chapter 10a
(The Comedian)
(The Comedian)
Moïse Berri
and the Reconstruction of the Haitian
Space agency
by Jude Jarda
10a
The Comedian
According to his recurring auditory hallucinations, one highly spasmodic eyelid, the involuntary roars of laughter and compulsive nail biting, Réal Couture has lost a small part of his sanity. The feverish Quebecer has been locked up for the last 48 hours in the dreaded cell number seven of the famous Mizerikod's municipal jail. He shares that insalubrious twenty feet square space, known to be the last registered address of many, with three other prisoners, a couple of abnormally fat rodents, hundreds of thirsty blood-sucking insects and a humidity level so high that mildew is now spreading between his toes and building up in his nasal cavities.
Sane or totally batty, Réal Couture takes sleeping seriously. He tried the experience twice in the last thirteen hours. A frightening nightmare involving a lake, his daughter and a walking chainsaw woke him up the first time. He awoke the second time because a fellow inmate with evident scabies and severe bilateral conjunctivitis was trying to pull down his pants. Couture was later informed by a night guard named, Albin, that this constantly erected jailbird was awaiting prosecution for bestiality, cattle rustling, human trafficking and a bizarre aggression, in which he attempted to remove someone's left retina without the person's consent, using a disinfected disposable scalpel, in the backseat of a stolen speeding off-road vehicle. Réal Couture also learned from the warden himself, that his second cellmate was clinically diagnosed with Renfield's syndrome, commonly known as vampirism, infected with rabies and suspected of cannibalism and identity theft. That contemptible individual was found under the rubble of a grocery store, several weeks after the deadly earthquake of January 2010, fat like a bearded pig. The manager of the food store, last seen with him, was missing, and his clothes were stained with someone else's blood. Finally, Réal Couture was told by another guard named, Picot, that his third and last bunk mate, a man of few words, was doing time for stealing and trying to resell three tons of food and medicine sent by relief organizations around the world to help the disaster victims.
A dire mix of dehydration, hypoglycemia and hyperthermia, added to the constant fear and exhaustion, contributed to transform Réal Couture's prior lamentations into a nervous and emotionless sporadic chuckle. The more time goes by, the more that former beekeeper and honey factory supervisor from Rimouski feels that his chances of coming out safe and sound from this ordeal are getting slim.
Sane or totally batty, Réal Couture takes sleeping seriously. He tried the experience twice in the last thirteen hours. A frightening nightmare involving a lake, his daughter and a walking chainsaw woke him up the first time. He awoke the second time because a fellow inmate with evident scabies and severe bilateral conjunctivitis was trying to pull down his pants. Couture was later informed by a night guard named, Albin, that this constantly erected jailbird was awaiting prosecution for bestiality, cattle rustling, human trafficking and a bizarre aggression, in which he attempted to remove someone's left retina without the person's consent, using a disinfected disposable scalpel, in the backseat of a stolen speeding off-road vehicle. Réal Couture also learned from the warden himself, that his second cellmate was clinically diagnosed with Renfield's syndrome, commonly known as vampirism, infected with rabies and suspected of cannibalism and identity theft. That contemptible individual was found under the rubble of a grocery store, several weeks after the deadly earthquake of January 2010, fat like a bearded pig. The manager of the food store, last seen with him, was missing, and his clothes were stained with someone else's blood. Finally, Réal Couture was told by another guard named, Picot, that his third and last bunk mate, a man of few words, was doing time for stealing and trying to resell three tons of food and medicine sent by relief organizations around the world to help the disaster victims.
A dire mix of dehydration, hypoglycemia and hyperthermia, added to the constant fear and exhaustion, contributed to transform Réal Couture's prior lamentations into a nervous and emotionless sporadic chuckle. The more time goes by, the more that former beekeeper and honey factory supervisor from Rimouski feels that his chances of coming out safe and sound from this ordeal are getting slim.
