Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti

by Ted Oswald

  — Come inside, come inside, she invited. I’m busy preparing for evening business. I musn’t be distracted for too long!

  The two followed, stepping into the entry room, much cooler than under the harsh sunlight outside. Libète couldn’t help staring at her Aunt Estelle lumbering about the room before collapsing in a chair that looked specially reinforced to support her extraordinary girth.

  — It must be nice to have finished your travels, girl. It sounds like you’ve had a very bad day. But you can put all of that behind you now that you’re here.

  Libète remained silent. She struggled to look her Aunt in the eye.

  — Are all of your clothes in…such condition? Libète opened her mouth to answer. Well, I’m sure they are, her Aunt interrupted. Coming from La Gonâve, you probably all look like — she waved her hand trying to summon the word — that.

  Libète deflated.

  — You poor, poor thing. To be so far from sivilizasyon — that was a word Libète did not know — I can’t imagine it. We shall improve your dress situation. Absoliman. No new daughter of mine can be looked down upon in the community on account of her clothes!

  Libète forced a smile. There was shame at having her clothes ridiculed, and excitement that she might be given something nicer. Davidson, who had taken up a stool in the corner of the room, intuited Libète’s feelings and rolled his eyes. He was careful not to let it be seen.

  — You must be hungry, my girl! her Aunt nearly shouted, shooting up and out of her creaking seat with surprising dexterity. After a long trip and a sleepless night, you need some nourishment. And you’re so scrawny to begin with! Did your mother even feed you, child? Come, come, come.

  Libète followed timidly to the back entrance of the home.

  She first noticed the wide stove with its four propane-fueled burners supporting three covered pots and one large skillet, frying what smelled like griot. An unfamiliar konpa tune emanated from a wind-up radio, the song’s beats mingling with wafting aromas to create an intoxicating combination. The radio sat perched on a wooden fence that surrounded the cooking area, forming a three-sided pen.

  The space was covered by a grey tarp, and at the edge of the shadow cast by the tent sat a blob of a man that Libète had not noticed at first, slumped in his chair.

  — Aren’t you going to greet your uncle? questioned her Aunt.

  I have an uncle? There had been no mention of him thus far.

  He turned and looked at her with the addled eyes of someone who has drunk too much rum.

  — Hello, Uncle. I am happy to meet you. Libète went to gave the shirtless man a kiss on his cheek but he reeled back in surprise.

  — Who are you? he slurred. His teeth were yellowed, and he had wiry hair protruding from the sides of his head. His tall moustache above his lip reminded Libète of a hairy caterpillar. She did not know how to answer his question.

  — She is our new daughter, her Aunt said sweetly. My brother’s bastard, from La Gonâve. She continued stirring her sauce while checking the contents of another pot.

  — Of course, of course. I remember now. I’m glad you’re here—there’s much work to be done.

  — Come get something to eat, Libète! Libète—such an odd name for a little girl, her Aunt remarked aloud. Anyway, take your food.

  She began filling two plates. Libète was used to suppressing her hunger, but with so much food of the type usually reserved for the most special of occasions, she could not keep from salivating. The last time she had meat was when Marie Elise spared a morsel several months before.

  The first plate was stacked high with plantains, griot, mushroom rice, and beans, and even a macaroni dish. Her Aunt served up a modest scoop of rice and a bean sauce on the second plate, and stopped there, putting this one in Libète’s hands. And that is for you, she said.

  — My Aunt, I think you forgot some of the other foods for my plate.

  — Ha! Who do you think you are? Her Aunt’s cheerful disposition clouded. Are you a paying customer?

  — No, it’s just—

  — You should be grateful for what you’re given.

  — I am grateful, I’m sorr—

  — Take this plate to your cousin.

  — Wi, madam. I am sorry for asking.

  — Don’t let it happen again, her Aunt snapped.

  Libète looked to the ground in deep shame, unable to muster another word.

  Her Aunt’s expression softened.

