Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (45 page)

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’ll 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?

Elize exited the car and bellowed, It’s alright! I bring a friend. The owner gave a short nod and Elize moved to the back of his car, sliding his key in and opening the boot door. Martin sprang out, waving to the men with a smile before stretching and yawning as he looked about.

— I’m glad those checkpoints were nothing, Martin whispered.

— Me too, Elize replied.

Martin’s face crumpled into a scowl and he made a clicking sound with his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He often did this when thinking. Elize eyed Martin with worry. What’s wrong?

— It’s foolish, Martin sighed. But I hoped word might have made it back to my father. He lives close.

— I’m sure you’ll see each other before long, Elize said, not sure he believed his own words.

— I have a letter I was hoping you could take to him, in case this happened.

Elize looked uneasy. How would I find him? He had promised Fleur he’d arrive home before daylight and didn’t want to renege.

— He lives in Project Drouillard, along the road we came in on. Ask anyone for Boukman. He’s a big man around here.

— A priest? Or businessman?

— Neither. A boko.

Elize couldn’t help but chuckle. Martin, I didn’t know you had such strong Voudou in your blood!

The student shrugged. It is what it is.

— Well, I’ll try. I suppose I should be off. You’re set? Got your things?

— I do. Thank you, Professor—thank you, Elize. For everything.

The teacher nodded.

— Do well for yourself, Martin. Safe travels to the other side, and I hope to see you back soon to aid in building our new Haiti.

— Don’t worry, Martin said with a grin. You couldn’t keep me away if you tried!

He bid the youth adieu and got back in his car, watching out of his rearview mirror as Martin waved goodbye and moved toward the dinghy. Elize had much hope riding on the young man’s shoulders. He looked to the letter he had tossed onto the passenger seat.

Now
,
to find this “Boukman.”

The morning sellers in Project had started to stir, and he stopped to ask if a pair setting up their stall knew Boukman.

— Heh? said one.

— We don’t know anyone by that name, said the other.

Elize doubted them, though he couldn’t blame them. A stranger asking about someone in the early morning was a universal bad sign.

— Are you sure? Elize played along. You see, Boukman’s son, Martin, has given me a letter for him. He has fled.

— Oh, did you say
Boukman
? Of course, we know Boukman. He’s not far from here at all.

Elize smiled.
Of course.
He followed their directions and arrived outside a compound, unique considering the many small homes that surrounded it. He banged on the metal gate until a young girl opened it. She looked groggy.

— I have something for Boukman. Martin sent me to give it.

The girl hesitated. He will not like me waking him up.

— That’s fine. Just make sure he sees it. Tell him that Martin just went
lòt bò dlo
, to the other side of the water. I saw him off this morning.

— He’s gone?

— Yes. For a while.

— I will do as you ask.

Elize walked back to his car and began the long trek home.
Whatever happens
,
Martin is safe
.

The drive back was similarly uneventful, though the checkpoint guards searched his trunk this time. He was happy they had nothing to find. As he drove up the length of Delmas road, his spirits buoyed at his good fortune. Of all the things that could have gone wrong, none had. He took his rosary from his pocket and hung it from the rearview, restoring it to its usual resting place.
It served its purpose.

The suburban streets surrounding his home in Lalue were still quiet as he drove up to his home and past a stray dog wandering from trash pile to trash pile, looking for something to salvage. He opened the front metal gate to his compound and drove up his driveway. He was surprised to find his garage’s bay door open.
Strange.
He sometimes left it that way on accident on his way out, and easily could have done so with everything going on. He parked and eased the door closed, hearing a distinct clanging sound inside the house, followed by a crash.

Dread overtook him.

He rushed to a cabinet on the side of the garage, sifting through small boxes until he came upon the one he sought. Opening it, he pulled out a six-chambered revolver, noting that five of the chambers were full. This was one of three pistols spread throughout the home, and up until now, he had never had to retrieve them. He moved toward the front of the garage, poking his head through the door that led back inside. It was mostly dark, but he could see possessions pulled out of place, strewn about the floor. Many of the valuables from their living room shelves had been looted.

He began muttering prayers, trembling as he stepped further inside. He could hear no sounds but the faint ticking of a clock, which turned to the dull resounding chimes heralding the six o’clock hour. He shot around each corner with his pistol pointed forward, breathing heavily as he went. Still hearing nothing, he called out.

— Fleur? Fleur? Are you there? Steffi? Are you alright?