When he was offered the job, Réal Couture thought that he was in no position to refuse Replica Entertainment's proposition. The money promised in the agreement was just too much. Back then, Couture had trouble handling rent on time with his meager salary, and not a lot was left after paying bills and filling up the kitchen pantry. The thin wages he got as an extra on a couple of TV shows shot around his hometown, and also as a country backup singer and bassist for a local band, barely paid for his beer, nicotine and lottery scratch cards. Réal Couture's rapacious cousin, Peter, a headhunter for a Montreal casting company, came to Réal with this very unusual acting gig. Réal was asked to play the role of a project manager, in a corporate video filmed by a Californian enterprise working for the reconstruction of Haiti under the aegis of the United Nations. Réal Couture's earnings were to be outrageously high for such easy work, but the deal came with a catch or two. He couldn't share any information about his new appointment to his family or friends, and he had to open a bank account under a false name, in an effort to hide his partly illegal revenues from the Government of Quebec. Peter then urged Réal to get a six month visa for Haiti under another made up name. Soon after the cousins signed the last page of the lengthy legal document brought to them by Replica Entertainment's chief executive in person, Peter finally told Réal about the strange instructions he had to follow in order to keep his weird assignment and outrageously high income. For instance, Réal Couture had to stay in character all the time, 24/7, playing the role of an eccentric philanthropist with a dream to rebuild Haiti or risk being fired and see his pay withheld without warning.
Thirty-three business days after writing his name at the bottom of that contract with Replica Entertainment, and exactly three hours before departure from Trudeau Airport, in Montreal, Réal Couture was struck down by a major panic attack.
“Hello, Pete?”
“Réal, my main man! How ya doin', you lucky fox? Are you already lying half-naked on the beach under a parasol with a forty ounce of rum within reach?”
“Not really, Pete, I'm still at the gate at Trudeau.”
“What's wrong, buddy, is the plane running late?”
“I don't know how to bring this to you, Pete... That whole thing doesn't make any sense to me anymore. I'm suddenly scared to death, shaking, sweating and not thinking straight. The Valium pills are not working. I want out of the project. It's much too risky.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind? You've already cashed half your salary. There is no turning back at this point, my friend.”
“I haven't spent a penny from that money. I wanted to wait until I was a hundred per cent sure everything was safe. My daughter is still a minor. I could not forgive myself if something bad happened to me. It's been hard enough raising her without her mom.”
“You are one selfish bastard, Réal? What about me? I don't have a dollar left from the commission they handed me in advance. Where am I going to find the dough to repay fifteen per cent of half a million dollars?”
“I own a piece of land in Saint-Valérien...”
“Who gives a fucking fuck about that cheap soil your grandma left you in her will? Swallow a handful of the goddamn pills I gave you and chill the fuck out, man. What's wrong with you? We've been working on this venture for more than a month, pal! You can't step out just like that. Many people are implicated in this shit. We've done illegal stuff, you know?”
“Put yourself in my shoes for just one second, Peter. I have to go through customs with a fake passport under the name of Moïse Berri. Now, do I look like a Moïse or a Berri to you? The people from the Caisse Populaire of Rimouski became very suspicious when I opened that account. Besides, why do they want me to stay one week in Thailand before landing in Port-au-Prince? I'm not even vaccinated against all the crap they've got waiting to kill me over there.”
“I have no idea why they want you to go halfway to the end of the world, but they are the good people paying you. Everything was written in black and white on the legal papers you've signed in front of a functioning camera. Let's calm down and take a minute to imagine a lovely scene, Réal. Close your eyes. Picture yourself in six months behind the wheels of your brand new car, driving in slow motion in your old neighborhood on Saint-Germain Street, back in Rimouski. You park your new ride by the Steak House and proudly announce to babbling, Sandra Rochon, that you are a nouveau riche. Picture the amount of smoke coming out of your former employer's ears, when he'll learn that you did indeed become richer than him.”