  — Aww, my child. All is forgiven. This is a Christian home, but run like a big business, you see? This petit restaurant pays for everything. Work must be done for food, and you, cherie, have not yet worked.

  — Yes, Auntie. Libète looked up from the ground, somehow surprised anew at her Aunt’s intimidating size.

  — Good. I’m glad you understand. Now give this to your cousin. You must be tired, so ask him to show you to your mat and you can rest for a few hours. I need to finish my cooking.

  Libète did as asked, carrying one plate in each hand. Her cousin was laying down and reading a school book while half-heartedly listening to all that happened outside. He took the plate from Libète’s hands, and Libète sat down on the floor. She offered a silent prayer and began devouring her rice in shoveled spoonfuls. Davidson glimpsed her bony frame and small portion.

  — Don’t let her see, but take some of my food. He pushed some from his plate to hers with his spoon. She accepted gratefully.

  — Thank you, my cousin.

  — It’s nothing, he whispered, smiling at her.

  **

  Libète slept unlike any other time in her life. After packing her stomach full, there was almost nothing that could prevent her eyes from sealing shut.

  When she awoke, low light crept into her dark room. Her head was clouded as densely as the sky before a hurricane. Music blared from speakers somewhere in the distance, and strange whirring sounds came from outside. She lifted herself off her mat in the home’s second room, a thin curtain segregating her space from the third chamber where her Aunt and Uncle slept. Davidson slept in the front room, painted the color of peaches, on an improvised sofa made from a small mattress elevated on cinder blocks and covered with a floral bed sheet. She noticed for the first time that the walls of her room were covered with old newspaper clippings and scenes from magazines, plastered in place using a paste derived from limestone and manioc. The light came from one electric lamp in the front room. God is giving electricity!

  She staggered into the entryway to find her Aunt plopped on her reinforced stool. Her uncle and cousin were not present.

  — Aww, my little zombi, someone must have salted you! Libète squinted and cocked her head in confusion before remembering the taste of salt is the sole way to stir one of the enslaved dead. Salt had not been used. She still felt dead.

  — You are lucky, her Aunt said. I was going to rouse you hours ago to help me clean but Davidson took care of the dishes.

  — He is a good cousin.

  — But only an alright son. Lazy most of the time. You should thank him later.

  — I will.

  — I’m glad you’re awake.

  — Oh?

  — I need help.

  — I see.

  — It’s been a long day and I wish to rest my feet. We’re out of water in the barrel, so I need you to fill a bucket.

  Libète felt anxiety lunge the distance from her heart to her fingertips.

  — I…I don’t know where to find a bucket. And I don’t know where to find water. And it is dark now.

  — Don’t make excuses, her Aunt snapped. Simply go back out to the main road, the one you rode in on with your cousin. There’s a water kiosk.

  — I don’t know what that means.

  — Don’t be stupid! It’s a big tank where the water is stored. There’s a room in front and a man is inside. Here’s a goud, and there’s the bucket in the corner. Pay the attendant and he’ll fill it up.

  Libète took the coin and picke
d up the bucket. It was bigger than any she used back home and didn’t have a lid to keep it from spilling.

  — How full do I fill it?

  — The whole bucket, of course! One goud, one bucket.

  — But it’s very big and I’m very small.

  — I see they raise insolent children out on that island you washed up from! her Aunt bristled.

  Libète knew better than to ask more questions. She grasped the coin tightly in her closed palm and held the bucket in her other. She hurried out into the dark.

  Remembering how to get to the end of the row of homes was easy—that was only a few feet away. From there, her sense of direction was askew. She had clung to her cousin’s back on the motorcycle the entire way in, paying more attention to faces as they streamed by rather than the lay of things.

  She saw several people walking about and decided to ask for help. To her left sat three girls who appeared a few years older than herself, chattering away as they played a game that required tossing rubber bands onto the ground. Their play was lit by a small candle housed in a bucket hanging from a nearby window, attended by a host of moths called to the light but unable to touch it.

  — Bonswa.

  The three girls stopped their play and looked at Libète with empty stares.

