Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti

by Ted Oswald

  She waited patiently to fill up her can and then struggled to lug the heavy container back to her tent so her Uncle could bathe, as was his custom.

  When she got there, he was still gone. She decided to take advantage of his absence.

  She left the camp in a hurry, plastic bag still looped around her wrist, and went into Project. The streets were busy as usual. Young men were spraying down their prized motorcycles, girls braided their friends’ hair, and two men rode sidesaddle atop donkeys, one pulling a small cart behind his ass. She looked downward, trying to avoid the faces and looks of others. Though the chance of being recognized was low, she was embarrassed to walk these streets in her current state. Peers of hers, those she had glimpsed in recent months, were filling out, wearing nicer clothes, growing taller as their bodies began making the transformation from girl to woman. She felt like her body was betraying her, stalling and regressing when it should be thriving. She resented her scrawny limbs and flat chest, hating it all the more when people from church or former classmates in Bwa Nèf sometimes failed to recognize her entirely.

  Despite this, her poor state did have some use.

  — Honor! Libète called out. She arrived at her destination, a nicer home in the area, painted a soft yellow color, like a ripe mango, appointed with a sign that read “Patisserie,” bakery.

  — Respect! came hollered back.

  — Madam Bellerive, it’s me, Libète! She shouted this into the large doorway, comprised of two smaller doors so that when the lower one was closed, it created a counter for selling.

  Madam Bellerive came quickly to the door, flour covering her forearms and clothing. Sweat had beaded upon her forehead, running straight up to her hairline.

  — Libète! How are you doing? she said hurriedly, looking at her ovens over her shoulder.

  — I am well. But also, I am hungry.

  — Have you any money?

  — I do not, Madam. Not a goud.

  Madam Bellerive sighed, some of her initial goodwill souring. Hers was one of the most difficult jobs in Cité Soleil, being a bread seller in a place where most did not have daily bread.

  — Libète, she whispered. You know that if I give to one, I must give to all. Surely you understand? I would be out of business, and then there will be no bread for anyone.

  — I do understand, madam. And I would not ask if I was not so hungry. I just thought because of your business with my Aunt that you could make an exception this one time? The madam sighed again. She closed her eyes and bit her top lip, as if in a moment of prayer. Libète did her best to look away unassumingly.

  — Quick. Take these. She picked up a clear plastic bag and removed three rolls, handing them to the girl. Madam Bellerive looked around nervously, trying to make sure that no others saw her reluctant charity. They’re from yesterday and growing stale, she said.

  Libète obliged, adding them to her plastic bag. Bondye beni ou, Madam Bellerive. You are kind, and I won’t ask for this favor again.

  — And may God bless you too, child. I see that life is a struggle, but do your best to care for yourself. And — she said this part quietly — you may come again, from time to time, if you need.

  Libète smiled. She left the front of the bakery and shuffled back toward the camp. With what she had accumulated, she was nearly ready. Only one stop remained.

  She ran out to the open field in search of her buried metal jar. She dug quickly, knowing she would be pressed about her whereabouts by her Uncle. Within minutes, she had recovered the jar, opened it, and reached inside to withdraw a small, clear bag full of money.

  Libète counted out the exact amount needed for her purposes, the money being the only tie to memories so incredible she could hardly believe them herself. She placed the notes in her bag, resealing the rest of the cash before preparing to bury it again. She paused for a moment, feeling a tingling all over her body as her stomach again cried out. She took out an extra fifty goud, a small amount by any standard, and moved to add it to her opaque bag.

  — No. Libète, do not do it. Do not do it, she said aloud to herself. She closed her eyes and rubbed her face, biting down hard on her lip to restrain herself.

  She placed the extra note back in her reserve, sealed it again, and buried it quickly.

  Libète rushed back to her tent, her bag heavier than when she left. As she reached to pull back the entrance flap, she heard her Uncle saying farewell to someone inside. The visitor, a man, pulled the flap aside before she could do so herself. Libète stepped back to make way for the guest.

  She was surprised to face Davidson, standing tall and dressed in dark slacks, new shoes, and a white button-down shirt.

  — Libète! he exclaimed, surprised himself. It’s been too long, my cousin.

  The path back to the row of houses, Libète’s home in Bwa Nèf, is marked with sorrow.

  Though pitch black, she sees walls fallen in and homes collapsed. The streets are completely full of people. Those who are uninjured scurry into the late hours to rescue their loved ones and neighbors, guided by cries for help that are beginning to fade. Even if they could sleep, all refuse to set foot indoors, fearing another quake might strike.

  The scenes playing out around her seem cast with moving shadows rather than people. She staggers down Impasse Sara grasping her pained arm, her mind taken over by her consuming thirst. She sees bodies covered by sheets, the elderly and injured sitting in a miserable daze. A man yells “make way, make way” as he pushes his unconscious wife in a wheelbarrow, rushing to find unlikely medical assistance.

  Though dazed herself, she registers the unsettling contrast of cries of agony and mourning with desperate praises and prayers. Libète prays herself, wondering if God listens.

