by Ted Oswald
She wakes again fully at the sound of glass breaking. She shoots up in bed.
An intruder?
She’s up, creeping toward her door. The sound had come from Laurent’s room. She slips into a pair of pants and steps down, down the dark hallway, toward a feeble light.
She remembers the last time she’d come upon him in the night–and his drunken anger.
Jak pokes his head out of his room, squinting. Is everything okay?
— Let’s check, she whispers. He joins her and they stand at the threshold to Laurent’s room side by side. She leans toward Jak’s ear. You go first. He likes you.
Jak swallows, and knocks. Mèt Martinette? Is all well? Jak pries the door open, steps inside. He is surprised–and then sad. Libète pushes the door open to see for herself.
She sighs.
Laurent was on his hands and knees. He wore a tank top undershirt, and his feet were bare. His hands bled as he marshalled broken glass into a pile on the floor. Papers were strewn about.
— Oh, Laurent, Libète said.
He looked up at the kids. His mouth was parted and cheeks puffing. His eyes were clouded by a rummy glaucoma.
— Lage m, he slurred. Kreyòl rather than his usual French. Leave me alone.
— Your hands, Mèt Martinette! Jak said. The blood dripped on the floor, on him, everywhere. The pages of his manuscript were dotted red.
— Help me, Jak, she said under her breath. She went to take one of Laurent’s arms. He recoiled from her touch, but she persisted. Jak took his other arm and they lifted him.
— Do you think only of yourself? He said this to Libète.
She thought of scorning him, but she couldn’t. She felt only pity.
— Don’t help me. Don’t help me.
— Be at peace, Jak said. They led him to his bed, sat him down.
— Jak, can you get a towel for his hand?
He answered by going into the bathroom. She sighed and looked at the man. He couldn’t meet her eyes.
— I asked–I didn’t ask for you.
She went to collect his papers. They were sopped brown from the rum. Her face scrunched as she held them up and looked for a place to hang them so they might dry. Jak reentered with a hand towel he placed into Laurent’s palm.
— Hold that tight, Mèt Martinette. The title Jak used before his name, meant in all sincerity, only seemed to anger Laurent. He thrashed his arm away.
— You kids did–
But he stopped, as if he’d forgotten why he opened his mouth. His head slumped against the wall. His eyes watered. His lips tightened.
Libète shook her head back and forth. With thumb and index finger she picked up the larger pieces of the broken glass, depositing them in a wastebasket. Madanm Manno can take care of the rest, she said. She set the basket on his cluttered desk. A cell phone laid flipped open amid the papers.
— I thought you said he was staying off all phones.
— That’s what I thought, Jak replied. Maybe he got another?
There was a text message open. She read it aloud for Jak’s benefit: My love to all of you in case–
Her hand shot to her mouth.
— What? What’s it say, Libète?
— In case this is farewell.
— Who’s it fro–
Jak knew as soon as he asked.
— Bondye. He started to breathe in staccato. Are there . . . are there . . . other messages . . . from Steffi?
Libète pressed through. Nothing. Looks like there aren’t, or maybe everything else has been deleted. He tried to send something but it just says it couldn’t be delivered. No credit.
— When was her note sent?
— An hour ago.
Libète dropped the phone. Laurent made a subtle, plaintive sound, like a moan. He seemed to be dallying between the conscious and unconscious.
— I need . . . need to go, Libète said. Go pray–no, not pray. Think.
Jak nodded soberly. I can keep watch over him, he said, pulling a chair up to the bedside. Just to make sure he’s all right.
It was only on leaving the room that Libète saw the picture erect on the desk, the one Laurent had slammed down all those weeks before.
It was a portrait of Stephanie.
— She texted again.
Libète stirred. It seemed sleep only came when she tried to stay awake.
Jak was close to her face, seated on the bed next to her and nudging her. She’s safe, he said. For now.
Libète took a deep, long breath. Exhaling felt like expelling a heavy spirit. Thank God.
— The prayers. It seems they worked, he said with a meager smile.
Libète rubbed her eyes. And the drunk?
— He’s doing okay, I think. Sleeping it off. His hand stopped bleeding.
She rolled over in the bed and hugged her pillow.
— Jak, I can’t handle this much longer. This place. I can’t–
— I know, he said. I know.
A failure of the heart.
A failure of my heart.
Her mind is made up. She banishes hesitation–there can be none. Only action.
She threads through the crowd, pushing her way toward Old Jeune. The mute kneels to his left, breathing quiet fear as he coaxes his father back. Libète goes to his other side. Jeune’s eyes are emptied as death slips across them. She pulls his shirt apart with a furious rip and listens for a heartbeat.
— What’s this girl doing? she hears muttered. Who’s she think she is? Libète puts the voices from her mind. There is no space for them, not with what she has to do.
Her fingertips kiss on his chest. She begins the compressions, quick and continuous, pushing, pushing, pushing.
There is the music
She kneads the life back into him, until it is time. Hands to his head, she pulls his chin up, puts his head back.
It swells, the orchestra’s sound; glorious
She pinches his nose, breathes in, and blows into his mouth the holiest of kisses, the kind that can restore life. She fears. Failed hearts, truly stopped, need more than futile pushes and borrowed air to hold death back. They need a shock to start again. A shock.
