Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti

by Ted Oswald

  It had been an eternal day and night.

  Police had eventually come and collected the bodies, disbanding the crowd. Libète and Jak conferred briefly before this, and she told the boy about her encounter with the devil and his man-pig at the edge of the reeds. Before any more time to discuss culpability availed itself, Libète’s aunt arrived to see the deceased for herself. Hot, sweaty, and winded by the effort required to trudge out into the marsh only to find the dead already removed, she ordered Libète back home. Libète spent the entire night waiting to hear what Jak had meant by the name he had uttered to her, “Ezili Dantò.” She knew the name as all Haitians do, a name steeped in Voudou, and that she was and is a lwa, or spirit. That was the extent of her knowledge.

  Angry to be sent back to the house, Libète was surprised to discover a measure of celebrity ascribed to her by virtue of being the first to lay eyes upon the dead and report their location. Normally she would embrace the attention as if a lost friend. This was different. The baseness of the murders sat uncomfortably with her. When this particular friend came knocking, Libète greeted her with a scowl and slammed the door closed.

  Pulling her wandering mind back to church, Libète focuses on her prayers.

  Bondye, I ask you to strike down the one who did this thing.

  I pray you make him suffer, cutting him twice as many times.

  I ask you pour out your wrath on him, killing his loved ones, and that you take your grace and forgiveness and love and put them just beyond his reach so he sees them but cannot reach them.

  The words left her mumbling lips while the rest of the two-hundred strong congregation sang a parting song to close the service.

  Because it was a church comprised of the poor, it was a church perpetually under construction but never actually constructed. Members pooled their meager tithes week-to-week to purchase a sack of concrete here, some mortar and blocks there, crawling toward a completion that would most likely follow Christ’s return. Until that day, they would be bathed in the blue light passing through the tarps above.

  The praising and singing reaches an end. The reverie is broken and all return back to the somber reality of life in Bwa Nèf. For Libète, this means looking to her left and seeing her Aunt.

  — Come, Libète. We must prepare for the afternoon meal.

  Her Aunt said these words after every church gathering on every Sunday ever since Libète had arrived in her home three years ago. If God could rest on the seventh day, why can’t this woman?

  Libète harrumphed, watching as her Aunt struggled to lift herself from her seat in the front row. The chair let loose a loud creak, a seeming sigh of relief.

  Now up, she eyed her rear, noticing a streak of dust left upon the wide seat of her emerald church dress, wiping it with her white-gloved hand. She took her church clothing very seriously. “We have been blessed with very much,” she had once told Libète. “And so we must make sure others know it.”

  — Come along, Libète.

  — I am coming.

  — Carry my things then. Oh, I was so stirred by the Holy Spirit that I can’t be burdened with anything.

  — Wi, tantie.

  Today, Libète’s ensemble is a lovely white dress with a wide-blue ribbon around the waist, complemented by plastic barrettes molded into bows that clasped each braided strand of hair. Libète did enjoy shedding her grubby house dress to don beautiful lace and colors on Sunday, but this grant was not thanks to her Aunt’s benevolence: she simply wanted a pretty plaything to show off, a doll to display. Both knew this and accepted it. Life with her Aunt yielded little fruit, so Libète tried to harvest them when they cropped up.

  She gathered her Aunt’s oversized purse and large French Bible (though her Aunt could not read French) and trailed after her as they waded through the crowd.

  — Be blessed till your cup overflows, Sister Alcide! her Aunt said as piously as possible to the woman who owned a successful store on Route 9. May God be ever-present with you this week, Brother Ardouin, she said to another man who owned a small fleet of mototaxis and taptaps.

  She continued showering blessings on others as she left, though the well had run dry once she reached the back of the church where the poorest members often seated themselves, clothes holey and stained, shoes scuffed and unpolished. Libète had to watch herself; airs of superiority came easily to her. She reminded herself that Jak was too ashamed to worship there because he had nothing to wear.

  Pastor Formétus had already moved to the back, and Libète noted he always seemed to speak with the people seated there first. Her Aunt pulled the pastor aside, taking him from his conversation with an older woman who cast her eyes to the floor while her Aunt spoke.

  — My pastor, what a rousing sermon, as always. It is so true that violence abounds and we must be instruments of peace. I want you to know I always try to sow seeds of peace throughout the community. My neighbors often call me a “peacemaker” because I so excel at ending disputes.

  Libète rolled her eyes. You excel at screaming at others until they’re so exhausted you get your way.

  — My sister, that brings me great pleasure to hear. I’ll encourage you to grow in this area, even though you so excel in it—in your own estimation.

  Her Aunt offered a serene (and oblivious) curtsy.

  — Why thank you—

  — Ah, Libète. The pastor turned to the girl, cutting Estelle off. I did not see you there…behind your aunt.

  He crouched down to speak to her face-to-face. Libète did not need to see her Aunt to know her face was now marred with a sneer that no amount of her white powder and make-up could hide.

  — I am sorry for what you saw yesterday, he offered quietly. He put a hand to her shoulder. Those murders are an affront to all that is good. No child should see such things. But unfortunately you did. Please, let me know if you or your friend need prayer or support. I’m happy to provide it.

