Dimitry Leger - God Loves Haiti

Villard! Qu’est-ce que tu fais?!

It was Katherine, merciful, sweet, even-tempered Katherine, Alain’s mom. Still hiding behind their car, Natasha heard Katherine try to calm her husband down. It’s that bitch’s fault we lost him, Villard said, crying. If it wasn’t for her, he’d still be alive.

That’s no reason to go lose your head like that, Papa, Katherine said softly. No reason at all.

That bitch…

I know…

That bitch… I told you she was trouble. I told you…

I know, Papa, I know, but Alain was in love with her. What could we do? You remember how you were at that age, when you were in love. You wanted to die for it too.

Your father almost killed me for it.

My mother wanted to poison your food.

Katherine, I’m sorry…

The couple embraced. They stood on the balcony holding each other for a long time in hushed silence. No parent should ever have to bury a child or have a child disappear without a trace during a sudden disaster. In the volcanic fire of his grief for his only son, Villard Destiné remembered how he’d told Alain over and over, all his life, that no matter what bad things happened to him, he was one of the lucky ones. They were a very fortunate family in a society where fortune favored precious few families. You must take the bad with the same equanimity that you take the good things that happen to you, son. No matter when you die, he often told his son, you’ll have lived a happier and more fully loved life than most people your age in Haiti or most anywhere else in the world. Such a sentiment was much easier to say than to live, Villard had realized since the earthquake, for grief had taken hold of his overachieved and exhausted soul, and he found his rage against the machine of fate hard to shake.

Villard stopped aiming his gun at his son’s girlfriend and squeezed his wife closer into his body. Villard and Katherine watched Natasha walk to her car, slowly, almost as if she welcomed a bullet in the back of her head. She looked up briefly. In the unforgiving noon sun, they saw her young face. It was an unrecognizable mask of misery and tears. They waved good-bye to her, as if to say, You’re forgiven.

Natasha nodded at them with a broken heart darted by gratitude and slid into her car. With shaking hands, she fumbled for a piece of paper in her bag. The address on it calmed her heart and reduced the tears streaming down her face from a shower to a sprinkle. She was going to go to the place she believed she should have gone years ago. She was going home. The address on the piece of paper was scribbled in Monsignor Dorélien’s hard-to-read chicken scratch. It read: The Convent of Cinq Coins, Kenscoff.

The mother superior opened the door of the Convent of Cinq Coins and sighed. Natasha looked a wreck, like someone who had been crying nonstop for a couple of hours, but the mother superior had known her for as long as Natasha had known Monsignor Dorélien, and she took her in with a sea of wordless warmth. She had a nun, Sister Hopstaken, show Natasha to her room and told Natasha to make herself at home. The room was down a long blue hall and up a few wooden stairs. Natasha came to the convent expecting to live in a cell worthy of one of America’s nightmarish prisons. Instead, she got a room with a small wooden desk topped with a black leather King James Bible and a bed with simple linens. Her new nun’s robe hung on a hanger in a closet, and she began to change clothes. Outside her window, the view of Port-au-Prince was spectacular. On the best days, like today, Kenscoff was almost an hour’s drive on top of Pétionville. The quartier was the last posh neighborhood in Port-au-Prince, famous for its five-star restaurants and cold nights. It had been known to snow there. Kenscoff sat on a mountaintop overlooking lush rolling hills and plains. Looking through the window from her room, Natasha could see only a sea of white clouds this day, with glimpses of mountains and a smattering of houses that looked like tiny thatched huts. The Convent of Cinq Coins seemed to be located at the highest point of Kenscoff. The view was breathtaking and gave Natasha the feeling that she was floating above the earth, as if she had ascended to heaven without going through the messy convention of death. The only thing she heard in the house and outside was silence. Intense, monastic silence. For a girl from downtown Port-au-Prince, which was loud and rowdy even on Sunday mornings, the concept of silence — sustained, musical, opaque — was a rumor, a myth, too beautiful to ever believe it could exist in the city.

Of course, a knock at the room’s door soon interrupted Natasha’s reverie. The knock was soft. That was a distinction rarely lost to Natasha and completely appreciated.

Are you ready? the voice behind the door said.

Yes, I am, Natasha said.

Before she opened the door, Natasha tried to smooth out her look. There were no mirrors. She was a novice nun, and during her period of novitiate, she shouldn’t have been allowed to wear the full nun’s habit, but the convent seemed to have put her on a fast track, partly out of familiarity with Natasha’s relationship with the Call, but mostly out of convenience. These were painful times for the community the Catholic Church in Haiti had dedicated itself to. A war for the country’s soul could erupt if the church’s work did not hold its own alongside the work being done by all the other stakeholders, old and new, that abounded in the country. Also, the convent had no alternative, intermediate clothing available for Natasha, so she wore the outfit of a full-fledged sister, and she couldn’t help hoping she looked good in it. The black robe had to make her look skinnier at the very least. The white scarf made her look younger, like a child. Innocent. Mortal. A child in the service of the Lord.

Natasha followed Sister Hopstaken down another corridor to Mother Superior’s office. The office was spare and severe, though Natasha liked seeing that Mother Superior was at least a Mac and not a PC person. Mother Superior may have been beautiful once. She was old, maybe in her early sixties, even seventies, the daughter of Italian parents from Cap Haitien who had been in Haiti so long the sun had tanned her to look like any thin Haitian with vaguely Latin roots.

There’s a lot of work to do, she said, so let’s run through all the requirements for you to become a Catholic sister, OK, Sister Robert?

Yes, ma’am.

The marriage?

Will be annulled as soon as the justice department offices reopen. My husband will respect my decision, I’m sure of it.

Children?

None.

Pregnant?

No.

Good. The boyfriend?

Dead, Natasha said calmly.

Mother Superior showed no emotions.

Debts?

None whatsoever. In fact, I have a few unsold paintings left that could bring money to the church if…

Thank you, Sister Robert. That’s for another day.

Mother Superior turned to Sister Hopstaken. This novitiate will be assigned to you for preparation for her first vows, Sister. In case you and the other sisters wonder why Sister Robert was so readily accepted by our convent, let me you tell you why. I’ve known her since she was a wayward child who appeared on Monsignor Dorélien’s doorstep out of nowhere. She heard the Call, but God had also given her a gift, the gift of artistry, the muse. The muse put her in conflict with the Call. The muse seduced. The Call demanded. As is common with most young people, the muse won over Sister Robert for many years. It brought her a certain amount of fame and wealth and the attention of many, many suitors. She was lost to the church. I prayed for her. Monsignor Dorélien prayed for her. And now she’s finally ready to listen to the Call and serve God.