In Darkness (30 page)

The helicopter was firing down, too, and I saw Mickey thrown against a wall by the big rounds, his head nearly torn off. Tintin, though, ducked into an alleyway, quick as a snake, and I saw him disappear. I hoped he was running, not dead.

For many minutes, or hours, I didn’t know what was happening. Everyone was shooting, and everything was crashing noise and smoke. I was aware of Marguerite below me, whimpering. I felt a pain in my arm and thought I’d been hit, then I remembered that I got shot earlier. It was starting to hurt. I found I couldn’t see anymore and then I realized I was crying, though I didn’t know if it was from tear gas, or what.

Impossibly, I heard Stéphanie’s voice through the gunfire, and she was waving her hands; I could just make her out. The shooting stopped, like she was conducting it, timing its music.

— No! she said. He’s not armed! Hold fire.

I saw her through, like, blurred glass. She was in front of the guns, telling MINUSTAH not to shoot. I saw that she was crying, too. I wondered if that was cos of Biggie. He was lying in the street near where she was standing, and he was leaking blood all over the world.

I looked down cos I thought I was armed. But she was right – I’d lost my gun sometime. I didn’t remember dropping it, but I guess I did.

— What are you doing here? one of the soldiers shouted at Stéphanie in English. This is a goddamn military operation.

— I’m UN, she said. It’s my right to be here. These are people you’re shooting.

— Frigging hippies, said the soldier.

Stéphanie was coming closer and closer. Soon, she was standing right over me. I could see the tears on her cheeks and the redness around her beautiful blue eyes. She saw the bullet hole in my arm and she pursed her lips. Then there were men in black all around us. One of them pulled me roughly to my feet.

— Take him to Canapé-Vert, said Stéphanie.

— He’s a gangster, said the man in English. We’re not taking him anywhere.

— He’s wounded. If you leave him here he might die. Take him to Canapé-Vert, or do you want me to put in a call to Human Rights Watch?

The guy grumbled. He pulled my arms behind my back and I screamed. He ignored my pain, put handcuffs on me.

— Don’t try anything, he said. You’re lucky we’re not just leaving you here to die.

I agreed with him – I didn’t understand why I was alive, either, when everyone else was dead. It seemed stupid.

I looked back at Marguerite as they dragged me away.

— Don’t you remember me? I asked.

I needed her to be Marguerite, otherwise I had blown up that car and all those people for no reason.

— Don’t you remember playing horsey on my back?

She looked at me like I was insane.

— I don’t know who you are, she said.

— But you didn’t shoot me! At the docks! You must have remembered me.

I was shouting by now. She was being drawn away from me, even though she wasn’t moving.

— I didn’t shoot you cos you’re a kid, she said. Now I wish I’d killed you.

I lowered my eyes. I felt as if someone had ripped out my insides.

— Who’s that? said Stéphanie. Who’s that girl?

— I thought she was my sister, I said.

There was this pain in my chest and I could feel that my heart was broken. I always thought it was bullshit when people said that, but now I saw that it was a real thing, like there were bits of glass in there, like my heart was a lightbulb and someone had come along and smashed it, and its fragments were inside my chest.

As we passed Biggie, a coughing noise came from him. He wasn’t dead yet. I stared at him in horror. So did the MINUSTAH soldier who was pulling me along. Stéphanie went down on her knees and put her hands on Biggie’s face.

He said something to her in a hollow whisper. It was a voice like the wind – quiet, and with no consonants in it. I couldn’t hear – I was too far away. I saw Stéphanie’s mouth move as she said something back. I didn’t want to hear it. I wouldn’t have listened even if there wasn’t ocean noise echoing in my ears, like the interior of a conch shell, from all the guns and explosions. It was private.

Then Biggie saw me. He was lying in so much blood it was like he was floating on a red sea, like he was something more than a man. I thought then of Dread Wilmè and how Manman said that he stayed alive long enough to save me from the guns and the tank and to give me the pwen. Maybe she hadn’t exaggerated, and Dread’s bones on Biggie’s skin really had created some vodou maji, and that was why Biggie still wasn’t dead, even with all these holes in him. He stirred, and the soldier dragging me stopped, amazed. I saw the expression on the soldier’s face and I thought, yeah, you’ll be glad to go back to Europe – this is enough vodou shit for one lifetime.

— It was always you, Biggie said to me, and his voice was soft with wonder. It was always you.

I stared at him in that pool of blood and a frisson went through me, cos I felt like I was in my manman’s story, like I was looking at Dread Wilmè, and I half-expected to see my ownself, ten years old, lying unconscious there. I thought of the stone in my pocket when I saw how many holes there were in Biggie, cos I was thinking maybe it was only the pwen that had kept me safe, that had got me just one bullet.

— Look at you, he said. I knew you was protected.

I couldn’t believe that he was speaking at all.

— Yeah, I said.

— Man, said Biggie. You completely clean; all you got is a hole in your arm. It’s like the bullets don’t see you . . . Shit, I’m sorry, Shorty.

I didn’t like him calling me that. I wanted to tell him my name, my real name, to make him say it right, but I didn’t think I should be arguing with a dying man, so I just said:

— Sorry for what?

He closed his eyes.

— What for, Biggie? I said. What you sorry for?

He grimaced. He was so pale it was like the color was draining out of him with the blood.

— Your papa, he said. It wasn’t Boston . . . It was me. I was there. Before I had . . . my own crew.

I felt my knees go weak and I wondered if that was cos I was in shock, or cos the world was falling away beneath me. But no, it was later that the world fell down. Stéphanie was looking at me, too. She had her hands supporting Biggie’s face and the two of them were gazing up at me, all bloody, like they were in one of those Catholic paintings on the sides of churches.

— But . . . you said . . .

