Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (30 page)

— Is that so? From where?

— Bwa Nèf!

— You’re talking about the girl who was taken two days ago, Libète interjected.

— No, no, my daughter. This was a new one, the fourth, I think. She was standing on the main road, like she was waiting for someone, and before anyone knew what was going on, a taptap stopped, a man got out, placed something over her mouth, and she fainted. Pulled her right in the back of the truck. Before anyone could do anything, they were gone.

— That’s incredible! her Uncle exclaimed.

— Ah, but I didn’t tell you the most interesting part—this was a girl I think you know.

— Who?

— Your old neighbor, the pretty one from down the row—Nathalie I think was her name.

Libète bolted upright, dropping her stirring spoon upon the ground.

— Nathalie? That’s impossible. I saw her just this morning.

— But I’m telling you, she was taken this
afternoon
.

Libète’s mind raced.
Who could do this thing? And why? Nathalie was only sixteen!
Her mind soon went to Davidson. She knew he would be crushed. She picked up the spoon, wiping it on her dress. She looked to the rice, but her mind was fixed on these other things.

— Uncle, I must go do something.

— What? No. Finish the rice.

— It’ll cook itself.

— Don’t you want any?

— No. I’m not hungry.

— Well I won’t let you. Her Uncle’s eyes shifted to René. No, Libète. You can’t just disappear again. You–you must respect me now.

A new fire kindled inside her.

— I’m going, and I won’t be stopped.

Her Uncle tried to stand to intimidate her. She rushed over to him and pointed the tip of her long spoon directly between his eyes before he was able to lift his heavy body. Don’t, she warned.

— Well, said René, chuckling to try to relieve the tension. How about a farewell at least before you go? A kiss on the cheek for your visiting uncle?

Libète sneered, her disdain seeping out. You’re nothing to me. She dropped the spoon in her Uncle’s lap and sprinted away, the lid on the pot of rice soon bobbing as pent-up steam escaped.

— Strange, stupid girl, her Uncle cursed under his breath, looking after her as she vanished into the near-darkness.

— Who is she going to see? René questioned. Does she have a boyfriend? Something like that?

Her Uncle spat upon the ground.

**

She made the familiar trip in a hurry, lungs heaving like bellows, and came to a halt at the start of the cinder block-strewn path that passed through muck and mud.

She approached the shack walking stone-by-stone, hearing a radio play classical music as she regained her breath and quieted. She rapped softly on the frame of the doorway, peeking in through the loose-hanging curtain.

— Honor, she said.

The sound of labored movements and fumbling about came from inside before a voice called back in surprise.

— Respect!

Not a moment later the curtain was drawn back, not by a hand, but by the snout of a trained black pig.

— Hello, Titid, she said smiling. She patted the pig on its head, looking up to see the man’s hazy outline. Hello, Elize.

That very moment, he struck a match and lit an oil lamp, illuminating the shack and permitting each to see the other clearly.

— Come in, Libète, come in.

She did, with new tears budding in her eyes.

— I’ve missed you, dear child.

She hugged the old man. And I’ve missed you.

Bondye konn bay, men li pa konn separe

God gives plenty, but man divvies it up

— I’m surprised you returned, Elize says. I didn’t think you’d be back around.

— After we parted and I went away…I realized I was wrong.

She sits upon the ground. Titid is at her side and both face Elize atop his elevated cot.

— I had much time to think, he offered. What you said had much truth to it, more than I wanted to admit.

A swell of the orchestra’s music filled the gap left between their words.

— And I have seen the truth in your words too. I have much to tell. Too much.

— Then do.

She starts slowly before pouring out all she has learned in the past days, about frail Lolo, Gaspar’s anonymous father, reformed Touss, Davidson the campaigner, and abducted Nathalie. She stops short of telling him of the other things, the heavy things, that happened since they last spoke.
Not yet
.

— It has been an eventful few days for you.
And weeks
, Libète thinks. And here I’ve been, sitting about, alone with just my thoughts, and my pigs.

The music occupied another pregnant pause. She signaled toward the radio with her head.

— Is she going to be on tonight?

— She is. It’s Saturday, after all.

Libète nodded.

— Do you think our lessons can continue, Elize? Despite everything?

— I’d like that, he said. Very much. Despite everything.

