Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti

by Ted Oswald

  He rotated his head away from her. Thank you for telling me about my grandmother.

  She could tell he was crying too.

  — I regret my words, Libète. Some of them. Right before the quake, I told you something.

  — Yes?

  — I told you it wasn’t your fault. And I thought it then.

  Her heart leapt, hopeful that forgiveness might soon come. She moved closer to her friend.

  — But I was wrong.

  She recoiled.

  — Please don’t blame me, Jak. I see you’re blaming me, but please don’t put this on me.

  — Over and over and over, I asked you to stop with these games. I begged you to let the dead bury each other, that we leave the truth to the police. But you wouldn’t. You were so, so stupid.

  — Jak, please—

  — And now, I’ll say something else I said to you before, and this time, you will listen. Go. Leave.

  — But—but when can we talk again? I need to talk to you, Jak.

  Silence.

  — When will you be able to look at me?

  More silence.

  She left.

  The air in the yard is heavy with tension.

  — I’m happy to see you’re walking, Libète says.

  — But not running. I can’t run anymore. And you’re to blame, he left out.

  He picked up a pebble and tossed it away. They sit in a covered walkway, not too far removed from where the other children, those who are happy, play.

  — Things aren’t so good for me, you know.

  — Oh? Jak replied.

  — I’m in Twa Bebe, living in a tent with Davidson’s father. No friends. No food.

  — I’m sorry it’s bad.

  — Jak, I need your help. Things are happening. I can’t believe them.

  He crossed his arms. She continued undaunted.

  — Touss is back. You know he fled, right? Well, he got deported and cleaned himself up. He’s pushing some candidate and my cousin is working for him. And I saw Lolo the other day.

  — Still rotting in prison?

  — Yes…but he had a new thought. It’s the father, Jak. Claire never could say who it was. We always thought it was shame that closed her mouth, but what if it was fear? If we know who he is then I think we can figure out who killed her. He’s guilty for all this mess, for Simeon, for hurting you, for trying to kill me.

  — I’m not going to help you lift the blame off yourself.

  Libète bristled. If you only knew what I’ve been through, Jak. If you only knew.

  She took a deep breath.

  — There’s something else. Something new and horrible. Women from Cité Soleil, they’re being taken.

  — What? He met her eyes. What do you mean?

  — Just that. Three have been stolen in the last few weeks. These are our people, from Bwa Nèf even. Something’s got to be done about it.

  Jak mulled over the news. As Libète hoped, it troubled him.

  — And you’re going to be the one do it?

  She was disappointed by his reaction. She nodded.

  — This is what I hate about you, Libète. You can’t let things that don’t concern you rest.

  — What am I supposed to do? All it takes for evil to win is us not doing the good put before us. She heard this said recently, and committed it to memory. I need your help, Jak. I need your mind, your intelligence. But more, I need a partner to help me, a friend to stand by me. You could leave the school, just for a little while—

  He chortled. Why would I leave, Libète? To stop kidnappers and murderers? You’re crazy!

  Libète fumed, breathing deep to contain her temper.

  — In here, the world is safe, Jak said. Comfortable. It makes sense. I have a scholarship, food, friends. I’m at the top of my class. I have nothing outside these walls. No family. No status. Nobody—

  — You have me, Jak! I’m still your friend! she shot back.

  — Libète, I wish you well. And I can say that part of me is happy to see you. But I can’t do what you ask. There’s too much to lose. For me at least. I swam in deep waters long enough, and I’ve found an island here. I won’t leave.

  Libète bit her tongue and dammed her tears, looking at the grim sky and its heavy clouds.

  She had said all there was to say, done all she could do.

  She left.

  **

  The night came quickly, as it does in the autumn months. Libète spent the balance of the day walking through Bwa Nèf, imagining it was the time before the quake when life had a familiar rhythm, one she could follow. Her life was like jazz now, rarely resolved. She thought of La Gonâve while she walked, of the emerald isle, of her mother and true father and all of the hard things learned there. She resolved to push on despite the obstacles presenting themselves, feeling San Figi’s presence in the cool breeze encouraging her on.

  Having been away from the camp for hours, she knew her Uncle would be waiting. She was upset to remember he was not alone.

  — Ah, Libète, my daughter, how are you tonight? These words came not from her Uncle, but rather his regular guest, Tonton René, “Uncle” René.

  The tall, gangly visitor was seated with her Uncle. Probably flapping their lips about the same nonsense as usual.

  — Hello, she said brusquely, walking directly in between the two middle-aged men and into the tent.

  — Libète, come out here, her Uncle said. Don’t disrespect our guest.

  She pulled back the tent flap. Good evening, she said curtly, dropping the flap again.

  — Strange girl, said her Uncle. Always in some mood.

  René whispered in her Uncle’s ear. Maybe she’s—you know—hitting that time.

  Libète overheard this and rolled her eyes.

  — Libète, make us some rice. I’m starving. René brought us some.

  Back two days and I’m his servant again. Yes, Uncle.

