Sequence 14b 

(The Limo) 

Moïse Berri 

and the reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

Sequence 14b 

The Limo 

Cyril Lavache has been the center of attention of the Port-au-Prince bus terminal for the last three hours. The cobbler showed up at the station at the wheel of a black Lincoln Town Car limousine, wearing a flamboyant lemon-yellow suit with a white gardenia flower in the pocket, cream shoes one size too big and flashy Mickey Mouse orange socks. He came out of the stretched vehicle, holding a box of freshly baked patties and a magnificent bouquet composed of multi-colored frangipani, pendilous ylang-ylang and radiant white night-blooming jasmine. When the transport hub was still crowded, people who recently ate were pointing fingers at Cyril, blaming the shoe repairman for that insupportable blue cod smell. The starving ones, on the other hand, saw a potential hero in him. Someone who could definitely make a concrete change. Now that there are only three people left on the platform, Cyril Lavache is wondering if he is indeed at the right place. The shoe repairman by day, and policeman by night, is expecting a coach, carrying his adoptive daughter, Violette, to arrive at any moment. He came to the capital to intercept the young woman and prevent her from committing the irreparable. It might sound very selfish, but if Violette gets twenty-five years for the murder of Rondall Jérémie, the rice vendor, slash, rapist, slash, thief, Cyril will automatically be condemned to raise her future kid alone. Who else will do the job while the poor girl will be busy breaking rocks or do whatever they do to kill time in a hard labor penitentiary? 

The old cop found out the hard way that he had very few friends, when he started looking around to borrow a car for his excursion to Port-au-Prince. Cyril Lavache's intentions were noble and his despair immense, but everyone he asked for that small favor was more preoccupied by the risk of damage or theft of their machine than by the tragic and urgent aspect of the situation. Dorion, the florist, saw no problem lending his motorcycle to Cyril, but the thing needed minor repairs that would have taken way too long. Ludovic, the slow itinerant patty vendor of Capois-la-Mort Alley, offered his bike to the cobbler, unaware of the great travel distance between the two cities and the dangers of the road, partly flooded by mudslides and blocked by storm debris left by Cyclone Sandy. Cyril Lavache finally bumped into Pastor Louis Éloïse. The cleric advised him to take a chance with Elzéar Michelet, owner of Mizerikod's only auto repair shop. The minister said that a limousine with its engine running was parked in the yard, left totally unattended. So the shoemaker went there after buying a bottle of Barbancourt aged rum, thinking that was a wise move destined to increase his power of negotiation with Elzéar Michelet, a certified boozer. 

“I'll bring it back scratch-free and the gas tank back on the letter F.” Cyril Lavache promised once the deal was done. 
“I've got a better idea, Cordwainer. When you get to Port-au-Prince, I want you to bring that ride directly to Saint-Clair Auto; that's on Paul VI Street. I already discussed the price with the boss over there. Now, you keep five per cent for yourself. That should be more than enough to get you some new shoes, something decent, something your mother would be proud of, and a bus ticket back home.” 
“What's wrong with that elongated sedan, Boss Elzéar? It doesn't look like a junker to me.” 
“That Lincoln Town Car is two tons of bad news and bad luck, Cobbler. Do you remember Mortimer Nordin, a skinny jack with two missing front teeth, William-Anne Dumortier's hunchback henchman?” 
“Killed in Turgeau, I believe. It was in Victor Goudet the Hexagone's newspaper.” 
“Wrong! Even jacketed ammunition with a steel core cannot harm that kind of creature. Something we cannot see rides on his back at night. The use of silver bullets that were soaked at least seven days in holy water is necessary if you want to stop it. And you must wait for the full moon. Mortimer Nordin came here with the chauffeur of that limo and asked my main employee to crush it completely. Is that a normal request? I instantly smelled trouble. You know, sulfur? Why destroy an automobile of such value, when you can make a fortune selling the spare parts separately if you really want it gone for good? I also noticed that the limo driver was not comfortable in the presence of Nordin. In fact, I could tell that Archibald was terrified by the man. I thought he was going to faint at one point. The car works, it will bring you to Port-au-Prince, no trouble. A good cleaning and a quick tune up; you're good to go. Changing the shock absorbers would be a good thing also, but I'll leave that to the new owner. I'm fed up with that grease monkey business. My senior mechanic took the job without my permission. Can you believe that? Such a thing is not acceptable in my enterprise. Lordy knows my rules. They're written. The bastard showed up late like always this morning and left early. Trust me, Lordy de Grâce will never find another employer after I show him the door. You'd think his brother Leopold could find something for him, now that he is almost government, but using a pen seems to be his only talent.  Between you and me, Shoemaker, the key was in the ignition. My eyes were closed. I didn't see shit. That Lincoln disappeared during my nap. Are we clear?” 
“Thank you, Boss Elzéar. Write me the address of Saint-Clair Auto on a piece of paper.” 
“Here is their business card with the phone number and address on the back. The Earth sometimes shakes without any warning, Cordwainer. The Market has created a new species of men. Homo Placesbursarius is provoking Big Blue with all that digging and hydraulic fracturing under the sea bullshit for cash. He wants to experience Her reaction when She's had enough. Were you aware of that?” 
“What are we going to do against Dame Nature, Boss Elzéar? Looking for trouble is engraved onto their genes. I read the other day that they were looking for advanced alien civilization all over the universe, like blind crippled rodents chasing really fat starving raptors. Enough about that, heard any news about my grandchildren at the police station?” 
“The search is still on, Colonel.” 
“Here,” said the old man, handing a partially burnt notebook to Cyril Lavache. 
“What is it?” 
“That's a gift for Violette. It's an alternative to murder if your daughter's head is just too hard. It's on the way to the capital, in Grande-Saline, just before you hit the Bay of Grand-Pierre. You stop at this address and ask to meet with Bonne Suzette or Master Pantaléon. When you show up at their residence, be very careful. If the door is open, don't enter or you're dead. If the door is closed, knock on it using your left fist. That's essential and technically vital. They know all the secrets of that extremely toxic poison you can find in the liver of the parrotfish. That thing paralyzes a strongly built man in ten minutes. As soon as your daughter gives it to the demented loser who attacked her, the metamorphosis will begin. Once he is tamed and convinced that he is a walking dead, Violette may smite him whenever she wants and even cut his balls with a spoon. That way, she can savor her sweet vengeance over a long period of time and avoid a lengthy and unpleasant incarceration.” 

Cyril Lavache is now the only person left at the bus terminal. The ticket agent has been busy talking on the phone for the last two hours. Cyril goes straight to him and tells the young man part of his story with a touch of wrath in his voice. He asks for some explanation about the bus delay. The employee apologizes on behalf of the company. The bus from Cap-Haïtien broke down near Saint-Marc. The passengers were transferred to another bus line that will drop them at the bus depot in Petionville. The old shoemender gets really upset. Cyril tells the clerk that he should have informed him of that major issue a long time ago. The young station agent answers that he didn't do so because he was numbed by fear. He explains to Cyril Lavache that he recently fled his hometown of Petite-Anse, on Gonâve Island, because he was unable to pay his gambling debts due to the wrong people. When he saw Cyril step out of that black limousine, without a passenger at the back and not wearing a chauffeur's uniform, he thought that his life was over. Lincolns like that one are usually driven by Willy Bossal's cold-blooded butchers. All this time spent on the phone was to confess one last time to the priest of his parish and say goodbye to the people he loved, one by one. 

©Jajjazz ©Jude Antoine Jarda