Conversation · Composure

"You know, about that René..."

"Yes, where is he?" he tenses up. "I hope he doesn't have debilitating arthritis. Or kidney stones. He can still come out to play with balls and get shot in the head, right?"

Oh my, god, he's even worried for him.

"Bad arthritis, yes. He's not playing this week." (Lie.)

"Heh, yes of course." He seems to relax a bit. "I hope it hurts like hell, I hope he sweats blood. Must be torture -- not to be throwing his balls for a whole week..."

He was worried for him.

He reminds him of himself. The same hatred. The same... you try to think of another thing -- but no, it's just the hatred.

They are veterans of the same war. Somewhere west, in Coal City his enemy is lying in a dark room, on a metal slider. In L'Ossuaire Municipal, like he will too. Soon. Half of the war between these men is over.

With an agitated gait Satellite-Officer Jean-Heron Vicquemare paces the jetty, 22 kilometres East -- in Martinaise: "What could he possibly be doing there for so long," he says.

"Policework?" Patrol Officer Judit Minot replies, with a tinge of hope in her voice. A tinge of warmth too, against the cold air rising from the water...

He's drunk, she thinks. And we all know it. Still, she's just trying to see it in a generous light...

He seems relieved. Could he have been worried for him?

"Anyway. Tell me something else, Mr. Dros..."

"Heh, yes, of course..." He mutters to himself. "Must be passing a kidney stone. I hope it's excruciating. At least it keeps him from throwing his balls..."

"René is dead. He died of old age, a couple of days ago."

"No..."

"Yes."

"I waited too long…" The old communard looks at you, his blackberry eyes shaking -- in disbelief. "I waited too long and now he's dead."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dros," the lieutenant says, softly. "I understand you knew him for a long time."

"They're all dead now." He just shakes his head. "Fuck it..."

If he really wanted to kill him so bad, he would have done. There must have been a thousand black days on these islands, his health ailing.

"You had a thousand chances to kill him."

"And I blew them all. What does it matter now? He's gone. Ancient dust."

He reminded him of himself. The same hatred. The same... You try to think of something else, but no, it's just hatred.

"Are you okay Mr. Dros? To go on?"

"You think I haven't seen people die? It's all I've seen them do. Fuck and die -- all the other plans we had. To love. To colonize the pale. It's all fucked..."

He's not okay. This is just another black day, in a row of black days -- something strange is keeping him together, making him endure...

...an idea. Told to him by grown ups, from radio towers and leaflets, in beautiful print when he was still a teenager: everything is possible. If we fight.

And then he lost. So did they all.

It doesn't look like he is. Okay.

"You cared about him?"

"All human beings care about each other." A little flash of anger. "I cared for... seeing his head explode. And now... god damn this world."

"I'm sorry."

"Fuck you..." the old communard says -- staring at the ground -- seemingly to the island you're on.

"Just kidding..."

"No you're not! He wouldn't go away for so long..." The old communard looks at you -- his blackberry eyes shaking in disbelief. "I waited too long... I waited too long and now he's dead."

"Hmmm... and the racist on the gates, pumped full of steroids?"

"Yes -- steroids. A racist on steroids."

"Got it."

"Steroids and radio shows..." His voice trails off into a despondent sputter. "Probably that Revachol 98AM that's irradiating the lumpen, it's the worst..."

"You mean Measurehead, right? What is your opinion on him?"

"What is my opinion? You think the rich man has an opinion on this idiocy? Is the rich man on the radio, telling you his opinion?"

"No," he answers for you. "The rich man's looking at real estate and fiddling his kids. Wading through the corpses..."

Ha, yes, but he was there. Why was he there if you can't have an opinion?!

"Then why was he there?"

"Scratching away at the race question... You Moralintern monkeys keep the conversation going on Channel 4, helping the rich man conduct his swindle with this inanity."

"You think the rich man cares about your little race games? He rules the whole world. And he laughs at your moral soliloquies." He stares into the dead embers.

Now wait a moment. Let's get serious here.

"Let's get serious for a moment. This is the real world -- and in the real world it means something if your skin is a certain colour and you say things."

"I've seen the real world. In '06. The flags unfolding. Young people marching, being kind to each other. They dreamt of a million years in the stars. This here..." He looks down at the ashes. "Is pale in waiting."

"Pale in waiting?"

"The end." He nods. "The pale will swallow all of this. The water, the sky, the city. Soon. There is nothing to be serious about." He shakes his head. "We're all gone."

"Got it."

Yeah no. Enough of that, this isn't going anywhere.

"You're right. I too am a level headed moral person, unaffected by Measurehead."

"I find it strange that you keep bringing this up. You moralist types are eternally fascinated with these race topics. Helping the ruling class conduct their swindle."

"The rich man doesn't care about complexion. He rules the world. And he laughs at your moral soliloquies." He stares into the dead embers.

"I for one do have an opinion on Measurehead that people need to hear. And it's not positive."

"You moralist types are all cryptofascists, eternally fascinated with lurid race topics. Helping the ruling class conduct their swindle, keeping the inane conversation going on Channel 4."

"Did you notice that he is not..." (Point toward the general area of your face.)