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[22 Jun 2007|12:57am] |
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Tell me a secret That’s right, Gadje, don’t look at the uniform or the cane. Don’t see the badge. Focus instead on the dark skin: brown and weathered like dirt or leather. See the eyes just like yours, squeezed shut by the sun and swear, black like ink and untrusting. Big, wide hands calloused from work and broken fingers never set. Strong back, good for work. Tanned and beaten by the bourgeoisie just like yours. Call me a thief, or a grave robber because I’m Gypsy or because I’m a cop. I don’t mind. It’s all true, after all. How much joy have I stolen from you? How many crimes dead and buried did I unearth? And of course you hate me. Look at me and ask me with silent tongues why do I pretend? Am I suddenly Gadje? You ask? Milky white skin, soft hands and black eyes; do I want to wear fine suits, ride around in carriages and pretend to be white. Do I think I’m better then you…because I’m the cop and you’re the prisoner? Tell you a secret? My people live and thrive on secrets and misdirection. What makes you think you are worthy? Fine, I’ll tell you a secret. I am better then you. Muse: Inspector Javert Fandom: Les Miserables Word Count: 206
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| The Cost of Security |
[22 May 2007|01:16am] |
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"What most people don't seem to realize is that there is just as much money to be made out of the wreckage of a civilization as from the upbuilding of one… There's good money in empire building. But, there's more in empire wrecking." There was a small place about ten miles outside of Paris that is a kind of curio to the people. Spacious, beautiful with painted frescos and gardens that spread out to eternity, the well to do use to ogle the place with envy and the poor, as was the case of the poor, just glared at it and pointed to it as the source of all their woes. When inhabited it had been the crown of the Country, a source of pride for all Frenchmen. Now, it was more a relic, a vague reminder of what had once been a glorious time for the nation but was now just an icon of its folly. Still, the place was loved by those who benefited from it and demonized by those suffered due to its ignorance. For his part, Inspector Javert paid no attention to the Chateau de Versailles or the Paris Commune. He could as easily proclaim “Glory to Louis, King of France and Navarre, who is in God’s grace” as he could “Vive le Nation.” He didn’t care much for the politics of his adopted country, just for her security. France had her moments of folly and splendor but she was a tough little harlot, she would survive. Javert thought about that as he watched Enjorlas speak, cause trouble and in general be a dreamer. This boy and his little friends would drag France through the mud. People would die and it wouldn’t change a damn thing. No, the only real difference would be the cost of rebuilding. In the end it would just surmount to a few ruined buildings, some blood on the streets and broken glass. And France, more or less, would continue with business as usual. Muse: Inspector Javert Fandom: Les Miserables Word Count: 289
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| Fan Letter |
[09 May 2007|10:43pm] |
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rite a fan letter. Monsieur Valjean, I am writing to congratulate you on your excellent performance in Montreuil-sur-Mer for eight years. Most actors I have known can barely stay in character for the hour or two of their performances but you, Monsieur Mayor, you became an upstanding, kind, gracious and lest I, your humble beneficiary forget, merciful lord to all us under your domain. How divine you were, Mayor when you dismissed the cruel officer for the harlot’s sake and even kinder still when you refused my resignation for denouncing you. Yes, sir. Your kindness was renowned in that little town. Now here, in Paris, your chastity shines even more so. You are a jewel among the rough, aren’t you? The beggar who gives alms, the father of the parentless, the convent’s gardener… Or did you think I didn’t know about that little safe haven. Or your gallant sacrifice aboard the Orion? I wish I could have been there, seeing you so heroically jumping over to save that man’s life and tragically losing yours in the process. I really want to know how you accomplished that one, Monsieur. Are you Christ now? Walking across the water, amid calming storms and rescuing us guards. You’ve come quite a long way from poaching apples in Faverolles, haven’t you? Stealing loaves of breads, and money from children has graduated to stealing hearts and fooling idiots hasn’t it? But alas, Monsieur, I am confused as to one piece of the enigma that is Jean Valjean, formerly of Toulon. The why? I have all the other details: the who, and where and when. But why? Why does a poacher and a thief, and not a very good one even you will admit, do all those grand things for people who don’t deserve and don’t care much for the gift anyways? I suppose I shall have to wait to ask you. Until then, I eagerly await our next encounter. Your faithful servant,
Inspector Javert, First Class.