  — What? said the biggest of the three.

  — I–I’m looking for the—what was it called?—the “water kiosk.”

  One of the girls raised her hand to point and began to speak but the big girl cut her off.

  — You’re new. Where do you live? Libète pointed to her Aunt’s house.

  — The restaurant house. Restaurant Estelle.

  The speaker’s buck teeth, visible in the candlelight, clashed with an otherwise pleasant face. So you’re their new restavek then? You look the part.

  — Restavek? Libète said quizzically.

  — You don’t know what a restavek is? Where are you from?

  — La Gonâve. I came this afternoon.

  — You’re fresh then! said one of the others. Straight from the hills!

  — They must be pretty stupid in La Gonâve to not know what a restavek is.

  — We aren’t stupid, Libète said defensively. I’ve just never heard the word.

  — You’re a ti bòn, stupid. A bonded child. A slave.

  — A slave? No, no, I’m not anything like that. I’m their niece. My Aunt calls me her daughter.

  — Whatever, said the big one with wild teeth. There are lots of your kind around here. “Get this, get that, do this, do that.” Orders. That’s all they’ll say to you.

  — What’s your name? said another girl.

  — Libète, she murmured.

  They all laughed.

  — Fitting. A slave named liberty. Just wait! If you don’t work, they’ll kick you out. We only get yelled at or beaten when we disobey—never sent away.

  — They wouldn’t do that to me! she stammered. They’re my family!

  The girls roared.

  — Your “Aunt” goes through restaveks fast—faster than anyone I know. She had another girl that was booted out a few weeks ago. What was her name?

  — Kalencia, said one of the others.

  — Right. Kalencia. Put right out on the street. So be careful ti bòn, or you’ll find your ass on the road, too.

  Libète glowered. Just tell me where the water is and leave me alone.

  — We’re going to enjoy seeing you around “Li-bè-te,” they cackled. Down the road and turn right. You’ll see it halfway down.

  Libète walked away wanting to throw the bucket at the girls. This anger, this biting, seething, stomping anger, was something new. She had not even harbored it against her father. Why were they so mean to me? Am I a ti bòn—a slave? She turned the thought over as she followed their directions. At least they told me the right way, she thought as she came upon the water station.

  She handed her coin to the attendant sitting in a cell, or at least it seemed that way. He was hardly visible in the dark.

  He turned a valve inside his booth and this released water into her bucket, which she had placed under a spigot protruding from the cage. It filled quickly, and each extra drop of water increased Libète’s worry. How can I carry such a thing?

  — Mesye, I am sorry to ask, but I have no way to lift this up.

  — So? the jailed man said. Pour some out.

  — If I do I’m afraid my Aunt will become angry.

  — Got any more money?

  Libète’s lip trembled. This was all too much. To have lost her mother, been whisked from her home, forced to go to this place where people with crazed teeth cannot help without teasing or taking one’s money…

  Tears burst from her eyes. Mesye, she begged, please just help me put the bucket on my head. I’ll never ask again. I would give you more money if I had it, but I had just the one coin.

  He deliberated, his thoughts inscrutable in the darkness. He got up and unlocked the door to his cell.

  — Don’t think I’ll do this again, he said as he lifted the bucket and balanced it on top her head. You got it?

  — Wi, I have it.

  — Then go.

  She did, retracing her steps while struggling to keep the bucket upright, she could not help but fall into prayer.

  Bondye, please let me reach home.

  Please keep even a drop from spilling.

  Please protect me and stay close to me, because I’m afraid I am alone here with no one to care for—

  POW–-POW–––––POW. Three loud pops, not too far away, made her jump.

  Time slowed.

  Horror took over as she felt her balance shift, the bucket’s center of gravity no longer aligned with her own. She screamed as it slipped forward and fell, its bottom edge making contact with the ground and rebounding once before tipping completely. The water spilled, seeping into the cracks of the road’s grey decagonal bricks.

