Dimitry Leger - God Loves Haiti

Some of the people who were about to die during the massacre realized immediately what the murderous Dominican was asking of them with the parsley sprig facing them, father said. They would say the word the wrong way, realize their mistake, then try again quickly to get it right before the first blow fell on them. Sometimes they tried after the second or third blow too. It was always too late. There was no mercy to be had. You cannot take words back after they’ve been spoken, son, my father said. In my long life, I’ve seen his advice hold up well over the years. So, baby, as you embark on this adventure with me and you feel your nerves getting the best of you, just do what I do when I get confronted by a scary situation.

What’s that? Natasha said.

I say the word “parsley,” the President said. Over the years, the word became part incantation and part reminder for me to stay calm and careful in situations where most of my friends or competitors would panic. It was a way to remind myself that whatever odd situation I had gotten myself into was of my own creation and thus it was amply manageable. Natasha, sweetheart, you should have faith that much of the same is true for you. There is nothing bad that is going to happen to you as long as you are with me as we move around this planet. There’s no threat that you won’t have the power to handle whether you’re with me or not. Your will to power got you this far in life. I doubt you’ll face anything worse than the things you had to overcome already.

In her heart, she knew he was right. Natasha felt her spirit swell with strength that she did not think she was capable of feeling. You really think so? she said, immediately regretting the girlish pitch in her voice.

I do believe you will be fine, my love, he said. As long as you repeat the magic word after me.

What’s that?

Parsley, he said.

Before she could react, his phone rang. The ringtone was unfamiliar to her. High-pitched. The President’s face grew dark. He turned away from her. A first. He usually liked to have her witness as he conducted the affairs of the state.

A lot of people on the streets think us politicians are all crooks, he used to say. How could the people in charge of a country so poor have politicians as corrupt as vultures? What do they think we’re robbing? The place has nothing, absolutely nothing. So to prove the sincerity of my intentions, the President said during their courtship, I will be totally transparent with my business. You will see that I’m not a crook. I am conflict-averse and a terrible public speaker, but I am not a plundering president of Haiti like some of my predecessors. Not that I’m a saint or anything. But by the time I got to office, the national cupboard was basically empty. I hope you come to understand the limits of the powers of my office, of our nation. I hope you could grow to trust me.

Natasha thought the man was crazy. Still, his generous and probably dangerous gestures had the desired effect on her. She grew to appreciate the privilege of bearing witness to the politics of their country as they happened in real time. Haiti’s sad state sickened her and made her want to flee the island in disgust more than ever. The place was a wreck, and Natasha was in no mood to be fascinated or philosophical about it. The view from a front-row seat in the President’s office freaked her out instead of giving her the more common frisson of a rubbernecker. So now for the first time, as her commitment to him was about to reach a fraught climax, he wanted to keep a piece of his business secret from her. She was not going to let him. She walked up behind him and stopped just short enough to eavesdrop on his conversation.

Yes, Mr. President, he said.

Mr. President? she thought. This was the first time she had heard him speak English and call another person Mr. President. He had to be talking to the American president. That’s the only other president he’s ever referred to. Wow.

To be honest, a big part of me feels relieved, sir, he said. You really believe my people will be proud of me for doing this? I’m impressed by how well you understand the Haitian people, sir. I’m sure the American people would also be proud to learn one morning that their president had overnight chosen to retire to the Italian countryside instead of serving their interests until the end of his mandate. You don’t have to threaten me, sir. I was just making a joke. I am fully aware of the fact that your predecessor had my predecessor exiled to Africa and banned from ever entering the Western Hemisphere. The Central African Republic. Not somewhere nice like Egypt or Gabon. Right. Yes. I understand. Italy is a much nicer place for me to start a family. I’ll have a nice trip, sir. Thanks for taking time from your busy… Mr. President? Mr. President? Mr. President?

Who was that? Natasha said.

The boss, he said.

Who?

Who do you think? the President snapped. What, you didn’t think your president had a boss? I do. Everyone does. Even you do.

Even your boss does, Natasha said.

The President looked curiously at his new bride, then he trudged on. They walked up the steps to the airplane. Halfway up, the President tossed his cell phone away. He didn’t throw away the device in anger but did so softly, wearily. He was letting go of the unmentionable everythings it represented, did, and had him do. He was too tired from years of hating most of it to muster rage. He watched the black phone fly through the humid air. Suddenly, he found himself flying toward the phone. He found himself floating in the air away from the plane, horizontally, like Superman. The President looked like a fat, bald, nattily suited beach ball soaring through the sky between the sun and an undulating sea of asphalt. He didn’t know what caused this to happen. He knew the landing on the tarmac’s asphalt, whenever it occurred, was going to hurt like hell. The force of his momentum was such that his tie smacked him dead in the eye. His eyes watered. Now that, that really pissed him off.

Merde , the President said.

His jaw was the first part of his body to hit the ground.

Outside an isolated tent a hundred meters from hundreds and thousands of newly planted tents for earthquake victims in Port-au-Prince, two doctors, one American and the other French, had a cigarette before starting their workdays. It was six a.m., a couple of days after the quake. In most countries not located in the middle of the Caribbean Sea, there would be a slight chill in the air at that hour. In Haiti, the temperature was perfect, not too hot, not cool, just right. The doctors felt good in their skins. This bothered them. Life shouldn’t feel this good when death was so spectacularly random and massive around them. They smoked nervously. In the evening after dinner, they will drink heavily.

They say the first seventy-two hours are your best chance of finding survivors after disasters like this, the man, a Frenchman, said. In Banda Aceh, they found practically no one after forty-eight hours.

I know, an unmistakably American woman said. We got to Pakistan four days after their big one. There were no survivors.

None?

Zip. Zilch. Nada.

Putain . The poor bastards.

Inside the tent, which the doctors thought to be a storage tent, for it was the only tent with an armed guard standing in front of it at all times, the subconsciousness of a sleeping earthquake survivor filtered their analysis. Natasha Robert sprang awake. She was alert and amped, as if one of the doctors had extinguished his cigarette directly in her eye. She foraged around for her clothes, but all she could find were a pair of white tennis sneakers.