downplaying | (( FIC / LOG : jezebel ))

To: vincent@smartcom.lu
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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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

To: claudeberube@freepress.com
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.

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

(( FIC / LOG : jezebel ))

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