She steps through the billowing curtain and into the shack, her throat parched from trekking about as water is in such short supply. She is pleased to see that Elize, the man she thought was a devil mere days before, was not inside.
At least his home didn’t collapse on him.

Her curiosity takes hold as she waits. She begins to inspect his things more closely.

The room is as she had seen it before, everything in its proper place. She pokes around, looking through his meager food rations and finding an open package of tea biscuits. She reaches for them with her good arm, still trying not to disturb her injured one.

Seeing as there are many biscuits, and knowing that her stomach is empty, she struggles with the temptation.
I couldn’t. It would be wrong. He has so little. It would be like stealing from my mother when she was sick.

She crunches down hard, unable to resist. Chewing quickly, she wipes lingering crumbs from her lips. She looks at the package again.
What’s one more that won’t be missed?

Before long, half the biscuits are gone.

Libète puts the package back where she found it, hoping it might go unnoticed. She debates leaving to avoid the suspicion of thievery.
No, I came for a reason. I must tell him what’s happened.

She sits upon his cot, twiddling her thumbs and singing a tune to herself. She kicks his metal box, tucked under the cot, and reaches for it. Trying to undo the clasps, she realizes they are locked.

— Put that down!

Surprised, Libète dropped the box, letting it clamor to the floor. The old man limped into the room, the pig at his heels, his eyes locked on her.

— Mesye
,
I am sorry—

— This is the second time I have found you snooping around my home uninvited. His nostrils flared.

— I did not mean to upset—

— Why have you come? To get into my things? To steal?

— No, Mesye Elize, I wished only to find out if you were alright after the quake. When I arrived, you were not here. I waited, and my curiosity took over. She looked down. I should not have touched your things.

— You should not have, he said, tapping his cane forcefully on the ground with each syllable.

— Can you forgive me? I promise I won’t do such a thing —she paused before making a promise she couldn’t keep —
to you
, again.

Grimacing, he finally spoke. Well, you can see I’m fine. What else do you want?

Libète couldn’t help but ask. But, how? How do you get your food? We have been struggling so, so much. No food, no water. It’s miserable—I’m in the camps now, at Twa Bebe, and—

She stopped abruptly, the sadness causing her to forget her words.

— What? What is it? he snapped.

— My life, you see, is not what it was. Her eyes swelled with tears she would not let fall. In the last few days I’ve suffered so, so much—more than in my whole life.

His hard stare softened ever so slightly as a rebellious tear ran down her cheek. He sat down on his stool.

— Tell me what has happened.

**

Over the next two hours she spilled the details of all that had befallen her, like one of the water pipes in Bwa Nèf when ruptured by bullets.

— One of the worst things is that there is no money now. Not for food. Not for school fees. My Uncle is unwilling to pay and my cousin can’t help, so I have to stop.

— Is that so?

— It is.

He seemed to meditate on this for some time.

— I…could teach you, he offered suddenly.

— What? You’re a teacher? What do you mean?

— Exactly what I said.

Libète couldn’t hide her skepticism.

— You don’t have to be in a classroom to teach, he added.

— But…what could someone like you teach me?

Her own rudeness was lost on her. He smiled.

— Can you read?

— Yes.

— Speak French?

— I’m OK.

— Write?

— Eh, in Kreyol. Not so well in French.

— Well, I can help you with all these things. And a few more. If you wish.

— I don’t understand. You live with pigs. You’re no one—no offense, she added, holding up her palms — just like me. How can you help me? I mean, I don’t have a slate, or even chalk.

— I can help you, Libète. That’s all I’ll say. And I can get any necessary materials. So, I’ll ask my question again: do you want me to teach you?

Libète enjoyed school only for the status it brought, and its opportunities for play. Spending time with a hermit would provide neither. But she also thought of estranged Jak, who craved knowledge and worked so hard to gain more. Life was otherwise marked by drudgery as each day came and went struggling to survive.

She looked to Elize and nodded definitively. When do we begin?

**

Libète came the next morning as agreed.

She found Elize finishing his breakfast, flour cakes he had fried in a pan. Resting upon his stool was a small square slate and a box of chalk. There was also a notepad with yellow-lined paper, three stubby pencils, and an eraser nub.

— Where did these come from? Libète said, amazed.

— I bought them, of course.

— With what?

— Don’t worry about it. I will eat this cost.

She lifted the stack of materials and sat down, withdrawing a piece of unblemished chalk to write. So, what shall we do?