— I lied, said Biggie. I thought . . . hating Boston would make you a good soldier. The truth is, it was Dread who told us to kill your papa . . . Your papa hated Aristide, and Dread knew that, so . . .

Biggie continued to speak, but I wasn’t listening.

In my head, a film started.

Flash
. Papa and Manman arguing about Aristide.

Flash
. That gun Manman suddenly had in her hand, I realized that perhaps it was Papa’s gun all along, that maybe he had been working against Aristide, against his hired guns like Dread Wilmè. Maybe he was working against them even when he came and hauled us out of that basement, when we were being the Marassa. To me, it had always seemed like he was pissed cos Manman was turning us into freaks, but maybe it was cos we were raising money for Lavalas.

Flash
. Papa falling, the machetes coming down like great shining birds, pecking violently, feeding on blood.

Flash
. The gangsters screeching and whooping as they cut him to piti-piti pieces. I looked beyond the balaclava of one man and all of a sudden he was Biggie, and there was a hatred burning in his eyes as he killed my papa.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Listen.

It’s getting too hot in here, the concrete above me is grinding, and I’m seriously afraid I’ve entered hell. I don’t know how much time I have to tell my story, but there’s something I want to make clear. I want to tell you something about Biggie. You hate him now, I think. You probably believe him to be a monster, but I want you to understand that he was just a boy, really. Like me.

I want to tell you something about Biggie, and this is it.

All of this happened on a day long before I saw my sister, or thought I did, long before Biggie told me it was him who chopped Papa into pieces.

On that day there was also an earthquake. I say also, even though I’m not sure that this is what has happened to me, but what else causes such a great sudden noise and the hospital to collapse on itself? Unless we’ve been bombed, and I see no reason why terrorists would bomb Haiti; it’s already fucked up.

Anyway, yes, on that day there was a little tremor. We all felt it. We were riding in a pickup truck with the body of a Route 9 gangster; his name was Chico. It was Chico’s funeral, and people were lining the streets, crying, cheering, chanting rebel songs. I doubt many of them knew who Chico was, but we always did good funerals in Route 9, in Solèy 19. It all went back to Dread Wilmè, when his body was carried through the slum and thousands of people came out onto the streets and followed it to the sea, and MINUSTAH stayed out of the Site altogether, they were so afraid that day.

So, the truck shook a bit when the ground trembled. Everyone looked panicked, but Biggie laughed.

— It’s a small one, he said. It’s nothing.

Haiti is on a fault line, you should understand that. It’s like the whole country is cursed; we’re on a crack in the world, and everything in Haiti is cracked, too. We’re a broken country.

Chico was looking up at us. He was in an open coffin, and he had his best Adidas T-shirt on and a Def Jam baseball cap. Somehow his eyes had opened when the earthquake shook the pickup. Biggie reached down and closed them again. As we passed the people outside their shacks, they looked down at the mud in respect. Of course, looking down at the mud is normal in the Site.

Just then, there was a
bang
, and another, and we ducked when we realized that someone was shooting. We were close to Boston here, and Chico had died in a fight with them.

— Guns! said Biggie. Get them!

I pulled out my Glock 9; it was stuck in the back of my jeans. I thumbed off the safety and looked around, crouching. The pickup had stopped. I could hear a machine gun going off, and I saw Tintin throw himself against the side of the pickup, head down. Max was not so fast – he was lifting up his shotgun when a bullet hit him in the leg, spraying blood. He screamed and fell into Chico’s coffin.

Someone was shooting, and I saw people running in all directions. I scanned desperately to see who was firing at us, and then there was a
ping
next to me and I saw a hole open up in the side of the pickup, like a metal flower. I looked toward where the bullet must have come from, and I saw a shorty in jeans that were hanging below his butt. He raised his gun again, but I was quicker – I squeezed off several shots.

Biggie was shooting, too, beside me, so I don’t know which of us got him, but he went down in the mud. Then Biggie was vaulting over the side of the pickup.

— With me, he said.

I saw that one of the Boston crew had dropped his gun and turned to run. Biggie was chasing after him. From where the guy had been standing, I figured he was the one who’d shot Max.

I sprinted behind, clutching my gun. I kept expecting to be hit, but it seemed like this guy was the last. Maybe Tintin had killed one of them, or maybe there were only two to begin with. It doesn’t take many kids to do a lot of damage when the enemy is riding in a funeral car, not expecting for shit that you’re going to start shooting them up.

Anger was acid in my throat. I liked Max and he’d taken a bullet in his leg just cos the Boston sons of bitches had taken us by surprise. Max was cool. He used to sing old reggae songs, and he was amazing at telling jokes and doing voices. He could do Stéphanie like she was standing in the room with us – her French accent, the way she’d sometimes use street slang to sound cooler than she was, the way she’d kind of simper and laugh at Biggie’s jokes, even though usually you’d think she was too hard for that kind of thing.

For sure, he never did that impression in front of Biggie.

So, running after Biggie, I was thinking about how we were going to blow away this little Boston cocksucker, and how it was gonna be good. I heard pounding feet behind me and I saw that Tintin was running, too. I fired my gun into the air.

— Route 9! I shouted.

I didn’t usually do that kind of thing, but Boston had ruined our funeral. That was a pussy move.

I turned down an alley after Biggie, and saw the Boston kid pressed against a wall at the end. He was half bent over, panting. Biggie was looking down at him, his favorite gun, his Tec-9, in his hand.

— You want to say anything before I kill you? he said.

The kid – he really was just a kid, no older than me – straightened up. He looked right at Biggie.

— I could’ve killed that guy, he said. The one who was with you on the back of the truck. I’m a good shot. I could’ve killed him, but I didn’t – I just shot him in the leg.

— Yeah? said Biggie. I don’t give a shit. You ambushed us, you die. That’s how it works.