Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti

by Ted Oswald

  Indignation played across her face as she continued her inspection. She knelt at Claire’s side, soiling her knees and dress in the mud, this time turning the body over completely until her void and dirtied face looked upon the wide, blue sky.

  No blood had been visible from her back, making the cause of death unclear. It was no longer a mystery. Her throat had a wide gash running from one side of the chin to the other. Her torso was soaked with mud thickened by blood, both from her throat and also three other cuts in seemingly random locations across her legs and chest.

  — The–the, Jak stuttered before finally getting out the words. Look…at her heart.

  Protruding from her sternum was the dark handle of a knife, pushed roughly parallel with her flat body when she fell upon the ground.

  Gaspar’s swaddling was covered in the same foul mixture of dirt and blood, but with no obvious wounds of his own. By contrast, he appeared at peaceful rest. Libète moved to close Claire’s open eyes so that she might rest too. Doing so only led to more horrible observations.

  Claire had been marked by two large cuts down her right cheek, deliberately placed. Red rivulets had run down the chin from her open mouth, and Libète peered inside. She recoiled violently.

  — The tongue—Jak, it’s missing. Oh God, it’s been cut out.

  She suppressed a sob. Poor, poor Claire, poor Claire, she repeated to herself, pushing the chin up with a quick thrust of her index finger, bringing to a close what had been left open.

  She stood up. Tears welled and fell down both her cheeks, but she wiped them away with a grim determination to stay composed.

  — We can’t leave them like this, Jak said.

  Libète nodded and reached to the hem of her own skirt and, with some effort, tore a large piece of blue fabric. She placed it over Claire’s face.

  — I need to go, she told the boy. To find someone—anyone—to let others know. You have to wait with them.

  He looked at her pitifully. Go, he murmured. But quickly.

  She was off, running at full speed through the sea of reeds toward the edge of her home, Bwa Nèf. She looked down to avoid tripping and when she neared an open field at the end of the reeds, she burst forth, colliding with an unseen person.

  She crashed and fell, swearing as she spun upon the ground. Blinded by the Sun and unsure of who or what lay before her, it took a few moments to register whose path she had crossed.

  — Dyab la—the devil! she gasped, the words slipped out before she knew she said them.

  The man, or at least the form the Devil inhabited, was aged and of formidable size but slumped stature. He righted himself using a metal cane, an old golf putter given new and terrible life.

  Libète slid her backside against the ground and away from the figure, clenching her jaw and swallowing hard. His face was unreadable, eyes hidden by a wide-brimmed hat while the rest of his face and head were obscured by long greying dreadlocks and a plaited beard. A small snorting pulled her eyes to the left and her heart sank. She saw it—the Dyab’s minion—creep out from behind him. It was common knowledge the Dyab had turned a young man into this very pig.

  — Pardon me, mesye, she wheezed with heavy breaths. It was an accident.

  Unable to look at either in the eye, she sprang up and ran for her life back to Impasse Chavannes, knowing she would find the safety of others there. She prayed madly for protection against this devil, daring only the shortest glance over her shoulder to see if either gave pursuit.

  They did nothing but watch her go on her way.

  Libète presses a wet rag against her mother’s forehead. It feels as if on fire.

  The child looks toward the ceiling and up to God, wondering what this all means.

  Unable to lift her mother from the floor by herself, she had fetched help. Running to house number four, she banged upon its heavy door even though no light could be seen inside. Marie Elise, her mother’s closest friend, soon opened it.

  Lit only by the moon, she wore a sagging nightgown that showed her gaunt, aged frame. Libète did not know how old this woman was, but she was well past her manman Sophia’s 23 years. The woman’s face was long, her skin drawn tight like a drum, even more so now than usual.

  — Libète? But you’re so loud! You’ll wake Daniel. What’s the—

  — She fell again! My manman fell. Libète could not stop her tears.

