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Dies Irae-Day of Anger

by LAf.L 

Posted: 03 July 2003
Word Count: 1802


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Content Warning
This piece and/or subsequent comments may contain strong language.


By 14:30 the gathering had taken shape. The triangular shape of Plaza Centenaria. Thousands of people standing side by side on the copper-red cobblestones under the hammering Sun of early afternoon. Thousands of legs, arms and heads stuck together in a human shield to protect their most valuable right. Thousands of hearts beating simultaneously their love, their fear, their hope to overcome their greatest enemy. Thousands of eyes looking in the same direction, trying to figure out the best way to reach their ultimate destination. Thousands of voices singing the same slogans, hoping the power of their words would knock down their biggest obstacles. Thousands of attuned souls trying to understand how they got there, dreaming the same dreams of freedom, joy and peace.
Around them, the walls of the centenary building of the Town Hall and thousands of cops arranged in two neat rows encircling the square. The riot-equipped riot-squads: blackjacks, body armour, wired helmets, guns, tear-gas, handcuffs, anger and an unconditional and blind obedience to any instruction emitted by any immediate superior.

Habib was amongst the first ones to take control of Plaza Centenaria. He was, in fact, the second person to arrive there just after his friend Berthe to whom he had given rendez-vous for breakfast at eight thirty that morning. They had sat in the middle of the square where a sign, engraved on a small, triangular gold plaque read: ‘Hic Dies Irae Confecit’ -Here ended a day of anger. Berthe explained to Habib what he already knew about the inscription. She recounted how the architect, Romuald C., had caught his wife and his wife’s lover in their bed one morning. She told him how he had shot them both in the head more than twelve times. He listened to how, high on hallucinogenic drugs and galvanised by hatred for humankind and the rest of the Universe, Romuald had run to the middle of Plaza Centenaria, and pinned the plans for the new Hall he had been chosen to design to his chest with a thirteen inch-long kitchen knife. And how, while suffocating slowly, using his blood as ink and his forefinger as nib, he had written this phrase on a flat stone: ‘Hic Dies Irae Confecit’. When he was found in the morning he was dead, frozen and covered in snow. The map on his chest was barely readable unlike the blood-painted message on the floor, which somehow, looked intact.

They had had breakfast while they talked about the books they were reading and the films they had seen the night before. They had laughed a lot and thought about kissing and making love and leaving together to live together and have lots of children and all, several times each. But none of them had mentioned any of that. While she told him how happy she was that her literature studies were very interesting and that she was doing quite well, he pictured them on a king-sized, white bed in an immense bedroom with massive, sliding glass doors overlooking the beach where their five sons and five daughters were building sand castles and throwing Frisbees.
When he told her how wonderful it would be if they could find a way to eliminate money, work, religion, frontiers and weapons, she imagined him coming inside her for the second consecutive time, kissing her, caressing her nose and lips and forehead while, on the beach under their massive white bedroom, their six daughters and four sons would be throwing Frisbees and building sand castles. They had smiled and touched hands, always softly.

Gradually more people arrived and invaded the square. Habib and Berthe were almost disappointed the demonstration would actually happen because their dream of king-sized bed and children on the beach were replaced by the faces of caged, moustached, angry armed men.
They could hear, a couple of metres behind them, a group of teenaged voices singing John Lennon’s ‘Give peace a chance’ accompanied by a teenaged guitar. The air was charged with thick, white smoke emanating from huge spliffs and bongs, and rapid, festive beats flowing out of huge djembes and congas.
They could also hear a few steps in front of them, a conversation between two cops.
‘What the fuck are those little brats doing here? Saving the World singing songs, for Heaven’s sake!? Shouldn’t they be at school? Where the fuck are their parents, for Christ’s sake!?’
‘I bet your ass their folks are a bunch of bearded pot-head hippies with no TV!’
They said.
‘And look at this monkey-face. Who the hell does he think he is coming here telling us what’s wrong in our country? I think he should get his Algerian ass back to his jungle and burn down those fucking mosques.’
‘I think he’d be better off dead.’
‘Just wait for the signal, pal. And we’ll beat the shit out of ’em all.’
They also said, staring at Habib, well aware he could hear everything.

Berthe had grabbed Habib’s hand long ago and squeezed it as hard as she could. They looked each other in the eyes and smiled. He said ‘It’s all right’, stepped forward, leaned forward and put his lips on hers. She closed her eyes, breathed loudly and licked his lips with her tongue.

