chap 10b 
(The Gaoler) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

10b 

The Gaoler 

Oscar Perceval is walking in a hurry, armed with an electric stick and determined to restore order in noisy cell number 7. Meanwhile, Réal Couture is still laughing his ass off, clearly a victim of transitory madness and completely unaware of the danger he is facing. The chief gaoler of the Mizerikod municipal jail is a short-legged individual with massive hands, natty hair and brownish teeth. His clothes are rags, but he is wearing a pair of anaconda skin boots and a watch that probably costs more than a small car. He constantly blinks his eyes and often looks over his shoulders, like if the man feared an imminent attack on his person coming from behind. When Oscar Perceval sees Couture, his rage instantly wanes. 

“What in the name are you doing in the dungeon, Mr. Berri? Tell me I'm having a nightmare!” 
“Am I dead?” Réal Couture asks the prison warden, suddenly calm and serene. 
“You seem very alive to me, Mr. Director, ha! ha! ha! You've aged a little bit, though. I didn't know you had grey hair on your coconut. You're lucky I had some time to spare. Your name is not even on my detainee's list. It's the forgotten quarters, down here. Hiii! You could have been trapped in that hole until Easter and never see or smell a lawyer. This is the type of administrative foolishness that can cost me my position. I don't want to be a troublemaker for the people that are backing you up. I assure you, Mr. Berri, that whoever is responsible for putting you in that dirty place will pay for this insult.” 
“Just get me out of this shitty cell!” 
“Right away, Sir, I surely owe you that and much more, Mr. Berri. Had you not use your power to insist on my transfer to that Cuban hospital this summer, my triple bypass would still be a wish. I owe you my life and the return of my mojo. I don't need that Viagra crap anymore. Let's go in my office to put some light on all of this nonsense. Hiii! Talk about a major mistake. I hope I can fix things up. How dare they put the most important man of the city in a smelly prison cell and not warn me? I have many enemies, Mr. Berri, but that looks like an inside job. Somebody around here wants me dead. Picot and Albin told me to leave the White man's head alone; order from the Senator. When I asked them for more details about that White man, they were both already wasted. I wasn't even thinking about this a couple of hours later. I have other preoccupations, you see? The voices in my head create and echo that makes me forget things. Hiii! Do you know what calms me down? The sounds people make when they can’t stand the pain anymore. Isn’t that something? I tried the medication from the Chinese guy; nothing works, the pills are probably made in Taiwan. Hiii! Will you shut the hell up? I am not talking to you, Mr. Berri. Have you noticed, just behind you? Don't look now, wait… wait. Here they are in the shadows. Ignore them… just ignore them. Hiii!” 

Oscar Perceval's office goes along with his slightly disturbed psyche. The chaos is mind-boggling. At least fifty electric razors of different colors and shapes are spread all over the place, but his civilian clothes are perfectly ironed and resting on a steel folding bed. Oscar apparently lives there most of the time; he's got a toaster, a coffee maker, utensils and many casseroles, pots and pans. Dozens of unresolved Rubik's Cube can be seen in every corner. Underneath a pile of old newspapers, official archives, administrative reports and various files stained with squash soup seem to have been there forever. Posters of the current President of Haiti cover the fuchsia painted walls. Just below one particular head shot of Michel Martelly, Oscar placed seven burning candles and a statue of the Virgin Mary, on which he glued a hairball, probably spat by some cat. The jailer puts water to boil and proposes an interesting choice of tea to Réal. He then dials a number from his cell phone and activates the speaker function. Oscar Perceval picks up a random Cube on the floor and completes it before the fifth ring. 