— You shall put that down. You won’t need it today.

Libète was perplexed. Then why have them?

— For later. All we do today is talk.

Libète complied, but her skepticism was written on her face.

— We start with a question.

— OK.

— Why are you who you are?

Her skepticism remained. What do you mean?

— Start by describing yourself.

— I am a girl. Eleven years old—almost twelve. I have brown eyes—

— Go deeper. What about your family, or life here.

— I am Haitian. I have dark skin. I live in a camp in Cité Soleil. I am an orphan—or, my mother is dead and my father — she paused — didn’t want me. And I am poor.

— And how would you describe yourself this very second?

The girl rolled her eyes. Elize was unflustered. Just answer the question, he said.

— I am sitting in a small house talking to an old man. I am hungry. I am tired. And I’m wondering why we’re talking about such things.

— Why? I go back to the first question. Why are you who you are?

— It’s…it’s too big a question to answer.

— Well, let’s answer just a part of it. Why are you here? In Cité Soleil. Tell me more about that.

— I was brought here to live with my aunt and uncle, to be a restavek.

— Ah. Interesting. And what is Cité Soleil?

— A place people live. A city. A slum. I don’t know.

— Don’t become frustrated. You’re right. It’s all those things. And who else lives in Cité Soleil?

— People like you or me.

— How did they get here?

— By cars. Trucks. Buses.

— Not the means. What brought them here? And why didn’t they go elsewhere?

She shrugged. They had nowhere else to go.

— Not true. Haiti is full of villages, towns, and cities. Why here? Why not somewhere else?

— There were homes? Cheap homes? Or they knew people already here?

— And how long has Cité Soleil existed? How long have people lived here?

— I don’t know. She had never thought about it before. Always? she ventured.

— We know that’s not true. Everything has a beginning. I don’t like to give easy answers, Libète, but I want you to understand what I’m getting at.

Libète’s eyes widened and shoulders rose in a subtle shrug. Tell me then.

— Inequality—it drives everything. This can be said another way. Power, or differences in power, explain why a rich person lives among green hills in Pétionville or a barren village on the top of a mountain. It’s the distribution of power over generations and generations that underlies our circumstances.

— That’s not true. I’m here because my mother died.

— Ah. And what sickness did she die from?

Libète hesitated, ashamed to say. AIDS, she uttered, as if a curse word.

— Well, I don’t know much about AIDS, but I know there are treatments that can help people with the disease. Why wasn’t she treated?

— Because we had no money. Because there were no hospitals nearby on La Gonâve.

— But both of those are rooted in differences of power. If she was rich she could get treatment. If more money had been invested in better roads and institutions in La Gonâve, rather than invested in Port-au-Prince or stolen by politicians, there could have been better services. Haiti is a small picture of the whole world. Certainly accidents happen. But many accidents have their roots in inequalities. On the radio, I heard that an earthquake just the same strength as ours happened in the United States a few decades ago. Do you know how many died?

— No.

— Three. Three people. While we’ve seen over hundreds of thousands of lives lost in our quake. Why the difference?

Another shrug.

— Where resources
lie
. We invest little in our construction. We use the cheapest methods possible, while in the U.S. they had standards and rules, and the money to build structures that comply with the standards and rules. Inequality at work.

Libète looked sullen.
Inegalite,
she intoned.

Elize could see that he had made his point and was saddening the girl. He changed the subject. Libète, I am going to teach you one true skill in our time, a fundamental skill that will aid you in gaining every other one you desire.

She tried to think of what it might be, coming up short. What is it?

— You must question. Question
everything
. Even what I tell you. You cannot be satisfied with easy answers, half-truths, and superficiality. You must push, and continue pushing, until you reach the heart of the matter, until you reach the truth. We’re confronted with inequality at every turn and we must question until we understand it thoroughly. Then we can act against it.

**

The next day’s lesson proceeded similarly, and the day after that. They spoke, asked, and answered. Usually Libète hit a wall and Elize would explain the point he sought to make. It was not until their fourth day together that they began working on the proper study of a subject.

— Today we will study French, Elize began. Libète was perched on her stool, eager. Elize paced in front of her, leaning on his cane for support. But first I have a grave warning.

— What…what do you mean? What could be dangerous in studying French?

—
Tout d’abord, pourquoi avons-nous parlé français?
he asked. Why do we speak French?