The drums, the guitar and the teenaged voices were soon after drowned in the cacophony of the synchronised clacking of thousands of pairs of black, shiny, leather boots, which preceded the synchronised banging of thousands of blackjacks against thousands of bullet-proof shields. The white, thick marihuana fumes were rapidly replaced by tear-gas.

The triangle lost shape and distorted instantly when the first line of cops started to trot forward protesters who immediately started to run.

Habib and Berthe ran together, their hands tangled up and their T-shirts over their noses and mouths to avoid inhaling tear-gas. They heard cops’ bats crack against rioters’ backs and skulls, women scream, children cry, their hearts pounding harder than ever before, the blood pulsating in their temples and then nothing. A cool and quiet street shaded by high, sparse centenary pines. They fell on each other in a powerful embrace, panting for air, giggling nervously. She passed a hand through his hair, he caressed her nose and forehead. She put her feet on his to put her lips on his. Tongues flirted with teeth. All around them people were running, screaming and throwing stones and molotov cocktails at running and screaming and blackjacking cops. In the shadow of the centenary tree, on their just-discovered island of love, they were deaf to the struggles of the World. Nothing could break the symbiosis.

Nothing but the voices of three Perfectoed skinheads walking toward them. ‘I’m gonna trash your motherfucking Arab face, you fucking rat!’ ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing here, monkey-face?’ ‘Do you fuck him, you slut?’ They closed down on them. Laughing. Spitting.
When they were close enough, Habib shouted at Berthe to run –‘Run! Run, now! Run!’- and threw the first punch in the face of Toby, the biggest of the three. Fists, heads and feet flew and landed randomly on noses, eyes, stomachs and knees. When the sirens came too close and a police car parked at the end of the street, those who could run ran away. Habib didn’t. He didn’t move from his foetal position. He listened to the birds and tried to move what used to be moveable. His legs and arms responded. His head ached badly. One of his fingers was abnormally blue and swollen. The descending sun finally made his way through the thick branches of the old trees, and gently licked his open eyebrow, his bleeding cheekbone, his slit lips. It felt good.

He was glad it was over and thought about Berthe, on her own in the middle of chaos. He thought about getting up and catching up with her to make love to her but a shadow flew past over him slowly. A tall, big, threatening shadow. A Toby kind of shadow. Like the shadow of a huge, hungry scavenger flying over a vulnerable injured prey. A nazi kind of shadow. At the end of the street the sirens were still howling but the police car was empty, just parked there to block the access to this street to escaping protesters. Toby wasn’t satisfied and wanted this son of a bitch to pay for the punch he’d thrown too early. Habib closed his eyes, almost stopped breathing and waited. Toby kneeled at his side, leaned toward him and whispered in his ear, ‘If I killed you I’d do you a favour, you son of a…’
Habib grabbed the fucking nazi’s hair with his right hand and pulled it forward as hard as he could. The fat wad of shit lost balance and fell on the floor and his big, white nose crumpled on the hot asphalt. Habib pulled the head back up in the air and slammed it down on the tar repeatedly. The noise the fuck-head’s bones made as they shattered against the road gave Habib goosebumps and when the fascist head became too heavy, he let it fall on the concrete and got up. The World around disappeared, all he could see and hear was this guy on the floor twisted and wailing. The first kick he threw in the motherfucker’s back was painful. The second felt better. The third, fourth and the hundreds that followed were vengeance for having been beaten up for no good reason. Vengeance for his parents’ having been deported as cheap slaves then parked and abandoned in dirty, smelly suburbs until death saved them. Vengeance for the three-quarters of the World’s oppression and starvation. Vengeance for bringing him to extreme, uncontrolled violence.

The protesters had all gone by then. The shouting and screaming and crying and blackjacking had stopped. The only sirens still crying were those of the patrol car parked at the end of the street. Next to it, stood two cops and their two guns aimed at Habib. He looked at them with eyes begging for help. He just couldn’t stop hitting. His foot landed for the millionth time on the dead skinhead’s mashed back. One of the officers yelled something he didn’t hear. His brain refused to process any incoming information. The cops shouted again and Habib stopped kicking and stared at them, immobile, breathless and tired, then turned around and staggered away. One cop yelled one more time. Habib was trotting when the bullet grabbed him at the neck, pushed him on the floor and kept him there.

He never got back up. Just died there as the Sun set, tired of all he had seen that day.