Violins cry in pain, cellos weep
More compressions. His empty eyes stare at her while his mouth, pursed and curious, frames the question, Will I live? With each push, she forces down her fear, fear of what will happen to this one–this created, living man–who minutes ago stood but then tripped the line between here and there, life and death.
The percussion sounds as brass blares
He does not respond. He will not respond. This is not enough. Her actions can only preserve, not save. More gifted breath. There seems no change. No change! She checks his pulse; nothing. He’s already slipped, already gone.
From where does this music come? What place within her does this improvisation erupt? It is nothing she has heard before. There is no hook to past memory. The staccato rhythm gives way to plaintive dirge, free of form yet so utterly true.
There is truth in the melody
Compressions. More breaths. The people are murmuring, and she casts out any recognition of them, letting the rhythms drown out their noise. It is her. It is him. It is the music.
A crescendo
She breathes. She breathes.
He breathes.
He breathes! Like a crack, the air seeps into his lungs without her aid. She still coaxes the heart on, but lightens her touch. You can do it, she says so low that only Jeune’s son, Junior, can hear. His tears slip and soak into Jeune’s shirt.
She slumps back on her knees, dazed.
The music slips and falls and fades.
— Back up! Janel finally shouts. Give them space! The son picks up his father’s hat to shield the ailing man’s face from the Sun. Libète sees Junior weeps in great, tremendous sobs as he grasps his father’s hand.
Joy erupts in shouts, and praise, and weeping, so that you could not contain it if you tried! Mèsi Bond
ye! is cried, Mèsi Bondye! Alleluia!
Libète is lifted from the ground and met by congratulating hugs and slaps on the back. Someone lays a woven basket at Libète’s feet and things are placed inside, a yam, a mango, two ears of corn, gifts for the girl who has wrought a miracle. She sees Magdala and Félix, radiating joy she is unable to reflect. Libète offers humble thanks to each who gives out of kindness, but her smile is false. She knows what this miracle really means.
Separate from this scene, tucked away behind matchstick stalls and tarps, stand Cinéus and Wilnor, watching with slit eyes. Even before neighbors carry Jeune away to his home to recuperate, before Libète is allowed to leave the market, the pair have slipped away. They whisper as they recall wisps of something once heard.
— Who is this one? Cinéus asks his brother.
— That could know to do such a thing! Wilnor replies. A peasant girl!
— Unbelievable.
— Do you think–
— Could she be–
— But here? Of all places–
— The one we’ve heard about?
— The one they’re looking for?
The fireworks exploding in the sky herald change. They are beautiful and brilliant and defy the darkness that surrounds.
— Hard to believe it’s already here. When the days feel like forever.
— Kanaval, Jak sighs. What a thing.
— And we’re stuck in here, Libète says.
Carnival’s arrival felt like a perfectly timed diversion. The prior nights’ events with Laurent cast a pall over the arriving day. Though they longed for rest, the Sun peered over the ocean and made its unwavering demand that they live and move and hurt. Laurent remained in his room much of the day. Madanm Manno had checked in on him, and Jak had spoken with him a little, but Libète had stayed away.
— I don’t think he remembers much. Enough to be ashamed.
Libète was wary to mention the picture on his desk, but it had been on her mind the whole day.
— Did you see the portrait?
He stroked his chin. You mean of Steffi?
She gave a long and expectant nod, full of gravity. Jak missed any meaning.
— He swatted it down when I walked in on him our first night here. A day later I went snooping through his room – Jak glared, but Libète didn’t care – it was nowhere to be seen. I thought it was surely kept in his desk’s top drawer. The one that’s locked.
— Libète. Jak didn’t like where she was leading him.
— Steffi’s message. Laurent has been lying all along. Saying that he hadn’t heard from her, that she couldn’t be in touch!
— Still, Laurent was pretty torn up over the message.
— Jak, do you think Laurent is . . .
— What?
He was going to make her say it. Her mouth pressed in a tight line.
— In love . . . with . . . his sister.
— No. No, no, no. There must be something else there. How could that be?
She shrugged. Steffi is adopted. And they’re different ages–separated by, what? Ten, twelve years?
— Steffi said he went to college at eighteen. She was just a little girl when she was adopted. It’s not like he grew up with her.
— Still. It’s gross. She snapped her fingers. Maybe that’s why he acted like an ass back at Moïse’s house on New Year’s Eve. Because Remi was there! He was jealous!
— Hmmm. I could understand being in love with her–
Libète laughed, the first time in a long while. Jak, I didn’t know!
— Wha–no! No! I don’t mean I do love her, just that if I were, if I was older . . . ah, leave me alone!
She cackled. Woo! I won’t tell, Jak, I won’t tell. Don’t you worry!
— Let’s not talk about it anymore.
— Suits me just fine.
A new round of explosions filled the sky, and Libète turned toward them, watching streaks of ruby fade to nothing. Her smile faded. That’s all life is. Bursts of happiness, soon gone.
