The Finger by Gary Victor Lyrics
With an agility that revealed an extensive amount of experience, Dread Lanfè leaned on his hands and, after a perfect pull-up, hoisted himself to the top of the wall that enclosed the property. Then he checked out the surroundings with eagle eyes. The premises were deserted. Except for a dog barking next door, there was nothing to disturb the silence. As soon as he was sure the way was clear, he put the fingers of his right hand in his mouth and made a high hoot that sounded exactly like the screech of an owl. Right away, his two accomplices, each carrying a canvas bag, popped out of the night. They climbed up the wall too. Dread Lanfè slung a .38 Uzi across his shoulder and walked quickly to the door indicated by the servant who served as informer for the job. Dread Lanfè stood still a moment to make absolutely sure the way was clear. The two German shepherds that might have stirred up the neighborhood had died a few minutes before, after they had swallowed—the pigs!—two pounds of meat spiced up with homemade poison. It was Grizon’s turn to act now. He was a former Tonton Macoute turned political activist, like Dread Lanfè. Grizon was famously expert at picking locks: he could force open the most recalcitrant doors, and it took him less than three minutes to open this one.
Dread Lanfè, his Uzi in hand, entered a dilapidated room with walls blackened by smoke. The scents of oil, spices, and spoiled food floated in the air. Pots and plates were piled in a jumble on shelves. A faucet was letting out a thin flow of water that was running in the darkness with a sinister hiss. He gestured to Grizon to close the door, then gave him the order to remain in the room and cover him. He liked to talk like the military, copy the way they acted and put on their look of mean dogs, to show that he was no petty thug but a political activist about to be integrated into the police force by the dictator—in exile at the moment—with the rank of inspector. If he had become a full-time thief it was because the bourgeoisie and the expat intellectuals had ganged up with the Americans and the French to kidnap the leader. He fully intended to come out of this rich house loaded with major loot. Eight kids to put through school, one wife, and three mistresses, among them the luscious Italian who loved his enormous member so much. He really had to move his ass now. Gone were the checks and suitcases stuffed with money coming from public agencies, the afternoons spent with all the activists who met to smoke grass, snort coke, and talk politics.
He shoved his accomplice back and stuck his head inside the safe. He had to face the facts and it didn’t take long. The safe held uninteresting, worthless papers, a passport with an American visa stamped in it, and small change. Eyes bloodshot, Dread Lanfè grabbed Fanfayon, who was no longer moving. Dread Lanfè didn’t know how to perform artificial resuscitation so he turned to Madame Fanfayon. But Fat Alfred had killed her on the spot with that iron bar to the head. Dread Lanfè and his accomplice combed the place desperately, one room after the other, in search of some nook where a sizeable sum of money might have been stashed. Finally, he realized that this was not going to bring in much and came back to the bedroom. Fanfayon was still breathing. Dread Lanfè finished him off with a quick bullet to the temple. He had to get out of there quickly, he thought, but then noticed the ring his victim was wearing on his left forefinger. It was a solid gold piece of jewelry that glowed in the dim light as if it were phosphorescent. Dread Lanfè examined it with interest. He was mesmerized by the two snakes elaborately carved on the precious metal. Fanfayon was certainly a servant of a lwa who favored him with wealth and protection. As he couldn’t manage to get the ring off the finger, Dread Lanfè angrily cut off the appendage with the knife that had already cut so many. He put the finger in his shirt pocket before signaling to Fat Alfred that it was time to leave the premises. The neighbors might have been alerted by the shot. They vanished into the night as furtively as they had come.
Depressed, Dread Lanfe didn't go home. He had another plan in mind. He decided that this was a bad-luck night, and he shouldn't do another job. He went to Paola's, his Italian mistress. She worked for an NGO and was always proud to show him off--him, Dread Lanfe, like a trophy you fought hard to win. He was fond of Poala even though he knew she didn't care too much about the dire poverty of the people in the city where she's come to work. Her apparent commitment was hiding something else. Some deeper discontent. A loneliness her culture had planted in her. Povety, death ever-present, black bodies gleaming with sweat. All those niggers wanted was to gobble up white woman and that made her panties wet-- she, who had been frigid before. When she met Dread Lanfe, it was love at first sight, an explosion. The man had the reputation of being a criminal. He was tall, ugly, wild, and most of all, blessed with a member (a public known fact) that made all of the other niggers in town envious. When Dread Lanfe put his hand on her, she could visualize mud and blood, and that propelled her right down the track to orgasm. And Dread Lanfe told himself that Paola was his safety net in this fucked-up country. Perhaps some day she would take off with him and they'd go live under other skies. That's why he felt he had to concentrate on her, always keep himself in condition to satisfy her.
