by Ted Oswald
— Bonswa, Mesye Junior. His barrow had been covered, but overturned. He was frantically trying to return the items–rope, a pan, some long-handled tool–under its protective canvas. Libète’s voice made him stand erect. He forced a nervous smile.
— Where are you heading?
He made a pointed roof with his hands.
— Isn’t your home that way?
His smile twitched at its edge; a tick. He nodded, pointed over the hill and then made his hand a half circle. The smile took too much effort, and his face slid into a neutral mask.
She scratched her elbow.
— Do you . . . need help? She went to lay her things down.
No, no, no, he said with his hands, and held his heart in gratitude.
— Dakò, she said. Bondye beni ou, God bless you. She proceeded up the trail, feeling his eyes prying into her back before he returned to the loose supplies.
The fort stood as it had. When she came close to it, she hollered, Come out you French bastards! I’ve come to kick you from our land!
Félix emerged with a half smile. Libète waved. She had yet to actually make him laugh.
He stood with arms crossed, his head pivoting to track her as she walked past. He followed behind slowly, respectfully.
— Are you well? he said.
— I am. A bit sore. You?
— M fatigue tou. I’m tired too.
She went straight to a spot on the floor that was shaded. She imagined it must have been a dining hall in days of old. She sat, careful to protect her modesty. His eyes slipped mechanically to her bare legs before returning to her face. He reprimanded himself for the lack of discipline. His lips tightened.
— You sleeping better? she asked.
— My dreams are . . . still dark.
Libète nodded knowingly. Her mind slipped to her most recent nightmare, one she remembered too well. Jak was bound on an operating table and was being tortured by masked surgeons. It was terrible.
— But it’s not that. I’m sleeping okay, he said. Anton had me fix his house’s wall. He rubbed his head. Loads of brick involved. Took all morning.
— Ah! Good! She looked him in the eye. Another inviting you back into the fold!
— Only because I’m good with a trowel and they can pay me less kòb than anyone else. How’s my mom?
— We were at the common plot all morning, doing our share. Libète played with a tall weed. She’s well. Misses you.
— I’ll come by soon. Tell her so.
Libète frowned. He said this nearly every day. I will, she said.
She looked down from her vantage and saw another truck pulling up to the gate hewn into the cliff.
— Seeing those trucks come and go. I don’t know. It makes me uneasy, Félix said. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Didn’t Rodriguez say the university was slowing down its work until the common plot was harvested?
— They already started in. Pulling up more bits of ground from all over it. ‘Samples.’
— And no one’s saying anything?
— They keep showing up with more goats, more chickens, more seed, more trees to plant. Holding up their end of the bargain.
He spit. I don’t like it, Félix said. They’re up to something.
— I could care less what they’re doing, she said, taking the pencil from her pocket. She unfolded the paper, busying herself. Félix squinted, looking at the back of her head. He didn’t believe a word she said.
She smoothed the paper out, revealing lines of microscopic type: repeating vowels, consonants, three-letter words, the simplest of sentences. Enough talk, she said. Ready for today’s lesson?
The second day at the Martinette villa was much like the first. With her internal clock busted from the odd hours kept since Didi’s poisoning, she stayed up late online, combing news sites, checking her e-mail and Facebook profile. Jak had joined her, but fell asleep in the wicker chair he had dragged in from another room. The laptop screen cast an eerie glow of changing color across her face.
She had searched for her name. There were the old articles and editorials that touched on her–she was familiar with all of them–and photographs–she had viewed every one–but they were pushed aside by a number of new news pieces, as if her past had been overwritten.
She was disgusted. Her enemies had indeed moved beyond attempts on her life to attacking her reputation.
Stories condemned her. They spoke of the sinister poisoning of a friend, an escape from imminent arrest, and a bizarre scene of damage as accomplices tore off a property’s door in Cité Soleil. Steffi, Jak, Didi–all were there, named and pictured.