“You don't get it, Peter. My hands are wet like if I just washed them. I cannot hold still. I fear that the entire security staff of the airport is going to strip search and question me, because they've already spotted me. I'm all paranoid. I think I peed on myself. And you know what? I have a feeling of being constantly spied on. It's been like that for days.”
“A big Black Lincoln with tinted windows?”
“How the hell did you guess that?”
“Welcome in town, Réal. I never hid anything from you from the beginning. I warned you that we were dealing with the kind of organization that doesn't deal with police or pay any taxes. They've given you close to a half a million bucks already and you haven't done anything. There is nothing to show in your curriculum besides your shitty commercials with the talking dog, a couple of plays no critics came to see and a third role in a boring sitcom. You are going to Haiti because you look like a very important dude down there. That's it!”
“I just don't want to end up in jail in a country where even the rich cannot find decent food.”
“Don't worry, buddy. You're an artist, an entertainer. Even the Head of State down there is part of your crowd. We've both signed the deal. They started paying us. Please don't put us in trouble. I don't want to freak you out, little cousin, but the guys that have been following you in that Town Car knows where your daughter attends school and the daily routine of your mom after work. Let that sink in.”
The documentary on Vilaj Espwa and the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation, a production of the Legit Imco Corporation of California, was supposed to be shot in real time, at the same pace as the reconstruction of the commune of Mizerikod. Because absolutely nothing had been done after his first three months there, Réal Couture got bored and started drinking and smoking again. He spent most of his time all alone in a large villa that served as his own jail and personal quarters. Réal would have loved using his spare time to travel around and mix himself with the local population, but he was under constant surveillance and forbidden to leave the house without an armed escort.
One day, the chief cook of the villa took advantage of the absence of the bodyguards, busy changing the breaks on a motorcycle, to approach Couture and learn a little bit more about him. A bunch of tales and falsehoods were being spread about the inaccessible guest of Senator Fleurant. The cook wanted to hear the truth first-hand.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Sir. I know we're not allowed to communicate with you, but it is stronger than me. Are you really, like they say on the streets of Mizerikod, Moïse Berri, the president of Zanmi d'Haïti and director of Vilaj Espwa?”
“That's what it says on my ID card,” Réal Couture lied, thinking about what would happen to his family if he revealed his true identity.
“You mean, The Moïse Berri?”
“Unless there are two of us, yes.”
“Please allow me to shake your hand, Sir. I am honoured.”
“I'm just an average guy, my good man.”
“And so much humility,” sighed the employee with admiration. “From the bottom of my heart, Mr. Berri, I want to thank you. I want to thank you in the name of all my God fearing people, and also in the name of all the poor and the little ones of Mizerikod that get to attend school and learn to read because of you. I want to thank you for restoring our Church and renovating the clinic of Miss Lamisère and Doctor Sauvegarde. I had never seen machines like that with my own eyes. An Intensive Care unit in the small village of Mizerikod; who could have thought such a thing possible? May God bless you, Mr. Berri. You are close to sainthood in our minds. People don't call you Tit Papa for nothing. I thought you were much older, though. The painter who did your portrait should go straight back to art school. What a loser.”
“What do you mean, my portrait, you've seen me before… on a painting?”
“Third floor in the main salon, Sir. I can't tell if it's oil or acrylic, though. But I can tell it's you, no doubt.”
“I didn't know there was a third floor. In fact, can you give me an idea of where I am? I understand that I am in Haiti, close to Leôgane, but this residence, here, is it a private hotel or some kind of modern prison? None of the telephones work around here and some doors you open lead to nowhere or into a labyrinth that brings you back where you've entered.”
“You are a special guest of Senator Fleurant, Mr. Berri. It's very strange that you ask me such a question. Are you on drugs? I don't judge. People speak of you and the senator like if you were Laurel and Hardy, Tom and Jerry or Bouki and Malice, inseparable. Well, I have to go back to the kitchen. That was a pleasure to meet you, Sir. Can I ask you a personal question, Mr. Berri?”