Word Count: 326
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| Thou Shall Not Kill |
[15 Apr 2007|12:45am] |
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Would you ever kill a human being (or if you are not human - would you ever kill a being from your own species?)?
The short answer? No, I have never murdered another human being. That being said, I have acted in self-defense, or in defense public property, ensured the general welfare and protected the sacred trust. I have administered justice without respect to persons, done equal right to the poor and the rich and have faithfully and impartially discharged all the duties incumbent on me. But it’s not killing under those circumstances. There’s duality in law enforcement, sanctity in our fell deeds, angelic tendencies in barbarism. People hate us because we can kill with impunity, and so much still: because we can destroy lives, not only that of the criminal but his family, his community. We have the same powers as the murderers and thieves we apprehend. The only difference between the branded convicts and me is I’m expected to be cruel, callous and unpredictable. The criminal looks exactly like you until the moment of the felony. An officer of the law, living among you but never being one, is forever removed. When we kill, it’s not murder. It’s justice in the truest sense: clean, unrefined and unforgivable. It’s the knowledge and ability to make the choice of allowing a man who has enough privilege and pull among the courts and politicks to escape justice through legal maneuvering and bribery… Or not. Muse: Inspector Javert, First Class Fandom: Les Miserables Word Count: 219
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[24 Mar 2007|04:03am] |
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Several times at night, he had seen her, and at first he watched her because it was late at night and she was such a tough little alley cat he thought to watch her in case a crime should happen to fall into her lap. She had the kind of coldness that seemed innate to thieves of her caliber and age: a dark wary look that hallowed out the mirth from her face and smeared across her arms. She was a strong girl, or a handsome woman; he could not decide entirely which yet. At once, when she took in her surroundings she seemed as frightened of the dark as a child would have. There were times when she scanned the shadows he was certain that any moment, she would cry out in fear upon the discovery of a monster. And then, there were times, when she stared into the darkness that her walk belied the innocence of her face. She strutted. She owned the darkness. She dared the monsters to move. She could probably name each and every fiend with the skill and ease that he could have, and something in him made him smile to think that perhaps this little alley cat could strike just as much fear into those fiends that he himself- Inspector Javert- could. That is how, simply put, she had become part of his nightly custom. Javert would pace his walks precisely to catch her as she appeared from the shadows, followed the Seine for a bit before turning away and disappearing. He understood it for his part; he also took comfort from the river. He’d stopped on the banks of the river, to stare into the darkness of her waters and mull things over. She would appear, sometimes stony faced and sometimes more frightened then she usually looked, and would walk by the river only casting dark looks over the bridges into the water when she started to cry. What made such a girl cry Javert wondered, and several times he had wanted to ask her. Javert laughed at himself. Yes, he snickered to himself, he would approach her gallantly and genteel like some dandy. Proffer her his handkerchief to dry those dirty tears, and his arm to keep her steady, his coat to keep her warm; his company to keep her happy. She would take them all willingly, without kindness or thanks. They would stroll across the alleyways, paying little attention to the shadows and monsters. They would stumble over words and pretend to ignore the curious glances from outsiders or their own awkwardness. Javert was no courting gentlemen, nor was this girl a fine flower of the courts. They could not afford such idle fantasies. Neither were big pieces of a puzzle that moved worlds, and proved dreamers just and right. They did not exist for love’s sake, either belonging to it or taking part of it. Instead, they were the little ones: the ones that peeled from the stem. They were the brigands of the world, the monsters, the shadows of the streets. But still when she cried, he wanted to know why, and cursed himself for never asking. Muse: Inspector Javert Fandom: Les Miserables Word Count: 546
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| Fragile |
[14 Mar 2007|02:12am] |