It didn’t matter that the authors were most certainly paid off–this was how news so often worked in Haiti–but even some of the smaller presses and independent papers were picking up the story fragments and judging her without so much as a basic inquiry. All she needed was a phone and she could be in touch with the whole of Haiti. Clearing her name was her first imperative. She jumped into her e-mail and began drafting a statement. She’d have Jak look it over in the morning–he was good at honing her arguments and moderating her excesses.
She looked at the boy. Even in sleep he couldn’t quit his nervousness. He could try to mask it, but it was a gossamer veil. Her guilt crept in again. Again, I drag him into this. I dragged everybody into it.
Stirring, she turned the computer off and prepared for sleep. It was five o’clock, and new light was breaking out across the sky.
She sighed. Jacmel’s cooling sea breeze was nothing like the heavy air of Cité Soleil. She looked out the villa’s window at the sleeping sea town’s roofs.
There came a sound from down the hall: speech, loud and angry. It made her jump before realizing it could only be Laurent.
His chamber was a few rooms down. With feline steps she glided across the gleaming tile floor to peek in his room.
He sat perched over a desk. His words–those not clipped–were slurred, guttural mutterings she couldn’t make out. He was writing freehand on a thick pad of paper. A glass sat beside his left, writing hand and next to it a bottle of imported whiskey at its quarter mark. There was something else appointing the desk, blocked by his hunched form. A framed picture.
Libète meant to simply lean farther into the room but brushed against the door. It gave a terse creak; she gave a curse. Laurent jumped in his seat. With his alcoholic fog sucked away, he slammed the photograph to the table. He breathed unevenly and stood. Libète shrank back as he strode toward her and lifted his hand as if he was preparing to strike her. She cringed and braced herself.
The door slammed shut.
— Good progress, Félix. Libète stands up. You’ve been practicing.
He lays the pencil down. I’ve written the alphabet into the earth so many times the dirt could recite it.
— I wish we had more paper.
— Me too.
Libète bites her lip, as if there was something more to say. Well–I’ll be going. She begins folding the paper gingerly.
— Why don’t you teach others to read? Félix blurts.
— We’ve been through this.
— But I was thinking. You could do it in the church. Be a teacher. For everyone. So few of us can, and not many can teach so well.
She blushes at the compliment. I’ve said–
— I know, you’ve said, but . . . it’s selfish. You want to become part of Foche, no? What better way? Why are you still hiding out when–
Libète darkens, and Félix knows he has transgressed. She forces the paper together hastily and rips it before moving across the uneven stones, under the half-fallen archway, and out.
Félix sighs, flexing his fingers as he watches her go, and wishes he had something to occupy his hands. He retreats farther back into the cracked walls and curses himself.
— No questions! she shouts over her shoulder. We promised!
The path home was empty; daylight flagged. She muttered the entire way.
<
br /> Didn’t he know she wanted to teach? Her pride clamored for it! To proclaim from the mountaintop that she was the most educated person on it! She was sick of feigned ignorance, her infantilization in all things, biting her tongue at stupidity when it reared its face, turning a blind eye toward small injustices, swallowing her thoughts and convictions on every subject from science to religion to national politics to–
Stop. She breathed deep to regain her composure and slow her barreling train of thought. This is wrong. I am wrong.
Without Magdala and Félix she had no release at all. The pressure of her lie built with nowhere to escape but their ears. Without them, honesty would become a fictive thing for her, like politicians’ truth, the International Community’s benevolence, like . . . she huffed. God’s goodness.
When she arrived home, the shack was empty. She was grateful for it.
She slid the brown paper into a cavity in the wall and slipped back into the yard. She patted the goat’s budding horns, tended their new piglet, and settled back down in the small rectangular plot that lay behind the house.
Magdala had let the small garden go around the time of Libète’s arrival, while still feeling the heaviness of Félix’s theft and shunning. Weeds had choked the beans and beets and cabbages. Libète may have never worked in fields before, but maintaining a family plot? That was at least familiar.
