Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (22 page)

— Then we are enemies. His coolness disturbed Libète more than an angry outburst would have. I’m done here, he said, gesturing to the old man to close the gate. As he did this, a police motorcycle passed behind them and Dimanche’s eyes followed it, a frown forming on his face.

— You can’t do this! Simeon said it wouldn’t happen like this. He said!

Jak placed his hand on her shoulder to restrain her. She calmed at the touch but was too ashamed to look at the boy.

The policeman on the cycle slowed to a stop nearly twenty feet away, preparing to enter the station’s adjacent compound occupied by the UN. He took off his helmet. Jak tugged at Libète and whispered in Libète’s ear.

— It’s Simeon.

He looked remorseful, knowing he would have to confront Libète sometime, dismayed that time was now.

Libète glowered at him and said nothing, holding out her hands upturned and arms outstretched, as if to ask “Why?”

Simeon hollered. Libète, it’s not what it seems. I tried—

But Simeon is interrupted by a man on a motorcycle that decreased its speed to pass over a speed bump in front of the station, unexpectedly coming to a halt next to the officer. Simeon stopped his explanation, curious to see what the helmeted cyclist wanted.

In a flash, the rider pulled a pistol from his side and fired two shots—
pew pew
—directly at Simeon’s head. The children flinched with each pull of the trigger, watching the policeman as he used his last moments of life to duck the condemning barrel of the gun. Simeon crumpled to the ground, his blood spraying the blue and white paint of the station wall. The killer turned his pistol toward the children, but Dimanche reflexively yanked them behind the metal gate.

Libète screamed.

Chen cho pran kou

The eager dog gets the beating

Twal sal fasil men mal pou lave

Cloth soils easily but is difficult to wash

Libète is alone.

She curls up under her fort’s rotting beams and crumbling stones. She is tired, wet, and broken.

Her night spent here was long but necessary. Heavy rains dripped through the second floor and onto her, stealing any chance of sleep. She shivers uncontrollably. Though the rains were vanquished by the rising Sun, she refuses to step outside and be embraced by its forgiving rays. A prisoner of her mind, she convicts and sentences herself time and again.

The hours following Simeon’s murder were madness. Alerted by Libète’s screams, more officers streamed out of the station like wasps out of an injured nest. Simeon had been well-loved, and his comrades were consumed with finding the man who had so brazenly taken one of their own.

Dimanche led the charge, and the shocked children watched as he ordered officers here and there, his fury in full force. As police trucks and motorcycles fanned out, Dimanche had an unknown junior officer question them.

Libète later recalled little from the encounter, except that the man’s scent was something like coffee. He was dutiful in his asking of questions and recording of answers, and quite sympathetic to the children’s distress. Libète was close to catatonic, able to issue only the briefest answers to easy questions: yes, no, tall, loud, fast. It was Jak who rose to the occasion and, drawing upon his acute memory, described the assassin and the motorcycle with great precision. When they concluded, the young officer said he would have driven them home if all of the police vehicles were not in use.

On the long march back to Bwa Nèf, Libète’s senses returned to her, but she stayed quiet. Jak respected this at first. He knew his friend and the thoughts running through her mind.

— It’s not your fault, he blurted out.

She looked at him, locking her eyes with his. Her jaw was clenched, and she did not speak.

— You made a mistake.

— Jak, I need to be alone.

— You shouldn’t be.

— I need to be alone.

— It’s not your fault, he repeated.

She ran off without another word. Jak knew not to follow this time.

**

She remained in her home throughout the evening, refusing to go out or talk.

Her Aunt was merciful. She heard of Simeon’s murder and that Libète had witnessed it firsthand. The news had spread quickly—he was the only officer in the slum actually born in Cité Soleil, after all.

She returned home to see Libète face down on her mat. In a moment requiring the greatest of restraint, Estelle said nothing. She was not stupid. She knew Libète did not wish to hear her Aunt’s encouragement, comfort, or wisdom at a time like this.

She made the despondent child some ginger tea and a light meal, left it before her, and retreated. She alternated sitting and cooking to pass the time, praying all the while for the girl and the heavy weight she bore.

The hours after fighting broke out between the UN, police, and gangs seem unending.

It is daylight now, the eerie quiet outside disturbed only by crowing roosters, distant gunfire, passing vehicles, and people out of doors moving about with greatest caution.

Little Libète, her Aunt, and Uncle remain upon the floor. The bullet holes marring their walls remind them how easy it is to meet an early end simply by standing at the wrong moment. They do nothing but listen, and breathe.

A strange thing interrupted the fearful monotony. A person’s steps, slow and cautious, echoed outside their door. They did not sound rushed like those of the gunned-down gang members, or heavy like those of patrolling troops.

Libète was still afraid, but increasingly bored. She slid along her belly to the front room and peered out the crack under the door to get a view of the prowler outside. It was an unlikely figure.

Perched above the youth gunned to death by the troops’ fire was an older woman. Libète’s view consisted of her backside. Her lumpy body was covered by a dark green dress, patterned with interesting shapes and natural objects like leaves and corals. Her hair, a medley of grey and black, was pulled into tight braids that bobbed as she moved about the young man’s body. She was prying in his pockets.

Two shots rang out. Before the woman could escape or hide, she was struck down. She cried out and gasped before collapsing to the cement walkway, next to the dead youth.

Libète began hyperventilating.

Her Aunt called out from the other room. What happened?

— A–a–another one hit, she said.

— Who?

