chapter 16a 

(The Cook) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 
 

16a
The Cook 

Violette Lavache, born Esmeralda Turvillot, is heading to Mizerikod in a colorful bus packed with experienced rioters, self-proclaimed oil prospectors and professional pillagers. Plundering is a highly regarded art form in the eyes of these sprightly young men. Just like playing drums on street corners, it is for them an ideal way to vent their frustrations and a relatively stable source of revenue. These rowdy delinquents are particularly motivated today. They learned about the existence of the city of Mizerikod and its unlimited fossil fuel reserves just this morning. They have since been chanting, cheering and boasting about how much they don't want to miss the coming strife and the possibility of becoming the newest rich and powerful oilmen of the Caribbean. 

Violette was traveling on another coach that left from Cap-Haïtien, but it broke down near Saint-Marc, on route Nationale #2, due to an overheating engine. Legitimus Tours and Buses Incorporated took so long to find a solution to appease its clients that Violette accepted to embark in the twenty passenger vehicle of a water distributor nicknamed, Li'l John Digs Wells. She chose to sit in the last seats, all the way in the back, right beside a sleepy bearded man who smelled like pus. It was out of the question for her to ride with the hoodlums on the top of the bus or near the ones in the front singing dirty songs along with the drunk driver. Violette played dead. A brilliant way to eliminate any attempt of socialization from her neighbor, but the stinky stranger felt obliged to engage in a conversation because of the promiscuity. 

“Pamphile Dutervil,” the hairy and sweaty man introduced himself.
“Please, Mister, I beg you not to bother me. I am severely pregnant, stressed out and extremely tired. I also believe that you may have a mouth infection or something worse that I don't want to catch at this point.” 
“Just a small abscess, my dear. Nothing to nail me in a bed. You don't remember me; do you, Melissandre Présumé's husband? And you… I had it on the tip of my tongue. I know for sure you're the cobbler's daughter?” 
“Good Lord! aren't you supposed to be dead?” 
“That's what they wanted me to believe. People who love me warned me. They told me to refuse that job at the senator's villa, but One Eyed Fleurant was offering five times what Mrs. Consuelo could afford to pay me in her restaurant. I was doing great for a while, but one day, I disobeyed to one of the many singular rules of that nut house. The consequences were dire, I tell you. Two tough guys whom I thought were friends were sent the next morning to get rid of me. I used to feed the entire family of those two ungrateful rats. They made me crawl through a tunnel beneath the residence and threw me like a garbage bag in the trunk of a Black Lincoln Town Car. Those jerks drove me all the way north, near Quartier-Morin, where they forced me to dig my own grave with a plastic plate. What they say in books and movies is real, my dear; all the important chapters of your life come right back at you in one solid block. I am not making this up. Lucky for me, I was carrying my amulet; this necklace, here, it was given to me by my aunt, Bonne Suzette from Grand Saline. The Lord is my witness. I dug my way out of that dirt with my bare hands, determined to survive. When I felt the fresh air of the mountains entering my lungs and the perfume of liberty caressing my nostrils, I knew I had resuscitated. I found refuge in a cavern on the slope of Morne Jean, west of Cap-Haïtien. What I did not eat to stay alive does not exist, my dear, but the shock messed up my memory. I forgot just about everything about my own self; my name and my age included, total amnesia. I was living like a confused animal. One morning, a dark skinned mountain dweller found me in the cold, barely breathing. You know the temperature in the hills up North. I thought at the moment that this man was sent by my guardian angel to save me. Big mistake! That monster made me his slave until the day I discovered that he was drugging me on a daily base to break my will and my capacity to think clearly. So I stopped drinking his daily potions. My strength quickly came back. I confronted that son of a mule with the truth seven days later and fixed everything. That walking tarantula will never hold another victim in his net again.” 
“Did you…?” 
“I don't want to know,” Pamphile Dutervil answered, lowering his voice. “After knocking his head a dozen times on a pointed rock, his skull made a strange noise. I turned his old shack upside down and found some money inside a stained mattress. I bought myself this kitchen knives kit that came with that nice leather briefcase and decided to go back to what I do best, which is cooking and nothing else. All this stays between us, all right, I don't need any publicity? Is that a boy or a girl in that round belly, my dear?” 
“I don't want to know!” 
“Okay… uh… so, the father, I mean… is he in Mizerikod… still? Are you married or one of these modern women?” 
“That pig is going to die soon,” Violette said with a lot of contained rage. “Now leave me alone, Sir, I need some rest. I have the impression that my head is going to explode.”