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Inspector Javert bought tobacco for the inmates who requested it. He kept the women separate from the men unless they were families. Once or twice he even bought lamb for Jewish prisoners. There was a scar that craved up his leg from his tendon to the crook of his knee where a torn bearing on a galley ship ripped through him because he had thrown himself on the rigging, and grabbed hold of the bearing right there with the chained galley slaves. He even had a prison tattoo. The date of the accident over the scar, given to him by a fearsome old criminal whose life he saved. The prisoners laughed and called him hard-core. The guards laughed and called him foolish but he was proud of it. That being said, Inspector Javert had a cloud of infamy surrounding his persons in any beat he chose to patrol. The whores called him cruel and the thieves called him a fiend. He was brutal to those who tried to harm him, and fearless. He charged into any night, any bar fight or backroom brawl with a kind of simple smile on his lips that made older folks call him a demon. He once arrested a dying prostitute for attacking a man who had put ice down her dress. He tackled an elderly woman for wielding a paving stone. He arrested a mayor who gave away all of his profits to his workers. The heavy, iron tipped cane he carried was not to aid him in walking. The criminals respected and hated Javert. The police acknowledged him but never befriended the man. Both worlds did not understand how such a man could exist so easily in such extremes. He did not hate criminals though it was easy for him to be brutal to them, and he did not love the government although he unquestioningly obeyed all their orders. The brave asked him in every few years or so why he acted so. How could the man, so clearly uneducated and cynical, stress human decency without ever feeling compassion for them? He would look up, stare into the questioner’s eyes just long enough to make him shiver or shift uneasily before returning to his work and telling him simply, “Because I am the law.” You see Javert believed, reverently, that such an ideal was perfect, absolute and fragile. And because order and law existed in both worlds: the dark and the light, Javert had to possess both qualities. He had to protect the idea. Such things of beauty are usually delicate and should be protected at all costs. Muse: Inspector Javert Fandom: Les Miserables Word Count: 435
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| Do you believe in ghosts? |
[22 Feb 2007|01:41am] |
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Do you believe in ghosts? It was said of Javert that he was Alain’s only protégé, friend and family. They’d met in their youth guarding galley ships out in Toulon and when Javert had transferred to Paris, he had lived with Alain for almost a year till he found a place. They took lunches together almost every day till Alain retired, and after that, Javert still picked the old man’s brain over cases and problems. They worked well together but always in silence. Javert handled the old man’s eccentricity and moodiness with all the deference and patience of a son with his father and Alain overlooked Javert problematic heritage. They had a unique understanding; solid and steady like the grave. When Alain grew sick, Javert visited him every day at the end of his shift. He tended to the man’s arrangements, cleaned and fed him, and kept vigil over the man. And when Alain died, Javert (quietly) paid for the funeral. He did not, however, attend. Most dismissed it as the man choosing to mourn for Alain in his own, private way and remembering this, were not surprised when he didn’t volunteer with the other officers to settle Alain’s affairs. He remained silent when the others sold the old man’s belongings and even when Michel took over the small apartment Alain owned, (and sure wouldn’t the old man be hot- he hated Michel.) Nor did Javert speak when Michel, either as a token of goodwill or as a jab, dropped Alain’s old pocket-watch on Javert’s desk. The watch was a fine thing, heavy and gold. Alain had received from his father when he made Inspector, who in turn had received it from his father on his wedding date. There was a certain amount of vanity that Alain displayed when he cared for the watch or displayed it that even Javert was victim too. It was no secret Javert admired it, the craftsmanship, the care and the beauty. It had been a running joke amongst Alain and the other guards that Javert would inherit the watch once he had collared Valjean for a final time. Javert had taken up the challenge with a bitter smile. It was joked that perhaps Alain would have kept his word, had he lived longer. Instead, the watch was given to Javert as something to remember a dead friend by. That night, walking home from the station Javert dropped the watch into a beggar’s cup. There’s a practice among the Romani that the Gadje rarely see or would to see. After someone dies, their name is banished, belongings burned and the person is (for lack of a better word) forgotten. It is not for cruelty’s sake that the Gypsies practice this but rather survival. In truth, Javert loved no man on earth more then he loved Alain, and there was no greater lost he could have experienced. He did not, however, want Alain’s spirit to return for the watch.
