Disaster Was My God (2011)
“Running beneath him, his upturned beard like an axe, Djami is chopping away at Rimbaud’s resolve.
“And who will care for you? These here? Murderers? Buggerers of goats?”
The crowds, the shooting pain, the blinding white distance ahead—as he holds the poles of his aerial gurney, Rimbaud’s voice is almost staccato.
“My family. As I’ve told you. My family will care for me.”
Wrong answer. Prying Djami has seen the mother’s terse letters. Even with his rudimentary French, the orphan can read between... the lines.
“Rinbo,” he says—order is slipping, he who almost never calls him ‘Rinbo,’ as the townspeople do—“Rinbo, you are wrong. Wrong. When does she speak of home to you? When? Why does she not want her son home with her? Why? Why does your sister never write to you? Why, why, why? Because she cannot write?”
But Rimbaud is still stuck at the sister. “Because my mother writes.”
“Writes what? Hospital, hospital. Money, money. Cold, like the snow. Don’t make your long faces at me.MoreLess
“And who will care for you? These here? Murderers? Buggerers of goats?”
The crowds, the shooting pain, the blinding white distance ahead—as he holds the poles of his aerial gurney, Rimbaud’s voice is almost staccato.
“My family. As I’ve told you. My family will care for me.”
Wrong answer. Prying Djami has seen the mother’s terse letters. Even with his rudimentary French, the orphan can read between... the lines.
“Rinbo,” he says—order is slipping, he who almost never calls him ‘Rinbo,’ as the townspeople do—“Rinbo, you are wrong. Wrong. When does she speak of home to you? When? Why does she not want her son home with her? Why? Why does your sister never write to you? Why, why, why? Because she cannot write?”
But Rimbaud is still stuck at the sister. “Because my mother writes.”
“Writes what? Hospital, hospital. Money, money. Cold, like the snow. Don’t make your long faces at me.MoreLess
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