19a The Problem Solver
Rogatien Gingras arrives at the city limits of Mizérikod by the Darbonne back road on the back of a mule, cleverly hidden in a caravan composed of former residents of the commune, itinerant merchants looking for customers and improvised prospectors hoping to get their share of the unprecedented oil bonds giveaway. The word spread like a river out of his bed, from the Acul to Mazenod, from Jean-Rabel to Jérémie, the twenty-first century Klondike is named Mizérikod. According to that galloping rumor, the citizens of that small town will soon be moneyed and loaded like Arab Sheikhs. Thousands of opportunist peasants are flocking to the Haitian El Dorado, hoping to get their hands on a petrol bond or a false proof of residence in order to cash in.
The newly appointed chief audit executive and financial comptroller of the Heritage Légitime Fund and the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation is unrecognizable. Rogatien Gingras is wearing a green suede biker jacket, a bright yellow straw hat, indigo blue flannel overalls and red rubber boots. The beard and the bandage on his nose are gone. A pair of purple round sunglasses and a afro wig complete his awkward disguise.
The civil officer, hired by Gustave Amaury Quick to protect and bring Rogatien Gingras safely to the offices of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation, pops up from the dust in the opposite direction on a battered competition dirt bike. The man in camouflage clothing stops the convoy by waving his security guard card from the Pétionville Golf Club. He is the vigil of the Calvary Baptist Mission NGO and goes by the name of Marvel Saint-Hilien. He addresses the conductor of the caravan with authority in Haitian Creole and American Sign Language. Marvel Saint-Hilien taps on his plastic and brass badge several times while talking to the businessperson. He finally walks toward the new designated auditor general's pack animal. Saint-Hilien tells Rogatien Gingras that all the roads leading to Mizérikod are closely watched by the HNP and the UNPOL. It is practically impossible to enter the commune without being frisked. The soldiers confiscate money, weapons, water, food and all your digital material.
The financial controller's only luggage is a portable computer. The machine is still linked to his wrist by a pair of stainless steel handcuffs. For reasons of safety and confidentiality, Rogatien Gingras insists that absolutely no one is supposed to touch is rugged Getac. Marvel Saint-Hilien knew about this, so he planned an alternative route to help the auditor general to get into the city. A man is waiting for Gingras in a small wooded area one mile ahead with clean clothes and new shoes; a second one will bring him in town via the Momance River by boat. The new chief audit executive is familiar with both men. Rogatien Gingras hired Picot and Albin on multiple occasions to watch over and defend River of Hope, his now defunct NGO, from paid vandals and arsonists.
Picot did not want to disappoint or be reprimanded. The night watcher of the municipal prison shows up at the rendez-vous with a bag of old clothes, various amateur spy accessories and a bunch of knick-knacks; notably a make-up kit, a cane, false teeth and some high heels sandals. Rogatien Gingras opts for sobriety by choosing a pair of khaki pants, a white shirt with a restaurant logo on the pocket, a navy blue blazer with walnut buttons and mismatched trek shoes. Albin is also very efficient. The pirogue he rented is entirely covered with plantain leaves to make it less visible; and it is propelled by a small noiseless electric motor. To the auditor general's surprise, they are not the only people trying to reach the town of Mizérikod by waterways. Some people are just swimming their way up there, some are simply lying flat on a piece of furniture or nestling in a pneumatic inner tube. The ultimate goal is to reach that hypothetical Nirvana of the poor and desperate by any means necessary.
The new comptroller of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation enters the commune by a footpath that cuts through the poorly surveilled cemetery. Mizérikod seems appeased. Could it be because the sun is too hot or is it because they are more cops and news people than they are citizens walking around? Pacific protests lead by recently founded associations are being held all across town. The Coalition for Oil Rights Equality and the Women Against Pollution are fighting each other on Place Michaëlle Jean using solid arguments on the advantages and drawbacks for Haiti to become an energy superpower. The C.O.R.E. foresee a net improvement of the conditions of living for the people of Haiti, but the W.A.P. fear an imminent invasion by the United States of America. The Students for Free Superior Education march on Capois-la-Mort Boulevard, proud, defiant and rebellious. The duct tape on their lips and the blindfolded eyes of their mascot are symbolic. They denounce governmental censorship, but they also give rise to a bitter feeling of guilt and shame.
