by Ted Oswald
— Don’t worry. They’ll be waterlogged. Dimanche said, reading her mind. He pushed the bike harder.
The taptap was still behind them. Its relative size neither grew nor shrank, meaning that it too was speeding. The other direction they saw a roadside market with a few passenger vans and some homes set back.
They pulled into the market, and women ran to them with their hands full of bushels of bananas, fried plantain chips, coated nuts, and sachets of water to sell to passengers through bus windows and the open rears of taptaps.
— Get some food. Water. Stuff that will keep. He gave Libète a wad of cash and sprang from the bike. The vendors encircled her like a pack of hungry beasts.
— Buy from me!
— My fruit is best!
— Dlo se lavi! Dlo se lavi! Water is life!
She could scarcely see where Dimanche had gone. She became paralyzed.
— Get away from me! she finally shouted.
— This young man has won the prize! Dimanche announced. Libète saw his arm wrapped around a confused youth.
The teenager was short, wearing a grease-stained apron. Dimanche had pulled him aside from a tent where he cooked meals dumped into Styrofoam takeaway containers. This one, he has won this fine motorcycle!
Libète’s eyes widened. He what?
— Yes, he’s won. He’s won! But only if he claims it now. Right now.
— But, the youth said, I have my restaurant. I can’t go.
Libète understood. Yes, go now, she said. Or some other soul takes your prize!
— Surely you have an associate here who can watch your restaurant for but a few minutes? Dimanche said. Even we can do so!
The youth was clearly conflicted.
— You really want to give me this?
— As we said, you won. Libète stood like a model showing off a game-show prize. She let herself glance over her shoulder. The taptap truck was not far off, its front grill and bumper resembling a devious grin. Dimanche pulled his bag from the bike’s seat.
— Here, take it for a spin. Dimanche forced a smile. It was utterly unconvincing, and Libète wished he had not tried. Dimanche placed the key in the youth’s hand, and the young man looked at it stupidly.
And then he smiled.
— All right! he said, jumping in the air. All right! Everyone, look! I won!
— Yes, you did! Libète said, guiding him over to the bike’s seat. Now be off!
The youth gave it too much gas as he shifted into gear, causing the bike to buck. He looked anxious, but once he did a quick spin in the gravel, his smile grew enormous. He putted away down a road perpendicular to the highway.
— I’m a winner! he shouted. A winner! A cloud of dust trailed behind. The crowd of sellers and customers split their gazes between the bike and the curious strangers.
Dimanche spoke. Come on. He and Libète ducked into the man’s stall and hid. The vendors flocked toward the arriving taptap, but before they could surround it, it cut right in pursuit of the bike. The vendors cursed as the dust bathed them.
— What jerks!
— They didn’t even slow down!
— They could have run us over!
Dimanche hollered at the sellers. Those vans over there. Where do they go?
— To Hinche, came a reply.
Dimanche clucked and started to fill a container with rice and legim. Stock up, he said to Libète. Libète filled another tub with fried chicken legs.
— You going to pay for that? one of the sellers asked.
— He got a motorcycle. That’s worth two plates, he grumbled.
Food in their hands and their bags on their shoulders, the pair ran to the vans.
— When do you depart? Dimanche asked. The driver reclined in his seat, his legs propped up on the steering column. A cap covered his face.
— When the van’s full, he said. He didn’t remove the cap.
There was only one other passenger, an older man wearing a smart suit with a mismatched hat. How long have you been waiting? Dimanche barked.
— W-w-why, an hour, I’d say. The man’s fingers tightened around his satchel.
Libète looked at the other van. It didn’t even have a driver.
— How much is the fare?
— Three hundred goud each, the driver responded.
Dimanche ripped the driver’s cap off his face. Here’s money for twelve passengers. He dropped the cash into the hat. Now go.
The driver feigned indignity, taking his hat back. We pack eighteen into this van.
