Cassonade

By M.J. Newell

The novel Cassonade presents a vivid historical reality within a fictional narrative that portrays conflict in a tumultuous third world country.

During the 1960's a baby was conceived in Port-au-Prince, Haiti to a young street orphan. As a child, she was given the magical power of the occult. It is this power that De'file'e JonVerat will one day call upon to destroy a corrupt "President for Life."

The story transitions to the 1990's when a grown Dee JonVerat becomes involved with Matthew James, a young American who is fleeing the expectations of his wealthy family. In her quest to save the street children of Haiti from a life of incarceration, Dee attempts to lure the validation of a white man into a dark world in which he knows nothing about.

With no one to trust, Matthew is confused by what is real and what is surreal. His confusion is complicated by the unwanted assistance from the American Embassy that supports a corrupt government as it panders after the wealth tourism will bring to Haiti. An American diplomat attempts to convince Matthew that everything he has witnessed is not real, but only an elaborate scheme to gain his support. Detained in a Haitian prison with nowhere to turn, Matthew must decide between the empathy in his heart or the logic of his mind.

Four young street orphans, a wise old Haitian man, and an expatriate each contribute to this story, providing their own idiosyncrasies that complicate the plot and affect the outcome.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891574489

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Cassonade

M.J. Newell

Copyright © 2024 M.J. Newell

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2024

ISBN 979-8-89157-444-1 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-89157-448-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Ezili kalika elu Ala loa ki réd

Ezilu u madré kocho

M'ape ba u li

Ezili madé kabrit dé pyé

Koté pul'pran pu ba-li

Ezili kanlikan elu

Ah, what hard loa

Ezili, you ask for pig,

I give pig.

Ezili, you ask for goat with two feet.

I give you goat.

When she stopped her mantra, she pulled a small object from her waist and hurled it toward a burrow in front of her. Immediately a bright flame lurched to the sky, making Matthew flinch from the glare. The drum resumed its rhythmic beat at a more frantic pace as Dee began to gyrate around the fire. Matthew wanted to turn and run, but his legs felt like jelly, moving but not carrying him away. As she danced, Dee once again began a chant. The intensity of the drumbeat grew as the reverberation pounded in Matthew's head. The image seemed so real, yet so distorted.

The beat from the drum stopped abruptly. Dee stood motionless on the far side of the fire, facing Matthew through the flames. There was silence, and all Matthew could hear was his own heartbeat. Foliage moved on the far side of the open theater, and a man appeared carrying a baby goat. His muscular arms outstretched, the man held the goat by its hooves. The animal struggled, its body straining from being held upside down, its spindly legs twisting and turning against the grip of the man. He then placed all four hooves together into one hand. With his free hand he pulled a knife from a sheath tied to his waist, and in a single motion he slit the goat's neck. He held the goat high over his head, allowing blood to run from the half-decapitated neck, down a line onto its face, and drip off its nose. The man then moved to Dee and held the goat above her, allowing the blood to drip onto her face. She opened her mouth to the liquid, lapping at it with her tongue. Matthew's eyes were wide, paralyzed with fear. He was unable to move his body.

As she stepped back, Dee raised her hands up to her neck and began to uncoil an object that now moved with life. Matthew could see a head and a tongue flicking in the air as the serpent smelled its surroundings. Dee was very deliberate in her movement, so not to startle the snake. Unafraid, the reptile slithered around her shoulders and down onto her arms. When the head came into the proper position, Dee skillfully snatched the snake around its neck, directly behind the black, lifeless eyes. As she did so, the snake coiled, sensing danger. Dee stretched the snake between her two arms. With her other hand, she held the snake's midsection so it was completely immobilized except for the tail, which gyrated out of control. The snake struggled for freedom, but the woman's grip was viselike. She stepped close to the fire.

Holding the snake to the sky, she screamed words filled with venom.

Lanmo met Ayiti. Nanm Defile a pral vanje bastard pitit fi. The soul of Défilée will avenge his bastard daughter, all bastard children begat from his loin. Her voice was strong and clear, sounding not like her, but echoing like an ancient decree from someone long ago.

This dream became a nightmare. Dee held the snake high over the fire, which sizzled as though fueled by anger. She lowered her hands directly into the flame, clutching the snake with all her might. The snake recoiled from the heat, but Dee never moved her hands. Her eyes turned black with vengeance, and sweat made the red paint on her face run down her cheeks.

Without remorse, Dee opened her fingers and dropped the dead snake into the fire. As she did so, she lowered her head from the heavens and stared straight ahead. Matthew could see her eyes lighten to their natural color as the rage seemed to leave her body. The ceremony was now over and so was the dream. He could feel Dee's eyes staring at him.