She complied. After they had both snorted their dose of coke, they felt like the world was at their feet. Paola quickly fell into a deep sleep. Dread Lanfe then remembered that he had Fanfayon's finger in his shirt pocket. He couldn't fall asleep with a dead man's finger on him. He got up, took the finger, tried once more to take the ring off it, but didn't succeed. That ring could very well bring him a nice bundle of dollars. Dread Lanfe knew how to recognize gold. He put the finger on the dressing table, in a china glass. Paola would see the finger when she woke up. Lanfe didn't care. It would only add to this charm. He tossed his shirt over on a chair and came back to lie down next to her. He tumbled into a heavy sleep, disturbed by the impression that a foreign body was crawling over his chest. He knew it was the finger when he felt the ring rubbing against his skin He screamed and sat up on the bed, gasping, his body drenched in sweat. Thinking that maybe some horrible creature had slipped in next to him, he jumped out of bed. But he couldn't find anything suspicious. The finger was still on the dressing table. He managed to convince himself that it was just cocaine playing tricks with his mind.
When the police, alerted by the neighbors, burst into the bedroom, Dread Lanfe was lying on the floor, his body all dislocated. Paola was naked on the bed, her corpse riddle with bullets. The magistrate had not yet arrived for the report. The inspector who was leading the police squad gave the order to cover the foreign woman with a sheet. The office crossed himself in from of the dread Lanfe's body. He knew him well, for he had met him many times at the dictator's place. While searching the room for possible booty, he discovered the finger on the dressing table, hidden behind a bottle of perfume. The ring immediately caught his eye. Surreptitiously, he grabbed it and slipped it quietly into his uniform pocket. The inspector knew a fence whole always gave him a good deal. He didn't pay attention to the finger, which was already on the move.
While brooding over these dark thoughts, Dread Lanfe walked gingerly up the stairs leading to the bedroom where Fanyon, the owner of the place, and his wife were sleeping. Dread Lanfe always picked his victims with care, gathering all necessary information about them ahead of time. Certain mistakes had to be avoided at all cost. After you had taken enormous risks, you could either return with an empty truck or go after a big shot who'd been a supporter of the former dictator. Fanfayon was one of those. He owned several gambling houses, two supermarkets, a money laundering enterprise, and a dozen or so pawn shops in Port-au-Prince. The money made in the gambling houses was transferred to his bedroom safe at night. Dread Lanfe trusted his informer. Sure of himself, he burst into the bedroom, followed by Fat Alfred, his other accomplice. In the wink of the eye they had Fanfayon , still sluggish from sleep, under control. The businessman's wife screamed. Fat Alfred made her stop by hitting her on the head with an iron bar. The woman collapsed, unconscious, her face all bloody.
Fanyon rolled his frightened eyes. He stammered something and let out a cry of pain when impatient Dread Lanfe kicked him in the groin. He doubled over, gasping. Dread Lanfe quickly brought up his knee. The noise made by the impact, the blood gushing out -- he enjoyed it all. Fanyon remained slumped on the floor. He was holding his belly and moaning.
Dread Lanfe went back to bed. He held her tight, seeking comfort and safety in the warmth of her body, safety that only his mother, a peasant woman from Artibonite, could give him when he was a child. He was unable to go back to sleep. The nightmare just caught him like that, while he was still awake. He felt the finger on his thigh, climbing up, lingering over his navel. Dread Lanfe got rid of the intruder with an abrupt swing of his hand. He heard the finger falling on the floor and immediately trying to climb back onto the bed. Terrified, he jumped up and rushed to the dressing table. The finger had disappeared. Terror took hold of him like a gust of wind carrying a dry leaf away. He grabbed the machine gun he had placed underneath the dressing table. In the semidarkness of the bedroom, Dread Lanfe heard the finger climbing onto a chair. Like a madman, he opened fire, unleashing an infernal racket. Paola woke up screaming, just as the finger jumped on Dread Lanfe and clung to his chest like a devilish bloodsucker. Without meaning to, Dread Lanfe puled the trigger of the machine gun again. A hail of bullets brought Paola down. he dropped the gun in an attempt to snatch the finger from his chest. A demonic laughter rang in his ears. The finger was growing, transforming into a hideous, slimy creature with a cold and scaly body, a body that was coiling around his. Dread Lanfetried to shout. He died without even realizing it.
