Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti

by Ted Oswald

  The tent flap opened and her friend came into view.

  — Libète, cherie, what’s the matter?

  She flung herself at the woman and gave her a hug, but said nothing, René’s threat looming large.

  — I cannot tell you.

  — Surely you can!

  — I will not tell you.

  A weighty silence ensued.

  — I am sorry for whatever has happened, cherie. I hope that you will be alright. Maybe I can tell you what I could not before, when you had to leave?

  She stepped out of the embrace and looked up at Marie Rose, a tear running down her cheek. You can do that, she said.

  The young woman thought for a moment, looking coy. When you wrapped your arms around me just now, you touched two lives, not just one.

  Libète looked at her in puzzlement.

  — It is still a secret, but oh! I am so, so happy, deep within me. I’m pregnant, Libète! I’m pregnant!

  Libète gave her another hug, an overjoyed hug. This news was welcome relief, almost cleansing the dirtiness left behind by René’s touch. Pregnant! she said. And what does Lionel think?

  Marie Rose’s features clouded. He does not know yet, she said with great solemnity. I must wait for the right time. I think he might be afraid. I will tell soon, though. I have to.

  Libète nodded. How old is this little one inside you?

  Marie Rose smiled once more. He is over a month now I think. That’s what the doctor has told me.

  — This is a blessing, I think, this baby, Libète mused. New life in a place like this! Maybe he’ll be like Jesus, born in the open, in a tent city, because there is no place to lay his head.

  — What a thought, Libète! Ha! You must pray for us, for me, and the one inside me, so that we remain strong through all that lay ahead.

  The drug is powerful.

  How much time has passed, she does not know.

  What happens next, she does not know.

  She lay on the ground sideways. Her eyes bleary. Languid. Focused on nothing.

  He sits in the corner. The light still shines upward. Looking strange. He does not move. Except for his breath. It comes. In. Out. In. Out.

  There is a third one there. Hovering above.

  Breath leaves the girl.

  San Figi.

  The woman watches. Laying down beside her. Face-to-face. Libète looks into the void. The swirling colors.

  Why?

  No reply comes. Arms dead. Throat dry. Past things visit her. Hard things. Like haunting ghosts.

  His phone rings. He stirs. It’s time, he says.

  Libète wears her knitted cap even though the open air is stifling. She walks about the wild marketplace, watching people, so many people, come and go. Men carrying charcoal are covered in ash, and women with dire faces call out to her to buy their radishes, potatoes, and rice. She palms her money tightly, still left over from the killer’s pawned watch, so there is no fear it will be lost. There is one thing she seeks to buy, and one only.

  — Madam, how much for that chicken? she asks a seller, pointing to a scrawny bird darting about its tight cage. Now that Marie Rose is pregnant, she must eat better to strengthen her and the baby. The bird is also to celebrate, because this is good news and there is not enough good news these days.

  — You have money?

  — I do.

  — How much? she asks, dubious.

  — Enough.

  — That chicken there is 65 Haitian Dollars.

  Libète plops down several notes on the table that stands between them, reproving the seller for her doubts.

  — Are you sure you don’t want a second hen? the seller offers, eyes wide at the prospect of more profit.

  — One will do, thank you very much.

  **

  Libète yanks the long piece of twine, pulling Ti Poul, her name for the chicken, back into obedience. She is an obstinate bird, but Libète doesn’t blame her for chafing.

  — If I got out of that cage and had a rope tied around my neck, she says to the bird, I’d be upset too.

  The chicken does not answer back, but shoots the opposite direction, forgetting about the twine leash until it’s too late and she’s snapped back into submission.

  Libète laughs heartily. Instead of having Ti Poul’s feet tied, Libète had asked for enough string to make a leash. She thought it would be more fun that way. And she is right.

  — You are a nice bird, Ti Poul, she giggles. But not a very smart one.

