by Ted Oswald
The long walk home left her with uneasy thoughts. She dreaded returning to Marie Rose and her consuming depression, to her Uncle and his selfishness, to yet another long, boiling night trapped inside her tent and the walls of her mind.
Coming upon the large crowd was the first thing to shake her from her dire thoughts. She approached the outer edge of the crowd, a semi-circle of people of all ages. Her curiosity pushed through her grim thoughts just as she forced her way through the tightly packed people.
— What has happened here? she asks a stranger, unable to see what lay at the center of the throng.
— There has been a death, comes a whispered reply.
— A death? In the middle of the road? What killed him?
— What killed her, you mean? another said. Herself, said Mackendy, one of her neighbors. She did it to herself.
— A crazy woman, she borrowed a knife and cut herself right here in the middle of the road.
Libète began to shake with dread, hoping against fear. Who is the woman?
— The one living—the one who lived—there.
He lifted a finger, pointing to Marie Rose’s empty tent.
The police station is mostly dark, and mostly quiet. Libète sits in Dimanche’s office and eats some old rice put before her, left over from another’s earlier dinner. A silver mug of cooling coffee exhales its last bit of steam. The drug’s effects weaken and her mind clears. It is only now, as she shifts the last few grains about her plate and dwells upon all that happened, that her emotions catch up with her.
There was no satisfying resolution to her attempted abduction. Much to her dismay, René was not pierced by a bullet. The coward was so scared when Dimanche fired his gun that he fell to the ground imagining he was hit. The fleeing SUV had sped over difficult terrain on which the dilapidated police vehicle couldn’t compete, breaking a shock strut and bringing the pursuit to a halt. The escape meant much of the police’s investigatory work was wasted. The fruit of their investigation was René, and he was rotten at best.
After getting picked up by another police truck, Dimanche’s band of officers took the villain outside the station for a late night “interrogation.” Why out there? Libète had asked innocently. So that his blood wouldn’t dirty the floor, came the answer. Libète didn’t say another word.
The door to Dimanche’s office swung in abruptly, the surprise making Libète jump and drop her spoon. Dimanche, in all his imperiousness, moved toward the chair behind his desk and slid into it, nursing his fist. He looked exhausted, but stared at Libète intently. Though she was taxed near her limit, she locked eyes with him too. She had been pushed around enough this evening.
— So how are you—
— What did he say—
They spoke at the same time, cutting the other off. Dimanche waved a hand, as if to say “speak.”
— Has René said anything?
— Nothing useful. As long as he’s more afraid of his business associates than he’s afraid of us, he won’t talk. I’d like to kill him but it’s not worth it. Dimanche clicked his tongue twice. Not yet, at least.
His frankness made Libète bat an eye.
— How did you know to follow René?
— He had been going all over Cité Soleil collecting the names of girls for foreign scholarships. Word of his work came to me.
— He told me that story, Libète said. But why did that mean anything?
— His organization is fake. A front used to identify vulnerable girls.
She felt a twinge of sadness knowing there was no scholarship waiting for her. She wished the officers outside would hit him a few more times for his lie.
— But why, Dimanche?
He was suddenly reluctant to speak. We think it’s a–a…trafficking ring. That the girls are being — he chose his next word carefully — used.
— For sex?
The young girl’s directness surprised him. He nodded.
The gravity of what she was spared made her heart plummet in her chest. Thank you, she muttered. For saving me. From that.
He nodded again and glanced away. I’m afraid it won’t stop though. We’re fortunate we got you, but we’re running out of time. I have asked for more resources to try to stop this, but that well has gone dry. Our ruined truck has only made it more certain.
— But everyone says the police are doing nothing about the stolen girls!
His shoulders lifted in a shrug. They believe what others tell them.
Her gratitude began to cloud. She lifted a solitary grain of rice to her lips with two fingers and nibbled while Dimanche watched.
— This reminds me of another situation, Libète said, not looking at Dimanche.
— What do you mean?
She breathed deeply.
— I haven’t forgotten. Your betrayal.
He rolled his eyes. I save you from perverts and rape, and you thank me with an accusation?
— The present doesn’t wipe away the past.
— I told you then and it still stands: there are things you don’t know. That you can’t know.
— Such is the way of power. Hiding behind a veil of paternalism. She said this in French.
— What the hell are you talking about? You speak French and think you’re something?
— It’s a quotation I learned. That’s all.
He was impressed but tried to hide it. You don’t know what you’re talking about.
— I do know. I’m not the same person you strung around a year ago. You’re as bad as René—you just used me another way.
— Shut up! he snapped. He pounded the desk hard with his flat hand, as if it had disobeyed him.
— You know the truth will set you free. You’ve at least heard that before, no? I’ve awakened to things around me. Though I am worthless to the world, I’m not worthless. My suffering speaks to the world’s conscience, and for that reason it chooses to silence me. I’ve seen too much to be afraid anymore. My suffering means nothing if things don’t change.
— Fine. Fine! You want a confession about Lolo? I have my regrets. I wish he was not where he is. But I still can’t tell you a thing about it!