Back on La Gonâve, her first home, she passed hours with her mother tending to their own small supply of plants. In her memory, her manman stood tall, healthy and strong, with a perpetual smile–brilliant, like the Sun, but at a more bearable strength. All colors were vibrant and alive, and their bellies were always full. They were perfect days.
In fact, the Sun had been blistering hot. Green life mingled with brown decay. Hunger lingered like an unwelcome guest. Her mother’s face blurred now–there was never a photograph taken of her to refocus the memory. Even though Libète knew her glamorized remembrances were faulty, she had good reason to indulge in a bit of misremembering when life had treated her so harshly.
Her fingers reached into the loam and pinched the weedy roots that fought to remain and choke out other life. An hour passed.
— If you do that in the dark, you’ll pull up the good with the bad.
Libète jumped, but didn’t look over her shoulder. I hadn’t noticed how dark it had become, Libète said. She continued pulling at the weeds; she was close to finishing. I thought you’d have rested, Libète said. You sounded spent after our time in the fields.
— New life called, Magdala said, laying her bag down. Over the hill. The family hired a moto to carry me most of the way there and back.
Libète looked alarmed. Did you need help?
— The baby came easily. She was small–very, very small.
— And well?
— We can hope. I’ll check back tomorrow. Any food ready?
Libète’s dirt-tipped hand flew toward her forehead. I’m so sorry–I would have, I just . . . just wasn’t hungry.
— You must wear a tight belt! Magdala laughed. It’s no matter. I’ll start some water if you can still cook.
— Of course. Of course. Mèsi. Libète yanked another obstinate weed up. She took the small pile of dead weeds she’d collected and stepped toward the fire pit where Magdala had coaxed the flame into life. She dropped them in and watched them take light as they curled and writhed. She felt a wave of satisfaction.
— How was Félix?
— He had work today. With Anton. And he’s coming along with his reading. He’s smart. A good student.
Magdala beamed as she dumped a bucket of water into the pot. I am glad to hear it. Magdala leaned over and planted an unexpected kiss upon Libète’s head. You’re doing well here. Foche’s people are warming to you. Good things come from their lips. That baka business is old news, gras a Dieu–everyone seems to have forgotten.
I’m old news. Libète cringed inwardly. Forgotten.
— That’s wonderful, Libète said, evenly. She went back to her weeding.
Magdala’s gaze trailed after her. I know it’s hard for you, being here, with us. I know! But you are safe, and that’s all I meant. I’m sure there’s a good reason your friends haven’t come for you.
Old fears crept in. Libète’s hand quickened at its work. She began retreating into herself, and the fear became anger. She tried hard to keep herself from turning sullen, from turning on Magdala–
— Oh God! Libète shouted, flinging something into the air. Magdala let her spoon clatter into the pot.
— What? What is it?
Libète clapped her left hand over her mouth as her eyes jumped between her right hand and what she had thrown.
— A lizard, Libète said, forcing it out of her mouth.
Magdala sighed. Just a fright then! No matter, at–
— No, Libète said. It’s dead. Left there. For me.
— That’s a silly thought. How could you know?
— Its head – she swallowed – it was cut off.
Libète wakes to a green gecko on her pillow.
He–or she–lays staring at the wall, its eyes narrow slits. Its body inflates with the same speed it deflates, quick and sharp, as if it just crossed a finish line.
Libète lays there, numb and unthinking. The bed’s white linens still look pristine. Choosing not to pry the top sheet back is a quiet rebellion.
The Sun is high already, and the shadow of a hanging lacquered charm in the window sways and twists, casting flecks of light throughout the room. She rubs her eyes and yawns before brushing the creature away. It moves with indifference.
— Are you awake?
Jak’s voice came from the other side of her door.
— What?
— Are you up? Dressed and all that?
— Yes.
— Can I come in?
Her brow furrowed. As you wish.
He entered, looking sheepish.
— Were you just sitting there? she said. Listening?
— Laurent is still asleep. You two seem made for the night.
— Me for good reason.
— Did you dream?
