chapter 3 

(The Weapon) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

3 

The Weapon 

Back at the police station, Evans Ferjuste is napping peacefully. Sergeant Pyram Malvenu is reviewing his grocery list in the meantime. The native police officer is waiting on his father, the commissioner, to get his report read and validated. Pyram is extremely jittery. The day he was sworn in as a lawman, Pyram promised in his speech never to succumb to corruption, to perjury or to participate in any illegal activity or take part in any form of evidence falsification. Now that he is in deep shit, the sergeant has to figure out the best way to buy his young partner's silence. 

Pyram's incoherent statement is plague with lies and contains a serious accusation of high treason against one of his peers, namely, Robin Monarque. Sergeant Malvenu has no choice but to tame Evans and make sure that the young Canadian policeman goes along with him and keeps his mouth shut on what really happened this morning. Pyram didn't mention money yet, but he made it clear to sergeant Ferjuste, that he would gain a lot of it if he stood by his side all the way. Knowing the young man's interest for Haitian culture, Pyram planned a meeting between Evans and Victor Gourdet, the editor of the local newspaper. 

Gourdet is a well respected historian nicknamed, the Hexagon, because he supposedly graduated from Paris-Sorbonne University sometime in the seventies. Victor is an exuberant part-time careerist politician who will gladly teach Evans everything about Toussaint Louverture and the House of Bourbon; all he needs to know about Emperor Jean-Jacques Dessalines and  President Alexandre Pétion; every details on the mental health of King Henri, the secrets of the Citadelle and the spies of Napoleon. 

Pyram suddenly slaps Evans on the back of the head, pulling the sergeant out of his sleep to give him an overview of the advanced Creole lessons he will soon be taught. 

“The trick with the Creole language,” Pyram starts explaining to the half-conscious constable, “is to stick with the essential. You must use the tone of your voice to highlight particular words with a load of emotions. You get what I am saying? The verbs used in every sentence must stay alive and be imperative. There's no need for a complement or a subject. That's White people's stuff. The verb should be self-sufficient, always. It is highly recommended that you move your hands and hips as you speak; that you make all sorts of face expressions to support your punctuation. The pitch of your voice better carry half of the information you're trying to communicate. Start yelling for absolutely no reason is part of the culture. And you should never be shy to introduce foreign words once in a while in a conversation. It shows that you've been around, that you've seen a plane from up close.” 

The police station is on Lysius-Salomon Avenue, in the heart of Mizerikod's business district. It's cornered between the municipal jail and City Hall, right across the cemetery, three hundred feet from the Our Lady of Seven Sorrows church, facing the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation headquarters. The working space of the commune's law enforcing agents is limited to a small dry area in the station's backyard. Scores of people have found refuge in the sector. The noise is constant. Many families have officially relocated themselves in the bank's parking lot, spared by the mudslides caused by the passage of Hurricane Sandy on Wednesday. Others have erected their tents in front of the recently vandalized church, which has its front door and all its bells missing. That part of the city is nonetheless the safest zone in town. 

Two culprits are playing checkers in the only lockable cell of the police station. They look like two regular clients at a private club. The two men are dead quiet because Pyram threaten to transfer them to the municipal jail instead of setting them free at noon like he usually does. Nobody wants to be left alone with Oscar Perceval, the warden of that stinking dungeon. Many people in town believe that Oscar Perceval is in fact a prisoner on the run since the big quake, wanted in three different departments. Exactly twelve per cent of the convicts left in the hands of that maniac since May 2010 have died or disappeared before facing trial. 

The first peace agents of the day shift arrive in a bus of the Legitimus company. They are closely followed by the Lincoln Navigator of Chief Malvenu and an armored vehicle of the United Nations Police. It's eight o'clock. Evans Ferjuste fell back asleep. Pyram rushes to the lobby to welcome his father. Chief Malvenu is wearing an impeccable white linen costume and a cream Havana hat. He is a stocky hairy man with glassy eyes and a sniffing problem. The commissioner introduces two well groomed Uruguayan officers to Pyram. The sergeant automatically assumes that both men are gay and up to no good. Pyram Malvenu unexpectedly becomes very suspicious and bleak. Captain Pintado and Lieutenant Menendez perceive the change in his attitude, but they go straight to the point. Pintado shows a photograph to the sergeant. 

“Do you recognize this man, Sergeant?” 

“I sure do. He is the main subject of my declaration.” 

“He was seized by force last night from Senator Fleurant's villa, on the Morne de la Gloire.” 

“You're late on the news, Captain. I chased his kidnappers myself, just before dawn, all the way down to their hideout. Those malefactors even tried to kill me. Can you believe this shit? If I didn't have my lucky cross on me… the Lord is my Savior, Christ is alive… I was doomed, condemned, adios mi amigo. Nobody has been listening, but I've been asking for more powerful weapons for at least a decade. You know what I mean? I need metal pieces with a laser pointer on top and a double magazine at the bottom. The people at the mayor's office keep lying about our limited budget. Look at the results. I've been outgunned by a bunch of amateur thugs.” 

“Do you know the individual on that picture, Sergeant; can you tell us his name?” 

“Billionaire.” 

“Say that again?” 

“He is the brain behind the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation and the Vilaj Espwa project manager. We call him Billionaire.” 

“That can’t be his real name. I know that your people can be very original with surnames, but...” 

“Well, that's the name he answers to on the poker table. Some folks also call him Director or President. It depends.” 

“What do you know about that guy, Sergeant?” 