Matthew slowly raised his head up from his knees and looked at the room, which continued to spin around him. He slid off the sheets and crawled to the bathroom, hoping cool water would revive him. He pulled himself up to the sink and turned on the faucet, only to see the water run as red as the blood in his dream. Matthew recoiled and hurled himself over the toilet bowl where he vomited the contents in his stomach. He kept his head low in the toilet as his body convulsed again.

Finally, Matthew raised his head. He wiped the tears away from under his eyes and the sweat away from his hairline. The bile in his throat burned and he spit into the toilet bowl. He then turned and sat, resting his head on the toilet seat. He must have dozed, and when he awoke, Matthew felt weak, but better. He pushed himself up, turned off the now-clear running water, and carefully walked into the bedroom where he found his underwear, shirt and pants. He checked his wallet for its contents and immediately felt ashamed for doing so.

Dee, you here? he yelled out toward the living room as he walked back into the bathroom. Standing at the toilet urinating, Matthew felt his first sense of relief that morning. After he dressed, he began to believe he might have had too much to drink last night and this was nothing more than a bad dream. He looked around at his surroundings. The bathroom was definitely a woman's, much cleaner than anything he was used to.

Matthew turned on the faucet and washed his mouth out with water and was shocked by the face staring back at him in the mirror. If some nights were worse than others, then last night was the worst of all: bloodshot eyes, lips dry and cracked and his hair sticking out is every direction. His reflection was truly a distorted caricature.

Matthew felt his pores tighten as he splashed his face with cold water. He wiped the crusty sleep from his eyes and ran his wet hands through his long hair, trying to calm it down. He toweled off his face, ready to find Dee. As he walked around the apartment, he could clearly hear the voices rising from the street. The morning was early, the sun still low on the horizon, but Dee was gone and there was no note as to where.

Standing in the middle of the room, not sure what to do, Matthew walked behind the bar and knelt down. He looked closely, examining the floor to see if he could find any clue as to what happened last night. It wasn't large, but the morning sunlight caught a reflection. Lying near his foot was a jagged shard of glass. Matthew carefully picked it up and examined the edge that was smudged with blood. He looked down at his finger and saw no sign of a cut, so he rocked himself backward against the wall to sit and think.

Mornings in the embassy were always busy with activity, and for that reason, the ambassador and Adrian King often looked for sanctuary from the rest of the staff. This morning they secluded themselves in a room that was located down a hallway from the formal dining room. An old staff breakroom, converted to a parlor by the ambassador, the room contained nothing more than a small table, a tiny square refrigerator and a microwave. Essentially it was still the break room, but the ambassador insisted upon a more dignified name. It was here the two men could enjoy tea, fresh fruit, and pastries during which time Adrian would review the ambassador's daily itinerary and offer his advice. Adrian King's importance came from the fact that the ambassador trusted him implicitly and would follow whatever counsel his aide offered.

We may have a slight problem, Adrian added nonchalantly at the end of the briefing.

What type of problem? The ambassador didn't look up from the paper he was reading.

Adrian contemplated what he would say next. He knew Ambassador Perrault wasn't always receptive to news that might be considered a little distasteful.

One of our male Caribbean First members is possibly having a relationship with one of the female Haitian site managers, Adrian said. He could see the ambassador's eyes look up over his bifocals.

What type of relationship? the ambassador asked.

Intimate. Adrian was patient with his boss's naivete.

Oh my. The ambassador took off his glasses and sighed.

The two men sat still for a moment and Adrian could see the slight look of disgust on the ambassador's face. The man was a Catholic, married to the same woman for forty years and Adrian was sure he used the word sex as a noun when discussing gender and never as a verb.

I wouldn't have brought it up, but the gentleman concerned is Matthew James, Adrian said, hesitating because he wasn't sure the name rang a bell. His father is …

I am well aware of who his father is, Mr. King, the ambassador cut him off.

Then you realize this could be a bit of a touchy situation, Adrian warned.

Adam Perrault sat for a second before responding. What is his assignment?

He's working on the project near Pic la Selle. It was a small job, and his work there is complete.

The two men sat staring at each other. The ambassador wondered why there was a need for him to be privy to this discreet information and Adrian was thinking the only reason he brought it up in the first place was political survival. Matthew James's father exerted financial influence in Washington, and if there was any hint of embarrassment, there would be collateral damage to a promising career in the foreign service.

This James boy isn't in any trouble, is he?

The question was phrased to insinuate make it go away.

No, nothing to speak of, we're not quite sure why he's here in the first place. Our problem is that this Haitian woman has been a bit of a thorn in the side of this government and they would love nothing better than to add a little discredit to her reputation.

As well they should—the ambassador was clear in his intent—if she is going to carry on like that.

Easier said than done, sir. She is respected by a large group of people who do not believe in the forward direction of this government, and if anything were to be done to her publicly—Adrian chose his words carefully—then it could do more harm than good.