— Not after the last nightmare that woke me. It was a mercy. Like my mind flipped a switch. I’d still be out if not for Mesye Zandolit on my pillow. Jak lit up at the sight of the creature. He collected him from the bed and cradled him in his hand.
— I’ll keep him! Some company when you sleep all day.
She smiled, struggling to hide that she thought the sentiment was very childish. He felt her disapproval and quietly slipped the lizard into his shirt pocket for safekeeping as he sat on the edge of the bed. This place is no good, Jak muttered. Everyone sleeps till the middle of the day. It’s like ghosts speak in the silence, in the sounds of the ocean outside. Libète rubbed her face. She didn’t say anything. Jak touched her knee.
— Ah! His eyes lit up and his index finger stood erect. He went out into the hall and brought in a plate covered with a plastic mesh dome. I made you breakfast.
They went outside, to the back of the property. There was the villa itself, which was white and clean. Its classic architecture was reminiscent of the old wooden gingerbread homes in Port-au-Prince they’d seen when they strolled downtown near the Champs de Mars. Either its interior had been rehabilitated, as it was all stuccoed white, or the exterior was faux, made to match the neighborhood.
The house was set into an open yard of smoothed white gravel. Palm trees were carefully planted along the property, and a high, barbed wall made it feel lonely–except along the shore, where a concrete lip had been poured and a short ladder extended into the water. There were other trees too, peppered throughout, and one could walk among them and pick bananas, mandarins, and almonds still in their hard, hard shells.
They sat on the lip and dipped their bare feet into the water that calmly lapped against the wall. They saw a woman, surely the maid Laurent had mentioned, keeping a wary distance from the two as she swept out the entryw
ay.
Libète stared out over the placid ocean. The sea could care less about all that’s going on, she said. Very self-centered, Nature is.
Jak didn’t know what to say. He dipped his baguette into his mug of coffee – black and with sugar, lots of it – and took another bite. It was an excuse to keep quiet. He had snuck out the front gate to the bakery, a subsidiary of the corner restaurant, and used his little pocket money to get the bread and some wedges of Bongú. Libète spread the cheese on her own bread and chewed slowly.
He swallowed with a gulp. I always forget how beautiful it is here. Strange, huh?
There was a lone, small boat floating in the water about a hundred yards off. It was late in the day for a fisherman to be out–they usually started early in the morning. Maybe it’s a diver, Jak thought before reeling in his curiosity. These have been hard days. I’m grateful for this escape.
Libète darkened. Our world is all one piece. We can’t pretend it’s separated into nice little sections. She picked up a long, smooth rock and threw it as far as she could. Evil in one place can’t just be imagined away by looking the other direction.
He bit his bread again, speaking with his mouth full. I’m mourning too, he snapped. Mourning Didi. His voice cracked. And I’m here with you, Libète. My world’s as broken as yours.
— Sorry, she said, and meant it. He looked away and itched at his scrawny forearm. He placed his arm on Libète’s back and patted her–it was an awkward gesture. She looked him in the eye, her features softening. She leaned into Jak. With her arm wrapped around him, the two cried softly.
Rites
Se pa tout moun ki ale legliz pou priye.
Not everyone goes to church to pray.
Se pa lè yon moun ap neye pou ou montre l naje.
When a person is drowning is not the time to teach him how to swim.
— Christ! she shouts. She flails, trying to rid herself of the upward-drag of the man’s grip.
All had seemed so very quiet and beautiful under the water just a moment before . . .
Neither she nor Jak could swim, at least not before coming to the villa with Stephanie. Though they grew up on the edge of the sea, the water was something to be feared. Dipping their toes in had been as far as their courage extended. In Cité Soleil they had a friend, Girard, who in great courage ventured out to show his arms’ and legs’ strength. He was dragged back to the shore with empty eyes and water-filled lungs. With Stephanie’s encouragement–she had bought them swimsuits–they descended into the water, at first with hands in reach of the ladder. Over time, they waded, but never ventured far from the concrete lip.