Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 
Space Agency

by Jude Jarda

 1 

The Abduction

A dusty road cuts Route Nationale # 2 halfway between Port-Au-Prince and Léogâne. A rusty billboard hidden on purpose behind a mango tree issues a dire warning to all drifters and strangers: access behind this point is strictly forbidden by the ministry of Public Health, the area being highly radioactive and contaminated with various hazardous wastes including mustard gas and PCB residues. Hardly two hundred meters further, there is a rotating sign wishing a warm welcome to outsiders, inviting them to visit the newly rebuilt city of Mizerikod. Kept secret by the authorities in Port-au-Prince to avoid a massive migration of people, Mizerikod is the first municipality of Haiti known to have been entirely rebuilt by the Department of Public Works and Transport since the catastrophic earthquake of January 2010. Markedly to evade detection from satellites, a peculiar municipal law obliges contractors to make sure that all the roofs of Mizerikod are painted in various taints of green and earth colors. The town looks like a work of art from above, but like an absolute disaster at street level. Fragments of rocks and bricks lie everywhere, the open sewers are clogged with garbage and a very aggressive smell of sulfur fills the air. Desolation is rampant on the freshly paved streets, on which dead carcasses and old cars abound. Many construction projects are still running, but most are carried by builders from the private sector and foreigners. Richly decorated edifices with Venetian windows and slate roofing tiles stand next to a crumbling overcrowded slum. The City Hall and the library look like architectural masterpieces of the Renaissance, but their beauty hides with blatant hypocrisy a handful of luxurious mansions guarded by heavily armed men. Erected right in the middle of the village, these expensive homes overlook with a cruel indifference a vast open dump.

Located between the Gulf of Gonâve and a chain of soothing hills, the perfect spot for a seaside resort, the beauty of that heavenly strip of land touched the heart of a dying American philanthropist born in the region. The brilliant idea to transform this neglected zone into a tourist magnet came in the shape of a dream to Sixte Osmer Legitime on a cold February night. The patriarch's vision was subsequently interpreted by a medium named Bonne Suzette. The Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation, the Vilaj Espwa Project and the Alpha Legitimus Suites were founded and funded within days under the old man's supervision. Mr. Legitime passed away three months later, leaving behind him an important fortune and a testament containing a bunch of strange rules and requirements destined to control the way his heirs would ultimately inherit, manage and spend that colossal amount of money. The first and most important wish of Sixte Osmer Legitime was to be buried back home in Mizerikod in a brand new cemetery bearing his name. In the following fifteen months after the reading of the will, the reconstruction process became a reality. Everyone seemed to work for the same objective. Unfortunately, just two years later, lawsuits and legal proceedings for embezzlement, breach of trust, theft, concealment and generalized corruption were on schedule every single day at the city of Mizerikod's court. Because most charges were handled by a disorganized judiciary system, the majority of the cases were never brought in front of a judge with any real powers.

A Black Lincoln SUV with its headlights off and tinted windows leaves the Nationale # 2 and takes the narrow passage that leads to Capois-la-Mort, the main artery of the newly restored town. The speeding four wheel drive is tailgated by a white Nissan pickup of the National Police. The bumper of the police vehicle is damaged and its siren is unstable. It is very late, few people are up, but those who are don't seem bothered at all by the noise. None of the drivers head for the shoulders of the street to facilitate the work of the lawmen. A group of reckless male teens on their way to the graveyard, where they plan to celebrate the Day of the Dead and invoke the voodoo spirits, keep crossing the boulevard to impress their girlfriends, all dressed in white. An itinerant patty vendor named Ludovic is unhurriedly looking for the object that blew his bicycle tire right in the middle of the road.