  They continued in this fashion for some time, her and her captive, on the path back to Twa Bebe. When Ti Poul tired three-quarters of the way, Libète picked up the panting bird and carried her the rest of the way.

  She knew what people would think, seeing such a poor child with a delicacy: they, including her Uncle, would assume she stole the bird. She did not care, because she did not steal it, and it was a gift for a friend. This was explanation enough.

  Libète rounded the corner leading to the row of tents and tried to avoid the hungry looks of her neighbors. She stroked Ti Poul upon the head to sooth the bird, and herself.

  She came upon Marie Rose’s tent and called out. No reply came.

  — Marjorie? Libète called for the neighbor in the tent next door.

  — Wi, Libète?

  — Where is Marie Rose? Have you seen her?

  — I thought she was in her tent, Marjorie yelled back. Maybe she is resting?

  Libète grimaced. She did not want the surprise of Ti Poul to be spoiled. The tent’s flap fluttered slightly and Libète decided to peek in. A gifted chicken is surely worth an interrupted nap. Pushing her head into the opening she saw Marie Rose’s reclining form. She was asleep.

  — Psst! Marie Rose. I have something for you! She dropped the chicken onto the floor, but Marie Rose did not stir. Are you asleep, Marie Rose?

  Libète looked more closely now. Her blood froze in an instant.

  Marie Rose was not asleep, but trembling.

  The bottom of her skirt was soaked, a pool of red about her body.

  There was no need to ask.

  Marie Rose had miscarried.

  **

  While recovered physically a week later, Marie Rose remained emotionally and spiritually dead.

  Libète watched her sit for long hours in the Sun, saying little. The girl visited often to help around the tent, preparing food or washing pots and pans. She did this without fear of Lionel.

  Many in the camp turned their backs upon Lionel after the news had spread. While simply beating your wife was not enough to ostracize you, using the belly of your pregnant woman as a punching bag crossed some invisible line. He spent most of the week somewhere other than here, sheltered by others as base as himself.

  Libète continued her visits to the hospital. There were many patients who did not wish to hear her encouragement or hopeful predictions, but she could tell they appreciated the presence of someone close by who reminded them that they were not alone. Each visit to the ward made her spirits high, while each visit to Marie Rose made them plummet once more.

  Carrying a jerrycan upon her head, Libète breathed deep to gird herself. Marie Rose was still on her stool, just as Libète left her, staring vacantly at two small children at play down the row. Libète did not have to ask to know what her friend was thinking. She took the water inside without a word.

  — Libète, you know, I don’t believe in Hell.

  These words caught Libète by surprise. She poked her head out of the tent.

  — What was that? I didn’t hear you.

  — Hell. I don’t believe in it. Her gaze still hovered on the children, now in playful banter.

  — Why…what makes you say that?

  Marie Rose turned to look at Libète. We’re in it, Libète. She turned back to the kids. We’re in it. She paused again, anguish in her eyes while her voice stayed even. There’s no place lower than where we are. What’s Hell supposed to be? Fire? We’re burning up, every single day.
No water to quench our thirst? If we drink we fall ill, we die. Our bellies ache, never satisfied. Our breasts run dry. Our children whither up before our eyes. She sighed heavily. Or never live at all.

  — This is not good for you to think on, Marie Rose. What of good things. What of Heaven?

  — I doubt that exists, too. God should not let such things pass.

  The girl paused. Words came slowly. Your loss…I can’t understand, but things will get better. We’ll struggle together. Won’t we?

  Marie Rose’s eyes drifted to Libète. She blinked twice and turned back to watch the children at play without another word.

  René totes Libète outside. The drug still overpowers her and she cannot muster the will to protest.

  She sees where she has been held all along—stored in the shell of an abandoned warehouse that is altogether familiar.

  She is no more than a mile from Twa Bebe.

  He lays her face down upon the ground. The serenity brought on by the pill makes whatever miserable thing that will happen next seem distant and impossible.