They stared at one another in crowded silence.
— That’s all I could ask for, Dimanche. That is half an apology, and for that, I can forgive you. And when the other half comes and you save Lolo from prison, well, then I may be able to respect you.
— Then you will never respect me. He sneered and tapped the desk. He clicked his tongue again. But maybe, just maybe, some gratitude from you isn’t out of the question? I believe you can help me as I helped you this evening.
Libète’s face remained cool. Help you?
— You know Toussaint Laguerre, no?
— Yes.
— Do you know our senatorial candidates?
— Benoit or Bienaimé?
— Ah, so you are political? Like your cousin?
— Political, wi. Like my cousin? Non.
— I mean Benoit. I don’t like the man.
— Then you’re alone, Libète said. Well, you and his opponent, I suppose. Everyone else says he may be Christ come back to earth.
Dimanche chuckled. I’m shocked at how a few acts of charity clear away a mess of past sin. Memories are too short here. A $10 handout from a politician and suddenly he’s the Savior walking among us. Duvalier did that, you know. Threw money to the people from his passing car. Don’t be fooled by pleasant faces, Libète, like that pervert’s who is lying outside, still getting the shit punched out of him by my men.
— Is that justice? Beating René?
— A type, he said cooly.
She changed the subject. So you’re for Magistrate Bienaimé then?
— I’m on no one’s side, no politician’s. Deciding between those two is a false choice, between two who care nothing for Haiti. I will not take sides in this, but I will not tolerate breaking the law.
— But why bring up Touss? I thought you arrested him—he
’s free?
— Minutes after we drove off, my superior calls my mobile. He told me to let him go. Just like that. I protested. He told me I’d be in trouble if he didn’t walk. You should have seen that bastard’s smile, smug like a cat after eating a mouse it played with. I wanted to break his face.
— Like before?
He ignored her smart remark. I need your help.
— I may have made you forget I’m an eleven year old, but let me remind you that I am, in fact, an eleven year old.
— I’m not stupid. You are a smart child who goes places I cannot, who hears and sees things hidden from me. My success makes me unsuccessful. I’m too well known now. And you have a way of stumbling into matters well beyond you. All I ask is that you do for me what you did for Simeon — he paused as remorse registered on his face — inform. Let me know if you learn anything about Touss, about Benoit. That’s all I ask.
— And all I ask is to leave. Please Dimanche, it’s been too long a night to talk over such things. Take me home.
THE TRUTH
Yon bon zanmi pi bon pase frè
A good friend is better than a brother
Moun pa ou se moun pa ou nèt
A buddy is a buddy all the way
The white police truck trundles along. The Sun peaks up over the horizon, turning the sky a brilliant orange. Libète stares out the window, her head resting on the door frame. Dimanche is at the wheel, his head so full of mercurial thought it seems it could spill out and over.
When she lays eyes upon Twa Bebe, her heart leaps. She never expected to feel joy in returning.
The truck slows to a stop and the two get out.
— Which tent is yours?
Libète points.
Dimanche offers a small nod, his face turning to a scowl. He rips open the tent and storms in, pulling her Uncle up and out into the open air. The man is horrified. What is it? What have I done? I’m sorry! he cries out.
Dimanche releases him, stepping away while her Uncle cowers. He is bleary-eyed, hungover.
— You pathetic, little man, Dimanche spits. While you were off wasting your money, you let your niece get taken. He stepped even closer and reached toward the stunned man, pulling him up by the collar of his yellowed shirt. If I hear of you letting anything else happen to this girl, don’t be surprised when you are the one who disappears in the night!
Dimanche drops him. He plops down upon his backside with a thud and shudders before burying his face in his hands as quiet sobs emerge.
— Enough, Dimanche, Libète says evenly, moving to her Uncle’s side.
Dimanche spits again, his scowl lingering still. He gets back in his truck, slamming the door before pulling away. Libète looks at her Uncle, unsure how she should feel. She places her hand on his shaking shoulder.
— It’s alright, Uncle, she says evenly. It will be alright.
**
Libète woke up from her hours-long nap in a sweat. She felt horrible.
Her head and eyes felt pressed as if she had a cold, set in a bleariness that comes from sleeping too long and at odd hours. Mercifully, she did not dream and only revisited the prior night’s events on waking.
She drank a cup of water sitting next to her, apparently thanks to her Uncle, and sat in the tent’s torn entrance, looking out at a world that had not changed in the slightest. Her Uncle, seated outside, noticed her stir but could not face her.
— Are you better? her Uncle asks, his voice cracking.
— I am. Thank you.
— What happened…I am very sorry for it.
— I have decided to forgive you.
— I will not let it happen again, he said as if he had not heard her words. I will not drink again. And not because Dimanche threatened me. No, he was right. I’m a pathetic man, a bad, bad—
— Uncle, she said sternly. You are forgiven. You must answer only to yourself.
— Papa! a voice called out in anger, coming from down the lane. Both turned to see Davidson approaching in his dress clothes. He interposed himself between Libète and her Uncle. You lazy, selfish, stupid fool! he shouted, loud enough for all the neighbors to hear.