Four fugitives are aboard the Lincoln Navigator: two local bandits, their pubescent accomplice and a hostage experiencing a nervous breakdown. The leader of the brigands is a fake Rastafarian with golden teeth nicknamed Chuck Three-Brothers, a thug kicked out of Canada twice in the past, the last expulsion dating from eleven months. The sobriquet of Three-Brothers comes from his striking resemblance to the Baudouin-Lacroix twins, two intrepid soldiers of his fearsome gang. Chuck makes a decent living as a professional kidnapper, thief and drug dealer, with revenues six hundred times higher than the average worker in the country. But on the other hand, Chuck is constantly frustrated by the fact that he cannot rent an adequate place to live on Jacques-Stephen-Alexis Avenue or even buy for himself a converted container in the nearby shanty town. Having a stable and official address is unfortunately incompatible with his line of occupation. Chuck must endure living under the debris of an ancient smithy on the other side of the unfinished Jacques-Roumain Bridge, with no Jacuzzi, no air conditioner and no parabolic antenna. The man he just snatched represents his ticket of return to Saint-Basile, a small community located on the south shore of Montreal. Chuck had been spying on his pray for a long period of time before finally capturing it. That man is a big fish, a flamboyant individual who holds extravagant parties on every Saturday at the Kompa Lakay club on the Dessalines Dock; a highly regarded executive who is constantly protected by muscled bodyguards dressed in Armani and always surrounded by an entire television crew, a group of female followers and a crowd of boot licking fans. That presumptuous character, called amicably Director or sometimes Billionaire by most, and VIP by the trendy people of the city, is also the top manager of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation, the chief engineer of the Vilaj Espwa Project and basically the man responsible of Mizerikod's rebirth. Keeping his hand wrap on the grip of his patched up old gun, Chuck repeats to himself that no one will keep him away from his dream to get back home in Quebec. He swears with his teeth clenched that if this bureaucrat is not worth the one hundred thousand dollars he plans to ask for his release, many people will weep and endure deep sorrow.

The second hoodlum sports a University of Utah football coat and wears a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses from dusk till dawn. Chuck's assistant uses Jones Brooklyn as his nom de guerre. That bald head hulk with biceps made of steel is the actual founder of the Diabbakas, also designated as Chuck's pack. The transfer of power was never made official, but Jones recognized that Chuck's accounting degree put him in a better position to increase the revenues of the organization. The respect he has for Chuck stops right there. As the senior member of the gang, Jones Brooklyn was already living like an outlaw back in the days when Chuck and his small circle of expatriates were learning how to lace their running shoes. He tolerates his number two position for the time being, but things will change when he learns to read and write, and also nail the subtleties of mathematics. He spends a lot of time trying to understand the tricks and secrets of Chuck, notably how he manages to get his hands on forged legal documents and passports so easily. Jones Brooklyn is also planning to find out more about that legendary stash of cash that Chuck supposedly hid somewhere in his hometown before being expelled from Canada. Even if that rumor was spread by a compulsive liar named Vidal Gascon, Jones Brooklyn is awaiting confirmation of the existence of that money. Until then, he keeps playing the roles of the designated driver and weapon's specialist of the crew, while preparing a merciless mutiny against Chuck and his Canadian buddies. Jones has a lot of ambition and his goals are clear. He wants to get out of Haiti, land in Toronto to audition for Canadian Idol and win the competition. His thug turned rapper career will start from there. He puts up with Chuck's tyranny for now until the day Three-Brothers will become an obstacle or a useless pawn on his chess board.

The young accomplice is a malnourished teenager named Gargarine. The adolescent ignores the gravity of the crime he took part of. He also has no clue about his position in time and space. The two older scoundrels made him drink some cheap quality rum all evening before inviting him to join their illegal escapade. For this homeless lad, that was a unique chance to ride alongside the big guys, an offer he could not refuse, proud to hang out and be seen with the real ruffians of the commune. Gargarine is fighting to stay awake. He is wondering why there is an electric drill on the floor between his feet and how come his hands are smelly and stained with oil. He also would like to know why this bound and hooded man by his side is so agitated and sweaty. As for the victim of the abduction, the man is clearly showing signs of distress, his head covered and his hands tied behind his back. Dressed in a bathrobe and barefoot, the unlucky dude was brutally grabbed while taking his shower in a villa fully equipped with surveillance cameras and protected by armed mercenaries. He is trying to communicate to his kidnappers that he will gladly collaborate if they could only remove that dirty sock from his mouth. Alienated by his rage, he can only mumble an assortment of unintelligible insults and yell to his abductors that they snatched the wrong man.