  She took the stove and moved it outside, knowing the sooner she finished the job, René would be gone. She lit the charcoal, filled a pot a third full with water from the jerry cans, and tossed in the rice, bringing the mix to a boil. She could feel René’s gaze upon her body as she crouched over the stove. It sickened her.

  — Did you hear about what happened just a few hours ago? René asked her Uncle. Another girl was taken—in broad daylight even! People saw it happen this time.

  — Is that so? From where?

  — Bwa Nèf!

  — You’re talking about the girl who was taken two days ago, Libète interjected.

  — No, no, my daughter. This was a new one, the fourth, I think. She was standing on the main road, like she was waiting for someone, and before anyone knew what was going on, a taptap stopped, a man got out, placed something over her mouth, and she fainted. Pulled her right in the back of the truck. Before anyone could do anything, they were gone.

  — That’s incredible! her Uncle exclaimed.

  — Ah, but I didn’t tell you the most interesting part—this was a girl I think you know.

  — Who?

  — Your old neighbor, the pretty one from down the row—Nathalie I think was her name.

  Libète bolted upright, dropping her stirring spoon upon the ground.

  — Nathalie? That’s impossible. I saw her just this morning.

  — But I’m telling you, she was taken this afternoon.

  Libète’s mind raced. Who could do this thing? And why? Nathalie was only sixteen! Her mind soon went to Davidson. She knew he would be crushed. She picked up the spoon, wiping it on her dress. She looked to the rice, but her mind was fixed on these other things.

  — Uncle, I must go do something.

  — What? No. Finish the rice.

  — It’ll cook itself.

  — Don’t you want any?

  — No. I’m not hungry.

  — Well I won’t let you. Her Uncle’s eyes shifted to René. No, Libète. You can’t just disappear again. You–you must respect me n
ow.

  A new fire kindled inside her.

  — I’m going, and I won’t be stopped.

  Her Uncle tried to stand to intimidate her. She rushed over to him and pointed the tip of her long spoon directly between his eyes before he was able to lift his heavy body. Don’t, she warned.

  — Well, said René, chuckling to try to relieve the tension. How about a farewell at least before you go? A kiss on the cheek for your visiting uncle?

  Libète sneered, her disdain seeping out. You’re nothing to me. She dropped the spoon in her Uncle’s lap and sprinted away, the lid on the pot of rice soon bobbing as pent-up steam escaped.

  — Strange, stupid girl, her Uncle cursed under his breath, looking after her as she vanished into the near-darkness.

  — Who is she going to see? René questioned. Does she have a boyfriend? Something like that?

  Her Uncle spat upon the ground.

  **

  She made the familiar trip in a hurry, lungs heaving like bellows, and came to a halt at the start of the cinder block-strewn path that passed through muck and mud.

  She approached the shack walking stone-by-stone, hearing a radio play classical music as she regained her breath and quieted. She rapped softly on the frame of the doorway, peeking in through the loose-hanging curtain.

  — Honor, she said.

  The sound of labored movements and fumbling about came from inside before a voice called back in surprise.

  — Respect!

  Not a moment later the curtain was drawn back, not by a hand, but by the snout of a trained black pig.

  — Hello, Titid, she said smiling. She patted the pig on its head, looking up to see the man’s hazy outline. Hello, Elize.

  That very moment, he struck a match and lit an oil lamp, illuminating the shack and permitting each to see the other clearly.

  — Come in, Libète, come in.

  She did, with new tears budding in her eyes.

  — I’ve missed you, dear child.

  She hugged the old man. And I’ve missed you.

  PEDAGOGY OF THE OPPRESSED

  Bondye konn bay, men li pa konn separe

  God gives plenty, but man divvies it up

  — I’m surprised you returned, Elize says. I didn’t think you’d be back around.

  — After we parted and I went away…I realized I was wrong.

  She sits upon the ground. Titid is at her side and both face Elize atop his elevated cot.

  — I had much time to think, he offered. What you said had much truth to it, more than I wanted to admit.

  A swell of the orchestra’s music filled the gap left between their words.

  — And I have seen the truth in your words too. I have much to tell. Too much.

  — Then do.

  She starts slowly before pouring out all she has learned in the past days, about frail Lolo, Gaspar’s anonymous father, reformed Touss, Davidson the campaigner, and abducted Nathalie. She stops short of telling him of the other things, the heavy things, that happened since they last spoke. Not yet.

  — It has been an eventful few days for you. And weeks, Libète thinks. And here I’ve been, sitting about, alone with just my thoughts, and my pigs.

  The music occupied another pregnant pause. She signaled toward the radio with her head.

  — Is she going to be on tonight?

  — She is. It’s Saturday, after all.

  Libète nodded.

  — Do you think our lessons can continue, Elize? Despite everything?

  — I’d like that, he said. Very much. Despite everything.

  She steps through the billowing curtain and into the shack, her throat parched from trekking about as water is in such short supply. She is pleased to see that Elize, the man she thought was a devil mere days before, was not inside. At least his home didn’t collapse on him.

  Her curiosity takes hold as she waits. She begins to inspect his things more closely.