“Albin?” 
“Chief?” 
“This is a very confidential call. Are you alone and in your house?” 
“Of course, Chief, where do you want me to be?” 
“What is all that noise behind you? You take me for a mule that banged his head too hard and too often? I know all the sounds of this city by heart. I can hear the music. And now, that's the voice of Rico Mars announcing a once in a lifetime event or one of his prearranged contests. That places you in Melissandre Présumé's apartment, right in front of the Kompa Lakay nightclub. Have you ever put your nose in the Bible, Albin? Do you know what God thinks of adulterers? There is a legion of jealous husbands imprisoned for life or waiting to be executed because they came home too early just once. Remember that.” 
“So, I'm safe. Melissandre is a widow. Not on papers, because they never found her man's body, but emotionally. That guy is long gone and forgotten if you ask her. You should hear what she calls me when I start talking dirty. So, you caught me, Chief, what can I do for you?” 
“Hiii! Moïse Berri.” 
“Excuse me… Who?” 
“Moïse Berri, Albin, does that name ring a bell?” 
“Is that her dead husband's name? I'll be damn. I thought it was something like Pamphile or Orville…” 
“Shut the hell up, you stupid polliwog. Moïse Berri is the president of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation and the project manager of Vilaj Espwa. He is the chap who gave a goddamn job to eighty per cent of the people of Mizerikod since he arrived in that part of the country.” 
“Everybody knows Billionaire, Chief. I just didn't know his real name. On the other hand, I know stuff you don't know. Billionaire was kidnapped from Senator Fleurant's villa early this morning or late yesterday.” 
“Is that right? But tell me, water head, how could one of our prisoners be snatched right in front of our eyes, without us noticing anything? You're the one who locked him in cell number 7, in the good company of the cannibal, three nights ago. It was during the cyclone, remember?” 
“You're losing me now, Chief. Are you sure that you are not trying to trick me? The news is on everyone's mouth. Vidal Gascon and his pals from housekeeping and maintenance at the Foundation are talking and already deforming the truth. One thing is certain, Billionaire has been abducted. Victor l'Hexagone's newspaper is already edited, printed and on the shelves to be bought or stolen. It's none of my business, Chief, but did you stop taking the medication that the Chinese dude prescribed you?” 

Someone knocks at the door of the gaoler's office with insistence. 

“Come in!” 

Police Commissioner Malvenu enters the tiny room and slams a briefcase on Oscar Perceval's desk. Malvenu's nose is running, his lips are dry and his jaws clenched. The Police Chief is obviously under the influence of a powerful drug. 

“I want to spend some quality time with the suspect,” he orders Oscar Perceval. But the jailer ignores him completely. Instead, he approaches Réal Couture and closely inspects the face of the prisoner inch by inch. Oscar's head keeps oscillating from left to right and his tongue sticks out. 