The police patrol is also a quartet formed by two indigenous cops, a fifty year old Manitoban officer and a young Haitian born in La Beauce, a region in Quebec. All four are well-intentioned and motivated to serve the nation of Haiti. The native agent on the passenger side of the car is Sergeant Pyram Malvenu, the son of Mizerikod's police chief. The sergeant has left eyelid ptosis. That condition gives the impression to people addressing him that he is always suspicious and doubtful. Which is in fact the plain truth. Pyram is always craving for his father's attention, approbation and support, even if his dad is the archetype of the corrupted cop. Unlike his father and boss, Pyram has always tried to exercise is profession with fairness and sheer rectitude. He so far terribly failed. Half of the citizens that this former soccer player has arrested since joining the police service have file complaints for assault, the other half disappeared without a trace or quietly left town for security reasons. Inspired by his role model, Chicago prohibition agent, Eliot Ness, Pyram Malvenu fixed himself a goal: cleaning Mizerikod from its big and small undesirables by all means. While the policeman holding the steering wheel of the car is striving to find a way out of this careless chase before causing an accident, Pyram is eyeing the cartridge of his pistol. His lower lip is hanging and he is breathing quite heavily. Muttering to himself like a deranged man, he is sending the evil eye on the escaping fugitives.

Cyril Lavache is whispering his rosary while driving. He is completely absorbed in his prayers to the Virgin. He makes sure never to annoy or contradict Pyram when the latter starts to stutter or when his jugular vein pops out. Knowing the content of Pyram's medical file, Cyril even avoids gazing at the sergeant for too long. Everybody in Mizerikod is convinced that the son of the police commissioner is utterly insane, but the chief keeps denying it. Secluded in his sumptuous villa on top of a hill called La Morne de la Gloire, he pretends that Sergeant Malvenu is just a little bit eccentric. That simplistic explanation does not bring back the many souls that have vanished since Pyram was sworn in the PNH. Cyril Lavache hates his night job. It accelerates the loss of his graying hair and lowers his chance of retiring one day while he is still healthy. During the day, he takes it easy as the village's cobbler, enjoying the loyalty of a faithful and regular clientele, but his credit system simply doesn't work. Cyril agreed to embrace the role of peace officer and the whopping prearranged payments that came with it, only to put a stop to the mayor's bribes. Following a failed armed robbery of his shop, which the old Cyril put an end to by performing a spectacular karate move on the thief, Mayor Amédée Fleurinor decided to use the cobbler as a tool for his re-election campaign. The incident was recorded by a customer and uploaded on YouTube. The video became a small hit and was seen by every household of the region, propelling the shy old man to local stardom and making him a trustworthy candidate to the eyes of the population. Cyril could not run for office, so Mayor Amédée Fleurinor started to pay and to shower him with gifts, using every reason possible to be photographed by his side, especially when the press was around. Before the arrival of Chuck's gang of troublemakers, Cyril used to kill time playing poker, surfing the web, drinking booze or taking a good nap during work hours. He was enjoying his weekly wages doing absolutely nothing, just like a lucky lotto winner. Now that he has to serve and protect, in addition of facing real bullets, the passion is long gone. Nothing prevents Cyril from quitting the police force. However, he does not want to move away from Mizerikod, nor does he want to leave behind a bunch of enemies on either side of the law.

