1979–1980, May 27: (Why Couldn’t He Have Married a Haitian: Michèle Bennett’s Collège Bird Origins, Her Marriage to Pasquet’s Son, the Garment District Secre…

1979–1980, May 27: (Why Couldn’t He Have Married a Haitian: Michèle Bennett’s Collège Bird Origins, Her Marriage to Pasquet’s Son, the Garment District Secretary, the Michelbé Tantrums, Simone Orders Macoutes to Put Her on a Plane, Jean-Claude’s Furious Row with His Mother, Romain and Raymond Cashiered for Interfering, Archbishop Ligondé Marries His Niece, $5 Million in Champagne and Miami Florists, the Drawn Swords over the Couple, and the Noir Masses Ask Why Not One of Us): Anxious for her son to settle down, Simone Duvalier and other elders preached the virtues of a more mature lifestyle. In a society so closely run, the question of whom the president could marry vexed many — he had dated many of the eligible women in Port-au-Prince and bedded some number of the married ones, but the dream match was nowhere in evidence. His companions were those he had grown up with, and it was unremarkable that the president should come into contact with the two daughters of Ernest Bennett, a wealthy mulâtre merchant. Alarm bells rang when the older daughter, Michèle, kept appearing by Jean-Claude’s side — longhaired, vivacious, she had first met him at Collège Bird in 1962. Her father, whose financial dealings had earned François Duvalier’s disapproval and a jail sentence, had shipped her overseas for schooling, where she had met and married the son of Alix Pasquet, one of the leaders of the 1958 Sheriffs’ Coup; by the time they parted in 1978, she had borne Pasquet two sons. After working as a secretary in New York’s garment district, she returned to Haiti to work for her father, made the rounds of the party circuit, and set out assiduously to woo her old schoolmate. Jean-Claude, impassive and hard to read, fell hard — smitten, consumed with passion, he sought to accommodate her every whim, which became increasingly demanding. Bennett became possessive, demanding he see only her and berating him in front of guards and staff if she thought he was unfaithful; these tantrums were dubbed Michelbé — a play on the Creole word chelbé, meaning caper. Franck Romain, long-time macoute and army officer, made the mistake of trying to limit her access and found himself quickly cashiered; even Claude Raymond, François Duvalier’s godson and Chief of Staff, was curtly dismissed when he tried to dissuade the young chief from his obsession. Simone Duvalier, her entreaties availing nothing, ordered macoutes to take Michou to the airport and put her on the next plane — Michèle protested loudly and getting through on a private line, told an astonished president what was afoot; immediately rescinding the order, Jean-Claude engaged his mother in a furious row, showing resolve that few had seen before. On April 29, 1980, Télé-Haïti announced the engagement; fiercely opposed, Simone had grudgingly acquiesced, even agreeing to serve as Matron of Honor, her consent secured only when old friends argued that the continuing row could cause the regime’s collapse. Not all old Duvalierists were as accommodating — Clovis Désinor refused outright to attend, calling the marriage stupid politically. Michèle used the guest list to avenge old slights, and many stalwarts found themselves on the outside. Duvalierist Archbishop Ligondé was to marry the couple in a solemn High Mass in the Port-au-Prince cathedral, Michèle Bennett’s divorce notwithstanding — Ligondé explained that since her first marriage was in the Episcopal Church, it could be ignored; the Monsignor’s theological dilemma also yielded to family ties, for Michèle Bennett was his niece. Two thousand invitations went out around the world; thousands of cases of champagne and delicacies were imported, as were $100,000 worth of fireworks for the poor, who were to watch on government television sets while swigging rations of rum and food. Unable to find enough flowers in tropical Haiti, the couple arranged for three florists to fly in from Miami with rare flora. Under a sodden sky on May 27, 1980, the president took unto himself a wife; emerging from the cathedral, they walked between an honor guard of milice and army whose drawn swords formed a canopy of steel. The marriage was a public relations fiasco — the foreign press contrasted the cathedral scenes with Port-au-Prince’s poverty and mused about the appropriateness of spending $5 million on a wedding when the government was receiving most of its budget as foreign aid. The TVs set up for the occasion in poorer quarters showed the largely mulâtre crowd in Paris fashions enjoying a world inaccessible to the man on the street. Mutterings were heard throughout the country, evidencing how thoroughly François Duvalier’s noirisme had rooted itself: why, asked many, couldn’t he have married one of us — a Haitian?