The father could not meet the son’s eyes, nor those of onlookers.
— Davidson, back off, Libète said impatiently, her mind still clouded from her heavy sleep.
— I will not! You have no sense of the ways you hurt people, Papa, none at all!
Libète cringed, knowing he spoke of his injuries more than her own.
— Libète, Davidson said. Gather your things. You’re coming with me.
— He promised me he’d drink no more.
— You believe him? How can you, of all people, believe him? I’ve tolerated it my whole life, having a slug of a father who cared more for rum than me. When he hurt me and me alone, fine. Whatever. When his drunkenness hurts another, I won’t accept it.
Libète remained calm, choosing to speak in quiet and even words.
— Davidson, how is it you’re now my defender when it has been him and I for ten months alone in this tent? Cousin, I think some of your anger is meant for yourself.
Shocked, Davidson stepped out from between them, forming a triangle.
— You’re siding with him?
I’m on no one’s side, she said, parroting Dimanche’s words. What’s done has been done, and I will not waste myself on blame. I feared I lost everything last night, cousin. We need each other, all of us.
— You’re crazy, Libète. Absolutely insane. Look, I have a rally I’m supposed to be at right now, but I thought I’d do you a favor and rescue you from him. Are you going to stay here, or leave this mess and come with me?
She paused to deliberate. “A false choice,” Dimanche had said.
— Both, Davidson. I’ll do both.
— I couldn’t look at her, Elize. Marie Rose…her body—
She cannot finish and stifles a sob.
— I’ve already seen too many damned bodies! Why? That’s my question. I have one friend in that camp and God let’s her kill herself! Why does he torture me, Elize? He’s cruel, God is, like the tonton macoute, sneaking in and snatching away those you love!
— Watch your mouth, Libète. That’s a poor comparison.
— He’s even worse than them.
Elize was made uneasy by her blasphemy. Your anger, your betrayal, is talking, he replied. It was people’s choices that took away your loved ones. Violence warps the one who injures and the one who bears the injury. Haiti suffers from these self-inflicted wounds every day.
— No, she sneered. It’s my reason talking, not my anger. What about the earthquake, huh? Those deaths weren’t from “violence.” Or “inequality.” I say it was God not doing shit when we needed him most!
Elize sat without replying, letting her anguish pour out.
Libète swallowed hard. I’d kill him, you know. Lionel. I’d take that knife she used to kill herself and slit his throat—
— Stop! Elize shouted. The force behind the word made her pause and sit up. You must listen, Libète! If nothing else I teach you: violence creates violence. Somewhere the cycle must stop!
— But then there is no justice!
— But God is judge! Vengeance is his! It will be a far worse thing for Lionel to face God angry than for him to face a little girl with a knife.
— I’m not so sure. Aghh! she yelled, burying her face in her knees and pounding the floor with her fist. I don’t know what to do, Elize. Should I lie down and weep over it all? Or let my anger keep me from resting until people like Lionel are punished?
Elize thought on the questions and his response very carefully, and answered in so quiet a voice that Libète strained to hear. There is no dilemma here, Libète. You do both.
The rally is madness. Bwa Nèf’s modest concrete stage has been converted into a madhouse. Dancers and musicians pump up the crowd. After each act, the presenter, a famous DJ—Libète recognizes his voice but not his name—roars in rapid-fire Kr
eyol, shouting into the microphone so that the amplifiers struggle to register his words without cracking. Nearly all the audience wears the shirt of their kandida, Jean-Pierre Benoit.
Meanwhile, Libète stands at the rear having no desire to plunge in and drown in the crowd’s ecstatic depths.
The walk to the rally had been difficult. At her cousin’s insistence, Libète had rushed inside to change into a clean set of shorts and top, shedding her dirtied church dress she had been wearing for the last day like a reptile’s skin. She shuddered looking at it upon the floor, not knowing if she could wear it again with the memories now stitched into its cloth.
Pulling on her knit cap, she left the tent with no other possessions in hand.
Davidson and his father stood at odds in the few moments of her absence.
— You’d better bring some more things if you’re moving in with me.
— I’ll figure it out later.
Davidson rolled his eyes.
— Goodbye, Uncle. He raised his forlorn face in brief acknowledgement. I’ll be back before too long.
They traveled by foot toward Bwa Nèf and said few words. Davidson walked in haste, outpacing Libète by a few steps and forcing her into a near run to keep up. He bought her a baguette from a vendor without asking if she wanted it. She did of course—she hadn’t eaten for nearly a day. She finally broke the silence between her first mouthfuls of sharp sourdough. How did you hear I had been taken?
— Yves. He said this with his face set toward their destination, toward the rally. He got word from the police’s gatekeeper about you, and that fucker René. We’ve been following their investigation into the stolen girls.
She took another bite, mulling over the words as she pushed the chewed-up bread about in her mouth.
— I see it now.
— What? he sneered.
— It’s Nathalie.
His face registered displeasure.
— It’s all the girls, he snapped. You included. They’re us and we’re them. We want them back so we’re paying close attention to these things.