Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti

by Ted Oswald

  She dropped her cigarette and smothered it underfoot.

  — You asked why I’m here. Because I know that though I am a weak person, God wants to use me for beautiful things. He doesn’t expect me to save the world but calls me to a place and faithful service there. She shrugged. For me, that place is Haiti. Right here and now.

  Libète looked at her with a blank stare.

  — Libète, don’t think I don’t curse him when another one of his creations dies, whether from an earthquake, hurricane, bullet, or bacterium. Don’t think I don’t lash out at him. But I always stop and remember that he bears all of the suffering in all of the world at all times, and always has. And yet he still can somehow love me.

  — I still don’t understand.

  — That’s fine. He is God. He’s knowable and unknowable. But just remember he’s good. Cling to that.

  The sky was beginning to go from black to blue, and the roosters’ crowing could be heard outside the hospital walls.

  — We’ve made it to dawn, Libète. The relief plane will land soon. Replacements will be here within an hour. She sighed. I need to get back to the patients, but you and Jak should rest.

  Libète looked inside the ward and saw the boy sleeping in an armchair outside the Sister’s office, his red pack in his lap.

  — He can stay, but I must go.

  The nun’s eyebrow arched.

  — It’s about Elize—my friend. He has medicine in his home.

  — Oh? I promise before I finish up I’ll examine him more closely. But before you go, please wash up and wash up well.

  — I will. Libète ran inside to the sinks, and the tired nun collapsed against the wall.

  Suddenly, the generators choked on the last fumes of fuel, the lights around the compound going out in unison. Nonetheless, day was coming, breaking through the dark, bright enough now to creep in the ward’s windows and render things visible.

  — We made it, the doctor chuckled to herself, her lips curling into a disbelieving smile.

  **

  Adrenaline pushed the little girl as she ran to retrieve her friend’s medication. She passed the wallowing hogs named after past presidents, her steps causing them to stir. Titid greeted her inside the house, his curly tail dancing. She panted, massaging her aching sides, her body rebelling against the exertion. She reached into her pocket and removed the key, quick to pull out the metal box as she heaved, trying to catch her breath.

  She paused, struck by memory. Elize had been so angry when he had once caught her trying to pry it open. Now, he trusted her to do so. They were different people now, that was for sure. She slammed the small key into the hole and turned it.

  As promised, the drugs were in an orange prescription bottle. Libète also withdrew a small manila envelope and when she peered in, could not help but drop it, box and everything.

  Inside was a stack of money, American money, more than she had ever seen before. She put it back in the box. Its mere touch made her feel like a thief.

  Still, there was another envelope, a larger manila one. She undid the aged string clasp, unlooping the red figure-eight, and peered inside before reaching in and removing a curious faded photograph the width and height of the envelope. Libète set everything else down and pondered over it.

  It showed a picture of two smiling men, and a woman and child. They were seated in some lush and lovely venue in large wicker chairs. She looked more closely at the subjects to try to understand why Elize would have such a curious thing so carefully tucked away.

  She recognized the man on the right first. He was none other than former President Jean-Bertrand Aristide, the real Titid, the faithful pig’s namesake.

  She then looked more closely at the happy family. The parents were most likely in their late 30s and the daughter probably four or five years old. The wife was especially beautiful, the husband handsome, clean-shaven, his hair short. Their clothes were probably the very height of fashion at the time the picture was taken. Who are these people?

  Libète stepped into the morning light and now, with control of her breath restored, pulled the picture close to her eyes.

  — Good God! she exclaimed. In searching the eyes of the man it came to her. She couldn’t believe how long it took her to recognize him: the rich and handsome man, the one with the happy family, was none other than Elize.

  LÒT BÒ DLO

  Manti mèt kouri jan l kouri; laverite ap kenbe l’

  A lie may run as it may but truth will catch it

  Afè nèg se mistè

  A man’s business is a mystery

  Libète walks through the brush of La Gonâve, the Sun showering her in its light. She wears the knitted cap on her head, the one gifted by Marie Rose. Though it makes her sweat, it feels as if she does not walk this path alone.