  She hears the coming vehicle before she sees it. The night is especially black, and a light rain falls. René waves his flashlight in semi-circles, headlights flashing in return.

  The vehicle, a big, sleek SUV, rolls up to the two of them, and René goes to speak with the driver. There is some shouting, but it is difficult to hear. René is not getting the money he says he is owed. The driver warns him to fall into line. René is quiet once more. He returns to Libète, swearing under his breath as he lifts her for what seems the final time. At least he’ll no longer touch me.

  The back of the SUV is open and another tall man moves toward René, preparing to receive Libète like an illicit cargo.

  Both men stop and look at something Libète does not see.

  Down the road, lights flicker from behind a wall and a siren sounds. The tall man is startled and the driver shouts to him. He rushes back to the SUV, its wheels spinning furiously, trying to gain traction in the loose gravel. René drops Libète in a panic and she lands with a dull, painful thud. He shouts after the fleeing vehicle, like an abandoned child, Wait, wait, don’t leave me!

  The truck with the sirens closes fast, tearing into the warehouse yard in pursuit of the SUV, but it has sped away. The truck slows down and a man jumps out from the passenger side before the truck resumes its chase.

  René is going out of his head, cursing his drugged brain and flimsy legs. He runs to the left, before taking a few steps in the other direction. Reaching into his pocket, he throws his phone as far as he can and it lands in a sea of knee-high weeds and grass. He finally settles on a direction for his escape, and runs for the closest place where others are to be found, back to Twa Bebe.

  The two vehicles are entirely out of sight, blocked from view by the hulking warehouse. Their sounds, furious engines and shrill sirens, fade quickly. Libète turns the attention she can muster to the foot chase playing out in the dark. She is still bound, and the pursuer, the Officer, chooses to chase after René instead of free her.

  René is taller, with long legs, though his breath does not come easy. His desperate wheezing can be heard even at the distance of half a football pitch. The Officer is shorter and stockier, but quick.

  But not quick enough. René outpaces his pursuer and begins to pull away.

  — Stop, yells the Officer. I’ll shoot you!

  René does not stop.

  — I’ll shoot!

  René continues. A shot is fired, its blast and sound and light tearing through the blackness.

  René falls to the ground.

  — Oh, God, oh please, no! René shouts as he drops to the ground and out of view.

  The Officer is upon him.

  Libète can see nothing. There is the sound of a scuffle, of more fearful pleading on René’s part, and more berating of René on the Officer’s part. The Officer drags René back toward the warehouse.

  The captor is now captive, his hands cuffed behind his back. The Officer says nothing in response to the man’s pleading for a doctor, nor his attempted bribes. The Officer throws him against the wall and he crumples to the ground, saying one word over and over again: mercy—mercy—mercy.

  — There’ll be none for you, you bastard, the Officer growls.

  That voice. So familiar…

  Dimanche comes to Libète’s side and cuts the ropes that trap her feet and hands. She cries out as blood begins circulating through them again, causing as much pain as relief.

  — Are you alright? he says gruffly, elevating her back and head. Though a conquering hero, there is shame in his eyes, and he cannot hold her glassy stare.

  She strains to speak.

  — Yes, Dimanche, now I can say that I am, and will be, alright.

  She sees the gathering from a way off, wondering what had brought so many people together. Numbers on that order meant one of two things: something very good, or more often, something very bad.

  For the past two weeks, she had been Marie Rose’s shadow, watching her movements and caring for her, hoping to pull her out of the mire into which she had sunk.

  If Libète was honest, her well of compassion was running dry. Responsibility for two households was taking its toll. Other women in the camp rallied around Marie Rose at first, but their own burdens saw them soon return to their own taxing children, men, homes, and jobs.

  A chief frustration was that time spent caring for her meant neglecting her lessons with Elize. This tested the old man too. Despite his talk of love and compassion, he proved more irritable with each missed lesson. After skipping the day before and feeling his displeasure, she resolved it would not happen again. She left Marie Rose sitting upon her stool, assured the woman of her imminent return, and bid her adieu.