A loud fanfare made of locals with no specific claims is heading towards the business district. Troublemakers are hiding amongst them. They are easily identifiable because they are unusually calm, eyeballing the police officers with contempt and not carrying any instruments. Rogatien Gingras, Picot and Albin contemplate the scene, evaluate their options and react promptly. They spot a pile of trash in front of an abandoned house, run to it and start digging and searching. They soon join the noisy brass band and the hooligans with a piece of lumber, a computer tower, three glass bottles, a car door and two cardboard boxes. The Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation is on their path on Lysius-Salomon Boulevard. That's exactly where the crowd is heading.
The building housing the Foundation's headquarters is surrounded by a MINUSTAH military company and several tanks of the UNPOL. The producers of the Reconstruct Haiti Now documentary and employees of Legit Imco Media Corp are confronting the heavily armed policemen and the soldiers, with mechanical and agricultural tools like reinforced 4-way lug wrenches, rusted pitchforks, sickles and scythes. Some of them are also carrying cooking tools and commercial kitchen equipment like coffee grinders, pepper mills and meat tenderizers. The workers want to have a peaceful talk with the Vilaj Espwa managers on the spot. An anonymous source asserts that the abrupt disappearance of the organization's president is a sham, just another unfounded hearsay fed by undisclosed conspirators. Moïse Berri is said to be hiding with the money he owes the production, in the small space between the acoustic tiles and the suspended ceiling of his office. The odious villain is apparently fed through a gastric tube and uses a PVC sewage pipe to defecate. The head carpenter, the costume designer and the property master of Legit Imco Media Corp would love to have a chat with Mr. Berri in private if they could find his hideout. They're asking whoever is in charge for concrete and immediate actions to be taken against the crook. They want guarantee the pay checks already in their possession are valid and that all the financial institutions of the commune will soon reopen. Most employees of the production house have been on a empty stomach for more than forty-eight hours. It is visible in their eyes and on their faces, strained by hatred and despair; their impatience has reached a critical limit.
The police forces would really love to charge the protesters, break some kneecaps, realign their chakras using their expandable batons, soften their unprotected skulls with their steel toe boots and put a quick end to that illegal and ridiculous siege, but the cameras are watching, therefore paralyzing the decision makers at the head of the MINUSTAH. A high-ranking officer told Suzanne Malvaux, from the Cable News Network, off the record, the crisis would soon be over, with no bloodshed, police brutality or massive arrests.
Colonel Diego Pérez Salazar is currently giving a press conference in front of City Hall from the bed of his pickup truck. Newspapers from all over the world and global news networks are facing each other like on a chess board. On one side, playing the card of impartiality, stand Al Jazeera, France 2 and the Jerusalem Post, on the other side, showing partisanship and aggressiveness in their approach, camp Haïti Libre, Reuters and the Washington Post. The Europeans want to know the whole truth about the French speaking pedophile from Quebec. The Americans are focusing on the anticipated economic boom the oil exploration will provoke. The Israelis require a live an interview with the apostate Jew. The Haitians are drooling over the thought they might soon get richer and more powerful than the Qatari sheikhs and Emirati princes if the oil and rare earths discovery rumours are found to be more than just trivial urban legends.
Near Place du Président, a freelancer who looks like a lady-killer is giving away tee-shirts bearing the MTV logo. He swears to the young and hysterical teenage girls around him that the return of Wycleff and Sean Penn is almost confirmed. His very immature film and sound editor tells to children Iron Man will come to meet them all wearing his indestructible exoskeleton. The kids want much more than that, so he promises a quick visit from Batman the Batmobile and Wonder Woman with her Lasso of Truth. A correspondent from the Huffington Post tells a group of men debating politics, a possible flash visit from Clinton and Carter, backed by Chinese investors and experienced carpenters is to be expected.
