chapter 4d

(The Bullet)


Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency

by Jude Jarda


4d 
The Bullet

A strong-willed customer keeps banging on Cyril's shoe store door with a heavy metal object. Another stubborn client is violently shaking the iron gates of the only legitimate enterprise of the nicely macadamized George-Anglade Avenue. Cyril Lavache recognizes the lanky shape of his barber, Fresnel Beltias. The second silhouette is the fleshy one of his alter ego, Isidore Mullet, the owner of Mullet Dot Org Electronics. 

“What's wrong with you, you bloody numskulls?” Cyril Lavache bawls out. “You are both aware that I do the night shift at the police station, right?”  
“It says that you're open on our side,” Fresnel pleads. 
“Turn the freaking sign the other way, you brainless macaque. You know damn well that I never open before noon.” 
“You come and knock at my business at any time of the day when you need a haircut. Don't you, boss Cyril?” 
“That's because you're always open when you're home, stupid. And besides, I never show up outside normal hours like your drunken buddies.” 
“I admit it; you are one of my few well-mannered clients. But if you came for a cut in the middle of the night, even in the midst of a storm, you know I would welcome you like trusted friends usually do. It's going to take a minute, boss Cyril. We hold some significant information, we need to share with you.” 
“What the hell do you want, Fresnel, what can be so important? I came close to death this morning. I need rest, and maybe some ginger tea with some cloves and a zest of lemon. I'm not getting younger, fellows, my bones make funny noises and I can't control my farts like in the old days. I'm quitting my job as a police officer as of today. I lost what was left of my motivation after that gun battle. The incident happened at dawn for a reason. It's a sign, a message from the Lord; time to exit. I'm done, no more stress for my old joints. I'm returning my badge to Chief Malvenu before sunset. I don't even think I'm going to stay in the shoe business anymore. Let me tell you something, you two, with your I don't-give-a-damn attitude. Once you've seen a flying bullet from up close, like I did this morning, your perception of life and everyday things change dramatically.” 
“Can you apply those changes a little later, boss Cyril? The sole of my Richelieu shoes are completely detached.” 
“That glue is made in the US of A. It is certified by the Shoe Service Institute of America. That's what they use at the United States Congress, you uneducated bull. Did you follow my instructions? Did you put them aside for at least 24 hours, like I recommended?” 
“I only have one pair, poor me. Have some pity on I, boss Cyril. A man of my status cannot afford to walk in Mizerikod barefoot. The women would talk, start gossiping and tarnish my reputation. You know how much bimbos fancy chitchat and you know how much I love pussy.” 
“Leave the footwear on the floor by the door. I'll take care of them later. I need rest and a meeting with My Savior to say thank you.” 
“There's something else we need to tell you, boss Cyril. It's about your daughter, Violette.” 

The cobbler opens the steel doors immediately after hearing his daughter's name. He stands butt naked in front of the barber and the electronic boutique manager. Violette used to live with Cyril Lavache after the earthquake left her homeless. She moved out with all her belongings seven months ago after a stormy fight with him. Cyril got mad at her when he learned that she went to Grand Saline to consult a renowned abortionist. Cyril called Violette a depraved demon, a raging succubus and zealous vampire, a soulless selfish woman planning a crime against creation and the divine laws of nature. She accused him in return of being a blind obscurantist, still trapped in the mindset of the Dark Ages. There's no way on Earth, she was going to bear the child of the commune's rapist. All this could have been avoided if the people of Mizerikod had more balls. Every clue found by the investigators undoubtedly pointed at Rondall Jérémie, the wayward itinerant rice vendor of the region, as the prime suspect in the affair. But guided by their justified fear of dying from starvation, the ones who could have acted to put an end to that sexual predator's attacks crossed their arms and hid their heads deep in the sand. They probably hoped the pervert would stop assaulting women, once he was informed that one third of the population owned either a machete, a handgun or a pitchfork, and that most of them knew about his senseless behavior. 
   
