The time is September 1991, and the place is the Republic of Haiti. Panic gripped the Haitian nation, with President Aristide gone, and the Haitian military, led by General Raoul Cedras, taking over. The ancients remember the days of the Duvalier Dictators, Papa Doc and Baby Doc, when tyranny defeated democracy. Young people clamor about the state of the Haitian Nation, and what would become of them under the new regime. Difficult times awaited the world's first independent black republic, that's for damned sure...
The sun rose over the Bel-Air suburb of metropolitan Cap-Haitien, in Northern Haiti. Jean-Marc Maurice got up, and sat on his bed. He'd awakened at the crack of dawn, jolted from sleep by the damned roosters of Monsieur Leonard, the old man who lived in a walled estate not far from his home. The old buzzard kept to himself and raised chicks, and the people of Bel-Air's Loge neighborhood considered him something of a recluse. Jean-Marc considered Monsieur Leonard to be something of an eccentric.
Jean-Marc waited for his parents to depart, and then got up. The two-story, four-bedroom, red and white house that Jean-Marc has called home for most of his life was already bustling with activity. Helene the maid was busy cooking and cleaning. Jean-Marc was fond of the middle-aged lady from the country town of Trou Du Nord who had been with the family for ages. Helene was practically family at this point.
Jean-Marc's father, the esteemed Maitre Ronald Maurice, had gone to teach Mathematics at College Notre Dame Du Perpetuel Secours, an all-male Catholic school which sat on a hill overlooking downtown Cap-Haitien. As for Jean-Marc's mother, Astrid Maurice, she'd gone to teach at Soeurs Saint Joseph De Cluny, an all-female Catholic school located down the street from Notre Dame. Since Jean-Marc didn't have classes that day at Universite Roi Henri Christophe, he had the day to himself.
Jean-Marc went downstairs, and found his father's copy of the Haiti Progress Newspaper. The young man yawned as he read an expose of how the Haitian military sucked and how it took the intervention of American and French diplomats to allow President Aristide to escape. Jean-Marc didn't give a damn about politics, and at the age of nineteen, he could be considered something of a hedonist. Once Jean-Marc turned twenty one, he would inherit the land of Bois D'Eau, a large farm which his grandfather Alphonse Maurice left him. It would be easy street once that happened...
"Bonjour Luki," Jean-Marc said as he patted his large brown dog on the head. The young man went about preparing breakfast, which consisted of buttered bread, eggs, and a steaming pot of overly sugared coffee, prepared in the Haitian style. Jean-Marc tossed Luki some pieces of meat from last night's leftover turkey stew. He made a mental note to buy some goat meat, the dog's favorite, when he went to the Marche downtown later today.
After eating breakfast, Jean-Marc went to the walled courtyard, drew water from the well and took a shower. He brushed his teeth, and then walked back inside. The Loge, an overcrowded neighborhood located at the heart of Bel-Air, is Jean-Marc's world. He was born and raised there, and everyone knows him. Jean-Marc left the house after giving Luki some meat strips and a bowl of water to drink. The choking heat gripped the city and it would be cruel to leave the doggo without water. Jean-Marc doesn't like people but he loves his dog...
Jean-Marc walked down the streets of Bel-Air, and took the winding road past Junie's Store, and past the old estates. He walked along the rocky road leading past the Stadium where the local soccer teams, Association Sportive Capoise and FICA played their games while the entire city watched. Jean-Marc made his way to Second Street or Rue Deux, and walked into Les Freres Laveaux Barbershop. Even this early, there were some old cats hanging around, the kind of fellas with nothing to do...
"Bonjour Maitre Numa," Jean-Marc said to his favorite barber, a tall, dark-skinned, mustachioed man who always wore sunglasses, even indoors. Maitre Numa smiled at Jean-Marc and shook his hand. None of this brother-man hug or exchanging dap stuff for an old-school player like Maitre Numa. He was an old soldier who became a barber and didn't care for most young Haitian men's love affair with African American culture and music. Thanks but no thanks...
"Sak pase neg pa mwen? What's up my friend?" Maitre Numa asked as Jean-Marc sat down and waited his turn. Jean-Marc shrugged and regaled the older man with tales of his latest adventures. Last month, Jean-Marc went to a night club in the Carre Nage neighborhood by the sea, and got to watch the hit band Septentrional in action. Good times, to be sure. Jean-Marc did the bump and grind with his lady of the day, Therese Beaudoin, a tall, sexy gal from the Artibonite region.
"The usual, sir," Jean-Marc said, and he picked up another newspaper, Le Nouvelliste, and as expected, it was filled with nothing but political crap. Jean-Marc didn't care for politics. The young man remembered the elation that filled the Haitian populace following the election of President Aristide, whom they thought of as an honest man because he'd once been a priest. President Aristide was supposed to fix the country and make the Haitian people forget the horrors they endured during the Duvalier decades. As if the man was some kind of miracle worker!
Jean-Marc found an article on the Caribbean Football Union, and smiled as he read about Haitian football players chances against their regional rivals, the Cubans, Jamaicans and Dominicans. Jean-Marc was halfway through the article when he sensed someone looking at him. Looking up, Jean-Marc found himself looking at a vision of masculine beauty. Pierre Jacques stood a short distance away, talking with a lady that Jean-Marc didn't know.