Word Count: 488
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| Mother |
[01 Feb 2007|04:01am] |
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Hindsight is always 20/20. Head bowed, arms bound behind his back, and waiting for death, Javert found himself thinking about a Lovari woman in jail he once knew. She had been attractive once, and was not at all old. She was dark like dried tobacco, with yellow teeth and eyes as black as night. A pale green shawl covered her hair, and her painfully thin frame was well hidden under piles of skirts and a yellow and tan blouse. She wore three necklaces, one of gold, two of copper and braids around her ankles that made her jingle when she walked. Her shoulder was branded with a TF she received in prison, where she served two years and gave birth to a son. When he was boy, Javert would trace his finger over the raised skin in wonder. This woman had three daughters by her second husband and loved them all. Her son, she respected, and was civil too. Only when he was sick, did she embrace him, and he was only sick once. She only smiled at him when he was married as a child and she gained one more daughter. She loved the new daughter and continued to ignore the son. Once Javert had been brave enough to ask her if she hated her son. His mother had looked at him straight in the eye and told him, she was making him strong. She told him that every love she spared him would aide him later on. She told him that this life of caravans and begging for meals and survival had never been her intention for him and she would do whatever in her power to prevent him from this fate. Even if it made hating him. Javert laughed as he thought of this, and wondered why he thought of it now, as he waited to die. He also wondered if this is what she had meant, and wanted for him? Funny how things turn out. Word Count: 325
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| But... |
[25 Jan 2007|03:37am] |
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“I never thought I’d say this, but…” I stand here staring at Jean Valjean. This man before me has spent decades avoiding the law. He has stolen from Bishop and child, has duped clergy and countrymen. Stolen a child, stolen a name and made my life a complete fraud by his actions at the barricade. This man by his mere existence has defined and negated mine. He has mocked me, hindered me, and assaulted me at every turn. He has been like a perverse mirror, showing me every fault about myself and reveling in it. He was given every chance I never had, squandered it and still flourished while I, who have fought, bitten and begged for every opportunity I received struggled. He, who lied, and broke parole, was made Mayor for his efforts while I was ridiculed and dismissed as some houseboy. I have striven to live my whole life by law and goodness while he felt his way through on a whim and yet somehow-he has prospered while I have only survived. He is a monster, a convicted felon who by law should be put behind bars and left to rot, forgotten and alone. He has also saved my life. And he is free, because I said so. Word Count: 203
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| Full Circle |
[07 Jan 2007|09:24pm] |
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Stars were falling deep in the darkness as prayers rose softly, petals at dawn And as I listened, your voice seemed so clear so calmly you were calling your god Inspector Guillaume of the First Class, as was his habit when he was nervous or uncertain of a course action, chewed on his lower lip till it bled. He was flushed and tottering uneasily with the use a cane he didn’t really need but used because Papa said it would be more useful to him then any nightstick. Papa had shared that pearl of wisdom one of the many nights he had walked the beat with him. Now normally Inspector Javert, First Class disliked company. He was of the old school, before Vidocq had taken over and reorganized the whole police force, and hadn’t taken kindly to the idea of a partner. Javert’s thoughts on law enforcement were simple and stronger then time and politics, proven by even after Vidocq had been swept from power, Javert had remained. He was that kind of cop that was older the policing. If he had lived in the old days, Guillaume was certain that Javert would have been with the Knights retaking Jerusalem (or, and just as likely, keeping His holy disciplines from Golgotha.) But if there was anything Javert was, it was mindful of authority and when his superiors told him to take a partner for his routes, the Inspector obliged. Somewhere the sun rose, o'er dunes in the desert