  — Bondye! she gasped. When? Marie Elise moved to fetch her clothes.

  — She’s on the floor now and can’t talk much. She looks so, so sick. I tried to help her onto the bed but couldn’t. She was too heavy and—

  — Libète, Marie Elise interrupted. I understand. Now go back and comfort her. I will come.

  The girl nodded sharply and sprinted back home.

  — Marie Elise will be here soon, and manman, you’re going to be alright, like the last time.

  — Mèsi, Libète, her mother coughed, unable to otherwise speak.

  Marie Elise was not far behind, bringing with her two other women from houses one and three. Together, they lifted manman into her bed, ordering Libète to hold the wet compress to her mother’s forehead and sing her a song.

  Marie Elise and the two other neighbors now stood outside the curtained door, whispering while Libète did as told. She strained to listen to their low voices but couldn’t make out their words over her own raspy singing. She sang several songs while her mind played through past memories like a film reel.

  Unlike many women, her mother Sophia had given birth to only a single child, to Libète. She was a special child, her mother said, because she came on the first day of the year, New Year’s Day, but more importantly for all Haitians, Independence Day. The rallying cry of the Haitian slaves who revolted against their French masters was purloined from the French revolutionaries who rose up only a few years before: “liberte, egalite, fraternite.” Manman had later told her that of the three, she thought “Libète” was the most fitting for the name of her little girl.

  She heard the other two women split off, leaving Marie Elise to re-enter the house and sit with Libète and her mother. The woman put one arm around Libète and took the rag from her hand, wetting Sophia’s brow herself. She joined Libète’s quiet melody, rocking the girl softly. Her voice had a remarkable purity, smooth like a silken dress, a strange gift entrusted to an old woman in a distant corner of Haiti. She continued her singing as she placed the compress back into Libète’s small hand, patted the girl’s head, and began busying herself about the room. She put on water for tea over a small charcoal stove and prepared new rice brought from her own house. Manman had not eaten since that morning.

  Libète leaned into her mother’s ear.

  — You are so weak, she whispered. Are you leaving me?

  No response came. Libète sat with the silence.

  Manman was already alone at the time Libète was born. The girl had known no father and had no other family. Her grandfather died from a failed heart before her birth. He left this home that they now occupied, as well as the goats that provided their livelihood. Libète had asked where her father was last year, at the age of six. The question saddened her mother, so she did not ask it again.

  — Manman, please, she said. Are you leaving me?

  — I — she gasped — believe I am. And I am so scared.

  — Then don’t go.

  Marie Elise’s song still floated around the room, caressing them.

  — My body fails me—this sickness…

  Libète clung to her mother.

  — But, she rasped. You will not be alone, Libète. You will have Marie Elise, and God.

  — Manman, they aren’t you.

  — Cherie, all will be well.

  Marie Elise realized they were speaking and stopped her song. She came close, firm hands for Sophia and Libète’s shoulders.

  — Libète, do not strain your mother by making her speak. Give her your words instead.

  Libète looked up, biting her cheek to quell her t
ears.

  — Sing for her again, Marie Elise insisted. Your voice is prettier than mine.

  Libète did. She sang songs from church, others to which she didn’t know all the words, and simple songs every Haitian child knows. Before long, she was improvising lyrics and melodies dedicated to her mother, songs of gratitude for her life and goodness, her kindness and love, because all of the lyrics of all the other songs could not say the things that young Libète now bore inside her.

  The songs soon stopped.

  Libète’s mother was dead within the hour.

  Libète runs through the streets of Bwa Nèf. She searches faces for someone on whom she can unload the burden of the deaths.

  There is a lady selling pen and peanut butter in front of her small cinderblock house, and a carpenter making a small cabinet under a tree across the way. Not just anyone will do.

  She continues on at a mad, reckless pace.

  Should she try to find Claire’s family?

  No, I don’t know where they live.

  The police?

  They are too far.

  Her aunt?