Berthe went home safe and learned Habib’s death the next morning on the phone, from Nasser, his father.






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Comments by other Members



Ralph at 16:42 on 03 July 2003  Report this post
This is an incredibly powerful piece of writing. The central idea is extremely relevant and you put it across very eloquently.
There were a couple of places that din't quite flow: "anger and an unconditional and blind obedience to any instruction emitted by any immediate superior. " was one of them. It stood out as a little awkward because the rest flowed so beautifully.
I also wondered if there was an event that sparked the riot that Habib and Berthe were unaware of - it seemed to spiral much more quickly than I've seen happen :)
The only other thing was that Nassar surprised me because it reads as though both of Habib's parents have died...that might just be me though.
I loved this piece. Thanks for posting it.
Huggs
Ralph

LAf.L at 15:50 on 04 July 2003  Report this post
Ralph,

Merci a lot for your comments. Ok, his parents (as in mother and father) aren't dead but others' are, and Habib's a 'we're-all- brothers kind of guy' and that makes him the son of billions of parents (however, i do agree that it reads as if his parents are dead but this piece is part of a much bigger one and that explains it all (no it doesn't, ok, but it explains it partly, you have to give me that, thanx))

Also, Habib and Berthe knew that a demonstration was to go ahead at this place on that day, that is the reason why they went to the PLaza Centenaria in the first place... they were just a little disappointed when the protesters turned up because the quiet and peaceful moment they had been sharing before they did (turn up, the protesters), felt so good that they'd almost forgotten about the 'riot' (does it make sense now?)

One last thing, I am a bit disappointed about the sentence you used to illustrate (is that too French?) the non-flowing-that-good bit, because i, in fact, really like the rhythm these last words give to the whole sentence. I had to tell you. I feel better now.

Needless to say that all the good things you said were greatly appreciated and the bad ones quickly forgiven (and that's a joke,obviously)

Thanx again.

post Scriptum

i'm only a part-member at the moment and can't upload anything, however if you'd like to read the rest of the story from which Dies Irae was extracted , just let me know (i'll understand if you don't... 'we are professionals after all'°)

° one and a half line ago i was quoting Hunter S Thompson, and that gives me the opportunity to tell you that Kingdom of Fear, his last book is unsurprisingly really good.

Thanx for reading all this,

LAf.L

Ralph at 18:19 on 04 July 2003  Report this post
Hello LAf
Thanks for pointing these out - I'm glad we differ here because I'm by no means an expert and it means you can teach me a thing or two :)
I understood that Habib and Berthe were there for a protest, no worries there. Your plot is very clear and it follows perfectly. I think I was just a little grey about what the protest actually was (I assumed it was a demonstration that disintegrated into a riot - sorry.)
And yes please, I'd love to read the rest of it!
A bientot
Huggs
Ralph

Becca at 18:23 on 05 July 2003  Report this post
Florent, I too look forward to seeing what comes next. Sometimes the sentences are a little awkward as at 'the triangle lost shape.......cops started to trot forward protesters who immediately started to run.' I got what you meant but had to read it twice. There are a few places where the same word is used in quick sucession as at '....screaming and throwing stones.....at running and screaming....'
A technical point: would Habib and Berthe have been kissing so blissfully in the middle of a riot?
There's a bit of a long jump between the first riot scene and the next one, because of the quite long part about the lovers' dreams of their futures. Could that be woven into the other scenes, I wonder, or could you use dialogue to get that all across?

LAf.L at 13:53 on 09 July 2003  Report this post
reBecca,

OK, maybe sometimes the sentences are a little awkward, how about we say that's my style, huh? (however, if the awkwardness is really unacceptable, please tell me. Otherwise, let us be awkward... it's fun...at least I find it fun... but everybody's got his idea of fun, i suppose)

Regarding what you said about the same words used in quick succession (as in the description of the battle between people and police)i have an explanation for that too, especially for the sentence you used as example: there, the double use of 'screaming and running' (for cops and protesters) was meant to emphasize the fact that in a situation of emergency, danger, fear or anger (or in any other situation in which your level of adrenaline goes sky high and makes you feel sick) you run and you scream (or throw-up if you're a pussy), whether you are a cop (equipped with a bullet-proof shield and tear-gas) or a peaceful (or violent) protester (equipped with a good pair of legs or molotov cocktails)....at least I do,(run and scream and throw-up, in this kind of situation)