  The room is as she had seen it before, everything in its proper place. She pokes around, looking through his meager food rations and finding an open package of tea biscuits. She reaches for them with her good arm, still trying not to disturb her injured one.

  Seeing as there are many biscuits, and knowing that her stomach is empty, she struggles with the temptation. I couldn’t. It would be wrong. He has so little. It would be like stealing from my mother when she was sick.

  She crunches down hard, unable to resist. Chewing quickly, she wipes lingering crumbs from her lips. She looks at the package again. What’s one more that won’t be missed?

  Before long, half the biscuits are gone.

  Libète puts the package back where she found it, hoping it might go unnoticed. She debates leaving to avoid the suspicion of thievery. No, I came for a reason. I must tell him what’s happened.

  She sits upon his cot, twiddling her thumbs and singing a tune to herself. She kicks his metal box, tucked under the cot, and reaches for it. Trying to undo the clasps, she realizes they are locked.

  — Put that down!

  Surprised, Libète dropped the box, letting it clamor to the floor. The old man limped into the room, the pig at his heels, his eyes locked on her.

  — Mesye, I am sorry—

  — This is the second time I have found you snooping around my home uninvited. His nostrils flared.

  — I did not mean to upset—

  — Why have you come? To get into my things? To steal?

  — No, Mesye Elize, I wished only to find out if you were alright after the quake. When I arrived, you were not here. I waited, and my curiosity took over. She looked down. I should not have touched your things.

  — You should not have, he said, tapping his cane forcefully on the ground with each syllable.

  — Can you forgive me? I promise I won’t do such a thing —she paused before making a promise she couldn’t keep — to you, again.

  Grimacing, he finally spoke. Well, you can see I’m fine. What else do you want?

  Libète couldn’t help but ask. But, how? How do you get your food? We have been struggling so, so much. No food, no water. It’s miserable—I’m in the camps now, at Twa Bebe, and—

  She stopped abruptly, the sadness causing her to forget her words.

  — What? What is it? he snapped.

  — My life, you see, is not what it was. Her eyes swelled with tears she would not let fall. In the last few days I’ve suffered so, so much—more than in my whole life.

  His hard stare softened ever so slightly as a rebellious tear ran down her cheek. He sat down on his stool.

  — Tell me what has happened.

  **

  Over the next two hours she spilled the details of all that had befallen her, like one of the water pipes in Bwa Nèf when ruptured by bullets.

  — One of the worst things is that there is no money now. Not for food. Not for school fees. My Uncle is unwilling to pay and my cousin can’t help, so I have to stop.

  — Is that so?

  — It is.

  He seemed to meditate on this for some time.

  — I…could teach you, he offered suddenly.

  — What? You’re a teacher? What do you mean?

  — Exactly what I said.

  Libète couldn’t hide her skepticism.

  — You don’t have to be in a classroom to teach, he added.

  — But…what could someone like you teach me?

  Her own rudeness was lost on her. He smiled.

  — Can you read?

  — Yes.

  — Speak French?

  — I’m OK.

  — Write?

  — Eh, in Kreyol. Not so well in French.

  — Well, I can help you with all these things. And a few more. If you wish.

  — I don’t understand. You live with pigs. You’re no one—no offense, she added, holding up her palms — just like me. How can you help me? I mean, I don’t have a slate, or even chalk.

  — I can help you, Libète. That’s all I’
ll say. And I can get any necessary materials. So, I’ll ask my question again: do you want me to teach you?

  Libète enjoyed school only for the status it brought, and its opportunities for play. Spending time with a hermit would provide neither. But she also thought of estranged Jak, who craved knowledge and worked so hard to gain more. Life was otherwise marked by drudgery as each day came and went struggling to survive.

  She looked to Elize and nodded definitively. When do we begin?

  **

  Libète came the next morning as agreed.

  She found Elize finishing his breakfast, flour cakes he had fried in a pan. Resting upon his stool was a small square slate and a box of chalk. There was also a notepad with yellow-lined paper, three stubby pencils, and an eraser nub.

  — Where did these come from? Libète said, amazed.

  — I bought them, of course.

  — With what?

  — Don’t worry about it. I will eat this cost.

  She lifted the stack of materials and sat down, withdrawing a piece of unblemished chalk to write. So, what shall we do?

  — You shall put that down. You won’t need it today.

  Libète was perplexed. Then why have them?

  — For later. All we do today is talk.

  Libète complied, but her skepticism was written on her face.

  — We start with a question.

  — OK.

  — Why are you who you are?

  Her skepticism remained. What do you mean?

  — Start by describing yourself.

  — I am a girl. Eleven years old—almost twelve. I have brown eyes—

  — Go deeper. What about your family, or life here.

  — I am Haitian. I have dark skin. I live in a camp in Cité Soleil. I am an orphan—or, my mother is dead and my father — she paused — didn’t want me. And I am poor.

  — And how would you describe yourself this very second?

  The girl rolled her eyes. Elize was unflustered. Just answer the question, he said.

  — I am sitting in a small house talking to an old man. I am hungry. I am tired. And I’m wondering why we’re talking about such things.

  — Why? I go back to the first question. Why are you who you are?