She rubbed her hand against the spackled balcony wall. The world’s passing us by, Jak. Out on those streets is the biggest party in all of Haiti. Carnival in Jacmel. She clicked her tongue, shook her head. And we’re under house arrest.
The fireworks were just the formal start of festivities that would have been set in motion for weeks prior. Carnival in Cité Soleil was as crude and alive and joyful as Carnival ought to be, but paled next to Jacmel’s. Here, it became its own religion. It was legendary throughout the Caribbean and Stephanie, the connoisseur of Haitian art and culture, had strangely wanted to keep them from it. Instead they embarked on weekend trips around Jacmel; she would take them to the waterfalls and blue-green pools of Bassin Bleu, the pine forests of La Visite, or even farther afield. Stephanie was not particularly religious, but it seemed like the revelry awakened a penitent spirit pounded into her by the Catholic sisters who had taught her in school.
We’ll go when you’re older, was her refrain whenever they begged. She was a surprising prude, treating them like they were innocent and to be sheltered from bawdy humor and sex.
All that when they came from Cité Soleil? Ha!
Just walking down the street, the things you’d hear! They were packed so tight in the slums you couldn’t help but catch the telltale sounds of people in the act. And Jak and Libète’s peers in school were already deep into experimenting with sex–not on the campus grounds, at least not that they were aware.
Libète assured Stephanie in plain terms that she was well acquainted with such things, but utterly immune to temptation. Revolutionaries have no time for such business, Libète had said dismissively at the sight of kissing on screen or handholding in public. Love–romantic love–it’s a distraction from the things that really matter, Libète would say. And besides, Jak can hardly bring himself to say that little three-letter word.
Such conversations discomfited Stephanie greatly.
Libète thought of herself uttering such sentences with conviction just a few months ago. Her self-righteousness now made her queasy.
Another firework exploded, lighting up her eyes and Jacmel’s bay. The street near their home was clotted with cars full of pilgrims who had come to celebrate from all over Haiti and abroad.
— I’d give anything to be down there. To see the parade tomorrow, the costumes, the papier-mâché, Jak mused. What a thing! To just sit and watch. Maybe even sketch as they go by . . .
Libète looked at her friend, held rapt by the sparkling streams of gold and red and blue. Her brow dipped and her lips curled into a smile, forming a familiar but long-absent look, one, that if seen by Jak, would have made him profoundly worried.
Masks
Malè yon nonm ki mete konfyans li nan yon nonm.
Woe to the man who puts his trust in another man.
Sunday sees Libète renewed.
The hour is early. She knocks on Jak’s door.
— Jak.
No reply.
— Jak!
Still no answer. She knew telling Jak her plan in advance would have seen him rebel against it, so she didn’t. There’s no time for this. She barges in the room, and Jak leaps out of bed.
— Libète! He jerks a sheet over his lower half. I’m in my underwear!
— Aw, big deal. She walks to his trousers folded carefully over the back of a chair, picks them up, and throws them to him. Get those on.
— Is it an emergency? He pulls the sheet over his head and, stumbling ghostlike, tries to pull on the pair of pants.
Libète smirks. Wi. A gran one. And we’ve got to go! Quick!
He races for his shirt, and his fingers nimbly feed the buttons through their holes. She is already down the stairs and out the door. He catches up with her. Here, she says, handing him a piece of bread, the cheese already spread inside.
— Why, thank yo–wait a minute. What’s going on here?
She tightens the straps on her red pack. Kanaval, she says, a smile
lighting her face.
Libète looks to the pitted road as she walks behind Saint-Pierre, Magdala, and Félix, worrying, worrying, worrying. Félix and Magdala glance at her over their shoulders, unable to understand her quiet. It was as if leaving the market a hero was the worst that could happen.
Nearly everything they had carried to market had been snapped up post-resureksyon–what Jeune’s revival was being called–and now, they have a fistful of notes and coins while Saint-Pierre ports the weight of Foche’s kind thanks back up the mountain.
— Wait, Libète says. Félix tugs at Saint-Pierre’s bridle to slow his ascent.
They are passing Délira’s home.
— She’s not home yet. No one’s there, Félix says.
Libète struggled to lift off the saddlebag full of gifted food. Magdala’s lips pursed and she reached for Libète but said nothing. Libète carried the bag into Délira’s home and emptied the produce in a heap on her friend’s table. Libète toted the empty saddlebag and walked ahead and alone. I didn’t deserve this, she said over her shoulder.
Félix stood dumbstruck. But you saved him!
— Him no less! Magdala added. You worked a miracle, Sophia. Did a good thing. I didn’t even know you had that in you!
Libète spun. I hesitated. To protect myself. And now everyone is wondering who I really am again, how I could know to do such a thing.
— That’s just ridiculous, Félix said. This will make you loved by everyone! It’s the best thing that could have–
— Just leave me alone.
Magdala rushed to her, embraced her, held her tight even as Libète struggled against the restraining hold. It’s true. There will be more questions now. But what you did, she whispered, was right. It was good. Such good acts, the ones that cost us, are lights in the dark.
Libète finally succumbed and leaned into Magdala’s arms.
— We’ll face whatever may come, my dear. You are not alone. Whatever happens, you are not alone.