Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti

by Ted Oswald

  — Thanks so much, he said as he bit into a stale roll, quick to tear another piece before he finished the last. They don’t care about us in here.

  — Have you seen a magistrate yet?

  — No. I never will. There are guys here longer than me who have never seen a judge. Damned constitution says I’m supposed to see one within twenty-four hours of arrest! His voice rose at the end, loud enough for the short jailor to hear his complaint.

  — Shut up, the guard muttered.

  — I’ll be standing before the ultimate judge before I see a magistrate. It’s horrible in here. We’re like canned fish, pushed up against one another. We take turns sitting or sleeping, because for you to lay down, three guys have to stand to make room. It’s inhuman! This last bit was once again for the benefit of the guard.

  — I said shut up!

  — You’ve told me before, Libète said quietly, her eyes darting to the side. All of it.

  — Ah. Forgive me for repeating myself. He peeled the banana and took a bite. I don’t have any other news to share, you see. I’m sick. That’s something. Tons of bacteria are crawling around my lungs and it takes foreign doctors to come in and treat me.

  — Tuberculosis?

  — Wi. Slowly turning my lungs to rocks. Breathing is hard. I cough all the time. Probably getting everyone else sick, too.

  Libète took an unconscious step away. He sighed.

  — I can’t blame you. But you’ll be fine. You won’t be here long. He took another large bite of the fruit, dropping the peel at his feet for the guard to later clean up.

  — Lolo, there’s another reason I came today.

  — I figured. It’s a long trip to give me a banana.

  — I came — she took a deep breath — to confess. I’ve been hiding it for so long. But…I was the one who told your location to Officer Simeon, before he was killed. He betrayed both of us to that bastard Dimanche.

  Lolo picked at his teeth, cleaning out a bit of banana. He looked at her askew. And?

  An awkward quiet set in. Libète was perplexed.

  — Well, I never told you the truth about this.

  He laughed out loud. Libète, I knew it all already. She looked aghast. I knew it had to be the case, though I didn’t know the exact details. I had been told before, by Wadner, when he used to visit.

  — But you never said anything to me. Never a harsh word!

  — Libète, if truthful, I’m furious. Still am. My anger burns so much inside, I can’t help it. Libète’s bottom lip trembled. But wait! he continued, not angry with you. With the situation—the circumstances.

  She was taken aback by his magnanimity.

  — You see, there are two types of people in here. You know what they are?

  — Guilty and not guilty? she hazarded.

  — Yes but no. That’s not the difference I speak of. No, I mean those governed by circumstances and those who govern their circumstances. You see men go crazy at the injustice of this place, but I have accepted my fate, even if it means a stupid death. I don’t like it, but I’ve chosen to control myself, not to be conquered by my circumstance. Listen, someone big wanted to make me seem guilty. If not then, I would have run the risk of being caught some other time. So I have come to terms with it, praying I’ll be vindicated.

  — Even though you’re a canned fish? Even though you look like a dead man, and have a sickness that turns your lungs to rocks?

  — Lolo, your time is up, the guard interrupted.

  — Hold on! I’m still talking. He breathed heavily. Libète, I don’t understand why you did what you did, but I don’t blame you. What I care most about is Claire. I still need your help, to find out who ordered her murder, set me up, and set that murderer upon you.

  She looked down, eyes rueful. I am not who I used to be. You can see that for yourself.

  — I need you to be that person. The outside means nothing. You can free me, Libète. You can do it. And I think I know where the truth may lay.

  She clenched her jaw, as if preparing for someone to place a heavy weight upon her head. Where is it?

  — The child. I keep coming back to Gaspar. I don’t know why, but the secrets surrounding her pregnancy and his birth have to be at the root of it all.

  — I’ve thought that myself.

  — Then find out more, Libète. I need you to try—hey, take your hands off me! he roared at the guard. One more minute, I’m begging you! Please. The guard acquiesced, but loomed behind him. Libète felt as if a similar presence stood behind her, that of San Figi, pushing her on. She sighed, reluctant as ever.