Well, we must make sure that doesn't happen. Get our man out. Maybe another assignment, maybe home, whatever is necessary. Understood?

Yes, sir, arrangements have already been made to get him home.

The ambassador's voice was direct. Have it taken care of, Mr. King. Immediately!

The ambassador stood, signifying to Adrian that he had more pressing matters to attend to.

Understood, Adrian replied. We'll make this problem go away, sir.

Excellent. Ambassador Perrault turned and made his way to the door.

Exhausted, Matthew kicked the dormitory door closed behind him. He needed some answers because he was sure his imagination had been playing tricks on his mind. He wanted to find Dee so that she could reassure him, but he needed sleep. Fully clothed, he flopped down on his cot, hoping that when he woke up this real life nightmare would only be a bad dream.

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

About the Author

Prologue

It may all be a myth, although what happened over the past two hundred years reaffirms that the lives of these people are historical in nature. During the dawn of the 1800s, legend tells us of a woman, Défilée, who, mad though she may have been, did much to shape life as it is known today in Haiti.

Chapter One

Haiti

1968

"C'est très chaud."

As the black man sat up in bed, he was illuminated by the soft glow of a candle. His muscled physique glistened with sweat, the night air thick and stagnant even though the sun had long since dropped beneath the horizon. In Cité Soleil there was no relief, only cement block dwellings.

He breathed in through his wide nostrils, paying no attention to the bare surroundings.

It is very hot, he repeated in his French-European accent, which contrasted the patois spoken by the girl who lay before him.

As the only son of Haiti's president, Jon Anastade enjoyed the power over anyone he came into contact with. He was this country's future ruler and his manner did not leave him even in the relaxed moment after climax. His posture reflected a regimen of structure and nobility.

A small hand stroked his ebony back as he leaned toward the candle to light his cigarette.

Vous ai-je plai …ah plezi …non tanpri ou? Her halting French, questioned his approval.

You must stay to the language of the people, it is what you know. He paused and stared at her. You do please me, mon cherie, most women do, the man spoke distinctively, aware that he was considered a god amongst his people. He embodied what he wanted for his country; needing his populace to be as physically strong as he, well muscled to withstand the harsh reality of life, yet unrepentant from within. Under his future leadership, Haiti would transform itself from an underdeveloped country into a progressive nation.

As he stood to dress, Jon looked down at the young street orphan lying on top of the dingy mattress, which was colored and spotted from years of activity upon it. The thought of their encounter had reverted his eyes to the girl. The long black mane that cascaded down her back, was contrary to the cropped kinky hair common to the black women of this island. It was her unique features and slender body that pleased him physically and incensed him culturally.

The man dominated many other orphan girls in Haiti, but this one was a most unique target of his predatory instincts. She possessed an undeniable beauty; mixing the darkness of Africa with the refined lightness of a caucasian culture. It was this mixture of French ancestry that had bastardized the purity of his people two hundred years ago as French soldiers raped black slave women. It was now with a vengeance that this powerful man felt the urge to spew his domination over these half-breed whores of the street; needing to revenge his heritage by defiling their innocence.

Mwen dwe di ou. She struggled to find her words

Tu peux me dire n'importe quoi. You can tell me anything.

Vant mwen, li fè mal. Mwen vle vomi. This street orphan did not feel well. Ou Malad? Ou gen le fatige. The young girl now looked sickly as she stared up at him, the beauty draining from her face as she pleaded to him.

She searched for the right words. Mwen pa gen okenn senyen pou de mwa. I no bleed for two month.

That is none of my concern. What do you expect me to do regarding this confession? It was not so much a question as an admonition.

The man was anxious to leave. He didn't like being near this filth once his mind settled and was not racing from the excitement between his loins. This one would have to be ignored as the others were after conception. She would quietly disappear amongst the masses, never telling the world of who the father may have been. The girl, like all the others, would remain quiet on her own, or Haiti would ensure her permanent silence.

He sat down on the single aluminum chair next to the worn mattress, raising his leg above her to pull on a knee-length silk sock. His black eyes darted about the room, taking in its filth until he once again focused on the girl looking up at him. She would be no trouble. The passive emerald eyes that stared blankly into the room reassured him of that. As he continued to breathe the fetid air, the room now seemed smaller. Other than the girl, there was nothing here for him and he felt a slight moment of regret for once again submitting to his temptation.

Vant mwen. Mwen vle voye monte, she said again, quietly. Mwen … She lowered her head and did not finish her sentence. He would not care that she felt nauseated. Ou pa ka fè anyen. You can do nothing.

Then, you do understand the situation clearly.

Jon Anastade did not wait for her response. With those words, the next President for Life of the hemisphere's poorest country stood and dropped several crumpled lajan onto the mattress. That money would feed her for the time spent pleasuring him. There were thousands like this girl in Port-au-Prince, but this one was distinct, at this moment, because he had released himself inside of her.

