Paul Alexis had evidently had a well-defined taste in fiction. He liked stories about young men of lithe and alluring beauty who, blossoming into perfect gentlemen amid the most unpromising surroundings, turned out to be the heirs to monarchies and, in the last chapter, successfully headed the revolts of devoted loyalists, overthrowing the machinations of sinister presidents, and appearing on balconies, dressed in blue-and-silver uniforms, to receive the plaudits of their rejoicing and emancipated subjects. Sometimes they were assisted by brave and beautiful English or American heiresses, who placed their wealth at the disposal of the loyalist party; sometimes they remained faithful despite temptation to brides of their own nationality, and rescued them at the last moment from marriages of inconvenience with the sinister presidents or their still more sinister advisers; now and again they were assisted by young Englishmen, Irishmen or Americans with clear-cut profiles and a superabundance of energy, and in every case they went through a series of hair-raising escapes and adventures by land, sea and air. Nobody but the sinister presidents ever thought of raising money by the usual financial channels or indulging in political intrigue, nor did the greater European powers or the League of Nations ever have anything to say in the matter. The rise and fall of governments appeared to be by a private arrangement ...
Dorothy L. Sayers, Have His Carcase
In a spacious meeting room overlooking the courthouse in Fort Lauderdale, Fla., a vision to “save Haiti” took shape. The $83 billion effort would reinvent the Western Hemisphere’s poorest nation, lavishing it with roadways, electricity grids, seaports and airports.
Haiti’s new dawn, attendees at the May 12 meeting were told, would be led by Christian Emmanuel Sanon — a 63-year-old Haitian American and self-described pastor and physician now detained in Haiti in connection with the investigation into the audacious assassination of Haitian President Jovenel Moïse.
Sanon’s stated mission during that gathering: Turn “Haiti into a free and open society,” said Parnell Duverger, 70, a retired professor who attended the Fort Lauderdale presentation and had drafted the redevelopment plan pitched by Sanon ...
The revelations of a grand plan to rebuild Haiti backed by Sanon and others — as well as the draft contract and list of costs obtained by The Post — add a new financial dimension to the roiling investigation into a presidential slaying that has upended the fragile Caribbean state, leaving it rudderless amid a leadership squabble. Haitian and Colombian authorities, along with the FBI and Interpol are scrambling to unravel a cast of suspects that they say includes a former Drug Enforcement Administration informant nicknamed “Whiskey,” an opposition politician, Colombia mercenaries and Haitian Americans from South Florida ...
Washington Post, Records reveal how Haitian American held in assassination probe financed a ‘personal security’ team
plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose
Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr, The Wasps. Translation: the more it changes, the more it's the same thing.
Marx Brothers, Hail Hail Freedonia
A Ruritanian romance is a peculiarly 19th century phenomenon that occasionally resurfaces today. At its heart it's a yearning for Daddy. Through no real virtue on Daddy's part, beyond birth and a certain charm, Daddy establishes himself on the Ruritanian throne and all is well again. Nobody ever asks whether Daddy is the right man for the job, or whether the country was better off without Daddy on the throne. Nor does anyone insinuate that a usurper, whoever it may be, might be challenged by other nations. It's accepted as a fait accompli. Daddy's home. Nobody questions Daddy.
Similarly Christian Emmanuel Sanon seems to have believed nobody would challenge him once he attained the throne - beg pardon, the presidency. He doesn't seem to have had a plan for establishing control of the country, or opening new relations with Haiti's neighbors, never mind the United States. Nor did he really have a plan for paying for it, beyond taking out a mountain of debt and trusting to his ability to raid the country's coffers once established. A very 45 way of looking at the world; I have to wonder who Sanon was expecting to win the 2020 election.
There have been many versions of Ruritania over the years, from the Marx Brothers' Freedonia to Robin Laws' King in Yellow, itself inspired by Robert W. Chambers' version of a Ruritanian version of New York in which modernity (and representative democracy) is vanquished and replaced by Imperial Dynasties.
One morning early in May I stood before the steel safe in my bedroom, trying on the golden jewelled crown. The diamonds flashed fire as I turned to the mirror, and the heavy beaten gold burned like a halo about my head. I remembered Camilla's agonized scream and the awful words echoing through the dim streets of Carcosa. They were the last lines in the first act, and I dared not think of what followed—dared not, even in the spring sunshine, there in my own room, surrounded with familiar objects, reassured by the bustle from the street and the voices of the servants in the hallway outside. For those poisoned words had dropped slowly into my heart, as death-sweat drops upon a bed-sheet and is absorbed. Trembling, I put the diadem from my head and wiped my forehead, but I thought of Hastur and of my own rightful ambition ...
A version of the Ruritanian romance turned bad that I have long wanted to see and have read several times is The Empire Builders, a play by Boris Vian. A respectable bourgeoise family led by Daddy flees a strange, unknown and terrifying Noise, running further and further upward as the stairs, rooms, apartments below vanish - or are absorbed. They pretend nothing is truly wrong.
Yet always ahead of them, with them, haunting them is the Schmürz. The audience is never certain what the Schmürz is, and the cast pretend it does not exist, though when they think nobody's looking they kick, whip and torment it as though it were the cause of all their troubles. Yet nothing rids them of the Schmürz.
MadLab Theatre, Columbus Ohio
Though a Ruritanian Romance horror plot has many echoes of Pulp I think it would be better played Purist, and The Empire Builders is the reason why. That slow collapse of established order; the grinding, inescapable Noise; the omnipresent Schmürz.
At its heart Purist is an inescapable doom. There is no killing Cthulhu, any more than Daddy can smash the Schmürz.
So, what three things hide at the center of a Ruritanian plot?
- Daddy's In Charge. There's someone who ought to be on the throne - and it is a throne, whether or not deluded thinkers call it a presidency - and currently is not. The central focus of the plot is to put Daddy back on the throne.
- Simpler Times. Aspects of modern life that Daddy doesn't like get pushed aside. It's a lot like living in a Studio Ghibli setting. Old fashioned, virtuous, and not a whiff of modern ways beyond maybe the radio, rotary aircraft or funky robot ninjas. Nobody ever asks whether indoor plumbing has been invented yet or where Porco Rosso keeps his latrine, probably because they wouldn't like the answer.
- Wicked Viziers. Sometimes called Presidents, Councilors, Prime Ministers or similar. These are the forces keeping Daddy from the throne. They represent all that is wrong with modern life, and must be swept aside so Daddy can take charge.
- Daddy's On The Run. Maybe Daddy still has hopes of regaining the throne, but right now it's time to beat feet. If you're a little slow, a little late, it will go very badly for Daddy - and by extension, for you.
- Times They Are a-Changin'. Black is now white. Dogs and cats, living together. Whatever was accepted as the norm is now completely and utterly other. Things are out of place, zeppelins fly overhead, Azimov's rockets are gearing up for launch to the stars. Lethal injection chambers in every public square. It's a new dawn, a new day - but Big Brother has replaced Daddy, and His eye is always on you. What is that peculiar Noise?
- The Schmürz. Your sins follow you like flies on garbage. Always one step ahead, they greet you at every turn. You can beat them, punish them, blame them for your misfortunes but they cannot, will not die. The next door you open, there they are. In King In Yellow terms a Schmürz has a lot in common with a Walking Corpse (p166 Paris book) except it cannot truly die and has no attacks to speak of. It exists to be attacked and is indifferent to attacks - but it is always there.
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