Claude Bérubé (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
downplaying) wrote2014-01-07 05:41 pm
downplaying) wrote2014-01-07 05:41 pm
(( FIC / LOG : jezebel ))
From: claudeberube@freepress.com
March 19th, 2011.
This is what Purgatory must be like, Vincent. It isn't quite Hell (yet), but everyone still wants to get the fuck out. And who can blame them? The death count of the rocket attack the other day, as you've probably heard, has reached 30. The UN has been magnanimous this time and called it a crime against humanity, but otherwise continues to do absolutely nothing of impact on the conflict. Thousands are fleeing Abidjan – at this point, it’s like watching a mass migration. People like cattle in the streets, carrying only the barest necessities with them, little children in hand. All heading in the same direction. Out. The Hell out.
I’m staying with dad and Tannella, their neighbourhood still largely untouched, although all their neighbours seem to be more sensible people than my old man and are planning to go away until the storm has worn off. The Ivory Coast may have changed since the 80s, but my old room hasn’t, hasn’t changed one bit since that time when I left Dakar for Paris, so it’s somewhat of a trip down memory lane. I’d probably have enjoyed it, feeling mid-20s once more, had the circumstances been different. Shame that I’m here to cover a civil war. You’d tell me life sucks that way, wouldn’t you? Then, we’d fuck up some vertical surface and everything would be well in the world anyway.
Next time, I’m bringing you with me. You need to get your hands dirty again.
Amicalement,
Claude
P.s. As per usual, I’ve included the contact info of my supervisor at Le Monde and listed you as my next of kin with the French Embassy. They’ll contact you, if anything happens to me.
no subject
From: claudeberube@freepress.com
March 30th, 2011.
I’m sorry I haven’t written you until now. I know you must have worried, but things have been hectic like you won’t believe, except you probably would, because you know how these things work – know it better than most. Since the massacre, we’ve been busy interviewing various of the involved parties. And a few uninvolved ones, for great justice. Everybody has something to say on these completely senseless killings, although the response is a simple one, really, altering between an unwillingness (politics – humbug, all of it) and an inability (it must be said, though, those poor charities do their best) to act.
Other than that, I would so like to take back my words from my last email to you. They might not only be dead tomorrow. They died. The death count is still uncertain and depends wholly on whom you’re asking, but we’re nearing the thousand. Dick and I arrived in Duékoué after dusk had fallen on the 28th – unaware that a curfew had been declared by the pro-Ouattara forces residing there. Gave us some trouble getting through, but I already had a contact in the town and he came to our rescue after a few hours of heavy debate. It didn’t seem like a town on the verge of a massacre, Vincent. Surprisingly few had fled, people were going about their business (staying indoors until dawn) and everything breathed… quiet. It’s a cliché and we love those in our field of work, don’t we? It was the calm before the storm.
Yesterday, we went out to do our scheduled on-the-spot report in the west of the town. The pictures Dick managed to snap as soldiers began making their way through the streets, pulling out weapons – I know you’ve seen them, since Le Monde posted the full montage like the greedy war mongers that they pretend not to be. But it was exactly as dramatic as it looked. People began shouting. Running. Even if we had wanted to stay behind to cover the killings, we probably couldn’t have fought the pure force of the crowd, all of them moving in one direction. Away, away, away from the sound of guns and people screaming. It felt a bit like being carried off by a strong current. I don’t even remember what I was thinking at that time…*
Once we were back at the Embassy, my hands were shaking so bad, I couldn’t hold onto my coffee cup.
Anyway, enough about me. Congratulations on getting to wash and dry the collective arses of the Opposition. That must be said to be one spectacular move up the social ladder, isn’t that so? Does this mean we’ll get to engage in more political discussions that end with either of us up the wall? You’re probably aware exactly how thrilled I am that you’re getting into politics, darling, but if it means we can live a life in luxury and not care about a thing in the world, then I suppose I can stand to swallow my principles. And my pride. And your cock, every time we have to resort to make-up sex.
Amicalement,
Claude
P.s. *Not true. I was thinking: It’s by God’s grace only that I manage not to piss myself from fear right now.
no subject
From: vincent@smartcom.lu
April 1st, 2011
Having just finished a meeting with Stéphane Potos, I’m feeling oddly torn between appreciating the in-existence of machine guns in my office (as should he, honestly) – and wanting just a slice of your story. I know, I know. It’s war, you might end up with PTSD, people have died. But a part of me can’t help it, Claude. I’m jealous of you. As they say on every shitty TV drama: what a scoop! What a fucking scoop. The worst thing I’ve ever covered was German and that in itself sets a certain limit on excitability.