Excerpts From: Edwidge Danticat. “Haiti Noir.”
Dread Lanfè, his Uzi in hand, entered a dilapidated room with walls blackened by smoke. The scents of oil, spices, and spoiled food floated in the air. Pots and plates were piled in a jumble on shelves. A faucet was letting out a thin flow of water that was running in the darkness with a sinister hiss. He gestured to Grizon to close the door, then gave him the order to remain in the room and cover him. He liked to talk like the military, copy the way they acted and put on their look of mean dogs, to show that he was no petty thug but a political activist about to be integrated into the police force by the dictator—in exile at the moment—with the rank of inspector. If he had become a full-time thief it was because the bourgeoisie and the expat intellectuals had ganged up with the Americans and the French to kidnap the leader. He fully intended to come out of this rich house loaded with major loot. Eight kids to put through school, one wife, and three mistresses, among them the luscious Italian who loved his enormous member so much. He really had to move his ass now. Gone were the checks and suitcases stuffed with money coming from public agencies, the afternoons spent with all the activists who met to smoke grass, snort coke, and talk politics.
He shoved his accomplice back and stuck his head inside the safe. He had to face the facts and it didn’t take long. The safe held uninteresting, worthless papers, a passport with an American visa stamped in it, and small change. Eyes bloodshot, Dread Lanfè grabbed Fanfayon, who was no longer moving. Dread Lanfè didn’t know how to perform artificial resuscitation so he turned to Madame Fanfayon. But Fat Alfred had killed her on the spot with that iron bar to the head. Dread Lanfè and his accomplice combed the place desperately, one room after the other, in search of some nook where a sizeable sum of money might have been stashed. Finally, he realized that this was not going to bring in much and came back to the bedroom. Fanfayon was still breathing. Dread Lanfè finished him off with a quick bullet to the temple. He had to get out of there quickly, he thought, but then noticed the ring his victim was wearing on his left forefinger. It was a solid gold piece of jewelry that glowed in the dim light as if it were phosphorescent. Dread Lanfè examined it with interest. He was mesmerized by the two snakes elaborately carved on the precious metal. Fanfayon was certainly a servant of a lwa who favored him with wealth and protection. As he couldn’t manage to get the ring off the finger, Dread Lanfè angrily cut off the appendage with the knife that had already cut so many. He put the finger in his shirt pocket before signaling to Fat Alfred that it was time to leave the premises. The neighbors might have been alerted by the shot. They vanished into the night as furtively as they had come.
Depressed, Dread Lanfe didn't go home. He had another plan in mind. He decided that this was a bad-luck night, and he shouldn't do another job. He went to Paola's, his Italian mistress. She worked for an NGO and was always proud to show him off--him, Dread Lanfe, like a trophy you fought hard to win. He was fond of Poala even though he knew she didn't care too much about the dire poverty of the people in the city where she's come to work. Her apparent commitment was hiding something else. Some deeper discontent. A loneliness her culture had planted in her. Povety, death ever-present, black bodies gleaming with sweat. All those niggers wanted was to gobble up white woman and that made her panties wet-- she, who had been frigid before. When she met Dread Lanfe, it was love at first sight, an explosion. The man had the reputation of being a criminal. He was tall, ugly, wild, and most of all, blessed with a member (a public known fact) that made all of the other niggers in town envious. When Dread Lanfe put his hand on her, she could visualize mud and blood, and that propelled her right down the track to orgasm. And Dread Lanfe told himself that Paola was his safety net in this fucked-up country. Perhaps some day she would take off with him and they'd go live under other skies. That's why he felt he had to concentrate on her, always keep himself in condition to satisfy her.