  She reaches the settlement after some hours, the landscape changing from lush greenery to barrenness. In her whole life, she had not seen a part of La Gonâve this forsaken. It is denuded, built into dry, steep hills that dare one not to stumble and roll down.

  She first notices the sheer number of shelters. Though they are brightly painted and appear new, they are packed tightly, butting up against one another as in Cité Soleil. They have no yards, no space for living. As she walks among the alien structures, some watch her with grim, hungry eyes, just as in Twa Bebe.

  An ancient man sits under the overhang of his shelter, a surprising architectural flourish on an otherwise unadorned box.

  — Honor, she says.

  — Respect, he says back. He has few teeth, his cheeks flapping about as he speaks. She looks at his bony arthritic hands flexing on his knees and is reminded of Elize, her teacher she has left behind.

  — I come from very far, mesye, and I am searching for someone. You look like one who knows many.

  — You are not wrong, he replied. I know many, but this is a new home with many unknown people.

  She wanted to ask first about Limyè, but decided to heed the woman’s advice. Marie Elise, she uttered. I am looking for an old woman by that name. I do not remember her family name.

  — Hmm, yes there is one here called that. Here but not here, I mean — he raised his shaky hand to tap his temple twice — if you know what I mean.

  Libète did not. He then pointed up a nearby hill. She told him thank you and walked in the direction he gestured.

  — Marie Elise? Marie Elise? she called, wading through the watching eyes of women, children, and men. Some gracious people gestured, flicking their heads and wrists, guiding her along through the precariously placed shelters.

  Each step brought new excitement coursing up from her stomach. Could this be my new home? The place seemed dour. She did not want to pass judgment just yet.

  Libète called her name once more. A middle-aged woman stepped out her screen door. She was missing a forearm, and signaled with her stump. She lives over there, she said. In that house.

  Libète laid eyes upon the structure, Marie Elise’s, painted light yellow. A good color.

  She rounded the corner, her heart thumping madly.

  Marie Elise was there, squatting on the side of the home. Libète pulled back around to hide, worried she had just intruded on the woman relieving herself.

  After another minute she peeked around to see if the situation had changed. It had not. Marie Elise sat there smoothing her hand over the textures of the shelter’s wall. Her eyes were closed completely. She looked pained, like she could feel when the trees were cut, sacrificed, and reformed to make the plywood used for the shelter.

  Marie Elise, Libète said, unable to keep silent anymore. I’ve come home.

  The woman opened her eyes slowly and looked at the lines of Libète’s face. She cocked her head and squinted, shielding her eyes from the Sun.

  — Who are you?

  Libète tears into the hospital compound, going straight to Elize’s bed.

  In one hand she clutches his medicine. In the other, the photograph.

 
Jak is awake and standing next to Elize, the pair speaking in low, solemn voices. Libète interrupts without a thought.

  — Your medicine, Elize. Jak get him some water.

  — But—

  — Go Jak. Now. The boy frowned, and Libète relented, remembering herself. I’m sorry. Please, Jak, I need to speak to Elize alone. For a moment.

  The boy nodded reluctantly. He went to refill the plastic cup.

  Elize could not bring himself to look at the girl.

  — You knew I would find those things in your box. The money, and this picture?

  — I did.

  — What are you, Elize? Libète nearly sobbed as she said it.

  — My medicine please, he replied, blinking back tears.

  — You’ve been hiding from me. From everyone. What about you isn’t a lie?

  — My pills. Please.

  — Who are you? Who chooses to live in poverty when he has so much money? A criminal?

  — I am no criminal.

  — What did you do with your family? Where are they? Her tears now flowed.

  A bitter quiet set in. Jak returned with the water, the tension palpable.

  — What…what’s happened?