— I–I don’t know her, Libète gasped. I can’t tell!

She saw the woman heaving upon the ground, facedown in blood spilling from her abdomen. She could hear the woman’s whispered prayers for forgiveness, and fearful sobs. It was not long before the sobs ceased.

**

Libète became feverish as she continued to watch the corpses through the narrow crack under the door. The air was humid now, and the flesh of the dead cooked on the hot ground. The hostilities seemed to have run their course, and neighbors called to each other to make sure all was well. More people emerged, checking on other friends or family. But no one tended to the dead. The gunfire resumed again, and all disappeared behind closed doors.

She hated those bodies. They were an affront to goodness. A young man cut down—maybe he was bad, maybe he was good, but certainly not deserving of early death. And the pathetic old woman, her face still unseen by Libète, surely did not…

Something about the woman gnawed at Libète, and she could not place it.

It came to her.

She died alone, utterly alone, except for the small girl who watched her slip away from behind the safety of a closed door.

The fever makes her shake with chills, her teeth chatter, her mind swirl.

— Dead woman, why did you leave your house to steal from the dead boy? she mutters. Surprise grips her when a response bellows inside her own head.

I was desperate

Suffering greatly

The dead do not care if you steal from them

They need little

— You can speak? Who are you, dead woman?

I am without a face or name

So you may call me San Figi

— San Figi? That also means “Saint Face,” no?

Yes

— Then that is how I shall know you. San Figi—Saint Face. It is a better name.

It is as you wish

I am dead

And do not care

— Are you sad…to be gone?

I am

I wanted things to be different

— What things?

I was born with a mother who loved me

Then I was alone in life

And alone still when I left this world

— But you were not truly alone. You see, I was with you as you passed. I saw it happen.

Is that so?

— It is.

Did you try to get help to save me?

— I…did not.

Did you call out to comfort me in my moments of fear?

— I did not.

Did you cry for me?

— I did not.

Did you pray for my soul?

— I did not.

Did you try to see who killed me?

So that there might be justice?

— I did not.

Ah

So you were with me

But not with me

— But I was too afraid to do these things.

Fear is to be expected of a child

But maybe it will be different when you grow older

Maybe

— San Figi?

Yes child?

— I will do better next time.

I will hold you to it

Libète walks the back alleys of Bwa Nèf, looking for Jak but not finding him.

She left home in the morning after sleeping in. Her Aunt did not send her to school even though it was a Monday, the shock of Simeon’s death still so strong. Libète walked aimlessly for a time before deciding she needed to speak with the boy.

It was wrong to leave him yesterday
, she thought.

She asked after him in all of the usual places and was met with shrugs and pitying looks. She was now not only the girl who discovered the murdered woman and child, but also the one who saw the officer shot in the head.

Her shadow had shrunk to nothing, marking midday. She stood near Pastor Lucien’s school, the one where she had not lasted more than half a day, as children poured out in a deluge of white and brown uniforms. The kids, all familiar to her, seemed to stare at her too, out of her school colors and in her old beige dress reserved for cleaning around the house.

She fled the weight of their stares and walked further up Impasse Chavannes, toward Impasse Sara. One girl, about Libète’s size, slid away from the pack of children, caught up and tapped her on the shoulder.

Libète found herself confronted by Gracita’s gap-toothed face, her sworn enemy since her first night of terror in Bwa Nèf. She lifted her fists reflexively.

— I don’t want to talk to you, Libète barked.

— Well I don’t want to talk to you, Gracita snapped. But you need to listen.

There was an uneasy pause, the two eyeing one another.

As they had grown older, attended different schools, and strayed from home, they did not encounter each other so very often. When they did, dirty looks from past days had given way to pretending the other simply did not exist.

Libète looked beyond Gracita’s shoulder, noting that Therese and Rit were looming nearby with scowls on their faces.

— Just leave me alone. I’m trying to find Jak.

— You can get back to that soon. I’m worried—about you. Gracita spoke earnestly.

— And why is that?

— Because…this morning, a guy was asking around, trying to get at where you live. I didn’t know him—neither did Therese or Rit.

A fresh wave of dread crashed upon Libète. What did he look like?

— He was older. Big. And dark, black as a fly. He had a hat on, one that made it hard to see his face, and clothes that made him look very poor. There was a strangeness to him. It gave me chills, just talking to him.

— So you told him where I live?

— No, Gracita said. I lied, said I didn’t know.

— Why?

— I didn’t think he was up to any good.

— But why would you look out for me?

She sighed. Look, Libète. I don’t like you. But we’re both from Bwa Nèf. We need to watch out for one another with everything going on. It seems like you’re at its center.

—Mèsi, Libète murmered.

Gracita nodded. Just be careful, she said before running back to Rit and Therese, leaving Libète to wonder where Jak was and what would happen should this dark man find her.

**

After more fruitless searching for her friend, Libète decided to try one place she was always reluctant to visit: Jak’s home.

It was a desperate and dilapidated structure, seeming capable of collapse with a mere push, though it had weathered years of tropical storms and hurricane winds. A lean-to shelter, it consisted of a sheet of corrugated aluminum propped up against the large wall of a U.S.-financed community toilet built some years ago, disused since MINUSTAH troops shot it up. The only things supporting the sheeting were two wooden poles pushed into the soft ground, latched to the metal with a few strands of fraying rope. Jak always sought places to sleep away from here, even preferring the open air. This was not because of the cramped quarters, but because his grandmother, his sole family member in Cité Soleil, was utterly insane.