“Go ahead.”
“Are you white like a Caucasian or a very light skinned African?”
“I am Quebecer with a bit of Mi'kmaq blood on my mother's side.”
“That explains the strange accent. All right, I'm out. If there is anything I can do for you, just ask. I would feel bad refusing you a kidney after all you've done for us.”
“I did not get your name, my good man?”
“Doudou, Sir, that's how people who love me call me.”
“I want this to stay between us, Doudou. I need to get in touch with the Canadian or the United States Embassy. Actually, any foreign embassy will do.”
“Do you need me to pick up a form or some pamphlets?”
“I want you to find someone with influence and enough power over there. You tell that someone that I have an important piece of information about a Canadian terrorist who goes by the name of Réal Couture. No planes should land or depart from the Toussaint Louverture Airport before an official representative of a foreign government meets with me.”
That peculiar conversation took place on a Thursday. The menu and the spices that were normally used in the kitchen changed abruptly on Friday at noon. Réal Couture asked the limo driver if he had any information on Doudou's whereabouts. Archibald told him Doudou had left our materialistic world for a better place, free of pain and sorrow. Moving his lips without making any sound, the terrified chauffeur added, his eyes dancing from left to right:
“The microphones, Sir… the cameras… they are everywhere in the house. Always remember that, Mr. Berri, always.”
The next Wednesday, Réal Couture was pulled out of bed by an entire film production team. People he was meeting for the first time and knew nothing about literally jumped on him and began to touch, pat and treat him like a guinea pig. Their goal was to prep him up for a quick screen test. A talkative hairdresser, two make-up artists and a very effeminate costume designer took for a mission to make Réal more marketable and presentable to their target audience. They even applied tanning creams all over his face and hands to make him look, in their own words, like a prosperous Haitian of Syrian descent. The person in charge of that Legit Imco Media Corp production, a fleshy woman with a thin moustache and swollen fingers, came forward and threw a pile of coloured paper sheets on Réal Couture's chest. Visibly sour and short-tempered, she stared hatefully at him for a while. The corpulent gal finally shook her head up and down with disdain, like if she was accepting or approving to work with someone she did not appreciate.
“You have two hours to memorize your lines,” the portly lady shouted. “Forget the ones in italic, the highlighted words and all the underlined text.”
“May I ask you what is happening?” Réal Couture wondered.
“Those are exterior scenes 18, 26 and 27. My name is Rosa Liz, spelled with a Z, and I am the captain of this vessel. If I sink, you drown alone, because I stay on the bridge. That's where the breeze is. I also own a survival kit and all the usable oxygen tanks on board. And guess who's wearing the only life jacket available on this ship? Ask me one more insignificant question and I'll slap you with such force, you might wake up with memory issues. You see how thick my left hand is? That's from hitting on plywood made from spruce every morning before breakfast. So, in 18, we are outside, right in front of the orphanage. Look surprised and amazed, like if you had no idea you were going to find yourself there. You get off the limousine for fifteen minutes, top. Always keep that imbecilic smile on your face in case someone uses a cell phone to capture your moronic expression. Avoid prolonged eye contact with the volunteers of the institution, particularly with Mr. Saint-Saëns. You'll recognize him easily; he looks like a permanent professional mourner. You will be introduced to a child struck with leprosy. Don't panic, it's all fake. That ugly brat is the son of my machinist. The little monkey is clean, well fed and healthy. Vehemently refuse to wear gloves and rub the little devil's hair like if you were immunized against all disease. Give us a tear, something à la Cardinal Léger, but only if you can act; if you can't, close your eyes and pretend you are praying. The money you'll be giving away is real, so control yourself and get rid of the small bills only. That's the budget for the entire team's canteen. We want the people to adulate you like they do with rock stars, not to mistake you for Christ, Our Savior. In scenes 26 and 27, you will be in the presence of some very important decision makers and at least four powerful members of the presidential cabinet. Don't change or add a single word to that speech we wrote for you. Besides saying hello, please to meet you or I'll call you, keep the social to a minimum. A sniper will have you in his scope at every given moment. Don't get smart trying to call for help or your brain becomes gravy in a split of a second. Do I make myself clear?”