  — Elize is a lie, Jak. Everything about him is false.

  — You hurt me with your words, Libète.

  — Well you hurt me, professeur, she snapped. You see those suffer around you, you talk about compassion and love, but then you sit on hundreds of dollars.

  — What? Jak was baffled.

  — As you said, I knew you would find those things. And I’ve been preparing myself to tell you about them for a long time now. Please — he tapped his heart — you must understand, there is such pain in what I keep inside.

  — Take your medicine, Libète ordered, flipping the canister at him and wiping her tears. And then tell me everything or I swear I’ll walk out that door and never speak to you again.

  The old Mercedes putters along faithfully. Moving through the streets of Bel Air at this hour, under these circumstances, is simply too dangerous a thing. A stupid thing. But to not do so would cost too much, the driver tells himself.

  He keeps his lights off, his eyes flitting back to his rearview mirror as soon as he looks away. He wonders who might occupy the car that travels behind him, the bike that pulls alongside him. The roads and side streets he drives upon are nearly abandoned — it is foolishness to be here! — but his mission requires it.

  He looks to the papers piled on the passenger seat, his satchel and an edition of the day’s Le Nouvelliste, September 12, 1988. He shakes his head. What happened at St. Jean Bosco yesterday has him and everyone else in his circles on edge.

  Old-order military, those villainous dogs used by the regime to terrorize the people, marched into the middle of mass led by his friend Jean-Bertrand Aristide. The days are hellish, more so than the past—everyone thought that things would improve when their “Prezidan pou Vie” left in 1986. Elize knew better. History foretold it.

  Power never vindicates itself, never gives itself away. When that fat man-child Baby Doc left, or Jean-Claude Duvalier if called by his Christian name, it was like he spilled his power into the cups of the military. These oppressors now filled the corpulent void he left.

  This latest assassination attempt on Titid killed at least 13, burned his church to the ground, and forced the priest into hiding.

  He reaches his destination. No one has followed him, as far as he can tell. His engine idles. He reaches a juncture where a decision—the decision—must be made. He will either do what he has come to do, or not do what he has come to do.

  Sweat soaks his shirt and he loosens his tie. He rifles through his pocket and grasps a rosary, praying each bead with fervor.

  He must do this. He must beat back the darkness.

  He flashes his lights: once, twice, a third time. He squints, but with the lights out, it is impossible to know if his signal is received. He flashes three times more, and in the strobed succession sees that a door has opened. A man rushes toward his car.

  Elize gets out, opens the car’s boot, and the young man throws himself in along with the knapsack he carries. Elize is about to close the young man inside, but before he can, his cargo speaks.

  — Thank you, Professor.

  — De rien, Elize says hurriedly, closing the trunk. It’s nothing.

  **

  Elize Jean-Baptiste, Ph.d., Professor in Political Philosophy at l’université d’Etat d’Haiti, opened the doorway leading to his spacious dining room. His student followed close behind, seating himself at the long and well-appointed table. Elize brought him a plate of cold rice and a few fried plantains.

  — I’m sorry that I don’t have anything else to give. My wife is asleep and my domestic went home for the weekend.

  — It’s not a problem. The student shoveled the food into his mouth. It’s been awhile since I ate. It will be awhile before I eat fresh food again.

  — Do you have what you need for the trip?

  — I do. At least I think I do. I’ve never been on the water for more than a few hours.

  The two spoke in easy French. Elize still assumed the imperious demeanor he kept in class, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, though his edge wore thin in the early morning hours. This was Martin, after all, the most prized of his still-living students. There’s no need for airs with him, not anymore.

  — Where will you go once you reach Florida?

  — I’m not sure. He tapped his plantain chip on the plate and raised his eyebrows. We’ll have to see.

  — I wish you would have listened to me. Elize said this with too much grimness and immediately regretted it.

