Free God Loves Haiti (9780062348142) by Dimitry Elias Leger Page B

wealth and security, and this young man, smart as he was, dashing as his military-perfect posture made him seem to be, and wealthy and honest as his square and steady gaze promised he could become, was no more richer than us whores today, andnot worth too much of her time. He could be your lover, they said, ton petit ami , but never anything more, not even her boyfriend, and that would be OK. Her meager origins made it so. Haiti’s hardships ratified it. Provided you were tough enough to walk away from him for good within a minute of landing a rich man, you could play around with him, they said. That’s what these attractive girls expected from their future and demanded Natasha expect from hers. The mythical rich man who erases all deprivations. The girls were mostly newbies in a self-defeating game, but they were diligent about what passes for its learned wisdom. They alternated between recruiting Natasha and advising her to be smarter than they were about love, sex, and men. Natasha took their sisterly advice with a grain of salt. Today, while wallowing in guilt in the glow of her lottery ticket of a husband, she realized how closely she had actually followed the whores’ script. She remembered, also, that her new old man was human too and also haunted by his childhood’s deprivations. At this delicate hour of his life, Natasha would do well to behave like a supportive wife. She scolded herself to get it together.
    Natasha’s parents, for the brief years she knew them, were big on confessions. They weren’t the first parents in their neighborhood to give their adorable five-year-old daughter away to an orphanage in hopes she’d get to eat at least one meal a day, but they may have been the first parents to not promise they’d come back for said daughter after they got back on their feet. In their small apartmentin the Fort National neighborhood of Port-au-Prince, her mother often told her that nothing good ever came to beggars whenever Natasha begged her parents for things, like food or water, or a toy to play with. Her mom, who’d given birth to her only child in the same orphanage she had been born in about sixteen years earlier, said no. No. Every. Single. Time. Her mother was an authority on begging, for she was a beggar, une professionelle . So there was no point in begging God, Maman scolded. Few men and women in the history of the world had begged God for mercy and better fortunes than her good, Catholic people had for the last five centuries. Look what that’s gotten you? If you want something, her mother said, you better not even whisper it to your so-called God, not if you really want it. You think I’m bad, but no one says no more consistently than Him.
    Compared to my mother at my age, my present situation was not that bad, Natasha thought. The tarmac, the achingly blue sky, the private jet, the blue-helmeted soldiers, the sweltering heat, her wide-backed, soft-chinned husband, the look of envy in the eyes of the men who were his staff and friends, and the chirpiness of their other halves—but the torment of guilt would not disappear. Jesus, all that Catholic schooling, all those Masses, all that Bible reading and gospel singing, all those paintings, and only now, as I am about to betray my one true love, as I am about to prove my ignorance of the meaning of love, of You, my Lord, only now do I finally get it. I was supposed to love him for love’s sake.
    Am I losing my mind as punishment? And you, the silent ghost, what are you looking at? Could you please tell me what to do, you mute fool? My parents would have something useful to say during this crisis. But they’ve been gone awhile now, haven’t they, God? Since you took them from me for no good reason, how about imparting a girl with some wisdom in this crossroad?
    You know what, maybe I’m already sorted. I may actually love this fat old man. Maybe the feeling is so strange and novel and