chapter 10c 

(The Mayor) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

10c 

The Mayor 

Ninety-three minutes after Malvenu's exit, the head of the municipal council of Mizerikod shows up at the municipal prison, unannounced, carrying a leather briefcase and a greasy brown paper bag containing a take-out lunch from Mrs. Consuelo's diner. Mayor Amédée Fleurinor unlocks the door of the jailer's office with his own master key. The chief magistrate puts his oily snack on Oscar Perceval's ironing table and turns on the ventilator, targeting the food. The highest-ranking official of the commune has been repeatedly accused by his citizens of being a bourgeois passing for a hobo. Living up to his reputation, Amédée Fleurinor is wearing a pair of old spectacles, the heels of his shoes are completely worn out and his three-piece suit is way too tight. Oscar Perceval finally finds the source of that mouth-watering aroma. 

“Afternoon, Mr. Mayor, been there long?”
“Just got here, Oscar.”
“You rarely come all the way down here to eat your snack. You always complain about the dirtiness of the place. Miam, miam, I see, hiiii! Midday meal, am I right? Time to fill the belly. Do you mind if I join you with my vegetarian soup?” the guardian adds, gazing at the Mayor's bag. “I am having leftovers from Wednesday. There was no electricity because of Sandy, so it's all cold and meatless. Hey, isn't that great! There's a bone with some fat floating near the green peas. Do you want to suck on it, Sir?”
“I'll be fine,” Mayor Fleurinor answers with a lot of disdain in his voice. “I am not very hungry. Let's cut to the chase; I've got a new contract for you.” 
“Give me the name of the prey, where I can find it and the date you want it dead and eaten.”
“The name is Rogatien Gingras. I want him neutralized right here in Mizerikod in about three days or so.”
“Sorry, Mr. Mayor, I don't work in the West Department or anywhere near Lake Azuei since the Vaval incident. Hiii! Who knew I had family in Thomazeau? It felt so strange at the burial ceremony, with all those friends and relatives calling for justice right in front of me, vowing revenge and asking me to be part of the vendetta.”
“It was a rare case of miscalculation from my part, Oscar. This time, there is no way you can be blood-related to the target; we're talking about an outsider, a foreigner, a Caucasian male from Quebec.”
“That's very interesting. Do you have a picture of the unfortunate winner?”
“We don't need one because you know him. Remember the White guy everyone used to call the Missionary, the quiet chum that was running River of Hope, the NGO that used to be in place of the clinic? Well, he should be in town by Monday. My client wants him on a table at the morgue, but he doesn't want him gone for good. Unusual, but funny, don't you think? Just lock him in the fridge for an hour or two to scare the shit out of him. That should be enough to make him want to jump on the next available plane and fly back to where he's coming from.”
“This is the first time somebody asks me to do half a job. That is indeed very peculiar. Hiii! I still have to charge you the same price I usually ask for a dead body, though. My business card says hit man, not bogeyman.”
“Now, come on, Oscar, use some of your logic with me on this. The difference between premeditated murder and a scary prank is enormous in the eyes of the law. We're talking community service for fifty days and a maximum of six months for a stupid joke, compared to life in prison for a homicide. Let's work together with the finance and meet somewhere in between.”
“The fees are the same, Mr. Mayor. Do you have any idea of the longevity a prisoner of my stature would have in a prison anywhere in this country? The word would spread. I would not survive one day. Did I ever tell you, I was claustrophobic? Hiii! I would hang myself using my own bowels as soon as they'd close that door on me. So, feed me more, what is Rogatien Gingras afraid of?”
“Let's settle the financial issue beforehand, Oscar. I have half of the customary amount of money on me right now. What do you say if I give you the rest, plus a fifty per cent bonus by next week?”
“After the job is done? With all due respect, Sir, is that how you pay your food and your wife's tampons? You are asking me to terrorize a Canadian citizen, not to take a kidney out of a vagabond or remove the retina of an abandoned orphan. This is serious business, Mr. Mayor. What if that Canadian knows some crazy autocratic official down here? What if he is surrounded with bodyguards? Pffft! Hiii! half the money,” the gaoler adds on a condescending tone. “I feel insulted and abused. I really don't get it, Mr. Mayor. You are sitting on the municipal budget like a king sits on a golden throne. What invisible force prevents you from digging into the safe? What stops you from signing yourself a load of blank checks? Aren't you officially the person responsible for the treasure, the person watching the treasure and the person verifying all the transactions related to that said treasure? The only thing you have to fear is ratting on yourself during an episode of somnambulism.”
“There's a major problem with the computers at the Scotia Bank of Mizerikod. Everything is frozen, Oscar, even the city's funds from the Central Bank.”
“Call me back when global warming becomes a reality, Mr. Mayor.”
“Time is running out. I need an answer or I need to find another assassin.”
“I would feel cheated if you chose someone else, Mr. Mayor. Am I not the best exterminator you've dealt with? Look, I'll do it because whacking people is my thing and it's for you. Give me the bills you have in your pockets right now; and I will also take your lunch, if you don't mind. As for the guarantee, go home, search into your belongings and bring me back something of value to hold on to until you pay me the rest of the money. Forget about the interest.”

Amédée Fleurinor takes a long pause to think. He starts walking around in circles, completely silent, sometimes raising his hands or covering his nose and mouth, his eyes wide open, visibly tormented by the important decision he has to make. After a while, the mayor takes a deep breath and pulls out three big rolls of one hundred dollar bills and a document written on thermal fax paper from his briefcase.

“That's the first half of your wages,” Mayor Fleurinor says with a grave voice. “You have no idea how much this piece of paper is worth, Oscar.”
“What is it, some kind of government bond?”
“This is a copy of the most valuable title deed of the entire country. In a couple of days, I will become the co-owner of the land strip that starts behind the cemetery and ends past the Jacques-Roumain Bridge.”
“So what, Mr. Mayor? It's mostly dirt, ruins, garbage and a lot of unfinished projects.”
“You know about that smell, grasping Mizerikod, day in, day out? Everybody has been complaining about it for years now. People kept guessing about what could make a city stink so much. I chose the scientific method, like the White men would do. I sent a sample of the oily mud to a lab in Caracas. It came back positive. We've been living since childhood on a lake of petrol, Oscar. I repeat; a lake of petrol. The barrel was selling for about eighty five dollars on Wall Street this morning. According to my associate and partner in business, there will be millions of them left in thirty years, even if we managed to pump a million barrels a day. Do the math.”
“Haaaa!”
“That's why you don't have to worry about the second half of your salary, Oscar. That's why you don't need to think about your future economic status if you do as I say… partner.”