“He sure knows how to bluff, I'll tell you. He has a pair of sevens; his eyes make you think that he is holding a royal flush. Let’s say that he is very discreet about his private life. I don't even know the age of that inscrutable jackal.” 

“We've searched his luggage back at the villa,” Menendez mentions. 

“Careful now, Lieutenant,” warns Pintado, “the information is still classified as secret by the Interior Ministry.” 

“Don't worry, Captain. We found two passports in his suitcase, Sergeant, a Canadian one and another from the State of Israel. This guy crosses international borders under the name of Yosef Cohen-Abitbol, a resident of Tel-Aviv, and sometimes under the name of Moïse Berri, a Canadian citizen from Oshawa. We are aware that Mossad and the SCRS are active in the region. They know about the existence of Mizerikod, but the UN must be alerted if one of their agents decides to infiltrate the public administration of this country. Do you think you can lead us to the kidnapper’s hideout?” 

“With the adequate firepower, a decent road blockage and enough men to cover the river, I'll bring you these savages sealed in lead caskets before midnight.” 

“Is that a figure of speech?” 

“That's just slang,” Chief Police Malvenu cuts with a reassuring voice. “A casket is like a pair of handcuffs in his patois. They'll be so alive, that you can plan to have a cup of tea with them later. Am I right, Pyram? Of course, if they refuse to collaborate or start using their canons against us, that's another story. My men like to come back home after their very demanding shift.” 

“When do you want to attack,” Pyram asks the Uruguayan officers, visibly impatient and thirsty for blood. 

“Before nightfall,” Pintado answers. “We'll be back with the right equipment and enough men to hold a two day siege. Not even a rat will leave this city without our permission.” 

“Don't forget the dogs,” Pyram adds. “The people who protect these scavengers are afraid of them.” 

“Those same people could complicate our work if they decide to hide or help move the victim during our search,” the military police supposes. 

“The Diabbakas are malicious demons,” Pyram says, “and Chuck Three-Brothers is working for the Prince of Darkness himself. He dresses, feeds and employs the poor of the village. Some even pretend that he loves them for real. Many would gladly take a bullet for him. My solution would be to put everybody in town under house arrest, quarantine the whole tribe and wait for hunger to do the rest of the job. All we need to do is keep the newspapers and Amnesty away. We don't want them in our legs with their human rights crap, their annoying presumption of innocence rhetoric and all that bullshit on neapolitan ice cream from Europe.” 

The military police officers leave for the capital. Evans Ferjuste never woke up despite the noise. Pyram Malvenu shows his written report to his dad and begs him to sign it at the bottom. The commissioner puts his glasses on, but decides to read the content of the statement for a change. That is something he hasn't done in months. 

“Did you get it back,” Chief Malvenu asks after scanning the document. 

“What?” 

“Exhibit A; the electric drill.” 

“You can still smell the gas on the damn thing. Lieutenant Monarque goes out for a smoke every fifteen minutes. That gives him plenty of time to set up an IED and cause serious damages. He is the one who knocked down the wall of your office, searching for we don't know what.” 

“We need to determine his motives before we nail him, son. We must be careful; the man is a Canadian and he's our guest.” 

“The person who sent me that email describes Robin Monarque as a Neo-Nazi. He revealed the geographical location of Mizerikod to his shadowy organization. They're now planning to sterilize all the children of the region. They plan to hide behind a vaccination campaign that will be sponsored by our own government.” 

“That's insane! This is nothing short from genocide. But that could all be made up. Maybe your source is lying, son.” 

“The police truck is in the yard. Go take a quick peak at the tank, dad. Count the holes and then come back to question the integrity of my source again. Why would Vidal Gascon lie to me? If we wait too long before stopping Lieutenant Monarque, we might be too late. He probably contaminated Marguerite with that shitty virus of his already.” 

“Wait, what virus, you mean that this son of a bitch is also sick on top of that?” 

“I went through his medical files. Hepatitis is like a cold compared to what is circulating in Monarque's body. I am no virologist, but when you're carrying a disease with a code name and numerals, it's definitely not a good sign.” 

“I'll go get a warrant from Judge Campbell after breakfast. And before I forget, Pyram, why are those two stinking punks still in here?” Chief Malvenu asks, finger-pointing the two detainees playing checkers. 

“Well, as you know, Guito is here because the Constitution obliges us to feed him twice a day. He hears voices in his head every time he walks through the park near the Presidents Memorial. He waits around supper time to start a riot and just hangs around until we pick him up. Djon Djon stole father Romuald's bicycle again. He believes it's the priest fault, because the old man doesn't use a lock to protect his bike.” 

“Do you have another gun to replace the one you threw away, son?” 

“Many, but none are registered.” 

“Pick one in my reserve and write the serial number in my notebook. But you still have to get your official weapon back from the slums before someone uses it unwisely. That would not look good on us. Do I make myself clear? Now, what was on your mind, throwing your Beretta like a goddamn baseball?” 

“The adrenaline, dad. I wanted to stop Chuck so bad. You had to be in my brain. I was completely obsessed.” 

“Don't make that mistake, Pyro. I understand your hatred for these dogs, but remember that you are a professional. You need to go by the rules as much as you can, and take very few things at the personal level. One of them shit heads charmed your girlfriend and sold her to a group of Dominican cane cutters. So what? Life goes on.” 

“Her name was Amelia, dad, and she was my wife.” 

Pyram Malvenu walks away, his blood pressure rising dangerously. Days before falling for the lies of Jim Falafel, Amelia had revealed her pregnancy to him.