Now, I am sure Berthe and HAbib would have kissed, yes. Why? because when you're in the middle of a gathering (whatever it's for... the bombing of Irak, or the non-bombing of South-Korea, or the premiere of a Sandra Bullock's movie) there's always a kind of peacefully electrical short moment where you fall in love and have to prove it, just before the cops start to trot toward you, who immediately start to run... (oh oh oh )

Finally, i don't really understand what you mean about a long jump between the two riot scenes, because what's really important here, i think, isn't the riot, or how it developped or why it happened, but the circumstances in which Habib dies... i appreciate that it's difficult to grasp the idea of this extract without reading what' s around it (because this actually is a flashback inserted in the middle of a story) and that brings me to my last point: what comes next (and what's before...because that's important too)? I would love to upload the whole story to share it with you, but i'm only a part-member (sorry i have already said that in a previous post) and can't afford to make myself a full-member. Consequently, i'll be more than happy to see you start a collection between all the full-members... (and that's a joke again, and a pretty bad one...)

Ok, as soon as i received my Visa Card, i'll upload some more.

In the meantime, thank you very much for reading and commenting, i realize that it might sound as if none of what you said reached me, but that's wrong....everything had an impact more important than you could even imagine, honest.

Thanx again, and again. i hope we'll be conversing again really soon.

Florent.






Becca at 07:00 on 10 July 2003  Report this post
Florent, it's a collective thing this criting of work, some ideas offered by different readers strike the writer as spot on, others don't, that's the way it should be.

Sarah at 16:42 on 11 July 2003  Report this post
Hi Florent,

This piece is totally packed with energy. It had a good fact pace to it and there was a lot of passion. Because it's a flashback taken from the middle of a bigger story, I don't worry too much that I don't know why there is a protest and ensuing riot -- I assume if I read the whole thing this would be clear.

I liked the passion these two share; in the midst of shooting and looting they're kissing and thinking of makinf love. They both share a fantasy and that's cool.

I think in the first paragraph you repeat 'thounsands' too many times.

At another part, you say that Habib and Berthe look at eachother in the eyes -- you can take out the 'in the eyes', redundant.

Also, at the end when Toby comes along, all of a sudden the third-person narrator comes into the story: the narrator calls Toby 'fuck-head' 'fat wad of shit' and so on.. it's very jolting for the narrator to all of a sudden be so close to the story. Do you know what I mean?

Sarah at 16:43 on 11 July 2003  Report this post
I meant to say: it had a good FAST pace... typo queen, that's me

Nell at 20:03 on 11 July 2003  Report this post
Hi Florent,

I agree with Ralph that this is a powerful piece of writing - it takes the reader straight into the square with all those thousands of legs arms heads hearts eyes voices souls.
I thought all the thousands in the first para. worked well, but feel that '...thousands of cops...' is perhaps one 'thousand' too many, but that's just how it strikes me, as you have said everyone is different.

The contrast between the tender moments and all the mayhem worked really well, and there are some evocative images here.

I wondered if you really needed the violent language which seems to be echoing Habib's thoughts when he attacks Toby. I felt while reading this that it would have even more impact if you cut all the swear words out. That section would then take on a quiet almost slow-motion effect that would be in direct contrast to what's actually happening. Just a thought, you may not agree, and it's your piece after all. Look forward to more.

Best, Nell.

LAf.L at 11:08 on 16 July 2003  Report this post
Hi all,
First, I 'd like to apologise in adavance for the language i'm going to use.

-reBecca, i completely agree with you... this is a collective thing and sometimes things-that-srike-the-writer-spot-on are said... (actually i have to disagree with that because everything said about my writing strikes me, everytime...)and that's what happened with your comments on DIes Irae...

However, i do believe that questions are here to be answered and that's all i intended to do replying to your post, (not trying to justify myself or my choices but just trying to explain them to you as honestly as i could.).
LAter,
Flo.

- SArah,

Thanx a lot for reading. I'll cut the 'in the eyes' off (but might put it back if/when in need of words), ok. i'm glad you liked the pace of the piece (and i like the consonantal alliteration in 'the pace of the piece') and i'm rather happy that you chose no to worry about the whys of the riot and stuff.
However, i kind of like my 'thousands', but don't really know why...
Now, i do understand, and almost agree with, what you're saying about the third-person narrator coming in too close to the story, it even looks a little weird to me when i read it, but there's nothing I can do about it. Sometimes the characters write my stories. Sometimes i have to tell what i think...Toby's a fucking cunt... i can't help it... just like i can't help writing awkward stuff... sorry.
I hope you understand (i'm ill)
I also hope we'll be conversing again in a near future.
The end,
Florent.