  She would be worthless.

  She rounds a corner onto Impasse Sara, her bare feet thumping against the grey brick road.

  People’s eyes follow her. Children, smaller than her, stop their games and watch her pass in alarm. She looks down and notices her torn dress covered in dirt and blood and understands why.

  She turns off the main road and runs down a row of homes, a left here, a right, another left and near collision with a mason, grey with concrete dust. She runs familiar paths that she and Jak often speed down, but still does not know where she goes or whom she seeks.

  Davidson. The thought explodes into her brain. Her cousin.

  He knew her.

  His friends knew her.

  They will be close.

  They can get others.

  Sweat dripped down her face. She slowed to assess the best course to reach her cousin, took two gasping breaths, and careened off again, straight, left, through the hole in the wall, through the children’s ball game, past the line of patients waiting at the clinic, a hop over the sewage canal, duck under the hanging laundry, left again, through the wall, onto Impasse Chavannes and…

  She looked around at the people on the busiest street in Bwa Nèf, all familiar to her but none her cousin. Libète prepared to stop and cry out her news before finally spotting Wadner, one of her cousin’s friends, talking to Therese, a teenage girl Libète didn’t like. She ran to him.

  — Where’s Davidson? she blurted out, short of breath. The two turned to look at her. His squinty eyes registered surprise as he looked her up and down.

  — There, he responded cautiously. In the cinema, with Yves, watching football.

  Therese gave Libète a sneer and Libète gave her one back.

  — Thanks, Wadner, Libète muttered.

  — What’s the matter?

  She hesitated. He was friends with Claire, too. I could tell him.

  — Bad news. You’ll find out soon, she said a bit too ominously, running the thirty meters to the old clinic-turned-cinema.

  Wadner shook his head. What a strange girl, he remarked.

  — She’s a bitch, Therese replied.

  Libète crashed through the door to the “cinema,” flooding it with light. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom and see what was really just an open room with a bulky television used to screen football games and dubbed films. All of the patrons shouted and swore, blinded by the blast of light interrupting their match.

  She gasped for air before shouting. Shut up, all of you!

  She spotted her cousin seated two rows back.

  — Davidson! Claire and Gaspar were murdered!

  Libète wakes up to darkness and the sound of a motor running in the distance. She is not at home.

  She did not know why she ran when her mother trembled and fell permanently asleep, but she did. Marie Elise tried to pursue her, but the woman’s old legs and the black night permitted Libète to slip away.

  She fled to the one refuge she knew.

  The cicadas’ music had quieted, leaving only the sounds of falling water and the puttering motor growing louder, closer.

  Libète sat up on the large rock. The moon’s pale glow cast strange shadows about her. Rubbing her eyes, the weight of reality came crashing in.

  She’s really gone. And I’m alone.

  The sound of the motor cut out. Libète assumed it was a late night mototaxi, taking customers down the winding ridges and bumps of poorly carved roads to Anse-à-Galets, the main city, to then climb upon a ship and make the passage to the mainland. Boarding the first ferries meant setting out at ungodly hours. Libète had never ridden down to the dock or made the trip across the water—only heard those who did when they passed by.

  When she climbed palm trees she could see Sen Domeng, a fabled mainland shared by Ayiti and its fractious neighbor, the Repiblik Dominikèn. The mountains she witnessed on the other side were so high, so vast, even from afar. She couldn’t help but wish to visit one day.

  Visitors returning to their ancestral homes on La Gonâve often wore new suits and dresses that shamed those on the island. They brought cameras, and mp3s, even phones with cameras. Neither she nor her neighbors could afford such things.

  But any dreams of leaving were now dashed. I’m going to live in this forest for forever. Maybe she would go back in secret and steal the goats, shepherding them so that they would be her family, and she would only appear to other people when she needed to sell one at market, and everyone would think she was a ghost or spirit and forget about her entirely, and she would never say a single word to anyone ever again, except “mèsi” to the customers who bought her goats—this was to be her future. It was a sad one, but she had already…

  — LI-BÈ-TE!