  Moments after leaving, new freedom welled up inside Libète. Being released from her friend’s problems was liberating. This sense made her feel guilty, and she dwelt upon this the entire walk to Elize’s shack.

  She found the old man seated on a sack of rice outside his front door. Titid sat next to him, resting on his porcine haunches.

  — Our student has made time for us today, eh, Titid? He said this in French. Not surprisingly, the pig didn’t reply.

  She bristled at his remark. Bonjour, Professeur.

  — Don’t take offense, Libète. I am only upset because I must share you. These short times make my long days worthwhile.

  She nodded and gave a small smile. Still, a heaviness of heart weighed upon her.

  — Let’s walk, he offered. It would do me some good.

  Libète helped him up off the white nylon sack. He held tight to her wrist until he could steady himself.

  — Shall we go the usual way? Libète asked. Their circuit around the marshes usually took an hour and was a relief from the dull austerity of his shack.

  — No. I have something else in mind for today. He turned toward the vast ocean. She followed, and they walked without speaking for nearly a minute.

  — You are troubled, Libète.

  — I am.

  — You’re upset?

  She paused for a moment, thinking carefully. No. But I am growing tired.

  — Of what?

  — Of solidarity.

  — At eleven years old, that is a problem, he said.

  — I have done what you asked these past weeks. I’ve learned solidarity. Or at least about it. But sometimes, it is too heavy. Sharing in another’s burdens when my own are not so small…it’s like adding links to my own chains. I love to love. I feel it changing me. But I am finding my limits.

  — You are becoming wise, I think. We all have limits.

  They walked in silence another minute, which Elize broke.

  — Another wise friend once told me that the best people in the world live alongside the worst in the slums. Here, the easy road means thinking only of oneself. You can lie, steal, betray, and it is accepted as a way of life. But the best people rise above this. They learn the
art of sacrifice. They take the long, hard road. Though it produces suffering, they transcend their suffering.

  — I want to walk that road, Professeur, I do. But I don’t think I was made to.

  — You must persevere then, Libète—

  — Stop it!

  — What?

  — Ignoring what I say. You give no answers. It seems like you withhold them to feed me, spoon by spoon, waiting to give them in some later lesson.

  — I withhold nothing.

  — Then help me. Give me more so I can understand!

  Elize retreats into his thoughts as they edge closer toward the sea.

  — We learn from life lived together, struggling together to find the answers we seek, he says.

  — More doubletalk.

  — No. I mean it. I cannot teach everything because I am still learning. I’m only a few years further down the road.

  — That doesn’t help me. I’m lost.

  — Then I am not sure I can help you.

  Libète prepared to walk away.

  — Wait! I brought you here for a reason. Look at the shore. What do you see?

  She shrugged. Trash. Rubbish. It’s everywhere. Floating in the water, sitting on the sand.

  — Anything else?

  — No. That’s all that’s here.

  — Then you don’t see it. Beauty is here, Libète. Look at the ocean expanding before your eyes. Feel the sand at your feet. The breeze cooling us. You must cling to the beautiful things, even when they are blemished and stained. For me, when I am made desperate by all that’s wrong in the world, all its evil, I retreat into beauty. I come here to pray often. I sit and talk to God and wait for him to answer.

  — Prayer does nothing to change things. Neither does beauty, Elize. Though she used his name rather than title, he did not show offense. If I stop to admire grains of sand, feel the Sun upon my skin, and lose myself in blue skies, the suffering continues. The world keeps spinning. My hunger is not satisfied. Evil leads to more evil.

  — You cannot change the world alone.

  — But if no one joins with me, then what can I do?

  Elize sidestepped the question and decided to walk back, mumbling something about how tired he had become. Libète followed but her anger did not abate. When they reached the shack, she muttered a farewell and told him she would come again soon.