"What's the matter with the other presidents?"one debater inquires. "They must think they're better than us."
"Of course, Hermane-Dan, and they have a extended list of good excuses," another one answers. "W. Bush still feels unwelcome since that famous handshake he cleaned off on his predecessor's shoulder; and Obama has to deal with an overloaded schedule due to the elections and the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy in New Jersey."
A little bit further, but much closer to reality, a local reporter shares her powdered milk and dry biscuits with some visibly starving teens.
Picot, Albin and the auditor general approach the besieged edifice. They make their way through the fuming crowd by elbowing everyone on their path until they reach the main entrance. Rogatien Gingras shows the letter of authorization that makes him the new man in charge of the destiny of the non-profit organization to a nervous Corporal. The Vice-President of the Zanmi d'Haïti Foundation is immediately notified.
Prospérine de Grâce welcomes Gingras like a gift that fell from the sky. The acting chief executive of the institution is a fashionable and gracious lady with grayish hair. She walks with a lot of confidence and her smile is inviting. Prospérine collaborated with Rogatien Gingras in the past. They worked side by side on a micro-finance project in Hinche years ago. It takes her a few seconds to recognize her former colleague. Prospérine takes Rogatien Gingras to the abandoned office of Kennedy Fleurinor. She speaks with confidence; life if she was told everything about the new finance controller's plans.
"Amaury Quick informed me of your presence in the country, Mr. Gingras. I feel relieved now that you are among us. I am ready to go to war."
"Did you to speak to an operator before establishing the communication with Mr. quick?"
"I spoke to an old lady with a South-African or Australian accent. The line was riddled with parasites, but we finally got a conversation despite the frequent interruptions. I see that your precious computer is in your possession again. You can use the room of your choice to put the rest of your equipment. Moïse Berri's office is by far the biggest and safest place, but because he barely used it, there is no air conditioning, no router and he never installed a telephone socket. The walls are also covered with mildew and you would need a knife to get rid of the spider webs."
"Any room will do, Prospérine. Forget the comfort, my laptop is all I need."
"Your simplicity will save us from disaster, Mr. Gingras. Now, I don't want to rush things; you just landed. I understand you must be tired, but all the employees of the Foundation are going to ask me the same question. When can we expect a return to normality? You have hundreds of contracts awaiting revision and loads of incomplete reports that need to be verified and approved. You also have to go through the list of past and present people who worked for the Foundation. Moïse Berri's straw men must be identified and neutralized like cancer cells. We would need ten clone copies of you to finish such a chore in so little time."
"Call for a general meeting in the main cafeteria in one hour, Prospérine. I have good news for the staff. I intend to act quickly and hit the problem at its core. Paperwork can wait. I am this close to get my hands on Moïse Berri. The money that was taken from the inhabitants and the honest workers of this commune will be retrieved and given back to them. But we must act now. We don't have a minute to lose."
"I wasn't expecting anything less from you, Mr. Rogatien, actions right now, procedures later."
"It feels good to be back, Prospérine. How are your mom, your daughters and your brothers? And what about Damian, your husband?"
"My daughters are well. They're staying at my aunt's in Camp-Perrin with all their offsprings. Damian went to join them with my mother. The electricity comes and goes since the explosion at the power plant. Mother was convinced that the sporadic power failures was affecting the content of her oxygen tank. My auntie owns a store with a warehouse at the back. She stocked enough food and commodities in there to subsist at least one year after a global cataclysm. Life is not as good for my brothers. It seems that my older brother has lost his mind. Leopold's sudden delusion of grandeur made him the ideal leader of this preposterous insurrection. If he was brandishing some kind of red book or manifest, I would understand Leopold's influence on the population, but in my opinion, his nudity makes it very hard for me to take him seriously. Lordy's mental state is also a subject of concern. My younger brother refuses to get out of his bedroom because he truly believes that a deceased jealous dude is planning his assassination."
"What?"