  — Come now, Professor. How could I stay silent? With killings everyday? Truth is the antidote to the sickness our society suffers. It sets us free, no? When they took Marcel, I had to speak. Had to shout.

  — I understand the exigencies. We’ve danced this dance before, you and I. I’m one of Aristide’s allies, you know that. But I have to be careful. Navigating the treachery in the university, keeping my family safe—these are full-time jobs in addition to my full-time job.

  — Is protecting your wealth another? The jab stung Elize.

  — My wife’s wealth, Martin—you know that. This home is inherited. Don’t forget I grew from roots much like your own. And I would give it all if I could be certain of the dividends. She would too. But things are too unsettled now, too prickly. Progress can be bought at a high cost and lost swiftly. No. I will wait, but the divestiture will come.

  — Forgive me. I know your heart. It was my stomach’s impetuousness winning out over my head’s knowledge.

  Elize smiled. It’s that impetuousness I’ll miss, Martin. I’m sad you’re going, but I’d be sadder to see those brutes catch up with you.

  — And for that, my dear professor, you have my gratitude! He lifted his last plantain in salute, and popped it in his mouth.

  — Elize? Is that you? The feminine voice came from the nearby hall and Elize straightened.

  — Yes, Fleur. He rose and moved to the hallway, looking at Martin nervously.

  — What’s going on? she whispered harshly.

  He could not look her in the eye. Martin is fleeing. Tonight. His room was ransacked, and I’m helping him get to the water.

  She was incensed. That’s suicide! They’ll be on the roads, searching vehicles. Why didn’t you ask me?

  — It’s because I knew you’d speak too much reason and convince me not to help. He leaned in close. I couldn’t let them slaughter another one of them!

  She slumped against the wall in her robe, looking to the ceiling. He wasn’t sure if she was praying for him or cursing him.

  — The costs, Elize, she hissed. The costs! You must be sure to count them!

  — I’ve done the best I can, my dear. He kissed her, short and hard. It’s the right thing. It will turn out.

  — Do what you must. I won’t be able to sleep now, but I’l
l make good use of the hours keeping watch. When are you leaving?

  — Soon. I’ll help him to the wharf and be back before sunrise, to see Steffi before she wakes up.

  Her look brimmed with displeasure. I’ll hope for the best.

  **

  His Mercedes came to a stop at the start of the long pier. There had been two checkpoints along the way, and the guards, both young, had looked at his ID card and papers from the university and let him pass. It was late at night and they seemed more chagrined than curious about his reasons for being out. He had been terrified at the thought of them searching his car, though providence was on his side. He continued to the waterfront, off of the main roads and into Cité Simone.

  The section of the city was new to him. Named after Papa Doc’s wife, it was meant to house sugar workers back in the ‘50s. It was now a teeming slum, swelling as country people poured in looking for cheap housing. It bordered La Saline, the slum where Father Aristide’s St. Jean Bosco Church had just been attacked so brazenly. Besides a few past visits to the church, he rarely came to this part of Port-au-Prince. He was not at all opposed to the liberation of the poor from the people of his class who oppressed them, but this did not mean he made his home with them either.

  Martin, who hailed from this area, had given Elize the best directions he could to reach the Cité Simone wharf. The boats leaving from here traveled along the coast to other villages where one could embark on the long passage to Florida. These people had derogatorily become known as “boat people” in the foreign press, as if the characteristic that defined them most was their mode of transportation. No, they fled violence and poverty. If a “boat person” was lucky, he could be upgraded to a “refugee,” another label that was a disservice but at least meant the bearer would not face deportation back to treacherous Haiti.

  With the Sun still beneath the horizon, Elize slowed his car and put it in park on a gravel alleyway between ramshackle homes. The only souls he noticed nearby were three men, two seated in a small dinghy outfitted with a rumbling outboard motor while another stood on the dock, eying the new arrival with suspicion. The whole scene was lit by a solitary candle on the pier, flickering in the breeze but never quite going out. Maybe a hopeful sign?