  — I don’t know what it might mean, or where it will take me, but I’ll try.

  — That’s all I can ask. As long as you continue, I have some hope. But when you stop, like all the others have, I’ll be trapped by these walls — he pointed to the room they stood in — and in here — he pointed to his head. Do what you can, Libète. For me. And for Claire.

  And then he was taken, leaving Libète alone in a room full of strangers united by the suffering of those on the other side of the bars. She left, knowing she would need help if she was to do what Lolo asked.

  ELECTION

  Fòk ou konn manje pawòl pou ou gen zanmi

  You must know how to eat words to have friends

  “Padon” pa geri maleng

  “Sorry” doesn’t heal a sore

  There is a strange excitement to things at the fueling station that no longer fuels. A wooden stage sits between the dry pumps, shaded by a twenty-foot tall roof. In the middle of the stage is a solitary microphone, and to the sides, speakers set on stands play new tunes by Djakout so loudly that the amplifiers crackle and strain. Draped from the speakers are banners that read “Benoit Pou Pèp La,” dancing to the percussive bass.

  Young people assemble, fifty at least, their anticipation electric as they await the featured speaker. Men, dressed in clean white shirts, black trousers, and shined shoes surround the stage talking up Benoit, their kandida.

  Libète joins the throng of youth, sizing them up. She is well under the average age. Her eyes search, finally landing on the one she has come to find. She approaches him.

  — Cousin, do you have a minute?

  Davidson turned to face her, spinning around from a banner he had just adjusted on the stage. Ah, so you’ve decided to come and learn more about our future senator, have you?

  — Something like that. I came to talk to you.

  — To apologize?

  She did not reply immediately.

  — Something like that, she repeated. I am sorry. It was kind of you to come yesterday.

  — Thanks for saying so.

  Her thoughts drifted to the past few days. I’m bitter about staying with Unc—your father. That’s all.

  He leaned in closer and whispered.

  — I don’t blame you. I wish I could take you in, but things aren’t as good as they look. These clothes — he tugged his dress shirt, the same he wore yesterday — were bought for me by the campaign. And they pay half my salary in food. The other half goes to rent and paying for campaign expenses.

  — I understand. She frowned. But it doesn’t mean I like it.

  — Look, I’ll try to come see you more but things are busy with elections just six weeks away. Libète nodded. So what did you come to tell me?

  She sighed. I went to see Lolo yesterday. Davidson’s face twitched, a pang of guilt. Oh? How is he?

  — Bad. But that’s still not why I came. I need help. He said this mystery is wrapped up in whoever Gaspar’s father is.

  Davidson shrugged. Claire was ashamed she got pregnant, he said. She just didn’t want anyone to know by whom. Probably some guy off the street.

  — I don’t think so. She wouldn’t have been so afraid to name him if he was a nobody. The murderer wasn’t the father—I told you, he was hired to do what he did. Who could pay for that?

  Davidson fidgeted, looking out of the corners of his eyes. Libète, this wi
ll take you nowhere. Lolo is swallowed up—like Jonah in the belly of the whale. But this one won’t ever spit him up. He’s gone.

  — Just listen—

  — You’ve got to accept that we can’t do anything for him.

  — But—

  — Libète. You have enough problems. I mean, just look at you! Libète cringed. All I’m saying is don’t chase after ghosts. Push forward and survive. That’s what matters now. That’s what always mattered.

  She crossed her arms and looked away. One of the attendees caught her eye.

  — Isn’t that — she looked more closely — it’s Nathalie! Over there!

  Davidson spun, his excitement obvious.

  It was indeed their old neighbor. For the middle of a weekday, her dress seemed out of place. More like for a Saturday night dancehall, Libète thought. Her hair was carefully coiffed, make-up and nails done carefully. She spoke with Yves, another person Libète had not seen recently. The two joked back and forth and Nathalie touched his shoulder suggestively. Her skill at flirting had increased along with her bust.