  Not a moment later, she sees her cousin, wondering at first if it is really him. He lifts a stunned older woman from the ground, depositing her into another sad-looking wheelbarrow. A man next to him holds a fading flashlight, and she sees a horrible gash running down his face.

  — Davidson, she tried to say, but her words were burnt up in the furnace of her throat.

  She paused, struck with apprehension. What if he hates me? She remembered her last encounter had ended poorly, him realizing that she was responsible for Lolo’s arrest.

  She tried again and managed to get his name out, albeit hoarsely. He turned to see her and finished placing the woman in the wheelbarrow before rushing over to her.

  — Are you alright? He enveloped her in a hug, making her wince. She bit her lip so as to not cry out, appreciating the warmth of the gesture too much to spoil the embrace. Are you OK? Oh God, I’m so happy to see you, Libète.

  — Me too.

  — I was so afraid. I heard you had run away, and about the attack on Jak.

  — I did, cousin. I have a story to tell you—a big one.

  — It will have to wait as I help these people.

  She looked at the woman and nodded in agreement. Are you OK? She signaled to his wound.

  — Yes, yes, no problem. But you have to get home. I’ve been helping here and there, digging people out, transporting the injured and I haven’t made it over yet. The phones, they aren’t working, so I haven’t been able to get to manman or papa.

  — OK, Davidson.

  — Go home. I’ll come as soon as I can.

  Finally reaching the row of homes, she was surprised by what confronted her. Some of the houses appeared undamaged, pristine even. Others had collapsed walls, or cracks that spread out like spider-webs. She recognized neighbors through their harried looks, those who were not immobile or leaning against walls, running about like scared children in search of a parent. None of them paid her any heed nor could know the danger she had just escaped.

  Through the crowd she glimpsed her Uncle seated in front of their home, his head hung low. She moved toward him, careful to avoid others so that her aching arm would not be jarred. As she grew closer, she was shocked by what she saw, her thirst forgotten.

  H
er adoptive home, the one she had lived in for the past three years, was no more. The homes to its right and left still stood, making the contrast with her own seem like an enormous giant had stumbled through, carelessly flattening it.

  Her Uncle eased his head back, raising a bottle to his lips. He wiped his eyes.

  She called out to him. Uncle! Are you alright?

  He looked back at her, his face half-lit by a woman’s nearby candle. His stare was wide and glassy while his face troubled, a combination of rum-drenched fear. Libète wondered if he was even able to recognize her. He finally shook his head, slowly. She noticed that the skin on his hand holding the bottle was torn and bloodied. A dreadful realization came to her.

  — Uncle, she asked, fearful of what the answer might be. Where is Auntie?

  He turned his gaze back to his crushed home and motioned with his chin.

  Libète stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do. She sat down next to him and stared.

  Libète sits on a small crate, her cousin crouching opposite her, unwilling to sit because he doesn’t want to soil his clothes. They are in front of the tent, a pot of mayi sitting atop a charcoal-burning stove sitting between them.

  — Mèsi, cousin, for the food.

  The steaming cornmeal was bubbling and popping. Both looked at it instead of at each other.

  — You’re welcome. I wish there was more, that I could help more.

  She nods, unwilling to take her eyes from the yellow mush.

  — Papa says you were away for a few days, Davidson said.

  — I was.

  — Where did you go?

  — Away.

  — You won’t tell me?

  — I won’t.

  — But you’re back?

  — I am.

  He eyed Libète suspiciously. She decided to change the subject.

  — So where have you been? You’re looking good.

  He surveyed the camp. He knew he could not similarly commend Libète.

  — I’ve been busy. Campaigning.

  — “Campaigning,” huh? With that little political club of yours?

  — No. This is different. FFPOP reached its end. The earthquake changed things, requiring us to organize on a much greater level than before. That we take our collective voices to the national stage and ensure we’re heard.

  This sounded rehearsed to Libète’s ears.

  — Food’s ready, she said. Uncle, can you hand me the plates?

  Her Uncle, sitting inside the threshold of the tent and listening to their conversation, reached for the plastic plates and handed them to her. Davidson was nonplussed.

  — I’m an official assistant for a senatorial candidate for Cité Soleil. He’s a good man, and we’re doing everything we can to get him elected in November.

  — Oh, Uncle, and some spoons? She turned back to Davidson. Libète scooped the portions of mayi into the plates. Huh. Who’s your candidate?

  — Jean-Pierre Benoit. He’s a visionary, Libète. An entrepreneur. He is just. Compassionate. An advocate for the poor, for us. And he’s going to move Cité Soleil forward.

  — Is that so?

  — It is.

  — Well, I’ll be sure to vote for him, then.

  Davidson grimaced. She blew on a bite of her steaming porridge before popping it into her mouth, moving it around with her tongue.

  — Hmm. It needs more spice, she remarked. Cousin, if this Benoit is elected will he be able to get us back into a home and out of these tents?

  Davidson scowled.

  — Or at least get us some spice for our mayi?