Sitting quietly on the back seat of the police car, Robin Monarque is reflecting on his future. He curses is impulsiveness for volunteering to join this mission in hell with such enthusiasm. According to his best friend, a UN peacekeeper stationed in Cashmere, it is a direct consequence of a badly mismanaged heartbreak; his former father-in-law, an RCMP officer, believes that silly decision only proves what he was right all along about Robin being a slightly retarded drunkard; both his uncles, two decorated detectives living in Alberta, think this bold move only confirms that the bravery gene has indeed been running through the family's blood for centuries. Robin feels he is aging faster than normal since he arrived in Haiti. His fragile freckled light skin and red head do not get along with the sun; being asthmatic, his lungs fear the effects of the humidity that rises after every rainfall; furthermore, his stomach and irritable bowels cannot handle spicy Creole food at all; and to top it all, Robin's pathological abhorrence of germs and mosquitoes adds insomnia and dehydration to his discomfort. Robin Monarque deeply regrets choosing that country to show his compassion towards he's fellow men. He sometimes thinks all he wanted to do was to please other people. Henceforth, all he dreams about is getting back home in Winnipeg alive and well and take care of his own self for once. Of course, Marguerite is now part of the picture. The graceful caregiver of the new state-of-the-art clinic of Mizerikod is lovable, but a bit too pious to even think a relationship with a convinced atheist like him could work.

Robin's young comrade is starting his third consecutive mandate in the devastated country. Evans Ferjuste just loves the thrill and the constant action, something he rarely gets back home in La Beauce. Evans also likes the fact that he is learning and discovering a new aspect of his culture right at the source. His first voyage put him in contact with the colorful language of the Haitian people, a tongue he promises to eventually master. During his second mission, Evans took dance lessons so he could learn about the art of moving his legs and waist to the rhythm of the music. From this time forth, he showed enough ability not to pass for a dancer with a wounded cerebellum. Since he began his third engagement, Evans has been trying to seize that easy going attitude that makes his Haitian and Latino friends so successful with the ladies back in Quebec. Being hyperactive and deprived of his ADHD drugs for a while, Evans definitely cherishes the thrills and the excitement brought by his work in this boisterous territory that gave birth to his ancestors. In this land, nobody asks him where he is from or where he is going. He never has to explain why his legal parents are White or clarify is Canadian or Quebecois status. He is young and full of energy, the pay is sweet and the isolation premiums even sweeter. In the end, Evans will have raised enough money to buy a farm in his hometown of Saint-Narcisse-de-Beaurivage. The inherent risks associated with his job do not haunt him at all, since his youthfulness and his lack of experience keep him unaware of common sense and the fear of dying. Being shy of those faculties and being unable to feel certain emotions are splendid weapons in the midst of this violent and unpredictable universe. The rascals that Evans and the PNH are hunting down know for sure that they will be killed if they're locked in jail even for one day. Accepting to surrender is not a valid option.

The sport utilitarian vehicle of the kidnappers suddenly makes a left and heads westward on Boisrond-Canal Drive. Cyril Lavache finds that maneuver risky and awkward. The cobbler knows exactly where those criminals live, which is in the opposite direction. He was expecting to see the gangsters cross the bridge and go hide in their hideout in the partially flooded ruins of the neighbouring camp. Cyril Lavache was ready to feign indignation. He was already preparing a menacing speech in his head, swearing on his mother's grave to catch Chuck Three-Brothers as soon as he would show is dread locked head out of his rabbit hole again. Instead, Cyril calls the pursuit off, the risks of falling in an ambush being too high to carry on the operation. His gut feeling tells Cyril the fugitives are on their way back to riddle them with lead. Fortunately, the orange indicator of the fuel gauge starts flashing. As the head officer on board, Cyril decides to park the car in front of a pump at Elzéar Michelet's gas station.

“Why the hell did you stop!” yells a very upset Pyram Malvenu. “What kind of shit is that?”

“The tank is empty,” calmly answers Cyril Lavache.

“Maybe we should ask the others at the station to come and block the road past the bridge,” mumbles Robin Monarque with nonchalance and one ounce of concern.