- Nell,
Thanx a lot for your comments, and thank you very much for agreeing with Ralph. It pleases me a great deal. i'm also pretty happy you thought the 'thousands' worked well, and do be sure (waow! that sounds pretty awkward) that i took in consideration what you said about the last 'thousand', but what i wanted was a bit of equality between cops and protesters. It seemed human to me to re-establish a kind of balance between the police and the people it protects...Riot-squads are great (and i'm a liar)... No, seriously, that's what i wanted... equilibrium.(i think that's of Latin origin)
I'm glad you liked the contrast between tender moments and mayhem and i'm really happy you used this word...('mayhem', i love this word and somehow, never use it, thanx again for that)
As i told Sarah, the strong language seemed inevitable to me because I feel that it is not said enough (and certainly not clearly enough) that people like Toby are ...big fucking assholes...
Thanx again for your time and your help.
Florent.

-That's about all i have to say. I insist you read the next few lines because they concern you all.

Thank you very much from the bottom of my stomach (yeah, i'm a stomach-kind-of-guy), i can't wait to upload more stuff and read what you think, feel and hate about it, because you're all really , really helpful.

Later,

LAf.L

Post scriptum: i've just realised that instead of writing one big post to answer you all, i should have written one comment for each of you in order to get more points (it's early days, i'm still learning)
Also, 'Everything is illuminated' is a pretty good book. And its author is jonathan SAfran fOER;;;; PLEASE REAd iT.

Oh, one last question...do you think i'm funny? (an answer to that isn't mandatory)

Ok,

I'm going now

L.L

Nell at 11:42 on 16 July 2003  Report this post
Florent - it wasn't the language throughout the piece that I was referring to, just in that one place where Habib attacks Toby. Maybe it's not only that I'd like to see this part as if from a slight distance, or in slow motion as it were, but also because I want Habib to transcend Toby - not to sink to his level even through all the violence. Hope this explains somewhat... but of course, these are just my thoughts as a reader, and as I said before, the piece is yours.

Best, Nell.

Sarah at 16:16 on 16 July 2003  Report this post
Hey there Florent,

I'm sorry, I think I didn't explain my point very clearly. The problem with the narrator calling Toby a fuck-head or cunt or whatever is not the language. I'm actually quite fond of using harsh words in a narrative if it's called for. The language isn't the problem, it's the fact that all of a sudden, the third person narrator is jumping into the story, offering an opinion, being a character within the story. Your third person narrator should be watching from the outside, describing objectively. Third person narrator can of course go into people's heads and that's when the narrator can say things like fuck head and fat wad of shit, only through the thoughts of an actual character. Does that make sense now?

LAf.L at 10:51 on 17 July 2003  Report this post
Good morning Sarah,

Yeah, it makes sense now (even though it already made sense before). I think i understood what you were saying, and I hoped the explanation i gave you would be good enough, but it wasn't. I do agree 112 percent, when you say the narrator usually expresses himself through the thoughts of an actual character. However I have to disagree when you say that mine should, too. I don't really believe in rules. The narrator of this piece chose to get involved without warning, he surprised me and I liked it.

I truly hope it doesn't make the reading too difficult.


Thanx,

LAf.L









Sarah at 11:02 on 17 July 2003  Report this post
No no, it doesn't make the reading difficult at all. I didn't mean that the narrator expresses itself through other's thoughts; the narrator -- third person -- shouldn't express opinion at all.

It stands out, but you're right, it is your choice. I know, it's difficult to think about rules and what not.

I guess the question you have to ask is, what am I gaining from breaking the rules? How does it push the story and make it better? Is this intervention something that is consistent throughout the piece? Are you working within some sort of frame, where there's a story within a story, and the narrator actually exists in some other context?

Becca at 21:48 on 17 July 2003  Report this post
No, rules are generally crap, and the best writers ignore rules, and everyone around them gives them that licence. The one's who do though, respect their readers in the sense that, however much they ignore rules, their one intent is to make sure their readers are with them. Seems boringly prosaic to me, but, bless them, sweet too.

Sarah at 10:17 on 18 July 2003  Report this post
Here here. Consistency is the key, and there's gotta be a reason for it.


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