  She fell to her knees trying to shepherd the water back in but found it less agreeable than a trip of obstinate goats. She stared at the wet ground before her, praying it would miraculously reverse course and travel back into the bucket.

  The new quiet of the road caught her and she looked up to notice it was empty. The sellers, the cruel girls, other passersby—they had vanished. Whatever was coming, whatever made that explosive sound, was very, very bad. Where can I go? Where can I run? I can’t return to my aunt now!

  Libète noticed that though there were no more pops, there were other more familiar and fearsome sounds to replace them. Men’s shouting—loud, apoplectic, escalating—and the sound of clanging machetes, were not far off.

  She could not move, her blood setting concrete.

  A small, lithe figure coursed toward her from the shadows and she winced, fearing harm. It grasped her wrist and pulled her to her feet, yanking her across the road and away from the brewing violence foretold by the clamoring up the road. Libète had already seen many new and disturbing things in Cité Soleil, and she wondered what kind of animal this might be.

  The creature crashed through a door that was ajar, pulling her further by one of her limp arms into a vacant room, parts of its ceiling long since fallen away.

  Though plunged into black, their eyes adjusted quickly and she could make out the creature’s shape and features. It was a short boy, and thin. She could tell he was shirtless because moonlight pried through cracks above, highlighting the distinctive ridges of his rib cage. He was examining her as well. What does he see when he looks at me? she wondered.

  The troubling sounds, closer now, demanded their attention. The boy moved to watch the street outside and narrowed the door until it was a mere crack. Libète moved, positioning herself behind the crouching boy.

  She gasped to see a group of eleven young men marching westward down the main street. Three carried improvised torches, their flames setting the scene with flickering orange. Three others carried gleaming machetes. The remaining men dragged along a pitiful, broken man.
Another, the seeming ringleader, tall and strong, walked at the front carrying the silver pistol responsible for Libète’s spilled water.

  They dropped the man upon the ground in an arbitrary spot at the leader’s signal, quieting as he knelt down and whispered something in the broken man’s ear. He began to wail.

  — P–P–P–lease, d–don’t. I didn’t do it. I didn’t t–t–take anything!

  — You’re a fucking liar, Valcin! shouted the ringleader. You don’t come on our turf and think you can steal from us!

  — I was just p–p–passing through.

  — STOP LYING! he shouted directly into the man’s ear. You can’t open your fucking mouth without lies spilling out. Say something else and I’ll empty your head.

  — Do it! bellowed one in the mob’s ranks.

  — Show everyone they can’t mess with Bwa Nèf! shouted another.

  — I’m b–b–b–begging yo—

  — I told you to shut up!

  The ringleader cocked his pistol and pointed it directly at the man’s head.

  The poor man couldn’t suppress an anguished moan.

  Libète turned away from the scene, unable to comprehend the hell into which she had descended. The boy who had saved her watched without flinching. This was his world, all too familiar.

  A shot rang out.

  Libète sits in Paix et Solidarite L’eglise de Dieu, her eyes closed tight and hands clasped. It is a cool morning, only two days after Christmas and one day after the discovery of Claire and Ti Gaspar. Congregants sit in rows of wooden benches over a smoothed concrete floor, protected from the Sun by a patchwork of blue tarpaulins. Reinforced concrete pillars stand erect, the splayed tips of iron rebar protruding from the tops like ecstatic hands lifted high, waiting in expectation of someday joining with support tresses to brace a roof.

  The pastor, a man by the name of Formétus, leads a service in which he preaches against the violence that ended the life of a young mother and her child, violence that plagues their community and country.

  Though death is never far away in Cité Soleil, news of the victims and heinous character of the murders spread as quickly as it could be spoken, capturing the prurient imagination of the slum’s residents. From Boston to La Saline, gossiping neighbors chose to escape their own misery by wallowing in the suffering of others that exceeded their own. Not all of it was self-indulgent. One of Libète’s neighbors had remarked that morning, Who am I to complain of an empty stomach when it could have been me with my tongue cut out and baby crushed? True, Libète had thought. Very true.