“You have news about my Violette?” 
“That's what I said,” Fresnel Beltias proudly boasts, pointing towards the sky, like if he was witnessing a Marian apparition. “We know that she is in Cap-Haïtien and in good hands, under her maternal uncle's supervision.” 
“What about the child?” 
“According to our sources, Violette is still pregnant. Her religious background had the upper hand over all that baloney brought by the Women's Liberation Movement.” 
“All praise to God! But tell me, Fresnel, about that uncle, we're not talking about the abusive kind, looking for a female slave, are we?” 
“Sorry, boss Cyril, but we don't know much more. The good news is: Violette forgives you. Mrs. Consuelo said that the bus carrying her home will arrive at the Port-au-Prince terminal around nine o'clock tonight. There is one bad news, though: Violette is coming in town to commit premeditated murder.” 
“What the... you mean, what?” 
“We know,” the barber sighs with empathy. “You'll probably want to put some pants on before you hear the rest of the story.” 
“How can you be sure about what you're claiming, Fresnel? I'm all confuse, my head is about to explode. Violette is no assassin.” 
“The Internet is to blame. They teach you how to do stuff, you didn't know existed,” the barber explains to the cobbler while the latter shuffles in a pile of old clothes to find a decent pair of pants. “Nowadays, actual events happen quicker and sooner then the incidents that caused them to happen in the first place. Something major occurred in our hometown, earlier today. Someone tried to kill Rondall Jérémie before he made another victim. According to the words of twelve witnesses, the girl was not even fifteen. At the speed of light, the mailman that works inside the computers, spread the news all across the island. It didn't take long before it reached Violette's hears. They don't call it the information highway for nothing in the countries with tunnels and bridges. Before you know it, Mrs. Consuelo, her sister and her cook, they knew every little detail about the scandal and the assassination plans of Violette. Mullet and I thought that it was our duty, as close friends, to come and tell you what we know. There's no way we could have kept such a heavy secret to ourselves.” 
“If I hear you right, the rice vendor is not dead?” 
“He is recovering at the Baptist Mission,” says Isidore Mullet. “According to Vidal Gascon, the housekeeping guy from the NGO, the bullet entered Jérémie's mouth and exited through is butt hole. But Reggie Gladu operated on the Riceman successfully, thus saving his life.” 
“Reggie Gladu, the Chinese guy?” 
“Vietnamese,” Fresnel Beltias corrects. “The Chinese handyman is in fact a Vietnamese jack-of-all-trades, adopted by a Japanese-speaking French couple from Nova Scotia. By the way, he really doesn't like to be mistaken for Chinese. Reggie Gladu is officially a Canadian, but because he speaks French and lives on Jesus Island, he prefers the term Lavallois for some reason.” 
“You mean, Québécois.” 
“He sticks by Lavallois. Reggie doesn't want to be called Québécois or Quebecker for political reasons. He is a left-wing nationalist who believes the flag is to be burned and redesigned. He says that Quebec will never be independent and completely free from the church and the Queen, if they keep waving a flag with four monarchic lilies with a cross in the middle during Saint-John the Baptist's day.” 
“Reggie is an electrician,” says Cyril. “His nails are always dirty and his glasses don't even fit. Calling him a psychologist was already a major mistake in my opinion. Arming him with a scalpel is completely insane. Who the hell is in charge at the Mission? There's a limit to nonsense.” 
“Lola Sauvegarde is an obstetrician,” Isidore Mullet explains. “She maintains that a bullet near the anus is something for a colorectal surgeon. The trauma specialist and the general practitioner from Doctors Without Borders are missing in action, presumably victims of food poisoning. Rupert and Doctor Stanley are not alone in this situation, everyone who ate at Mrs. Consuelo's restaurant last night are lying down sick as we speak. Some people speak of it as a terror attack, because many members of the municipal council are among the casualties. If you ask me, I think the source of contamination is the well behind the restaurant. The smell is unbearable. It's like if someone was collecting carcasses of stray dogs for the kick of it.” 
“So you truly believe that my dear Violette is on her way back in town, so she can bleed this animal named Rondall to death? I find that very hard to swallow.” 
“Listen, Shoemaker, we only report what we hear,” Mullet Dot Org says with an Italian accent, stumping his own chest like a gorilla. “We're not here to judge what is true or false. We're not here to identify what makes sense or not. I admit that the trajectory of the projectile through the intestines is physiologically improbable. We know that Vidal Gascon is one hell of a compulsive liar, but one thing is certain: Rondall Jérémie, the guy people of Mizerikod calls Rice Nigger, US Aid or just RJ, is definitely the same guy lying on his stomach at the clinic with an enormous bandage on his bottom. Our man was transferred to the new intensive care unit, because a power shortage during the operation complicated the difficult procedure. Trust me when I say this: the rice vendor is not a happy camper. Doctor Sauvegarde told us that RJ keeps repeating like a mantra that many cops will have to answer to justice, and that he will not stay quiet. He might be delirious, that's a fact. Lord knows that a bullet up in the keister can make a person become a little bit light-headed and genuinely frustrated. But names are popping out of his mouth. And those words, full of wrath, are landing on a memo that is going directly to the office of the department’s delegate in Port-au-Prince. Now, Cyril, you were on the same shift as the principal suspect in that said case. We thought that it was our citizen's duty to come here this morning and warn you. Friends are for life. Remember it when we'll need you to do something for us.” 
“Since when are we friends, Mullet? Of course, when I've got rum and beer and don't ask you to split the bill, you're always available for a quick chat. But when I only have water and need someone to talk to, suddenly, your sister has a new tumor in her brain or your mom is losing blood through her ears. What are you hiding, Mullet, I'm curious?” 
“Absolutely nothing, Cobbler. It's just that the success of Mullet Dot Org is creating jealousy amongst the Maoists and the Communists on the other side of the Jacques-Roumain Bridge. They find it very hard to accept my new financial status. You know how Haitians behave when you get ahead of them.” 
“On a scale of one to ten, how much do you think I give a damn?” 
“Let's just say that honest people like me think that the second amendment of the United States Constitution is not a bad idea after all. If another vermin from Chuck’s gang dare threatening me again, I plan to surprise the whole crew with my own semi-automatic tools. I want to make sure that you'll testify in my favor if something bad happens to one of those stinking rats. That's about it.”