The cameras started rolling and film making started on that same day. When Réal Couture was not in the streets or on the boardwalk, throwing coins and gifts to the poor, he was either part of a fundraising event, playing a small role in a theatrical performance written by a blind dramaturge and directed by a sick orphan, coaching amputees in a soccer game or visiting the injured and the damaged at the Baptist Mission's clinic. Réal Couture's relationship with the documentary's director became curiously intimate. Many mentioned the Stockholm syndrome. In the beginning, Rosa Liz used to slap him for absolutely no reason on both ears, making him dizzy and scared of becoming deaf. With time, Réal discovered her passion for old western classics, Johnny Cash, Patrick Norman, Edith Piaf and Léo Ferré. He remembered bits of partitions from his days in college and used his Rimouskois charm and a flamenco guitar with two chords missing to buy her pity and get her to hate him less. They soon became so close that they began performing small favors for each other, going as far as communicating with notes written on toilet paper to avoid being heard by the microphones of the house. For instance, in exchange for the answers of an online Ethnology exam from the University of Strasbourg, taken by a sibling of Rosa Liz, Réal obtained fresh news from his family. Everyone was healthy and safe.
Last Tuesday, the night Superstorm Sandy hit the island, Réal Couture realized that his person was the center piece of the insidious conspiracy slowly hatching around him. He told himself that if he tried to escape, the guards would have to chase him by foot. They would not dare shoot at him. All of them were overweight and were constantly carrying heavy weapons that would slow them down significantly. Réal decided to make his bold move during the sentinel's shift change. He jumped from an open window and ran facing the violent winds of the tropical storm's tail, barely seeing anything, guided by the city lights and the moon. Even if he was always blindfolded while being taken from one location or movie set to another, Réal had quickly figured out that the villa on Morne de la Gloire was about ten minutes away from downtown Mizerikod. He also deduced that a small ravine was flowing through the property near the woods. Couture thought that if he succeeded in alerting the authorities at the Canadian Embassy, RCMP or CSIS would know how to find and protect his loved ones. Réal was convinced for a brief moment that he was really going to put an end to his nightmare when he finally heard cars passing by on the Nationale #2. But Réal Couture lost all hope when he met with the electrical fence surrounding the villa. Barking dogs were already tracking him down. Recalling to himself that he used scented soap earlier in the evening, Couture understood that losing the animals was going to be very complicated. So, he sat down and waited, his hands up in the air.
The beating Réal Couture received on that night was of an Olympic scale. Only the sensitive parts of his head and scrotum were left untouched. The guards brought him back through the southwest door of the residence and carried him in a rolled up Persian rug through a deserted corridor and many vacant rooms that Réal never knew existed. They crossed a library filled with antiques and rare books, then entered a private closet with its walls covered with pictures and portraits of former Haitian presidents, Sylvain Salnave, Nissage-Saget and Fabre Geffrard. They ran into two men, dressed in smoking suits, playing a game of chess, enjoying cigars and sipping aged cognac. One was a vicious looking elder with an enormous pimple on the chin and a badly adjusted glass eye; the second, wearing a kippah, was either Réal Couture's unknown twin or a perfectly engineered clone. Even if that dude was obviously younger then Couture by at least ten years, the resemblance was mirror striking. Strangely, the gentleman was even more astounded than Réal.
“What do you want us to do with him, Senator?” asked one of the hired goons to the old man.
“That imbecile put our lives at risk,” declared another thug. “Can you believe that he made us chase him through the eye of the hurricane? I saw a tractor and living stock fly by!”