Dimanche dug back into his pocket and threw more notes at the driver. Ale. Go.
The driver sat up, looking at the cash. Yes, sir! He gave a mock salute. Dimanche and Libète climbed in.
The van reached Hinche without further event. Dimanche and Libète arrived at a hub of buses, vans, and taptaps. There were police at the station, and Dimanche eyed them carefully. They skirted around them in their search for another ride.
— Will you finally tell me where we’re trying to go? Libète asked. ‘Cap-Haïtien’ was Dimanche’s only reply. It was Haiti’s second-largest city, coastal, and in the north.
— Why there?
— The air is clear, he said dismissively.
Libète grimaced. She followed Dimanche through the crush of people toward a bus that had Cap-Haïtien written on its side. How about this one? She moved toward it. Dimanche tarried.
— Our enemies will be on the main roads north. More checkpoints. He shuddered. No, we’ll take a longer route. One they won’t bother with. She probably knows where we’re going by now.
Libète squinted. Who? Maxine? What makes you say that?
Dimanche didn’t answer.
— Really, why are we going to Cap-Haïtien? We could hide anywhere.
— I’ll tell you in time.
— Not ‘in time.’ Now. She slapped the side of the bus.
He grimaced. Fine. There is a boat.
— A boat?
— A boat. And it will sail soon. And you must be on it.
— Where is it sailing?
Dimanche looked dyspeptic. He looked over his shoulder and said the words: Etazini.
Libète gasped. The US? She leaned in and gritted her teeth. I never agreed to leave Haiti. Never. Never.
— Your way has been paid. And I am to deliver you. There’s no choice.
— Says who?
— Ms. Stephanie.
— Bah!
— If you aren’t on that boat, you’ll die. You realize that, don’t you?
— Then I’ll die. Libète walked away from him.
He grabbed her elbow, and she tore it away. Please. These protests are unnecessary. It is the way things are, Libète. It is where we are.
She swept back toward him. If I am taken from this ground, I will waste away to nothing. Already, with all this time away from Cité Soleil, I can feel it. My soul. My heart. They’re withering.
— Cité Soleil will move on.
— Don’t you say that!
He spoke again. Cité Soleil doesn’t need you. Haiti doesn’t need you. You need them.
— How . . . dare you. How can you–you’ve never loved a place like me!
He held a pointed finger up to her face. You know nothing about me. You’re not the only one to have bled for a place. But places, they’re nothing. We float along, we never find a home. Not on this side of the water. Not on this side of life.
Libète didn’t want to give the notion credence.
Dimanche reached out to touch her. The fingers he laid on her shoulder were surprisingly gentle. Every person in this world who loves you most is desperate for you to go and be safe, he said. Please. For their sake. You must go and do this thing. Dimanche searched her dark brown eyes. For my sake.
She looked at him, taken aback by his pleading. To have Haiti ripped from beneath her seemed unfathomable . . .
She found the details of the station fall away as the reality of things descended. D
imanche’s hand hovered just behind her back, and she let him guide her toward another staging bus where a man called out, Sen Rafeyel! Dondon! Menard!–the knots in their coming journey’s string. She boarded and Dimanche watched her climb the steps and find a seat. She hardly emoted. Hardly blinked.
He paid the caller the fare and grimaced. He knew he could not reach her in her sadness. All that was left was to guide her to where she must go.
Breathe. In and out. Out and in.
Félix and Libète hide on top of the axels of one of the thieving trucks.
The mining camp is roused. Boots on gravel tamp soft earth. Men holler at Dorsinus. He can give no explanation for the noise and damaged equipment. The camp dwellers’ flashlights land on the severed hoses, the generator fallen down deep. Swearing erupts. Two pair of legs walk just past Félix and Libète’s faces.
— Libète, Félix whispers. Prepare to run.
She glares at him.
— They’ll find us. There’s no way around it. But they don’t have to find both of us.