“Who was in charge of the van?” Pyram questions angrily.

“No one, apparently,” says Cyril with a certain sarcasm in his voice. “And look at that, the radio seems damaged.”

“What do you mean?” Pyram shouts.

“Well, the cable that normally links the microphone to the receiver is missing,” Cyril explains. “If you look closer, you can tell that someone used a knife or something sharp to cut it off. Does anybody smell gas or is it my imagination?”

“We're parked on top of a fuel reservoir,” indicates Pyram before stepping out of the pick-up to make a summary inspection.

“We could use the pump attendant's telephone to alert chief Malvenu or the Minustah,” proposes the young Evans Ferjuste.

“So, you're walking around without your cellular phone?” says Robin Monarque to his fellow countryman “I’m very disappointed.”

“Could you please reformulate that in Creole, Lieutenant?”

“Now is not the time for language lessons, young man.”

“I probably left it on the bezique or the domino table.”

“Never forget anything in this war zone if you want to survive. One day, it's your phone, the next one; you're weapon. Then, bang! You're dead.”

“And where is yours, by the way, Lieutenant? I mean, you do have your phone on you, right?”

“I had to bring my mobile phone to Mullet Dot Org's boutique the other day. That bonehead installed a memory chip belonging to someone else in mine. The dumbbell could not understand my problem with him mishandling my stuff and personal information. Like if it was a small incident. To get rid of me, he declared himself sick, possibly a victim of another cholera outbreak. He was suddenly too weak and feverish to start looking for my phone in his messy shop. He told me to come back first thing in the morning. When I showed up at nine o'clock the next day, that's yesterday, his stinky store was closed. I finally found that loser getting drunk at Fresnel Beltias's barber shop on Céligny-Ardouin Avenue last night. I asked him about my phone. The dimwit swore in front of all the customers, asking to be struck by lightning if he was lying, that he never conducted business with me before. So now, I'm thinking, should I take the matter in my own hands like they do over here or…?”

“Goddamn!” Pyram Malvenu vociferates, “The van has been sabotaged! There are several holes in the tank. Boss Elzéar! Boss Elzéar!”

A frail old man resembling a ghost appears at the second level of the building. The gas station stands against all the laws of gravity on what must have been its ground floor before the big earthquake. Three brick walls and a metal sheet cube forms the area in which he lives. A hibiscus garden embellishes the open space, which is divided in a living room, a bedroom and a kitchenette. A small bathroom, literally suspended in the air, with no windows and no door completes the residence. The toothless elder is wearing a tee-shirt with Jean-Bertrand Aristide's smiling face and a Pakistani military vest. He seems very comfortable for a man without pants or any underwear. According to the regional folklore, Elzéar Michelet is an autonomous zombie or an invincible sorcerer. He joined the Macoutes under Papa Doc in 1969 and got nicknamed Blowtorch by his countless victims. Eyewitnesses maintain that he was savagely beaten, stabbed and burned alive by his in-laws during the uprising that shipped Baby Doc to France in February 1986. Retrained as a drug trafficker after the fall of Noriega in Panama, more witnesses attest that Elzéar was severely bludgeoned, dismembered and drowned by partisans of the Lavalas movement in 1991, following the coup of Raoul Cédras. Exiled to Florida, where he became a preacher, a vacuum cleaner distributor and a multitask con man; Elzéar evaded police for many years. For a long period of time, Miami-Dade crime investigators thought that a mummified corpse found in the wall of one of his churches was his. Back in Haiti in 2004, many suggest that Elzear joined the forces of Buteur Métayer as a machete sharpening expert. A lot of people declared that Elzéar was hanged and decapitated before their eyes by the Chimères during the second deportation of Aristide. Finally, a great number of respectable and law-abiding citizens swore under oath, their right hand on the Bible, that during the deadly earthquake of January 2010, Elzéar Michelet was cooking a squash goulash for his autistic daughter's kids. No one had seen them exit the gas station and no one had seen first-aid workers extricate their bodies from the crumbled building.