As per usual, though, I’m allergic to blood and gore. Thus, it’s a life of greedy politicians and powdered hand-shakes for me, whereas you…
I’m tempted to call Le Monde and ask them what sort of protection they supplied you with when they chose to send you into a city on the verge of a massacre. It’s fucking irresponsible. Or I could ask the Embassy instead – or even better, have Monsieur Leon redeem himself by asking the press.
We all know Luxembourg needs another reason to laugh at France.
- Vincent.
Ps. Come the fuck home, Claude.
no subject
From: claudeberube@freepress.com
April 3rd, 2011.
Has news reached Luxembourg yet? I’m beginning to lose track of what’s going on outside Ivorian borders, loath as I am to admit it. Which information gets out and which doesn’t… Well, we’ve been evacuated. Or rather, we were ushered into the French peacekeepers’ camp near Abidjan Airport like the Ivorian farmers usher in cattle, 1400 of us – foreign nationals, mostly Lebanese. They’re going to send us home, for our own safety and while that might be true in the case of me and the other Frenchmen, it’s a shitty excuse to just get the Lebanese out of the country already. Back to their own corner of Hell. Shitty excuse. Really shitty excuse.
On the plus side, I’m now surrounded by hot men in uniform. Most of whom aren’t likely to kill me, were I to make a move. Worst case scenario is that I get myself a bloody nose and in comparison to rockets from the sky and massacres on thousands, I don’t think I have the right to complain. A bloody nose is nothing, not in this context. At home, I’d probably have gotten sufficiently angry to take a swing back. Funny, how perspective changes so much.
But honestly, it feels like the African sun has aged me something like ten plus years in the past two weeks. Let’s hope I’m still just remotely attractive when I get home or you’re in trouble, love. Vain that you are.
Speaking of vanity. I needed that laugh. Thanks. The mental image of Monsieur Leon playing army commander for the press, charging France on the grounds of one journalist who isn’t even a Luxembourgian national. You do, of course, realise that any flexing of Luxembourg’s muscles would result in Luxembourg being the laughing stock. As per usual. France would be delighted, if they weren’t so busy saving their former possessions in Africa, going down in flames and smoke. This country, Vincent. This fucking country…
They’re sending us back within the next couple of days. Once I’ve been informed of the exact date and time, I’ll let you know. You don’t have to pick me up at the airport.
Amicalement,
Claude
no subject
From: vincent@smartcom.lu
April 4rd, 2011.
There’ll be hot coffee and a really enthusiastic bed when you come home. Just thought it needed saying.
As for news about Abidjan, I’ve stopped following along. I know what comes next – it’s always the same, history’s seen it happen so many times it doesn’t hold much excitement anymore. In short: the Africans have all lost the game to some degree because greed writes the agenda every time. Thank God we’re all rich here in Europe, right?
I went out clubbing yesterday. Felt lonely without you, it’s a big house with no one around but a couple of fat cats. It was a very boring experience, though. Imagine my shock when I realised that pretty much no one gives a fuck about some old, wrinkly queer who orders bourbon on the rocks. Had to leave town with only two, measly offers of free sex and a phone number someone stuffed in my pocket when I wasn’t looking. So I can’t even brag about turning groups and flocks of hungry gay men away – it just didn’t happen.
You know I could spin that shit and make it work. I can’t imagine it would take much to fabricate a story to go with the empty accusations, either. Surely, Le Monde has made similar transgressions before; underestimated a crisis situation for lack or want of sufficient research. Besides, I bet they’re homophobic, too. They probably wanted you to get killed, Claude. I could go on. It would be thin ice, sure, but people will think themselves fucking divine if they’re allowed to fantasize.
And fine, I won't.
- Vincent.
no subject
From: claudeberube@freepress.com
April 5th, 2011.
Intermediate landing in Paris. I’ll be home within the next six hours. Grab a wank and keep the bed warm for me, will you? I’ll probably crash like an airplane upon coming home, so all planned fucking will have to wait until tomorrow when my jetlag has subsided somewhat.
I look forward to seeing you again, Vincent. The little queer kids at the clubs might not appreciate your wrinkled, old face, but I do. Let’s say I’ve learned to love it. With time.
Amicalement,
Claude