her down, and used a knife to take her tongue. They stripped her of speech to save themselves. This betrayal has wedged itself in Dantò’s heart. She has no words, and uses her children as in-betweens, translating her clicking sounds into something her followers can understand.

  Libète and Jak had lost themselves in the story and they stared at Boukman with gaping mouths.

  — She remained her own woman, though. You remember she is a perfect mother? She is strong and tough to control, the perfect symbol of independence. So strong she can’t be easily killed. Do you know her song?

  The children shook their heads. Boukman began to chant the lyrics:

  Seven stabs of the knife, seven stabs of the sword

  Hand me that basin, I am going to vomit blood

  the blood runs down

  The two children looked at each other, the same thought occurring to each: seven stabs! That’s how many wounds Claire had!

  — Do you understand? Boukman said after finishing his song.

  They couldn’t help but shake their heads.

  — Though she suffers greatly, is even dying, she keeps on. She remains strong, grasping her basin and catching all of the blood that leaves her, not giving way to death.

  Boukman let this sit with the children. He repeated the lines again, now with the zeal of an evangelist.

  — So, after hearing about our common mother, what do you think your mother’s dream means?

  — Dream? Libète had forgotten about that matter entirely. Oh, yes, her dream. Maybe she has been betrayed by someone, she grasped, and Dantò wishes to tell her? To warn her?

  — Yes, to tell her who has put the gout on her. That must be it, Jak added.

  — Maybe so. But dreams are hard to interpret. The surface seems simple, but there are mysteries beyond mysteries, just as there are mountains beyond mountains.

  Libète thought of her own dream, of San Figi and her silent command to settle these murders. She pushed those thoughts down deep.

  — I have another question, she said. You know the murders, out in the reeds, of Claire and Ti Gaspar?

  Boukman soured. I heard of them.

  Libète knew she had to ask before the boko’s goodwill expired. Could someone…possessed…have killed them? Maybe someone ridden by Ezili Freda? Who mistook them for Dantò?

  — Listen well. That was not the work of a lwa—to kill an innocent, especially a child. Freda hates Dantò, to be sure. But this was not the work of a Voudouist.

  — How can you know? Libète pried.

  — Because! Because I know Voudou. I have seen what lwa yo can do, and this was not them. What happened there was plain murder, a cold-blooded one.

  And with that, his goodwill vanished.

  — Why are you here? Why are you really here?

  Libète chose not to answer. Jak could not answer even if he wanted to.

  — Ah! Ah ha! he said,
a quick snap of his fingers. I know it! You are the two who found them! I heard of you! And you suspect I was a part of it?

  — You are right and you are wrong, Libète blurted. We found them, yes. And Jak noticed the wounds were like Dantò’s. But we came to you only for knowledge, not to accuse. We only want to discover who did this, and you are not the one we suspect.

  — Then there is no gout.

  — There is no gout. And no mother.

  — Then you are a good liar.

  — And I am sorry to say a liar who is poor. I have nothing to give for your help. But you are a good teacher. You have taken two Protestants who have been kept from more than the mention of Voudou and given us something new. We leave with much.

  — All the chatter in the streets about the murder had confused everything for us, Jak said. I’m sorry if we’ve taken your time. We can now put this mystery behind us, as we have nowhere left to explore.

  — Then it is well, Boukman relented.

  The two rose from their seats and shuffled to the door.

  — I have one last question, before we go.

  He took another deep breath. My patience is near its end, but not yet reached. What?

  — If not someone possessed by a lwa, what about one possessed by the devil? A dyab? You know the man who lives alone on the edge of Bwa Nèf, the one with the demon pig? You see, I saw him when I ran from the bodies to get help and wonder if—

  — Out! Get out of here! Boukman shouted, trembling with new and unexpected rage. Jak and Libète were both taken aback by the fury sparked by the old man’s mention.

  Boukman threw open his door and shooed them outside. You will not bring him into this, you hear me? You do not know who or what you are dealing with!

  The children ran out of the room and across the concrete floor, straight through the gate dutifully pried open by the Eye.

  — Leave him be, Boukman shouted after them. LEAVE HIM BE!

  They rushed down the small road leading to Project’s main street, both panting, their adrenaline pumping.