such was the stillness, I ne'er felt before Thus Guillaume became Javert’s shadow, and when it suited the older cop, he spoke. Javert never spoke of family, or friends, or his past but rather the job and always the job. He seemed to take it beyond mere employment and took it as some divine vocation. His voice was simple, uneducated but worldly, and spoke of practical matters with a gruff efficiency that reminded Guillaume of a father instructing his son on the family business. (That’s how Guillaume came to call him Papa, though never to the Inspector’s face.) Take care of your boots, carry a cane, be civil to the criminals, and polite to the prostitutes; no one profits from your cruelty and the convicts will be kinder to you then anyone of right society. Was this the question, pulling, pulling, pulling you in your heart, in your soul, did you find peace there? Javert’s vision of right and wrong were absolute. He spoke of crime as some kind of dark shadow he feared but respected. He hated the crime but not exactly the criminal. He seemed to view the villains as humans being that looked more like himself then he wanted and hated them only because of that. Maybe that’s why he killed himself in the end. Because he couldn’t reconcile the kindness of darkness with his own hatred, or because the darkness he feared so passionately finally overtook him. Elsewhere a snowfall, the first in the winter covered the ground as the bells filled the air You in your robes sang, calling, calling, calling him Guillaume would have liked to ask his Papa those questions; those simple questions he taught Guillaume to ask: the whys and hows. He would have liked to show Javert that every time the old man spoke, he had listened and memorized and understood in hopes one day he would step into the old man’s place and be able to show him that all was well. He’d pick up where Papa left off. in your heart, in your soul, did you find peace there? But instead, all Guillaume could do was take his title and show him (wherever Javert was) that he had and he would. Muse: Inspector Javert Fandom: Les Miserables Word Count: 517 (Without Lyrics) Song: Full Circle, Loreena McKennitt
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[08 Dec 2006|01:03am] |
Javert Vs. Javert; It's war! Describe yourself fighting against his Romipan.
Inspector Javert of the first class was raised Romani. He adopted the manner of the Gadjo when he was barely a child, with only a rudimentarily knowledge of French and a basic determination to be more then a thief, swindler and convict. He knew what it was like to be hungry, and cold, and desperate to tears. He remembered being a child and looking after other children and being pushed against a wall to tend for them. Not because he loved the children, or even felt the most bases familiar affection to them but rather he was forced to tend to them because it was tradition and duty. Javert knew duty before he knew the difference the Romani and the Gadjo. He knew that the world would come and make demands of him. It would hate him. Despite his actions and intentions and dreams that he may have had one day for family and happiness; he knew acutely that the manner of his birth and his vocation would never reconcile. Part of him would always fight the other side. It was nothing so asinine as him suppressing an urge to pick-pocket, or sing, or kill and rob. Nor was it whimpering and begging like some slave to his superiors for a scrape of a promotion or a chance to perform his duties. No, the war was quieter and deadlier. It played behind eyes and appeared out of shadows to strike and disappear again. It was latent hatred, smaller excusable sins that mounted against him that wounded him. It was inward things- Gypsy things- that he, though he was loathed to admit, took pride in. It was small crimes he overlooked that tarnished the paragon of justice. It was never being quite Gypsy for the Gypsies but of course being too damn much for his paler companions. It was being feared by sight by women he fancied because of his dark skin, or worst, considered a token and some feral paramour. He had no intentions of sweeping a woman off her feet and take her to faraway lands. He was French and he loved his country. It wasn’t perfect but it was his and he’d die to protect it. Even though he knew it would never do the same for him. France did not want a Roma protecting her. But that was fine by Javert considering the Roma had no use for an old French cop. Muse: Inspector Javert
Fandom: Les Miserables
Word Count: 405
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[10 Nov 2006|03:15am] |
The moral of the story is...