"You heard me. Madness has somehow became a contagious disease around here. Rational people are seriously asking themselves whether the enemies of the nation have created a weapon capable of making individuals go nuts. Some think they are pointing a cosmic ray from space on our heads or poisoning our rivers and water systems."
"Do you have any similar cases in your staff?"
"I wouldn't say they completely lost it like my two brothers did, but some of them have been acting very weirdly lately. For instance, at least twelve have committed incoherent actions, like stealing while being observed or filmed. The Chief Engineer of Vilaj Espwa set his own house on fire Sunday morning. That man was a known car collector we were planning to visit with a bailiff and a court order. Everything he owned went into flames. We found out afterwards that his name does not appear on the pay list of the Foundation, but he managed to cash in nine checks a week under eight different identities. The manager of the storage department is said to be sailing to Montego Bay in a damaged recreational craft. We lost contact with his radio signal this morning. The man in charge of maintenance is walking around in circle in his backyard, holding a gas tank and a Zippo lighter. He swore to immolate himself if he hears his name being associated in any way to the ongoing scandal. Closer to us, our computer specialist, Hildegarde Narcisse, is nowhere to be found after she decided to pour two gallons of hot coffee in our server. After a quick inquiry, we discovered that eleven per cent of our charity sales takings ended up in the PayPal account of her fiancé, Kenneth Cerisier, a wanted criminal known as Mandela by his peers. What else? Let me think. Yes! Fritz Alphonse Maillebranchon, our transportation and heavy machinery coordinator; all the equipment bought over the last six months were done using the name and fake credit card of his younger brother, Wilner Frantz Maillebranchon; a bandit from Saint-Marc who goes by the name of Will Smith Original, Tit Will and sometimes Fanfan by his close relatives. A mobile crane operator holds Mr. Maillebranchon prisoner at his residence, tied to a lemon tree, while two skilled workers went hunting for his designated heir. And let us not forget the president of that list of eccentrics. Nobody on this planet can pretend to be stranger than Moïse Berri. Besides the short phone conversations I had to struggle hard to have with him, it has been nearly impossible to meet face to face with that insensitive imbecile. May I remind you the absenteeism rate of the president during the current year was close to a hundred per cent? More often than not, I had to speak with that arrogant primate through the close door of his office, constantly guarded by two uneducated alcohol smelling brutes. Between you and I, Mr. Gingras, I believe Moïse Berri's disappearance has something to do with drug money he owes to the wrong circle. I am not a fool, that enemy of the people was definetely using illegal drugs on and off work. I am not talking about funny herbs that makes you hungry or plunge you into deep philosophy, I am talking about laboratory stuff that transforms a person into a walking tomato plant with no specific goals. Back in May, I saw him get out of his stretched Lincoln. The man was plump, with a healthy glow, smiling and distributing candies to the orphans. A movie crew was filming every move he made. Mr. Berri waved at me, to my great surprise. We spoke about many different topics, including a plan to prevent a new cholera outbreak. Moïse Berri asked me about every single member of my family. He even knew the name and the breed of my dog. Three weeks later, that was in June, Berri was skinny as a rake, coming out of Senator Fleurant's villa, pale like a ghost, an empty and forlorn look on his face. I tried to approach him. Mr. Berri's bodyguard told me to keep walking. I yelled out little but important parts of our recent talk to Berri, hoping to reach his heart. It was useless, the man clearly had no idea who I was. I demanded to know what was going on. Berri's goon showed me his pistol. I told the animal I was not scared, but it was too late. Berri's chauffeur stepped on the gas pedal and fled away."
"Moïse Berri has been using body doubles to fool us for years, Prospérine. That would explain the dramatic weight drop and the memory problems from one time to another."
"I am happy to learn I am not the only one who believe I've dealt with two different men. I am really concerned for your safety, Mr. Gingras. Danger is in the air. They are several members of our staff working undercover for Moïse Berri and guns are available everywhere in town. I don't want to freak you out, but if you are not carrying a handgun yourself, stay close to Picot and Albin at all time."
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