  — Thank you, pastor. I will let you know.

  — Libète, her Aunt interjected. We need to go. Now. The chickens will not cut off their own heads.

  — Yes, madam.

  Pastor Formétus stood and bid them farewell. As soon as they were out of earshot of others and heading down Impasse Chavannes, her Aunt spoke.

  — You think you’re special because you found some corpses?

  — I don’t think I’m special. Libète knew there was no use in fighting.

  — I’ve come upon dead bodies before and no one gave me special attention.

  — They should have, tantie. You surely deserved it.

  — That’s right. I did. But don’t you become haughty over this—that path will lead you to destruction.

  — I won’t, tantie.

  — And know that if you do, I will make you regret it. Oh, will I!

  You cow, Libète thought. You think I sought Claire and Gaspar out to get attention? I can’t get their blood out of my head.

  Libète trailed a few paces behind and in silence, noting the woman’s green rear was still covered in dust. She smirked before her mind wandered back to Claire and Gaspar.

  She wanted to talk to Jak, needed to talk to him, but knew she wouldn’t be released until the food was prepared hours from now. And what long hours they’ll be.

  As they neared Impasse Sara, she heard a series of three short honks and the rumbling of an approaching truck. The two, woman and child, mechanically moved to the side of the road to let it pass but were surprised when it braked abruptly a few feet ahead of them.

  It was a white police truck with “Cité Soleil” in red letters written along the back fender. The trucks crawled along Bwa Nèf’s streets often enough, but the officers rarely left the comfort of their air conditioned vehicles. Libète shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight to make out who was driving, only able to do so when the tinted window rolled down.

  — Officer Simeon! her Aunt exclaimed. What is it?

  — I’m looking for the child, Madam Estelle, looking for L
ibète. We need to talk to her.

  Libète shrunk back while her Aunt leaned forward. Dear Officer Simeon, it’s so nice to see you, she said through a gritted smile. But — she offered an incredulous laugh — what could you possibly need the child for?

  Simeon paused.

  — We need to ask her about yesterday’s deaths.

  Her aunt frowned.

  — Ah, but I can’t spare her. I need her for the restaurant. And I promise you, she knows nothing. I can tell you whatever you want to know about the murders.

  Simeon tried his best to politely smile. Libète could see she had a rival in insincerity.

  — Madam, I thank you—for wanting to help our investigation—but she and the boy were the first to find the bodies and Inspector Dimanche thinks they and they alone might have helpful information. So I must decline your offer. I will need to take the girl and her friend in. Dimanche asked for them specifically.

  Her aunt shuddered at the mere mention of the inspector.

  — Well, if Dimanche wishes to speak to the girl and her…friend, he shall have his way.

  — Mèsi anpil, madam. I’ll let him know of your willingness to cooperate. Libète, please get in. You can sit with me in the cab—that dress is too nice to get covered in dust in back.

  Libète complied, walking around the side of the truck. I’ll pay for this later, but her face was worth cleaning floors all night.

  Simeon reversed the truck into a nearby empty lot and began heading back toward Route 9 and the police station.

  — So, where can we find Jak? he asked.

  The ringleader fires a single, piercing shot. Though Libète averts her eyes, she cannot help but turn back to see the result.

  Expecting the man on the ground to have been silenced, she is surprised to see him writhing like a fish on land. He screamed, covering his ear closest to the discharged gun.

  He was most certainly not dead.

  The mob laughed hysterically at the man’s misfortune. The leader had fired high on purpose, missing the man’s head and hitting the nearby pavement. He had a smug grin on his face, proud of the torment he was causing.

  — Sick! Libète exclaimed, louder than intended.

  The boy turned to her, wide-eyed. Her remark went unheard by the mob, but he still clapped his hand over her mouth. She grimaced and pulled it away.

  — Toussaint, we should get out of here, said one of the more skittish gang members, speaking to the ringleader.

  — Yeah, Touss. The more shots fired, the faster the police come.

  — Shut up. You think they’re going to mess with us on a Saturday night? They’re too busy doing what we should be doing—watching football. Instead we have to deal with this shit. Touss kicked the cowering man in the stomach. Unlike us, the pigs don’t know how to do their duty—

  — Quiet! I hear something! hollered a man holding a torch. A loud screech was heard, the sound of a vehicle peeling out of a turn, followed by a furious engine bearing down on them. It’s them—the police!

  The men started to disperse.

  — Stop! Touss shouted. You run and I’ll shoot you fuckers in the back. He looked crazed to Libète. You know I will! We’ve seen it before. If we stand tall, these pigs leave us alone. You know they’re spineless.

  The group reluctantly stood their ground, forming a wall between Touss and the bleeding man. As the vehicle approached and came to a halt, its headlights flared, flooding the scene and giving the concealed spectators up and down the road their first good look at the mob.

  Touss was an intimidating figure, taller than most of the men and well-built. He wore a white muscle shirt that had been flicked with the blood of the man on the ground and baggy jeans that sagged low. His features were soft and handsome, incongruent with the image of a man so brazen. His hair was braided and pulled back into a bunch at the back of his head, and his face marked by a half-hearted goatee. Blinded by the floodlights, he held his pistol out as if ready to fire.

