Dimitry Leger - God Loves Haiti

Not that Hollywood had any problems getting women. On an every-other-day basis, like clockwork, an international entertainment starlet or gorgeous philanthropist or celebrity of some kind came around his tent for a visit. Part sport, part PR move, Hollywood’s Love Parade, as Alain and Philippe had come to call it, was good for Place Pigeon’s business, though it didn’t seem to do much for Hollywood’s spirits. If Alain was pitifully post-God from heartbreak, Hollywood claimed to be post-love from the same.

I don’t even jerk off anymore, Hollywood told Alain one dawn after another of their all-night drinking binges/vigils. What’s the point? My imagination can’t muster anything transcendent anymore. Maybe I’ve lived too long and fucked too many beautiful women.

Or maybe you’ve watched too much porn, Steve, Alain said.

Yeah, that’s it. Fucking porn, pun intended. Porn ruined me for women and sex. I can’t even look at my right hand the same way anymore. I blame the Internet.

Yeah, Alain said, Steve Jobs should’ve stillborned the thing instead of making it so fucking fun to fuck with. iHate the fucking Internet too.

During the courtship, Philippe had come around Alain’s tent almost every night to get their help deciphering the Chinese-puzzle-worthy, head-scratching signals of the Haitian woman. As though Alain, of all people, had a clue. Few women on this planet are more difficult to read than Haitian women, Alain’s father had told him when he was too young to understand, though Papa’s seriousness about the topic made Alain care. Trust me, son, Villard Destiné said, I’ve traveled the world and, er, broken bread with women from India, Africa, even beurettes , Europeans, Asians, Americans, and Latinas, women from all the way in the deepest jungles of the Amazon to the saunas in Iceland. No matter. You can’t be loved like a Haitian woman loves, nor could you be dropped as completely and as coldly as when a Haitian woman’s done with you. May you never experience such a cold, son. Cold like space. A vacuum that turns Caribbean homes into igloos.

Alain’s father continued: Haitian women and their steel decisiveness mystified me like no other in much the same way they mystified my father, his father, and his father, and his father’s father before him. We men, we debate. Women, they act. We sing. They make the drums. We dither, lord, we dither. They build. My father did tell me that if I got more than second breath of chaleur from one, I should grab on to her mighty hips and never let go or bruise them. And my father was right, Alain. My subsequent brief brushes with these women’s glorious sound and terrible fury convinced me. So I married the first fantastic Haitian woman who would have me and never looked back. I hope you do the same, son, and don’t mess around. I’m talking about a breed of women whose men have let them down for so long, through many centuries, and dozens of generations, that they may be incapable of feeling pity for us, like almost everyone else does. They, more than anyone, it seems, accept that talk is cheap. Haitian men, we talk, boy, we talk. Son, you might be all right with them if you were born without the gab gene, son. If you unfortunately have that tendency, keep it in check. Park it somewhere. Don’t be no talker, kid. Haitian women can love us still, and their love is… something else. Out of this world. Become a man of courage and substance, a doer, an earner, a creator of value in your life, in the world you live in, to match these women’s character, son. That’s my most fervent wish for you.

Listening to Philippe talk about his developing bond with Fabby, after weeks of watching Philippe lie, steal, and cheat to feed and nurse a thousand wounded strangers, Alain thought that if ever there was a Haitian man of substance worthy of the mythical Haitian woman of his dad’s imagination, Philippe was one.

Philippe and Fabby’s conversations, according to Philippe, were deep, their philosophies, ethics, and dreams were in sync and bullish. Their childhoods and backgrounds were similar (Her father was carpenter! Mine was a construction foreman!) the amount of times they’d been in love, where each was during goudou-goudou (I was in a car! Her too!).

Fabby kept Philippe on a tight leash, and this turned him on even more. She let me touch her hand! Philippe said one night. The next night? We touched foreheads and whispered for an hour!

What? Alain said. Did you kiss her?

No, Philippe said. But I’m getting closer!

The man had gone nuts. The man was happy. The man was in love with a capital “L.” He grinned ear to ear after every bit of infinitesimal progress in extracting warmth from Fabby. I didn’t know much about Philippe, Alain thought. He was older than me. Maybe about thirty, could be more. He had lines on his face that suggested he’d seen things, and that he’d suffered a great deal in his life. His cheerfulness, however, made him seem like a teenager. Post-earthquake, I aged ten, twenty years. This guy may have gotten fifteen years younger. Philippe would hate to have himself described as a spiritual guide and healer, he was too modest for that, but that’s what he was for Alain and everyone around him in Place Pigeon. In fact, Philippe had all the talents of a voodoo priest. Alain didn’t know much about voodoo, except that he knew believers moved between voodoo and Catholicism all the time. Catholics had the big churches and visible symbols and Sundays. Voodoo had every other day of the week, and once you got past that business about loas, bondye , and speaking in tongues, its tenets were banal calls to fellowship and faith in the unseen like most religions.

Philippe did look good in red, the color of voodoo. On the wedding day, Alain watched him strut through Place Pigeon in a wicked red suit, fire-engine-red shoes gleaming. You could tell Philippe felt pimpish, shaking hands and drinking compliments from friends and strangers with florid smiles. Fabby wore the whitest sliver of a dress Alain had ever seen in his life, the dress was of a whiteness Alain had forgotten was capable of existing. Philippe had proposed marriage to Fabiola the night after she’d first made love to him. She accepted, and the ceremony was promptly scheduled for two days later, because in the brave new world they lived in since goudou-goudou, they understood that love shouldn’t wait. Death wouldn’t.

You got the rings? Philippe asked Alain as they prepared to head toward the nearby National Cathedral for the wedding ceremony.

Of course, Alain said.

You’re not going to say anything about my suit?

It’s nice, Hollywood chimed in.

It sure is red, Alain said. You look great, man.

Merci, mes frères , Philippe said.

Philippe had made Alain the best man of his wedding, probably the first such event in refugee camp history, and in true best man fashion, Alain Destiné tapped his pockets and realized, Oh shit, I lost the rings. Without betraying his alarm, he took leave of the guys to try to undo this mistake. Excuse me, fellas, he said. Nature’s calling.

Alain was sure he’d forgotten the wedding rings in a bathroom stall. The bathroom was shared with ten thousand other men. The odds that the rings were still there were not good. Yet Alain found them right where he’d left them, sparkling and ready. He exhaled in relief and almost thanked God. Back outside the bathroom stall, three men greeted Alain. Two of them pointed pistols at his abdomen. Their gun-less leader was fat and amiably kept his hands in his pockets. He put an index finger on his lips and told Alain not make a false move. Alain recognized the two gunmen. They were part of the quartet of thieves that Hollywood had foiled on his first night. The fat guy in the middle was a new face.