Jon Anastade stared at the young girl lying naked before him. You must cut your hair in the manner of your African heritage so you do not disgust me.

Not sure why he bothered to utter one last command, he turned and walked out of the hovel. They would never be together again. Inhaling deeply, the large man hoped the night air would cleanse his nostrils; it proved to be no more appealing than the room he had just exited. He now gazed over the mass of cement and canals filled with polluted waste and vowed to one day rid his country of this albatross.

As the passenger door to his shiny black automobile was held open for him, Jon Anastade took one last look at these surroundings. He sometimes wondered why he lowered himself to come here, but the pleasure was too easy and required no emotional investment. Climbing into the leather seat of his limousine, Jon Anastade was able to breathe more freely as he pondered life. He knew that he would continue to indulge his desires because there were many orphan girls. Eventually, he would stop this nonsense when he became the next leader of this country, but for now, life was an adventure of youth.

Mon Présidente? his chauffeur asked.

Jon Anastade enjoyed being addressed by that title, even if it weren't true yet. It would be soon-very soon.

Coconut Villa.

The stench of this rendezvous had to be masked with flavorful rum punch and intelligent company.

Chapter Two

Haiti

Seven Years Later

As she nestled in her mother's arms, Défilée could see the future through stories of the past. This was the same dingy mattress where she was conceived seven years ago. The joy that grew inside of Monique JonVerat after conception made her stronger than the sadness surrounding her world; it was this joy in a young life, who would one day avenge the injustice of a rapist.

The young girl lying beside Monique possessed skin as dark as a starless night, with African features like that of her father, but it was her emerald eyes that made her ĺ idole. She was a mixture of races, yet her beauty and name would give her the strength to change a way of life people had grown accustomed to in a decaying land. On this night, destiny would give her a power few believed in.

While her mother stroked her short hair by the candlelight, Défilée closed her eyes and waited patiently for the story of her name. The story, historical in its event, mythical in its nature remained forever in Haitian lore.

It start during revolution of country, her mother whispered, when seventeen and eighteen century come together. Gwo Jeneral Desalin yo pwòp peyi violatè franse. Li te ewo. Li te lidè. Poukisa li chwazi lespri ti tay, pa gen moun konnen. Jeneral nou trayi moun paske nan pouvwa Evaris pote. Moun ki vire kont li nan Port Rouge. The great General Dessalines clean country of French rapist. He was hero. He was leader. Why he choose to slight spirit, no one know. Our general betray people because of greed power bring. People turn against him at Port Rouge. My little daughter dis where beautiful Défilée kenbe jeneral an vi ave l' pouvwa magique nanm. Keep general soul alive with magic power.

The girl savored hearing about the woman she was named after. She looked up, clutched tighter, and awaited her mother's story about the heroine.

Jeneral Desalin dieyo tire zam nan men l. They fire gun at him. Li te mouri anba bal nan pwóp moun pa l. He kill from bullet of own men. People feed off rage become craze. Dem believe he turn against dem, dem hack body to pieces—dwét nan men yo, men nan bra yo, ak zam nan men kó li. Finger from hand, hand from arm, arm from body. Hack part after part. Blood flow like river. Dis when Défilée save soul of mon jeneral, our founder of independence. Some people call her mad, some people say she sell body for favor. No true. Sovè Défilée nou an, pa gen anyen plis. Our Défilée Savior, nothing more. Out of killing come young girl, who pick body part, put in apron. She clean away blood, mess, make body whole. Soul live another life. Why she choose, no one know.

Monique stared into the candle as she tightly held Défilée and began to sing:

Word already spoken,

Desalin is priest,

Word already spoken.

Every day Makandal going to speak to Desalin.

Desalin no listen …

Défilée yes;

Défilée frightened!

Jeneral Desalin, oh! Look at my misery,

Look at troubled country,

Capsized country,

Emperor Desalin, oh!

You, this courageous girl,

No leave fallen country …

No leave ruined country.

With the end of the song, a tearful Monique looked down at her innocent daughter.

Li priye pou lidè san nanm vin lidè renmen. She pray for soulless leader to become loving leader. "Non, I afraid Défilée save bad soul who now live over us. Must answer dis man rest of life or destroy soul. You will be more strong than he, my Cassonade, my brown sugar. Dis will give gift of love, death, magic of namesake, bravery I no show you. One day, soul will become soul of Défilée. Only you destroy soul dis woman save long ago."

Monique emptied a vial of powder into a cup of warm tea sitting by the mattress, and tipped the liquid to the little girl's lips, placing her into a hypnotic trance. She set down the drink and pulled a hairpin from her hair, causing the curly mane to fall over her shoulders. With a steady hand, she held the point of the hairpin over