Arras was nothing like Toulon, and Inspector Javert watched where he stepped in the dungeons. Country living had made Javert soft, he thought softly, as he suppressed a sneer in reaction to the smell. As a guard of the chain at Toulon, Javert had to become accustomed to the smell of the ocean and humanity at it’s worst but at least there, you had the wind to sweep out the funk. In Arras, the smell had nowhere to go but up and as luck would have it, up right to Javert’s nose. A few steps down the hallway, Javert hiked up the edge of his coat and stepped over a graying pile that he thought it better to leave unrecognized.
For a moment, Javert thought of leaving and returning back to M-sur-M and leaving the matter before him at rest. More stood behind the door at the end of the hallway then some convict calling himself Champmathieu or whatnot.
Javert was well aware of the fact his life stood behind that door.
Several weeks ago, in a fit of anger for being dismissed by the Mayor Madeleine in favor of a whore, Javert had written to Paris and denounce the Mayor for what he really was: the convict Jean Valjean, called Jean the Jack. It had been a festering doubt in his mind since Javert’s first arrival in the town but hesitation and patient has stayed his hand. Javert had lived his entire life with caution and respect that things took time.
The bohemian race that he belonged to was raucous and wild; given to fits of emotion and he had lived his entire life being careful to avoid that fate.
And now, because of ONE night, one moment of him becoming angry and enraged; his whole life hung in the balance. If that man was Valjean…
He had committed a serious offense: he had insulted a superior authority, had bucked against the very system he had sworn to uphold. And for one simple reason…
Because he had been angry. He had known better but it didn’t matter. He was angry and wanted revenge.
Just like a Gypsy.
Javert put his hand against the wood and exhaled. If nothing else, that would be the story of his life: one act of anarchy bringing down a lifetime of discipline. One trace of bohemian, no matter how diluted or suppressed, could destroy a man. Simply, contained…and in the end, no one could escape themselves.
No matter how hard they tried.
Muse: Inspector Javert
Fandom: Les Miserables
Word Count: 424
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[27 Oct 2006|01:24am] |
What do your ancestors mean to you?
His past collected somewhere behind Javert’s hollowed eyes, turning them cold and black. It made them intense but feral: like that of an intelligent beast caged and contained by law. If one stared too long into his eyes, they became lost in the abyss and frightened by it. It was rumored Javert himself despised and feared it.
But his past continued to peer through, in small parts and details, he was either powerless to overcome, or unaware of. It seeped through his skin that had always been one shade darker, one hint too copper to be true Gallic and turned him black under the sun. It turned his hair red and blond in his youth, and grayed as he grew older rather then thinning it like respectable officers. It made his eyes dance ink and coffee instead of settling on one color clear and blue. Gave him a weak mouth, wide nose and curved eyes that on first glance could have been a Chinaman’s. It lengthened his fingers, broadened his shoulders and waist.
But it did other things, less obvious to Javert but no less painful. It made him step behind people instead of through them, made him offer a hand to the elder ladies, defer the road to the woman with child and let the young walk ahead of him. It gave him a quiet fear of the hem of women’s dress. It made him toss coins to the dead as they passed and occasionally when the moon waxed and waned, he thanked the night for her guidance and the road for his protection by tossing them bread and salt without thinking for a moment why.
But mostly his past collected somewhere behind his eyes and turned to hate.