She shakes her head fiercely. It aches with a dull, feverish pain.
— Get ready. I’m going to give myself up. When you see a chance, run.
— Don’t you dare! Don’t you leave me!
— You promised you’d do as I say. Get down the mountain. You’ll be safe.
She longs to do this. To be rid of this moment and its fear.
They see a burly man on his hands and knees. He searches beneath one of the neighboring trucks with a sweep of his flashlight.
Félix lays his machete down and begins whispering prayers. He asks for protection, and for strength to take the blows he will soon bear.
It was she who dragged him into this. Why should he pay the consequences? But she had no choice. If she was taken, it would be the end. She would fall into Cinéus and Wilnor’s hands and be passed to whoever had sent Lolo to find her. She would be given to the people who had killed her friends and pursued her across the country. They would likely torture her till she gave them those accursed Numbers, whatever they were.
She must do as Félix says.
She has to.
Heavy footsteps herald the approach of the man with the flashlight. The light pours from the cylinder in his hand and plays across the ground just under the truck. Félix’s eyes are closed. He takes a deep breath, and a second, and a third. The man crouches.
Libète drops and grabs the machete. As she rolls out, she shouts: I surrender! I surrender!
A Split Soul
Ti kou ti kou bay fè mò.
Little blow by little blow brings death.
Fòk ou konn la pou ou al la.
You must know there to go there.
Dimanche and Libète arrive in Menard. The hour is late.
A group of men linger around a crank radio. They drink warm beer by candlelight. An old woman plaits a younger woman’s hair, and they break into laughter. Pentecostals filter out of a late prayer service, heavy Bibles in their hands, heavy lids about their eyes.
Dimanche spins, taking it in, breathing in deeply. Libète watches him carefully. Do you . . . know this place?
He nods.
— These people. Some of them. The one with the radio, that’s Daniel. He’s a philanderer. And that woman, Magalie, I know her from her voice.
— This was your home?
— For a time. A gateway to other things.
— Better things?
He doesn’t answer.
— Should you say hello, Dimanche? To Daniel? To Magalie? A reunion. That’d be nice, no?
— They wouldn’t recognize me.
Libète is perplexed.
— No, he says. But there is one we need to see.
He started walking, stepping off the main road that bisected the town’s thicket of homes. He struck a path among their fenced yards. Libète carried all their possessions and struggled to keep pace.
They came to a home–two floors, columned, covered in spackle–that even by night looked run down. It was the largest home she had seen in the town and it seemed sinister in its disrepair.
Dimanche knocked. Honor! he called out. His voice cracked.
A moment passed. Respect! came called back. The home’s front door opened to a prudent width, and a white shock of hair poked from behind. Who’s there?
Dimanche looked to Libète, and she noticed fear in his misshapen face. Dimanche, he called back.
The old man stepped out into the yard and took in his visitor. His hands lay limp at his sides. His mouth was agape. If he saw Libète, he didn’t note it.
He came forward with tentative steps before embracing Dimanche wholly.
— Forgive me, but the generator, it’s out of service, the old man said.
— Don’t worry.
— Ah, and the fridge. I have no ice.
— It’s not a proble–
— No delivery today. The sodas, they’re all warm. Picot! he called. Picot! Get me ice! Ice!
A boy appeared from the shadows. He kept his eyes downcast and took a pair of crinkled goud notes from the old man’s outstretched hand. The boy’s defeated and tired movements reminded Libète of herself when she was a child servant. She thought to speak to the boy and acknowledge him by thanking him. Instead she floated to the entryway corner and watched the two men’s ongoing awkward exchange in fascination.
— Sit. The man pulled out a chair for Dimanche. My boy, sit, he said. His hand ran through his bushy hair. You’re here.
— I am.
They stared at each other. You’re here, he repeated.
A clock ticked in the background.
— And did you–have you–
— Done what I set out to do?
The old man nodded.
