Dimitry Leger - God Loves Haiti

What the…? Natasha stormed out of her tent wearing nothing but a white T-shirt and those tennis shoes, trailed by a startled bodyguard calling out, Madame! Madame! while stumbling and struggling to keep up with her long-legged strides. Before long, Natasha was lost in a maze of tents. They were blue or green, the color of mud or the color of eggshells. Some even had potted yellow flowers outside their zippered doors. Where is he? she said over her shoulder to the bodyguard, who was too out of breath to answer. To a group of intimidated soldiers coming toward her, she said, Have you seen my husband?

No, Madame, said the commander. Who is your husband?

What the hell?

She stalked off in another direction, down another row of tents. Kitchen staff, humanitarians, and other denizens of the camp parted like the Red Sea when they saw the determined, barely dressed Natasha stomping their way with her hair sticking out like antennas, shattering the delicate matinal, disturbing congregating ghosts.

At the base’s hospital, Natasha stopped and gasped. There were dozens of wounded people seated on the ground. A line of them stood in front of a doctor, a nurse, and an administrator, who were already sweating from the rising heat and the workload. She saw the doctor fail to stifle a wince each time a child’s scream came from inside the hospital, a clinic, which, in truth, was closer to the size of a gas station’s bathroom. The nurse took note of each patient’s complaints, though all of their problems were visible to the naked eye. A half-crushed head or shoulder, a mangled leg, a severed arm. Children of all sizes cried and whimpered all over the place, like a chorus, from pains that were too hard to look at and too painful for everyone, including the stunned parents and guardians, to keep a brave face in front of. Arms aloft, these parents offered the children to the doctors with the desperation of people making offerings to gods.

Humbled by this sight, Natasha turned away. The man she was looking for — her husband — turned out to be a few meters away with a concerned but clear-eyed look in his face. She saw her new bodyguard briefing the President. The President’s face went from frown to smile when his eyes met Natasha’s. His smile, she thought, was one of forgiveness for the scene she had caused in their funereal new neighborhood. They embraced warmly. His generosity made her regret her next words even though she said them with resolve.

I have to go, she said.

Where? The city is not safe. There are still aftershocks, buildings falling. We don’t know…

I have to find Alain, she said, quickly adding, He’s like a brother to me, the only family I have left.

But you don’t know—

He’s alive. I know.

She wanted to add: I can feel his soul’s glow within my own. It burns in our world still. If it had been extinguished, I would know. Because we are one, two sides of the same coin, alpha and omega. One true love. I was stupid to deny this truth before for reasons that never held water when confronted with our passion. The only way I can justify my new lease on life after the cataclysm that we have miraculously survived is by giving all my love to the only person it belonged to all this time, or at the very least by bidding him a more proper farewell than the one I attempted before the earthquake. It’s the right thing to do.

Natasha Robert didn’t say any of those things to her husband when he took a step back to appraise her while holding both her shoulders. She tried to appear sweet and innocent. He seemed to buy her act. OK, he said, you can go, but you have to adhere to all our new security rules. They’re for your own protection.

Of course, she said. The zing of nervous triumph she felt in her heart should have been tempered by the look her husband exchanged with her bodyguard. Bobo was his name. He was not dressed like a United Nations peacekeeper because he was not one. Bearish and bearded, Bobo belonged to an older school of friends of the President who Natasha rarely met, the kind whose jovial manner hid a tendency to protect their friend’s interests by any means necessary, few of them kind.

By the time their bulletproof SUV exited the gates of the spontaneous settlement near Toussaint Louverture Airport she refused to call home, she stood poised to enter the choppy streets of Port-au-Prince for the first time since the earth beneath her feet had rioted. Natasha was wide-eyed and anxious but her mind and heart were clear. Her first glimpse of a toppled house gave her no pause as she nibbled absentmindedly on a croissant and sipped orange juice from a plastic cup. The croissant was buttery and flakey, and the glass of OJ was freshly squeezed and slightly bitter. This nice breakfast was courtesy of a female French soldier or humanitarian — is there really a difference? — who had come to her tent after her husband gave a signal. The lady also brought her new green cargo pants, a clean white V-neck T-shirt, and aviator sunglasses. She didn’t need the glasses. The earthquake seemed to have dislodged the painterly reverie with which she used to see the world and replaced it with a desire to see things as they were. The Haiti in front of her looked extraordinarily vivid. All her senses felt fired-up. For once, her world seemed made of flesh and blood and not just souls, devils and angels, colors, canvas, palettes, puns, and hymns. We are all swimming upstream. We’re all saints and sinners, she’d thought over and over again in her cool and dark tent the previous couple of days. We will all be forgiven. History probably forgot about us the minute we started thinking about her. The idea that history was worthless and tomorrow was for suckers caressed her. She did not know how the thought came to her. She understood that many things were destroyed by the quake, and that we will have to make what we need out of the rubble of the existence we have left. Or not. Live what life we have left and leave the rest to God. Lost in thought, Natasha paid no mind to Bobo. He was sitting in the front seat of the car, next to the driver. He could have been polishing, loading, and reloading guns, which he was. She could have cared less. Until he ordered the driver to turn left.

No, she said, turn right. We’re going to the Palais.

She couldn’t wait to introduce her new self to Alain, a man she had no reason to believe was still alive. This new Natasha would replace the one Alain knew, she thought, the one who needed men to take care of her because the process of creating art was the only thing in her life she felt confident enough to control and develop.

The President told me your friend lived in Place Boyer, Bobo said.

She thought the conversation was over. Her order was given.

No, Mr. .. Bobo, is it? We’re going to the Palais area, because, uh, my friend was at work near there when the earthquake came.

OK. But it’s not wise to spend too much time in that area. It’s the heart of the disaster and very dangerous. Right? Bobo said to the driver.

Right, the driver said, confused, but playing along anyway.

Why would the Champ de Mars be more dangerous than usual? Natasha asked.

We, we, don’t know, Bobo said. The Americans told us it was. They said people there were desperate and could resort to attacking us. They said there may have been some looting.

Really?

The Americans said so.

And no one else?

And no one else.

Right. Tell me, Bobo, how do you know the President? You seem like old friends.

Bobo smiled.

Oui, Madame, le Président was a good friend of my father’s. I’ve known him since I was a boy.

How nice, she said.

I’m hoping he takes us with him when you leave. This place is in bad shape. You’re still moving, right? Right?