chapter 18f 

(The Auditor General) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

18f 

The Auditor General 

Rogatien Gingras looks really overjoyed, his face beaming like a kid who just received a three days pass to Disney World by mail. The man is definitely hyperactive. He is strutting around in the hotel suite and talking out loud to himself and to the overheating portable computer still handcuffed to his wrist. Gingras suddenly stops in front of the window, motionless, one foot off the ground like a gun dog. Amaury Quick is watching his every move. The financier doubts Gingras is sane enough to be entrusted with the power to run the Heritage Legitime Funds on his behalf. 

“Show me that picture one more time, Mr. Grosbois,” Rogatien Gingras asks, completely immobile and still staring at the horizon. 
“Here.” 
“Eureka!” the freakish French Canadian shouts. 
“Did he just yell, eureka?” Amaury Quick asks himself, caustic and a bit intrigued. 
“It's Greek... Archimedes. I finally remember where I saw that man's visage. It was at the American embassy in Port-au-Prince. He doesn't look at all like the guy I identified as the real Moïse Berri. He does have the smile of Joe Dassin like you've said, though. The Moïse Berri I've met, on multiple occasions, may I remind you; the gentleman who helped me organize at least four fundraising events in the last three years; well, he was more of a pure wool Quebecer, meaning that he was white and spoke French with a very pronounced accent. The individual on that snapshot looks Berber or Kabyle to me, maybe from Mauritania or the Bedouin type, unless he is Corsican or Sicilian; those people can literally burn under the sun and not lose conscience. You, who knows Moïse Berri enough to have put him in charge of the millions left by the late Sixte Osmer Legitime, may he rest in peace, of what nationality is Moïse Berri, exactly?” 
“Haitian, I believe,” Grosbois answers with zero assurance. “But he might hold a dual nationality status, most likely Canadian or American. I don't think it's that important.” 
“Are we dealing with a Caucasian or a light skin African, that's what I'm asking?” 
“Who the hell cares?” Amaury Quick asks Gingras, irritated and getting very impatient. “Do you want to find him the ideal Maybelline foundation or do you intend to powder him to death? Time is running against us. We need to elaborate a plan, sign the legal papers and arrange your departure for Mizerikod right away. Do I make myself clear? Black or White; what kind of question is that? We're not in the Dark Ages anymore, pal. If he was Korean, Bengali or Jordanian, would you dare call him a Yellow, Red or Brownish man? No, you wouldn't. You'd have the decency to make an effort and use words like Asian, Arab or Oriental. Even if Moïse Berri's skin is lighter than the skin of a Cypriot, he can only be a so called Black man, a Negro of African descent like Phil and me. Take a peek at the definition of the word Black in the dictionary and you'll understand why White people refuse to pass the Crayola crayon test. They prefer to insist on the supposed whiteness of their skin when you read that white is a synonym of purity and innocence.” 
“It was not my intention to vex you, Mister Quick. I am not a racist, I swear it on my mother's grave. My wife is of the same race as you.” 
“So what you're saying is there is more than one race living on this planet, besides the human race? Go ahead and continue, you sound more and more like a drunken Goebbels.” 
“What I meant was... well, she is tanned, African, but not born in Africa, born in Les Anglais, in Haiti... it's in the Chardonnières...” 
“Forgive my outburst, Gingras. I got mad because I am frustrated. I'm pissed off because I couldn't answer your simple question. Moïse Berri is a total mystery to me. It's like we're chasing Big Foot and asking ourselves if we're looking for a man, a great ape or an unknown species.” 
“We've lost enough of our precious time, fellows,” Grosbois interrupts. “Let's fill up the paperwork and start the hunt?” 

One hour later, everything is signed and a plan is set up. Rogatien Gingras becomes the official representative of Phil Hans Orville Grosbois Sr. and Gustave Amaury Quick in the land of Haiti, the interim President, chief audit executive and financial comptroller of the Heritage Legitime Funds. He will leave Montreal for Washington D.C. in the evening, but will only arrive in Haiti on Monday, forty-eight hours later. Gingras will stay in the apartment Kennedy Fleurinor built in his office at the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation. Professional bodyguards will be assigned to protect the new General Comptroller 24/7. 

Before he leaves, Rogatien Gingras hands seven pre-paid calling cards to Quick and Grosbois. It will be almost impossible for anyone to intercept their calls because the Australian company serving that network, Line Eve Megilite Enterprises, has recently filed for bankruptcy and closed its doors, while pursuing its commercial activities on a different bandwidth. To cover their tracks, Rogatien Gingras strongly recommends that the trio leaves the Queen Elizabeth and take the room he rented for a week at the Marriott of the Montreal Airport. Rogatien Gingras won't need his car either, and renting one could be risky and unwise if they have been followed. So Gingras gives the key of his Lincoln Town Car to Amaury Quick. With Mr. Nji Mbonjo on the wheels and the two octogenarian businessmen on the back seat, they will blend easily, like two American investors visiting the French metropolis, the car being a registered vehicle from the State of Illinois.