Sweet, sweet time, of walking home. Jules remembered every single time she did it; though she did not remember everything which happened there. But there was a magic in the cooling evening and summer light which bewildered her. Sometimes she was alone, and sometimes she would be dreaming of her father, a boyfriend that she was missing, or just some passing fragment of the day. Each time it was totally different. And yet it was the same equipoise in her soul. And it was her sole that beckoned her this time. The mooding of the day, that was the same; at least to her it was. It was as if it was a long lost sigh, that felt as if it started in the throat, but then came pouring out through the pores.
On the street she saw no barrels or baskets on the heads of women, though they did move down this street. But there was always something respectful about the way in which people had reverence, as if this was on holy ground. And it was in a manner of speaking – because being near the palace of the president was both a point of pride, and a remembrance of what had come before. Because for 2 generations, a man called Duvalier drilled the country to his whim – Bebe Dok was the son of Papa. And one would be hard pressed to decide which was more vicious. The old man would argue this when all of the other children had gone to bed; when did not know which stories were true, which ones are false, and which ones were the result of state terrorism. These were the days of the tom-tom macout – with the only positive thing that could be said was that he died young – 63, when other men would survive until much later. But then he was not interested in survival, but in power for as long as he had it. True he was given a ghost of a chance, but he was as mean spirited as his father was, and the tobacco monopoly gave him almost unlimited power on the tiny island, and it expanded beyond tobacco. No books were ever taken into account – and the loyalist police and military could do what they would like. Even Ronald Reagan could not stand him.
Prolonging her life; a forward which was written on her parents faces – they turned away rather than answering questions about what they did. From this she knew that they were active participants in the looting of the country. A few amassed huge fortunes while the rest of the tiny half of an island starved or leered on as the women were beaten. It said a great deal that her mother was never beaten.
But if you want to know why many in the dream of Paris, it is not the language but the lifestyle of Duvalier. He still has many supporters.
She went down up to her house and slowly slipped into the door, where she was surprised to see the man called himself Jon le Bon. It was a half dance and half fight – she able struggled against him and yielded her body to him at the same time. She was both repelled and enticed, just as it had been the last time that they met.
“Why are you here? And where is my mother?”
“I am here because I meant to be here, and your mother realized she could not keep me out. In fact she did not even try.”
“So she probably left running, is what you are saying.” she used her arms to extract herself, but only partially. His arms gripped into her elbows, securing a grip that she could not break.
“Are you still fighting against me, when we have endless days to speak of love.” the expression sounded to her like it was prepared, and she hoped that this would enfold her into escaping. But try as she might, she looked into his eyes – and melted into a dreamy reverence. On one side she thought it was disgusting, on the other side she felt her skin on her back yelp with delight. How does this happen? She was sure that there was some biochemical reaction, or some mystical movement that attracted opposites.But whatever it was, she needed to escape – and her tone was set to the harshest measure that she could muster.
Love was not in the equation: “Why do you want me? And how long do I have before you tire of my face, because we know that you are not put on this earth for marriage.”
“And how do you know that I was not put on the world for marriage?” there was a grin on Jon le Bon's face – even wider than a cats.
“Would you marry me?”
“But that is a specific question, them I put on the globe for you. Not a generic question about me.”
“All right then, suppose I would ask about me? What would you say?”
“I would say I do not know you well enough.”
“Well enough to sleep with me, though.”
“That is just for two people who happen to get along.”
But she thought, that is for 2 people who do not get along, but one to be close to one another.
“All right let us say that we get along, how long would it be until you would think about marrying me?”
“It is hard to say – so why do not we get close and things will work out – of that I can promise you.”
Realizing that he had plenty of deferments to the question, so that eventually she would open her nest and allow him to roost. And then there was the prickly feeling on her legs as he rubbed one but up her back. The only question she really wanted to know, was, how did he know by looking at her. Once the question was phrased in this parikulurli manner – it was fairly obvious. He may not have known the exact medical words, but he knew the clear signs that she was ovulating. And had a knack for exploiting this to its full.
Body cannot care, but mind knew that this would be the last time that the two of them would sleep together, this she promised on Bondye, God of gods. She problems this even though it made her lips move, and she went to sleep with this on her tongue: no more should he gain entrance just by knowing the signs.