She complied. After they had both snorted their dose of coke, they felt like the world was at their feet. Paola quickly fell into a deep sleep. Dread Lanfe then remembered that he had Fanfayon's finger in his shirt pocket. He couldn't fall asleep with a dead man's finger on him. He got up, took the finger, tried once more to take the ring off it, but didn't succeed. That ring could very well bring him a nice bundle of dollars. Dread Lanfe knew how to recognize gold. He put the finger on the dressing table, in a china glass. Paola would see the finger when she woke up. Lanfe didn't care. It would only add to this charm. He tossed his shirt over on a chair and came back to lie down next to her. He tumbled into a heavy sleep, disturbed by the impression that a foreign body was crawling over his chest. He knew it was the finger when he felt the ring rubbing against his skin He screamed and sat up on the bed, gasping, his body drenched in sweat. Thinking that maybe some horrible creature had slipped in next to him, he jumped out of bed. But he couldn't find anything suspicious. The finger was still on the dressing table. He managed to convince himself that it was just cocaine playing tricks with his mind.
When the police, alerted by the neighbors, burst into the bedroom, Dread Lanfe was lying on the floor, his body all dislocated. Paola was naked on the bed, her corpse riddle with bullets. The magistrate had not yet arrived for the report. The inspector who was leading the police squad gave the order to cover the foreign woman with a sheet. The office crossed himself in from of the dread Lanfe's body. He knew him well, for he had met him many times at the dictator's place. While searching the room for possible booty, he discovered the finger on the dressing table, hidden behind a bottle of perfume. The ring immediately caught his eye. Surreptitiously, he grabbed it and slipped it quietly into his uniform pocket. The inspector knew a fence whole always gave him a good deal. He didn't pay attention to the finger, which was already on the move.
While brooding over these dark thoughts, Dread Lanfe walked gingerly up the stairs leading to the bedroom where Fanyon, the owner of the place, and his wife were sleeping. Dread Lanfe always picked his victims with care, gathering all necessary information about them ahead of time. Certain mistakes had to be avoided at all cost. After you had taken enormous risks, you could either return with an empty truck or go after a big shot who'd been a supporter of the former dictator. Fanfayon was one of those. He owned several gambling houses, two supermarkets, a money laundering enterprise, and a dozen or so pawn shops in Port-au-Prince. The money made in the gambling houses was transferred to his bedroom safe at night. Dread Lanfe trusted his informer. Sure of himself, he burst into the bedroom, followed by Fat Alfred, his other accomplice. In the wink of the eye they had Fanfayon , still sluggish from sleep, under control. The businessman's wife screamed. Fat Alfred made her stop by hitting her on the head with an iron bar. The woman collapsed, unconscious, her face all bloody.
Fanyon rolled his frightened eyes. He stammered something and let out a cry of pain when impatient Dread Lanfe kicked him in the groin. He doubled over, gasping. Dread Lanfe quickly brought up his knee. The noise made by the impact, the blood gushing out -- he enjoyed it all. Fanyon remained slumped on the floor. He was holding his belly and moaning.
Dread Lanfe went back to bed. He held her tight, seeking comfort and safety in the warmth of her body, safety that only his mother, a peasant woman from Artibonite, could give him when he was a child. He was unable to go back to sleep. The nightmare just caught him like that, while he was still awake. He felt the finger on his thigh, climbing up, lingering over his navel. Dread Lanfe got rid of the intruder with an abrupt swing of his hand. He heard the finger falling on the floor and immediately trying to climb back onto the bed. Terrified, he jumped up and rushed to the dressing table. The finger had disappeared. Terror took hold of him like a gust of wind carrying a dry leaf away. He grabbed the machine gun he had placed underneath the dressing table. In the semidarkness of the bedroom, Dread Lanfe heard the finger climbing onto a chair. Like a madman, he opened fire, unleashing an infernal racket. Paola woke up screaming, just as the finger jumped on Dread Lanfe and clung to his chest like a devilish bloodsucker. Without meaning to, Dread Lanfe puled the trigger of the machine gun again. A hail of bullets brought Paola down. he dropped the gun in an attempt to snatch the finger from his chest. A demonic laughter rang in his ears. The finger was growing, transforming into a hideous, slimy creature with a cold and scaly body, a body that was coiling around his. Dread Lanfetried to shout. He died without even realizing it.
Excerpts From: Edwidge Danticat. “Haiti Noir.”