“Send him to the municipal jail,” coldly answered the senator. “That will make him comprehend that it is more comfortable and safe over here. Use the helicopter on the roof. I don't care if the wind is blowing at 200 miles per hour. Then come back to me by the emergency staircase for your written report of the incident. Do you know who is in charge of the prisoners tonight?”
“It's a week day, so it's probably Picot and Albin.”
“Tell them to keep Oscar Perceval away from my hostage. That man is worth a lot of money. I don't want that sadistic lunatic to rip off his valuable face without my permission.”
Heading for the top of the mansion, Réal Couture saw something extremely troubling on the eastern wall of the third floor. The seemingly important figure on the painting that Doudou the cook told him about before disappearing was no other than Joe Dassin, in his early thirties. Back in the days, Réal was frequently told by total strangers that he looked liked the legendary French speaking singer, but the man he just saw with the old Senator in that closet was simply a breathing photocopy of the late American superstar.
One day, the chief cook of the villa took advantage of the absence of the bodyguards, busy changing the breaks on a motorcycle, to approach Couture and learn a little bit more about him. A bunch of tales and falsehoods were being spread about the inaccessible guest of Senator Fleurant. The cook wanted to hear the truth first-hand.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Sir. I know we're not allowed to communicate with you, but it is stronger than me. Are you really, like they say on the streets of Mizerikod, Moïse Berri, the president of Zanmi d'Haïti and director of Vilaj Espwa?”
“That's what it says on my ID card,” Réal Couture lied, thinking about what would happen to his family if he revealed his true identity.
“You mean, The Moïse Berri?”
“Unless there are two of us, yes.”
“Please allow me to shake your hand, Sir. I am honoured.”
“I'm just an average guy, my good man.”
“And so much humility,” sighed the employee with admiration. “From the bottom of my heart, Mr. Berri, I want to thank you. I want to thank you in the name of all my God fearing people, and also in the name of all the poor and the little ones of Mizerikod that get to attend school and learn to read because of you. I want to thank you for restoring our Church and renovating the clinic of Miss Lamisère and Doctor Sauvegarde. I had never seen machines like that with my own eyes. An Intensive Care unit in the small village of Mizerikod; who could have thought such a thing possible? May God bless you, Mr. Berri. You are close to sainthood in our minds. People don't call you Tit Papa for nothing. I thought you were much older, though. The painter who did your portrait should go straight back to art school. What a loser.”
“What do you mean, my portrait, you've seen me before… on a painting?”
“Third floor in the main salon, Sir. I can't tell if it's oil or acrylic, though. But I can tell it's you, no doubt.”
“I didn't know there was a third floor. In fact, can you give me an idea of where I am? I understand that I am in Haiti, close to Leôgane, but this residence, here, is it a private hotel or some kind of modern prison? None of the telephones work around here and some doors you open lead to nowhere or into a labyrinth that brings you back where you've entered.”
“You are a special guest of Senator Fleurant, Mr. Berri. It's very strange that you ask me such a question. Are you on drugs? I don't judge. People speak of you and the senator like if you were Laurel and Hardy, Tom and Jerry or Bouki and Malice, inseparable. Well, I have to go back to the kitchen. That was a pleasure to meet you, Sir. Can I ask you a personal question, Mr. Berri?”
“Go ahead.”
“Are you white like a Caucasian or a very light skinned African?”
“I am Quebecer with a bit of Mi'kmaq blood on my mother's side.”
“That explains the strange accent. All right, I'm out. If there is anything I can do for you, just ask. I would feel bad refusing you a kidney after all you've done for us.”
“I did not get your name, my good man?”
“Doudou, Sir, that's how people who love me call me.”
“I want this to stay between us, Doudou. I need to get in touch with the Canadian or the United States Embassy. Actually, any foreign embassy will do.”
“Do you need me to pick up a form or some pamphlets?”
“I want you to find someone with influence and enough power over there. You tell that someone that I have an important piece of information about a Canadian terrorist who goes by the name of Réal Couture. No planes should land or depart from the Toussaint Louverture Airport before an official representative of a foreign government meets with me.”