  **

  Davidson didn’t linger much longer. Libète had been too flippant, she knew that, but bringing a few handfuls of crushed corn wasn’t enough to wipe away the past few months of neglect. In truth, she had been happy to see him and told him that before he left. He simply nodded and departed.

  This left her with her Uncle. Living with him was like being kept company by a ghost, barely felt until a proper haunting was necessary to remind those around him of his presence. These outbursts usually occurred during his less-sober moments.

  She set to cleaning the dried scum on her plates and pot. Having heavy food sit in her stomach felt good and helped her plan for the difficult afternoon ahead. When she finished, her Uncle was still seated on his old stool outside, watching a neighboring couple bicker. Libète picked up her black bag and tried to slip away.

  — Where are you going?

  Facing away from her Uncle, she cursed silently. I’m going — she searched quickly for an answer that would satisfy him — to see my teacher. We’re having a lesson today.

  He harrumphed. This was a lie, but it satisfied his curiosity.

  — What’s in the bag? he asked, his attention was only partly engaged as he watched the woman, now back inside her tent, throwing out her man’s possessions while he accused her of cheating on him.

  — Nothing special. Just some things I was asked to bring.

  — You’ll be back though, right? You won’t stay away too long? You need to make dinner. René will be coming, and he says he’ll bring some rice for us. Libète rolled her eyes and shuddered, the mere mention of the man making her nauseous.

  — Wi, tonton. I’ll be back after my lesson. To make you dinner. She knew this would placate him.

  Libète walked toward Bwa Nèf quickly as the fight between the couple escalated. She looked back to make sure her Uncle was not paying attention before cutting behind a row of tents and doubling back toward the main road where she could catch a taptap to take her downtown.

  She sighed. She would have much preferred sitting through a lesson than what lay before her.

  It is the morning after the quake. A trio of men follow behind Libète. Davidson is one of them.

  When Davidson arrived to find Libète and his father sitting side-by-side, he was shocked to discover his mother dead. Despite the tumult of their relationship, he cried for her, buried under the blocks of the home she worked so hard to provide. He worked along with a neighbor to recover the body. They would have to see it disposed of soon, along with the other victims.

  The three slept beside the corpse for a few hours, bodies weary and aching. Aftershocks were felt in the night, and each wave saw panic and prayers erupt anew.

  The next morning, Libète’s arm still ached miserably. Davidson woke and began walking in a daze, leaving Libète and her Uncle together. She watched him talk to Nathalie, his crush from down the row. They spoke briefly and comforted one another before returning to their families. She had lost a sister.

  Survivors were becoming hungry and thirsty, the realization setting in that assistance, if there was any, was far off. Where so many scavenged for bodies at first, now they dug through debris for food.

  When Davidson returned, Libète told him about what had befallen her the previous day, of the murderer and fallen fort. He listened grimly, and spoke only when she finished.

  — We must find this man.

  He rounded up two acquaintances and convinced them to leave their families, explaining that if they took the murderer into their hands it might be enough to see Lolo walk free.

  Libète runs ahead of the three, surveying the scene. Her lips contort in a frown. In the light of day and from a hundred yards off, it looks like any pile of rubble. It tells no stories: there is no sign of her near death, all of the times spent at play climbing its walls with Jak, nor of the lives of six men betrayed and laid to waste by U.N. troops. But it is more than that. When she steps even closer, there is another problem.

  Scouring the pile, she looks at the three as they approach with quick, anxious eyes.

  — What is it? Davidson says.

  She is horrified.

  — He’s gone—his body is gone. You have to believe me, she murmurs. She thinks to show them the man’s watch concealed in her underpants, but knows it might be confiscated, if not by Davidson then the two unhappy acquaintances, frustrated their ti
me is wasted. She turns and examines the pile more closely and with new desperation.

  — Look, look here! she says, pointing to the bloody stone she used to break the man’s hand. See! He was here, she says. He was here!

  The guard opens the door and pulls a man through.

  The inmate nearly trips and swears at the jailor. The guard, a short man who thinks himself a big man, lifts his club as if to hit the prisoner but the inmate lifts his hands to relent.

  He is a young man, hobbled, weak, and pathetic, his pants slipping off his hips. His eyes and palms are an unhealthy pallor, his breath labored and heavy. He coughs, covers his mouth, and looks around.

  It is a large room, and there are many on both sides of its bars. On his side stand the inmates. On the other are their visitors.

  — Lolo! Libète shouts, competing to be heard over other conversations. A great din can be heard outside as others clamor to have their own chance to set foot inside.

  The sick man’s eyes light up and he moves over to her. She watches him approach, a faded picture of who he once was.

  — Libète! They told me my sister came! I wasn’t expecting you.

  — I lied, she whispered. I thought I had a better chance of getting in this time. She lifted up her bag still hanging from her wrist. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring more food. Things are difficult.

  His hair was cropped short as always, but he permitted himself a spotty and ugly beard. He wiped his moustache and nose, salivating at the unexpected gift. She handed him the bag.