“Do you realize how late it is, you bad-mannered monkeys?”

“It's actually very early, Colonel,” says Pyram. “It's us, don't worry, the shoemaker Lavache and me. We have an urgent need for oil.”

“Our tank is pierced,” reminds Cyril to Pyram.

“That's true… hum… We would need one of your old wrecks, Colonel. Through me the keys of one of those rusty heaps in the yard.”

“I don't deal with keys anymore, they bring bad luck,” says the old man. “I take care of the pumps and the paperwork around here. Lordy de Grâce runs the mechanical department. He carries a big key ring around his fat neck since they stole his Fiat. Wherever he goes, the keys go. You didn’t hear it from me, but Lordy is rarely home nowadays. Find yourselves a good excuse to go knock on Melissandre Présumé's door and try to clarify with her, why in the world you'd be searching for a married man at her place right before dawn. You may think that I'm crazy, I don't mind, but I am convinced that Pamphile Dutervil, her husband before God, is still breathing, eating and shitting somewhere near the Pic de la Selle. Am I a stranger to the Internet? That's what I make you believe. You've never played Chinese whispers at my level, you incompetent bunch of amateurs. For it is written on the walls of Jerusalem, real death will not sleep with the righteous men before the end of their mission on this earth. It is a question of time before Pamphile comes back from the depths of obscurity to regain what belongs to him.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about, Colonel? Why do you always have to babble a shit load of nonsensical crap to remind us of your higher culture? Time is against us. I know damn well you don't need a key to start a car. My father told me plenty of stories about you.”

“The Chrysler's rack is busted and the ambulance has no breaks. Put a cross on the others, hurricane Sandy has drowned all their engines. Do you have any news about my grandchildren?”

“Didn’t you hear what the psychiatrist said?” Pyram explodes. “Those kids are…”

“The search for survivors is still on,” Cyril Lavache interrupts the sergeant. “Thank you, Boss Elzéar; you can go back to bed now.”

“Will someone tell this old lunatic that it's been almost three years since the earthquake,” Pyram grumbles. “I bet those little brats are still trapped beneath the ruins of his garage. That is if that vampire didn’t eat them after drinking their blood.”

“The Chinese guy at the NGO is neither a doctor, neither a psychologist, Pyram. We're talking about an electrician with good listening skills. He does his best. The old man is probably much happier that way in his own world. Bring him back on our planet too fast and he might need medication to forget reality. That’s a luxury he cannot afford.”

The dull sound of a powerful engine announces the return of the fugitives. The screeching tires of their SUV confirm their proximity. The black Navigator of the Diabbakas appears at the corner of the street. The Manitoban cop and the young Beauceron understand by instinct that they must hide behind the police truck, pull out their guns and be ready for a fierce confrontation. Cyril Lavache suddenly experiences a momentarily nervous paralysis, realizing one more time that he is not built for that profession. He suddenly feels an urgent need to empty his bladder. His knees start to shake and his teeth to collide. Cyril Lavache can hear his own pulse. Meanwhile, Pyram Malvenu heads for the bandit’s vehicle and begins to unload his Beretta on them, cursing and insulting their mothers and fathers with religious words in a mix of English, Creole, French and gibberish. Now, Pyram never took shooting lessons seriously. The man just doesn’t know how to manipulate a firearm. The bullets are technically going in every direction. In theory, his arm should stay straight following every detonation, but being unable to contain his rage, Pyram waves his arm while firing, just like a tennis player, thinking the move will empower his ammunition and better communicate his frustration. The consequence of such behavior puts every living soul in the area, including the people peacefully sleeping in the devastated tent city nearby, right in the line of fire. The hoodlum’s Lincoln crosses the bridge in a hurry, tailed closely on foot by Pyram Malvenu, who finally uses his brand new gun as a projectile.