That peculiar conversation took place on a Thursday. The menu and the spices that were normally used in the kitchen changed abruptly on Friday at noon. Réal Couture asked the limo driver if he had any information on Doudou's whereabouts. Archibald told him Doudou had left our materialistic world for a better place, free of pain and sorrow. Moving his lips without making any sound, the terrified chauffeur added, his eyes dancing from left to right:
“The microphones, Sir… the cameras… they are everywhere in the house. Always remember that, Mr. Berri, always.”
The next Wednesday, Réal Couture was pulled out of bed by an entire film production team. People he was meeting for the first time and knew nothing about literally jumped on him and began to touch, pat and treat him like a guinea pig. Their goal was to prep him up for a quick screen test. A talkative hairdresser, two make-up artists and a very effeminate costume designer took for a mission to make Réal more marketable and presentable to their target audience. They even applied tanning creams all over his face and hands to make him look, in their own words, like a prosperous Haitian of Syrian descent. The person in charge of that Legit Imco Media Corp production, a fleshy woman with a thin moustache and swollen fingers, came forward and threw a pile of coloured paper sheets on Réal Couture's chest. Visibly sour and short-tempered, she stared hatefully at him for a while. The corpulent gal finally shook her head up and down with disdain, like if she was accepting or approving to work with someone she did not appreciate.
“You have two hours to memorize your lines,” the portly lady shouted. “Forget the ones in italic, the highlighted words and all the underlined text.”
“May I ask you what is happening?” Réal Couture wondered.
“Those are exterior scenes 18, 26 and 27. My name is Rosa Liz, spelled with a Z, and I am the captain of this vessel. If I sink, you drown alone, because I stay on the bridge. That's where the breeze is. I also own a survival kit and all the usable oxygen tanks on board. And guess who's wearing the only life jacket available on this ship? Ask me one more insignificant question and I'll slap you with such force, you might wake up with memory issues. You see how thick my left hand is? That's from hitting on plywood made from spruce every morning before breakfast. So, in 18, we are outside, right in front of the orphanage. Look surprised and amazed, like if you had no idea you were going to find yourself there. You get off the limousine for fifteen minutes, top. Always keep that imbecilic smile on your face in case someone uses a cell phone to capture your moronic expression. Avoid prolonged eye contact with the volunteers of the institution, particularly with Mr. Saint-Saëns. You'll recognize him easily; he looks like a permanent professional mourner. You will be introduced to a child struck with leprosy. Don't panic, it's all fake. That ugly brat is the son of my machinist. The little monkey is clean, well fed and healthy. Vehemently refuse to wear gloves and rub the little devil's hair like if you were immunized against all disease. Give us a tear, something à la Cardinal Léger, but only if you can act; if you can't, close your eyes and pretend you are praying. The money you'll be giving away is real, so control yourself and get rid of the small bills only. That's the budget for the entire team's canteen. We want the people to adulate you like they do with rock stars, not to mistake you for Christ, Our Savior. In scenes 26 and 27, you will be in the presence of some very important decision makers and at least four powerful members of the presidential cabinet. Don't change or add a single word to that speech we wrote for you. Besides saying hello, please to meet you or I'll call you, keep the social to a minimum. A sniper will have you in his scope at every given moment. Don't get smart trying to call for help or your brain becomes gravy in a split of a second. Do I make myself clear?”