  Libète turned back to Davidson and saw frustration percolating behind his narrow eyes. He’s like a silly little boy.

  — I’m going to talk to her, Libète said, knowing it would upset him.

  — No, don’t do it—

  But she was off. Libète moved through the crowd that grew by the minute, dodging and avoiding the rowdy men and women.

  — Nathalie! How are you? she said, interrupting Nathalie and Yves’ rhythm. They both looked at her.

  — Yes? Nathalie asked, as if she had never seen Libète before.

  — It’s me. Libète.

  — Libète? Oh—oh, yes, of course. I didn’t recognize you. Your…hairstyle…is so…different now.

  Libète’s hair was covered by her headscarf. Still a bitch, Libète came close to saying aloud.

  — Hello, Libète, said Yves. It’s been a while.

  He, like Davidson, was decked out in nice clothes. Another campaign worker. Apparently FFPOP, that principled “organisation populaire” had been bought wholesale by the senatorial candidate at the bargain price of a cheap dress shirt and some cornmeal.

  There was an awkward pause.

  — Do you need something, Libète? Nathalie questioned.

  — I…just wanted to say hello.

  — That’s nice, but we were just in the middle of a conversation. An adult one.

  — How about we catch up later? said Yves.

  Libète gave a fake smile and left them, grumbling to herself as she moved to the back of the crowd where she could have a view of the presentation about to begin. An expensive looking black SUV had pulled up and the crowd parted to permit the speaker and two intimidating bodyguards to mount the wooden stage. She wondered who it might be. It certainly wasn’t Benoit.

  He had a familiarity about him and it took a moment to register his identity. When she did, her heart stopped.

  — Greetings, my friends! I’m Toussaint Laguerre, and I have come to share with you about your next senator for Cité Soleil, Jean-Pierre Benoit!

  She shuddered and shrunk behind a tall young man in front of her, the crowd bursting into applause. Touss. Back in Cité Soleil? Representing Benoit? Davidson’s Benoit? The thoughts were incomprehensible.

  She slunk toward one of the pillars bracing the gas station’s roof and jumped up on its cylindrical concrete foundation. Just as her appearance had changed over the years, Touss looked radically different.

  His clothing was pristine white, from his necktie and suit coat down to his shoes. He looked more like a televangelist or pop star than a former gang leader. His hair and beard from the past were shaved away, and his tattoos were either carefully concealed or erased. Even his prominent gold fillings that had caught the light in that dark house years ago had been replaced with plain fillings. What’s going on? She hopped down and moved back toward Davidson, pulling him down to her level.

  — Davidson! she hissed. You’re working for Touss?

  — So? He’s reformed. An example of Monsieur Benoit’s good graces, giving second chances and inspiring the youth of Cité Soleil to better themselves.

  — That—is—Touss! Toussaint Laguerre! He’s killed people, Davidson! She stopped short of mentioning his use of her. How is your memory so short?

  — I’m telling you, he’s changed. A new man. He got sick of the violence in Cité Soleil and fled, crossing on a boat to Florida. He almost died on the way when his boat capsized. He repented for his past wrongs and made it to Miami, worked hard, went to a college, but got picked up and deported back to Haiti, right before the earthquake. They threw him in the National Penitentiary. Like Saint Paul, he was a prisoner in chains when the earthquake struck and the gates of the prison were thrown open. He walked out, just like everyone else.

  — Except Paul stayed put!

  What happened at the penitentiary was a notable story, but the versions varied. Fearful guards might have released a few inmates, or a few were able to overpower some guards. Whatever happened, those few turned into thousands of escapees, and the guards fled. Some of the inmates torched the records, making it nearly impossible to know who was in prison and for how long.

  — How did Touss get in charge of the campaign? Libète asked, exasperated.

  — He’s not in charge of the whole thing, just heading the youth empowerment committee.

  — Youth empowerment! She was even more incredulous. He is a gang leader, Davidson!

  — He was. When he got out of prison he appealed directly to Monsieur Benoit for assistance and he was given a job. He did such good work that he was offered this position on the campaign.