  A Voice called her name, hard and masculine. She shuddered.

  — Come out!

  She bolted in surprise, sliding down the side of the boulder and disappearing into a crevice between rock and wall. She tried to stifle her breath and peered out to glimpse the owner of the Voice. The darkness made it impossible.

  — I don’t have time to search you out! the Voice rumbled.

  The particular tenor finally registered, though the man’s face was still unseen. It’s Limyè! Marie Elise must have called him after I ran!

  Officer Limyè was the local police, responsible for their entire area. He was big, and shaped like a stone-hewn statue.

  — I have something to tell you, Libète. So come out! It’s important.

  I—will—not! He can talk all night if he wants. He’ll never find me. I’ll disappear before he takes me.

  She saw him growl and curse in frustration. He faced away, mere feet from her hiding place.

  — I know your mother is dead, Libète. I’m — he paused — very sorry. She was a good woman. He said this last part quietly. But you need to come out now! She wouldn’t want you to hide.

  He may be right but I don’t care. It’s my choice.

  — I know you’re here. I have something to tell you—about your father. And I can only do that if you stop these games and come out.

  Could it be true? He had uttered some of the only words that could make her consider giving herself up.

  — I will take you to him, but you must first come out!

  This offer brought maddening hopes and fears. Maybe she wasn’t alone in the world! But why had manman never made her father known? He could be a very bad man, or one who had hurt manman very much.

  She balanced a life in the wilds of La Gonâve with her goats against another where she found a lost father and a new home. The goats came up lacking.

  I must know what’s been kept from me. She stepped out from the crack.

  — Who is he then? she said timidly.

  Officer Limyè turned, surprised. The side of his face was temporarily lit by moonlight streaming through palm fronds and branches, e
nough to make out his hard features. He looked her up and down with sad eyes, and in the Voice spoke a single word that made her tremble.

  **

  Libète rode on the back of Limyè’s motorcycle, clinging to him. The moto’s headlamp was the only light around, speeding her home to a new life she no longer wanted.

  “Me.” That’s what Limyè said to her. She had lost a mother and gained a father in the span of a few hours. Her weary mind was unable to comprehend this.

  The row of five homes was dark, no reassuring lamps in windows. Limyè carried a flashlight that guided them to her front door. They found Marie Elise asleep in her mother’s cracked plastic chair. An old sheet covered manman.

  Limyè knocked on the doorframe with the butt of his flashlight. Marie Elise stirred, found a match, and lit a small gas lamp on an adjacent crate.

  — Mèsi Jezi! Marie Elise exclaimed at the sight of the two. My dear, we’ve found you! I worried so much!

  Libète approached the woman who offered a hug.

  Limyè, still cold like stone, had not uttered a word the entire ride back. Libète clasped onto Marie Elise around the waist, who in turn placed a leathery hand upon her head, stroking her small braids. Libète buried her face in Marie Elise’s side, unable to look at her father.

  — Did you tell her?

  Limyè nodded.

  — So what happens now? You’re taking her home, no?

  He shook his head. No.

  Libète felt the old woman’s body tense.

  — What do you mean? There is no one besides you.

  — Egzakteman. She has no one.

  — But how could yo—why is—

  Libète felt as if she was an unseen ghost. Marie Elise could not settle on any words.

  — She is going away. To my sister’s.

  — Your sister? Where is that?

  — Cité Soleil.

  She gasped. You’re sending her there? Away from La Gonâve? Away from what she knows?

  — I did not ask for her.

  — But you got her mother pregnant. You left them to fend for scraps and for us to care for her and Libète while you forced your way into others’ beds, impregnating half the island! You probably gave her the illness that killed her! You stupid, selfish prick! Her rage threatened to spill over like a neglected pot of boiling water.