“Your eyes are green,” Oscar Perceval concludes in a whisper. “They are not blue at all.” 
“Give me fifteen minutes alone with this scumbag, Oscar. I beg you. It's a matter of municipal security that could increase to a departmental level or even to a national one. Behold!” 
“Sorry, Chief Malvenu, I was ordered by Senator Fleurant himself to stay with that prisoner, even if he has to go for a number two.” 
“And when did the old man say that, exactly?” 
“I just hung up.” Oscar lies. “You can give him a call to get more details if you feel like it. Go ahead, he told me he needed a nap. But just so you know, the vampire in him sounded pissed off and thirsty for blood when he put the phone down.” 
“I see. Okay, you?” the Police Chief says, pointing his finger towards Réal Couture. “Who the hell are you and what is your real name?” 
“I don't know if I can tell you, Couture answers. I don't know if I can trust you. Put me on the phone with the Canadian Embassy and I'll tell you whatever you want to hear.” 
“Oscar, I promise you five Benjamins and a box of Barbancourt rum if you leave me just one minute with that clown. I would like to ask him some very personal questions, but I need some privacy.” 
“I cannot allow that to happen, Malvenu.” 
“Are you sure that you don't want to talk?” the commissioner asks Couture. “That's okay, but if by any chance you bear the name of Joseph-Henri-Paul-Réal Couture, from Rocher-Blanc in Quebec, I must tell you that the SQ and Interpol are after you. They know what you did, you monster. Do you recognize your victims?” Chief Malvenu adds with disgust, as he pulls out a number of abused children's photos from his leather briefcase. “They found 54 000 files and counting in the hard drive of your personal computer, back in Rimouski. Do you have anything to say in your defense? They know you're at the top of the pyramid. They know for sure that you are the puppet master behind this abomination. Brussels, Amsterdam, Bangkok, Rimouski and Budapest are involved in the investigation. Operation Angelot has been launched and the arrests are imminent. All the evidence leads to you as the producer and the distributor of these unbearable images. Did you take these pornographic pictures in your own house, an abandoned warehouse or in an even more sordid place, you egotistic maniac?” 
“Are you nuts?” Réal Couture protests. “There must be a mistake. I have a teenage daughter. I am not a child predator. I love women with big breasts. It's my thing. I like my chicks fully mature and very horny. They can be ugly too. I don't care. That's how much I love women.” 
“Is that why you landed in the Indochinese Peninsula before entering our God fearing country? You must have a thing for hairless males. Isn't Thailand a known destination for people shopping around for juvenile prostitutes?” 
“Listen… I had no control on the itinerary of that trip. I did not plan it. I was locked five nights in a row in a hotel room and I was not aloud to step foot outside. I swear it on my mother's tomb. That was all part of my contract.” 
“What contract are we talking about?” 
“I told you too much already. Revealing anything more to you puts the lives of the two only people I love in danger. There's an evil person behind all this, manipulating all of us like marionettes. I don't even know what I can say to you or how I should say it. If you are working for them… I just don't know. Maybe it's a trap. You might be trying to set me up. I am doomed if I speak, condemned if I keep the truth to myself. You talked about files found in my computer... Downloaded files, I presume? Well, Sir, besides reading the sports section of the Journal de Québec, checking what's in my mailbox and buying junk on eBay and Amazon, I barely touch my own PC. I don't even know how to steal music or watch free movies online.” 
“That is really good acting,” says Chief Malvenu. “How long would it take you to start crying if I told you that your daughter was being followed and spied on as we speak by a pervert just like you?” 

The reaction of Réal Couture is immediate. The Quebec actor starts weeping with such despair that his body naturally adopts the fetal position. 

“How come you own a passport with Moïse Berri's name and your disgusting face on it,” Chief Malvenu thunders . “Is it the same Puppet Master that gave it to you?” 
“They paid me a tremendous amount of cash before throwing me in that hell,” sobs Réal Couture. “Waaah! I'm just an amateur comedian from the improvisation league in Rimouski. I am not a bad guy. My real job is extracting honey from bees. My agent never went to school to learn what he does. He is the cousin of my cousin and he technically sleeps with his dead uncle's wife. He used to be a Goth or something, listening to Death Metal and going all dressed up to weird parties in the woods with witches, black magic and even animal sacrifices. Waaah! He told me I looked exactly like some big shot in Haiti, and that if I listened to him, my money problems would be something from the past for the rest of my life. Put yourself in my shoes! In one day, with two little signatures, I went from Kraft Dinner every morning to caviar and Champagne whenever I feel like.” 
“He really looks like the Architect,” the jailer tells Chief Malvenu, completely detached from the desperation manifested by Réal Couture. “Hiii! He too could be mistaken for Joe Dassin.” 
“Joe Dancing what? Another spy sent by Paris to put the French's into our business and sabotage our country's recovering process once again?” 
“Joe Dassin, Chief; a French speaking American singer who could have been mistaken for Moïse Berri if he was alive. That guy looks like him.” 
“What are you talking about, you disturbed fanatic, an American singing in French? Why not a North Korean singing in Persian. Something tells me that you keep feeding your prescription pills to your dog. You're lucky PETA is only active in rich countries. I'm going to consult Senator Fleurant on this touchy subject. I don't care if he is sleeping. The situation is important enough to interrupt Michael during the Last Judgment. Keep an eye on the prisoner, Oscar. Make sure he sees nobody else than the two of us. I'm not getting busted by the DEA and I'm not going down with the vultures running this city.”