  — He terrorized Bwa Nèf! How can you get behind him?

  — For the last time, he’s repented—

  — Tell that to the dead.

  — And is a role model for the youth of Cité Soleil to follow, Davidson said, finishing his sentence. Just listen to him—give him a chance.

  By now, Touss had made it through his introductory remarks, welcoming the youth to the rally.

  — …so we are in a fight for our community. Our brothers, including many of you, are without work and some of our sisters aren’t safe, being raped, even kidnapped from their own tents!

  The crowd booed. What’s he talking about? Libète wondered. She knew rapes were common in the camps—she had heard them in progress, the horrible sounds carrying through the thin walls of her tent. She just hadn’t heard anything about kidnappings.

  — It’s true, Touss said indignantly. I heard that just two nights ago, from near Bwa Nèf, yet another woman, Patricia, joined our sisters Ti Joassaint and Jesula as abductees. Vanished, like steam into the air. Are they dead? Who took them? We don’t know. And this, my friends, is unacceptable.

  Dear God! Libète’s mouth was agape at the news. Could it be true? Were women really being stolen?

  Touss continued with his speech. Do the police do anything about it?

  — Non! the crowd shouted.

  — Do they even care about protecting us?

  — Non!

  — Are we going to rely on MINUSTAH to keep our sisters safe?

  — Non!

  — Then we must stand up! We must do the job our government is too incompetent to do! We won’t let another one of our young women be stolen from us, will we?

  The crowd roared its approval. He quieted them with a gesture, like a conductor before an orchestra.

  — You all must know that Jean-Pierre Benoit, my candidate, is trying to help us protect ourselves. He is doing all he can to petition the government to stop these disappearances—to make Cité Soleil a safe place for our mothers, aunts, sisters, nieces, and daughters. But more than this, he has already committed to making Cité Soleil a better place for us all. He provides some of you jobs at his factories, his charities support micro-enterprises, he is a labor advocate. At great expense to himself, he told the government to raise the minimum wage for factor
y workers and they did. How many other big businessmen would do that?

  — None! Davidson and the other campaign workers hollered, as if on cue.

  — That’s right. He’s a visionary who can help Haiti rebuild better after the earthquake. But he needs your support on election day. Do all of you have your cartes d’identité? He held up his own.

  — Wi!

  — Without an ID card you can’t vote on 28 November. So you’ve got to go and register if you don’t have it, you hear me?

  — Wi!

  — So who is Benoit for?

  — Pou Pèp la! shouted the campaign workers, for the People.

  —That’s right! Benoit pou Pèp la! Say it with me!

  Benoit pou Pèp la! Benoit pou Pèp la! the crowd chanted, faster and faster until exploding in rapturous applause.

  — Now who wants T-shirts? Touss shouted, answered by a resounding “us!”

  The crowd became more raucous as campaign workers opened up black trash bags full of shirts and began flinging them into the crowd’s midst. Fights broke out. One of the victors from a scuffle held up his prize like a trophy, unfurling it for all to see. The design consisted of Benoit’s name at the top, with the smiling headshot of a mulatto man floating near a full-body picture of the candidate, posed almost like a superhero. It was set against a background of flowing red and blue, reminiscent of the Haitian flag.

  Touss smiled from the stage, enjoying the vigorous response he had inspired. Libète hated seeing his face again. Benoit sounded like a good man, but she had learned in recent months to question everything. She would reserve her judgment.

  Another SUV, this one beat-up and white, suddenly pulled up behind the stage. Touss’ smug expression soured. The two burly bodyguards flanking the stage moved their hands to their weapons. Suddenly, two men jumped out of the vehicle with pistols drawn and shouted, Police! Don’t touch those guns!

  The crowd didn’t know how to react and many started to scatter. The purported police vehicle was unmarked and the officers wore normal street clothes. A third man, as bulky as either of the bodyguards, descended from the vehicle. Libète couldn’t believe who it was, the odds of this reunion seemingly astronomical.