— My task – he looked at Libète, suddenly wary of her presence – is complete. They’re gone.
The man collapsed into his own chair. He stroked his cheek’s stubble. My God. He turned to look upon her. And this one–I’m sorry, dear girl. Who is this one? He turned to her and spoke directly. Who are you? He gasped before she could answer. Your daughter, Dimanche? His face lit with a hopeful smile.
Dimanche shook his head, as if in shame. Like his life had been measured and came up lacking. She is a charge of mine, he said.
— My name is Lourd–
— In this house, Dimanche interrupted her, we can use real names.
— Libète, she offered. The old man came and knelt at her feet. So confused and taken aback, she nearly fell. He sized up her face before meeting her eyes. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m called Celestine. He took her right hand and kissed it.
He rose as quickly as his rickety knees allowed. When Picot returns, he can take your things upstairs. You’re staying? Of course you are.
— Only for a night, Dimanche said. If that’s all right.
— It’s been nearly twenty years, my boy! Celestine’s hand met his forehead again. For only one night?
— We’re off. To Cap-Haïtien. In the morning.
Celestine sighed. We have much to catch up on.
They spent the balance of the evening in the home’s covered gallery, looking out on the yard and Menard, sipping sweating sodas, letting the crickets’ songs fill the gaps in conversation. They talked in stops and starts about the weather, the failing soil, and politics in Port-au-Prince.
— So they’re all gone, Celestine finally said as he rocked in his chair, circling back to an earlier subject and the one that most intrigued Libète. All gone . . .
Libète cradled the pigeon in her hands, stroking the creature. She sat up and inclined her ear. She didn’t understand what topic these two tiptoed about. She decided to help them along and spoke up.
— Dimanche. Your accent–your ways–I always thought you were from the south, from the city. And you’ve not been back to Menard in all this time? Not in years?
— My work. It kept me away.
Celestine whistled. But this work is done? You’re
free?
Dimanche suddenly looked extremely tired. I’ve told you. Irritability claims him. Excuse me, he said. I can see by my manners I’m in need of rest.
Celestine stopped rocking. I’m sorry. I–I didn’t mean to push–
— We’ll talk tomorrow . . . been a long day. Dimanche’s voice trailed off as he headed into the house, upstairs.
Libète tsked. He hasn’t seen you in years, you show us such kindness, and this is his behavior? I’m sorry, Mesye Celestine. He can behave like such a . . . teenager.
Celestine showed a smile. No need, my dear, no need. My curiosity keeps me asking about what he’s done rather than who he’s become. That’s my own fault.
Libète had so many questions. What’s this work he’s talking about? When he was an inspector?
— Ah, if you don’t know, it’s not for me to tell. A man at my age, I’d rather not think on it too much.
Libète nodded. Well, what about before then? How did you meet?
— Heh. I can remember the day well. Celestine nursed his soda. I can picture him as he was then. Fewer pounds, more hair. Ha. Ha! Did you see the rice fields on the way into town?
Libète searched her memory. With her thoughts consumed with the day’s events, she noticed little on their hours-long journey to Menard.
— Yes, she lied.
— They’re mine. They’ve been stolen out from under me over the years, though they’re my heritage. All of my kids–a worthless lot–ran to Canada, France, the US. All of them dyaspora. He said the word like a curse. I’m no farmer. I’m not even smart! Bad deal after bad deal added up. He threw out the remainder of his drink into the yard. I’m just glad my ancestors can’t see the mess I’ve made.
— Dimanche farmed?
— He has a gift! Had a gift, maybe. My only good years were when Dimanche was in charge of it all. Between you and me, he looks terrible these days. Like his spirit has been wrung out of him. He gestured. Like water from a sponge.
— Whatever’s happened, he’s still a good man. Libète said this begrudgingly.
— Maybe so. But hard to recognize these days, Celestine said. Hard to recognize . . .
The Son puts his parents into the ground.