  There was now no sound except the idling engine of the police truck. The doors on each side swung open and indistinct figures stepped out and forward, backlit by the truck’s lights.

  — Come to play, have you? bellowed Touss. Get out of here! This is our business.

  — Put your gun down! one of the officers shouted. He had his own pistol drawn and pointed at Touss.

  — Put yours down! You threaten me with a pointed gun, I do the same.

  — I’m not telling you again, Touss. I’m sick of you getting into shit like this, terrorizing everyone here. This is my home too, and I’m not dealing with this anymore.

  Touss retorted in machine-gun Kreyol. Simeon! Oh! It’s you! Ha! I couldn’t tell with you hiding in front of those lights. Why the hell would I listen to you? A little kid from down the street? I always knew you were going to grow up into a prick. You were one of us, man, and now you ride around in your machin with a shiny little badge and think you’re something.

  — Put…it…down! Simeon’s voice cracked on the last word.

  — Get out of here and we’ll—I’ll—forget this happened. He signaled to the other policeman. And take your quiet lover over there with you, he said.

  Libète couldn’t contain her curiosity. Who’s that other one? she asked the boy.

  — I–I can’t tell, he said, squinting to make out his face. I don’t know him, he whispered back.

  There was a brief impasse. Neither spoke, but Touss had a clear upper-hand over Simeon. Still, the men in the mob were on edge, fidgeting behind their leader.

  The other police officer moved, unexpectedly so, walking swiftly up to Touss. He was heavyset and completely bald. Touss raised his weapon and pointed it at the man’s face. The men with machetes lifted them.

  This unknown officer, shorter than Touss but equally intimidating, spoke in hushed tones that Libète couldn’t make out. Touss managed a sneer and began laughing. He turned to look over his shoulder for a moment.

  — You all hear what this dog had to—

  The unknown officer took the gun pointed at him and before Touss or the others could react, slammed the butt of the pistol into the young man’s face. Touss yelled, and the officer continued pummeling him in the face and stomach with the pistol held in his right hand and his left clenched fist. Different men surged to help Touss but Simeon, emboldened, shouted out.

  — Stay back! I’ll blow your heads off!

  Touss collapsed to the ground under the officer’s barrage. The mob stood shocked by a brutality that matched Touss’ own. The officer finally stopped and stood over Touss’ broken face and crumpled body, huffing and puffing. He spit on Touss and turned to the others.

  Libète could see disdain written across his face. Your name is Toussaint, is it? I’ll remember you. As for the rest of you — he paused — you cowards, I will not tolerate this. He pointed to Touss’ victim. If you take the law into your hands then you will find the law is ready to take you into its hands. He paused again, breathing heavily. Now leave! he snarled.

  This was unprecedented. None of the men knew what to do. In moments they had reverted into petulant school children, forced to comply with a teacher’s commands. They walked away, some quickly, others trying to saunter off to save face.

  The unknown officer turned away and nursed his hand used to pummel Touss. He put the pistol in his waistband and helped lift Touss’ shell-shocked victim off the ground and into the bed of their pickup.

  — Goddamn Chimè, the officer muttered, the word Libète knew was used for ghosts and phantoms.

  Simeon holstered his weapon, stunned by the other officer’s conduct. He walked up to Touss and crouched down to inspect him. In the relative quiet, Libète and the boy were able to hear what he said.

  — You idiot. You know I don’t want things like this to happen. I didn’t know he’d do…this.

  Touss did nothing but take labored breaths. Simeon reached into his chest pocket and began counting what looked like money, careful to make sur
e the other officer couldn’t see what he was doing. He placed it cautiously into Touss’ hand.

  — Go to the hospital and get yourself some help.

  — Simeon! the other officer yelled from the idling truck.

  — I’m coming, Dimanche!

  Simeon returned to the vehicle. They were gone as quickly as they’d come.

  Libète and the boy stepped out as other people began poking their heads out of doors and re-entering the street. Several of Touss’ men quickly returned and spirited their fallen leader away.

  The fight had made Libète forget about the spilled water. She returned to the bucket, still laying where she left it, and bent down. The fears of returning to her Aunt without it sprang to mind.

  — Do you need help? the boy asked, noticing her dismay. She turned to him, biting her lip and gave a short nod.

  — My Aunt, she wanted water. I spilled it all.

  — I saw.

  — She’ll be angry, and I don’t have money to pay for more.

  The boy picked up the bucket and walked back toward the water kiosk wordlessly. She followed and watched as he reached into his pocket and took a one goud coin to pay the attendant. He was small, but there was an intelligence in his eyes and manner that signaled he might be older than he appeared.

  — I’m not too strong, but I can help you get it back. We can carry it together.

  Tears, born of gratefulness, formed in her eyes. She did not let these waters fall.

  — What’s your name? she asked. You didn’t tell me.

  The boy answered simply. It’s Jak.

  — Mèsi, Jak. Mèsi anpil, anpil. You have saved me before knowing me. I’m called Libète.

  She took the bucket’s handle but didn’t yet lift it. He placed his hands on it and prepared to lift.