Muse: Inspector Javert
Fandom: Les Miserables
Word Count: 290
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[18 Oct 2006|01:41am] |
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What keeps you up at night? Inspector Javert stood on the Rue Petit Picpus staring up at the wall that keep him from the convict Jean Valjean. He paced from one end of the block to the other, seething and turning back towards the door. Once or twice, the gendarmes by his side were certain he would take his cane to the door at any moment. The Inspector was a cold study in anger there before the Convent of Perpetual Adoration. He kept staring at the door as if it would open by sheer force of his will. Another thing too, had it happened, no one there would have been the least bit surprised. Instead the brute of a man paced before the door, muttering at the wood concerning the nunnery. “There is a thief, a vagrant, a criminal and parole breaker inside those walls with all those women-waiting-content he is getting away with it because of the Mother Superior’s self-righteous, abusive whim! She is without a doubt the most…” There was a way he stressed every other word that made each sound like a curse. He turned and despite the fact he did not direct the comments to either of the soldiers, he continued. “He’s in there! Valjean is there! He’s hiding in that…place and I can’t get him!” He exhaled and stepped back. It was possible that the Inspector had lost his mind, for without warning, the old man doubled back and threw his cane at the wall. The sound of the impact rattled against the old stone and echoed down the corridor. Javert turned and stormed to the guards. “He’s here.” He told him, sharply as he pushed passed and continued into the darkness muttering. “He’s there. He’s in there…and I can’t get him. He’s in there…” Muse: Inspector Javert Fandom: Les Miserables Word Count: 294
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[05 Oct 2006|12:53am] |
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Tell the truth about something you usually lie about.
The Rue de L’Homme Arme felt colder, the streets unfamiliar and stark. Inspector Javert of the First Class knew the layout of the city, and knew each quay and corner but felt claustrophobic as he walked the path. He had only in his mind the vaguest idea of his destination and in truth it was more of a desire then an actual place. He wanted the Seine, the familiarity of the rushing black waters, and the deep emptiness of eternity that swelled about him.
If upon facing Judgment, he was honest with himself, he would admit that the intention that crawled into his mind that evening on the river bank had been there the moment he first left the convict’s hideaway and began on that path.
He would have admitted to God and himself that he had died back in the barricade: frozen in place as Valjean fired his gun into the air and that whatever he did now was merely playing catch-up to that action.
And it would be truthful. Javert could have no more lived in Valjean’s debt then Christ admitted Judas had followed him even unto the kiss. True, it had been require, even demanded but that did not for a moment provide pardon. Strangely, Javert did not fear death nor did he regret the despicable sin he was about to commit. It made a strange sense in his mind. A wrong had been committed and demanded redress. A life had been saved, and one must be sacrificed.
Laughably, it was Valjean that had chosen whose. Poor man, Javert thought as he walked to the bank, you couldn’t save everything. Valjean did not the boy to die and of the two, he and Marius, Javert agreed. He had lived a thorough life and had no regrets about his lifetime of servitude in the name of the law…
No, that was a lie. Even now, while it was not his duty that he regretted, it was that he’d no longer be there to uphold it. He didn’t always agree with it no, but he did honor it.
Pausing for a moment, Javert stepped back and stared into the Seine. He had never regretted his choices, or what he did for justice’s sake. Except for having to leave before his work was done.
Wordlessly, Javert retreated from the banks and sat on the pavement like a child. Pulling his notebook and pen from his coat pocket, the old Inspector sat and began to write…
A few observations for the good of the service…
Hidden
There was an old story about an old Gypsy Rom that was so talented, so sweet with a violin that Death herself fell victim to his spell. Every night lady death came to claim the old man’s soul and every night, the Gypsy pulled down heaven and wove it into his song. The old women of the caravan said often that he lived till this day. As a child, Javert had forced his grandmother to tell him that story again and again until he could recite it from memory, and mimic her accent and nuances till the rest of the caravan laughed at his talent.
As time passed, the story fell to somewhere in the back of Javert’s brain and remained there hidden. The officer gradually overtook the Gypsy, and all that was nestled hidden away from him.
But like all things tucked away and better left unrecalled, the story came rushing back to him as action rather then memory. It happened as the Inspector First Class watched three Gypsies get carted away from a petty crime, and he was left to pick up the pieces. The violin was tucked in a corner, beaten and scuffed. The strings ran loose, and the bridge needed replacement but the body was polished maple and the bow was pure horsehair.
