God Loves Haiti (9780062348142) by Dimitry Elias Leger Page A

love. In fact, once we get on that plane, I’ll have the UN PR guy send a press release out tellingthe whole world that I shall be known henceforth as Mr. Natasha Robert. Your name will be my name. That’s my new name. Do you like it? I like it. I think it has a nice ring to it.
    Natasha did like it. She looked past his smiling eyes at the range of treeless brown mountains that bordered the airport. Two days earlier, they had gotten married in a hastily arranged ceremony that fell somewhere between a shotgun and a bazooka wedding. Held in Sacré Coeur, a small yet beautiful church, the ceremony struggled for cheer. The sky was overcast. The mood inside the church was rushed and tense. Sweat ran down her back, causing her body-fitting dress to cling too tightly to her muscular frame. They exchanged their vows in whispers at an altar filled with flowers and candles the scent of vanilla. The groom cried. The bride didn’t. His ancient mother and seemingly even more ancient friends wore looks of disbelief. Many of them were giddy as girlfriends. Natasha suspected some of them had cashed in longtime bets on whether their buddy would ever make it down the aisle. She didn’t invite anyone she knew to bear witness to their union. She didn’t even tell her few friends about her wedding plans. They would have disapproved. Weren’t you supposed to marry the other guy? they’d say, a reminder she didn’t need. She wished to be as alone as possible during the transaction, er, event. She also hoped the event went by quickly, which it did; thus only now did Natasha Robert find herself asking questions with answers theyoung girl should have intuited much sooner, if she was into such things like forethought when it came to men.
    Again, she thought of her parents. Such sweet losers. Her mother was a beggar, a peddler, and an all-around hustler. Her dear papa never had a job that she could think of, but somehow he rarely came home empty-handed. He could read too. Bedtime stories were the best. They had one book— The Adventures of Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren—but the best part of the night was after he’d close the book and talk to her. He told her she was the embodiment of his happiness, thus she was destined to always be happy. He told her this every night.
    We were so happy you were born, he said. You were such a happy baby. We didn’t have much, but we had love. We loved each other, and we loved you. À mort . We were badass about love.
    The word “ass” made her laugh. It brightened her mood. We were badass about love. You used a bad word, Papa, she’d giggle, and voilà, all funk was lifted, the memory of her latest fight with her mother was swept under her spiritual rug.
    Do you understand how much we love you, chérie ?
    Yes, Papa.
    Never forget it, sweetheart, but, uh, don’t use that language around your mom, OK? I don’t want her to kick my ass. You know how she is. I ain’t as tough as you are.
    Oh, Papa, she’d swoon.
    Papa wore an Afro and a handlebar mustache long afterthey stopped being cool. Why don’t men wear mustaches anymore? Papa came from the north, probably Port-de-Paix. He never specified. I was born in a manger deep in a jungle, he said. My parents were kind and God-fearing, so angels visited them after my birth, like they visited us after you arrived.
    That was all he offered by way of origin story. It confused Natasha, but she was often too tired and grateful for his undivided attention to question it, choosing instead to listen quietly to the soothing purr of his baritone voice and romantic take on everything. At a young age, he said another night, I came to Port-au-Prince, alone, barefoot, and shirtless. My pants were too small. I was young, but I was happy to be here. This is the city of dreams. I was eager to get my piece of it. I was famished, you see. Hungry. My father had been a captain in the army back when we had