The dull silence that greeted him was the worst thing he could imagine.

He rushed up the stairs and down a hallway littered with destroyed art and sculptures taken from their resting places till he reached the master bedroom. As soon as he stepped in, he recoiled, dropping the pistol and covering his mouth with his left hand.

Fleur lay upon the bed. Mutilated. Dead. Blood spilled from great gashes on her body, soaking into the sheets. He turned back into the hallway and shook uncontrollably.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at the sight again. Reeling, he ran back down the hall to see what had become of his daughter.
Please God, please God, please God…

Entering her room, he expected another body but saw nothing. No corpse, no sign of a struggle. His eyes settled upon the chest in the corner.

A thought occurred.

— Steffi! he called out. Steffi? It’s me, your papa. Are you here?

He opened the chest and rifled through the clothing.
Mon dieu
,
did they take her?

Finally, his hands touched the young girl buried beneath the clothes.

— Steffi? Steffi! Are you alright? Are you okay? He pulled her out of the chest and looked upon her, dressed in the large T-shirt she slept in.

He hugged her and began weeping with great, heaving sobs. The small girl stood listless as he rocked her, knowing that something horrible had happened, something that could never be undone.

The three are silent even though the hospital is alive with new activity.

— They followed me. Whoever killed her followed me back from Bel Air when I had Martin in my car. She warned me, she warned me…

He chokes back a new sob. Libète understands, but does not understand. She puts her hand on the man’s shoulder to comfort him, and he looks away, the shame too great. A thousand questions rest on the tip of her tongue.

— It is a bad thing when doing good leads to more bad things, Jak said.

— What happened next, Elize?

— I left. Everything.

— Your daughter?

— I gave her to friends. Said I was leaving for a while—I left for a long while.

— What does that mean?

— I had to get away. The university, my home, politics, everything. I was done. Compelled. Possessed to purge myself of it all. When I left I didn’t know for how long. My wife and I, we had our savings inside the house, hidden well. I took most all and put it in Steffi’s bags. I kept some for myself to start on my way, but swore not to use it for myself. It was my wife’s money anyway. I would give it away, I decided. I packed a knapsack with a few things and simply left the house as it was.

— But what happened to your house? Did you sell it?

— I do not know what happened, and do not care.

— How—but where did you go? I mean, what did you do all that time?

— I went all over. Traveled. Worked the land. There is hardly a corner of this country where I have not walked or talked with the people. I suffered much in these travels. Hunger. Thirst. My body is what it is because of this time. But the
learning
—what I knew in my head finally connected to the world with all its decay, and beauty.

Libète still struggled. But your daughter, Elize! Steffi? Is she alive? Where are the friends you left her with?

He hesitated. I do not know anymore.

— You must! How could you just leave her—

Jak silenced her, and Libète relented.

— What about Martin? Jak asked. Did he make it lót bò dlo, to the other side of the water?

Elize bit his lip to keep his tears at bay, but could not stop them. That is one of the cruelest parts. It was for nothing. He was never heard from. Like many of those who escaped on boats, he was lost to the sea, we think.

— We?

— His father and I. The boko.

— You mean—

— Boukman Ketna? The same. He is the reason I finally settled in Bwa Nèf. I came to him with a failing body. Because I helped his son those years before, he said he would always be a help to me.

He continued. But I refused to live with him in Cité Simone—what’s now called Cité Soleil. No, I needed the solace of the marshes. I do not deserve the companionship, you see. Boukman gave me my first pigs. Libète, you saw once that he brings me my food. He sells my pigs. Even buys my medicines. My body has ailed me for a long while, but the cancer, that is new. Though I had meant to give the money away, I never could. I used a little here or there at first. It was my wife’s, the last tangible thing that was ours besides that photograph, and I didn’t want to see it disappear. But I also couldn’t use it for myself. I had sworn off wealth. Possessions and the pursuit of money had only clouded my judgment, made me worry. Made me feel like a hypocrite, calling others to sacrifice when I had done so little myself. But, at long last, I had to begin using the money for my medication.

— Why? Why all this hardship? All the lies? The hiding…

— I know it does not make sense to you. At first I chose this path because of guilt and fear. And then for penance. For my mistakes, my arrogance, my politics. And finally for discipline, and truth. Like a monk initiated into the monastic life. When I found my body failing and my ability to change the world around me dwindling, I committed myself to contemplation and prayer. And once you came along, to teaching once more.