The cameras started rolling and film making started on that same day. When Réal Couture was not in the streets or on the boardwalk, throwing coins and gifts to the poor, he was either part of a fundraising event, playing a small role in a theatrical performance written by a blind dramaturge and directed by a sick orphan, coaching amputees in a soccer game or visiting the injured and the damaged at the Baptist Mission's clinic. Réal Couture's relationship with the documentary's director became curiously intimate. Many mentioned the Stockholm syndrome. In the beginning, Rosa Liz used to slap him for absolutely no reason on both ears, making him dizzy and scared of becoming deaf. With time, Réal discovered her passion for old western classics, Johnny Cash, Patrick Norman, Edith Piaf and Léo Ferré. He remembered bits of partitions from his days in college and used his Rimouskois charm and a flamenco guitar with two chords missing to buy her pity and get her to hate him less. They soon became so close that they began performing small favors for each other, going as far as communicating with notes written on toilet paper to avoid being heard by the microphones of the house. For instance, in exchange for the answers of an online Ethnology exam from the University of Strasbourg, taken by a sibling of Rosa Liz, Réal obtained fresh news from his family. Everyone was healthy and safe.
Last Tuesday, the night Superstorm Sandy hit the island, Réal Couture realized that his person was the center piece of the insidious conspiracy slowly hatching around him. He told himself that if he tried to escape, the guards would have to chase him by foot. They would not dare shoot at him. All of them were overweight and were constantly carrying heavy weapons that would slow them down significantly. Réal decided to make his bold move during the sentinel's shift change. He jumped from an open window and ran facing the violent winds of the tropical storm's tail, barely seeing anything, guided by the city lights and the moon. Even if he was always blindfolded while being taken from one location or movie set to another, Réal had quickly figured out that the villa on Morne de la Gloire was about ten minutes away from downtown Mizerikod. He also deduced that a small ravine was flowing through the property near the woods. Couture thought that if he succeeded in alerting the authorities at the Canadian Embassy, RCMP or CSIS would know how to find and protect his loved ones. Réal was convinced for a brief moment that he was really going to put an end to his nightmare when he finally heard cars passing by on the Nationale #2. But Réal Couture lost all hope when he met with the electrical fence surrounding the villa. Barking dogs were already tracking him down. Recalling to himself that he used scented soap earlier in the evening, Couture understood that losing the animals was going to be very complicated. So, he sat down and waited, his hands up in the air.
The beating Réal Couture received on that night was of an Olympic scale. Only the sensitive parts of his head and scrotum were left untouched. The guards brought him back through the southwest door of the residence and carried him in a rolled up Persian rug through a deserted corridor and many vacant rooms that Réal never knew existed. They crossed a library filled with antiques and rare books, then entered a private closet with its walls covered with pictures and portraits of former Haitian presidents, Sylvain Salnave, Nissage-Saget and Fabre Geffrard. They ran into two men, dressed in smoking suits, playing a game of chess, enjoying cigars and sipping aged cognac. One was a vicious looking elder with an enormous pimple on the chin and a badly adjusted glass eye; the second, wearing a kippah, was either Réal Couture's unknown twin or a perfectly engineered clone. Even if that dude was obviously younger then Couture by at least ten years, the resemblance was mirror striking. Strangely, the gentleman was even more astounded than Réal.
“What do you want us to do with him, Senator?” asked one of the hired goons to the old man.
“That imbecile put our lives at risk,” declared another thug. “Can you believe that he made us chase him through the eye of the hurricane? I saw a tractor and living stock fly by!”
“Send him to the municipal jail,” coldly answered the senator. “That will make him comprehend that it is more comfortable and safe over here. Use the helicopter on the roof. I don't care if the wind is blowing at 200 miles per hour. Then come back to me by the emergency staircase for your written report of the incident. Do you know who is in charge of the prisoners tonight?”
“It's a week day, so it's probably Picot and Albin.”
“Tell them to keep Oscar Perceval away from my hostage. That man is worth a lot of money. I don't want that sadistic lunatic to rip off his valuable face without my permission.”
Heading for the top of the mansion, Réal Couture saw something extremely troubling on the eastern wall of the third floor. The seemingly important figure on the painting that Doudou the cook told him about before disappearing was no other than Joe Dassin, in his early thirties. Back in the days, Réal was frequently told by total strangers that he looked liked the legendary French speaking singer, but the man he just saw with the old Senator in that closet was simply a breathing photocopy of the late American superstar.
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