Javert circled the instrument like a cat pawing at a wounded mouse. Then slowly he squatted beside the violin and lifted it gingerly between his fingers. His eyes took on a distance as he fingered the strings: invoking a tune that twisted around his fingers and curled in the air like Turkish smoke.
“Monsieur Inspector?”
Javert jerked his head up and nearly tumbled out of his chair when he realized he was not alone. Two gendarmes were watching him with a mixture of concern and surprise. The older one swallowed deeply before speaking again. “Monsieur Inspector…would you like to take it with you?”
Javert blinked nervously and stared at the violin that had taken its place under his chin, and bow in hand. He was vaguely aware of the song he had been playing. He closed his eyes and laughed. He stood, “It wouldn’t be any use to me. I only know that song…”
“And why that one, monsieur Inspector?”
Javert paused a little. “Because it cheats Mama death…that’s a handy trick…for a cop.”
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| Rebellion |
[17 Sep 2006|01:34am] |
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Have you ever rebelled? If you have, how did you do it?
The old skeleton moved slowly, but proudly. In his youth, he must have been robust and frightening to see, the epitome of a proud Gypsy man and leader of his caravan. The illness that took him slowly seemed new and awkward to the man, as if he was unaccustomed to the idea he was old and yet alone liable to die. His lime green shirt hung haphazardly over aged leathery skin: soft browns turning red and blue tattoos now inked black with weariness. He shambled through the caravan, shivering as his knobby fingers worked over every yoke and harness.
No one helped the Kapo as he moved, every Gypsy in the caravan knew better then to try.
Long ago, the Kapo had had a
Muse: Inspector Javert
Fandom: Les Miserables
Word Count: 525
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| Revenge |
[15 Sep 2006|02:02am] |
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The clergy stand behind iron bars and stained glass windows and tell us to refrain from cruelty and indifference, from revenge. The promise of retribution belongs to the Father of us all and we as petty men must our way as best we can. With respect to the Creator of all, He has never lived in Paris.
In Paris, besieged, burning.
These students, children who want to be revolutionaries like they’ve read in all the proper books, and heard about when they were little more then infants. They want a Revolution, want the Republic revived; perhaps the Apollo wants to become the next Napoleon. They claim it is for the people they fought but I doubt any of them have ever stared into the face of their people and have not recoiled. They mean to kill me for my so-called crimes to their Republic; but in truth, how many of them have leaned closer to me and mine if forced to chose between me and someone like Thenardier or even Valjean?
No, they kill me tonight because they are frightened, and angry and pushed against the wall. I’m their revenge.
Exactly what they are avenging I doubt even they know. Sure they can recite nice little words and pretend to stand for freedom and equality. They could even claim one of the countless legitimate grievances of the people (and don’t act so scandalized by my choice of words, I still live in Paris, and I am still one of those wretched people, remember that well!) But no, I think they fight for one reason that is neither noble nor honorable: they fight because they do not understand.
If they survive tonight, each and every of these souls will choose one day what to become; between their ideals of what should be and what it is, between a life like Valjean and Thenardier with one hand trembling as it snatches it’s next meal or prize, never content and never at peace. Or they can choose a bed, and the promise of meals and contentment…
And tell me, dreamer, what would you choose?
I’m their revenge: against everything they will become.
If they live through the night…
Muse: Inspector Javert
Fandom: Les Miserables
Word Count: 365
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| Dreams |
[30 Aug 2006|02:28am] |
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Name one thing about human nature that puzzles you.
If there’s one thing I have never understood about my fellow man it is our unwillingness to accept our lot in life, and our determination to strive for something outside their sphere of influence. I have never understood a whore who, upon the birth of their bastard child, determines in her mind that once she puts away the night life and decides that she is now a lady or a convict, a repeat offender, who upon reaching their twilight decides by their choice they are no longer culpable for the sins of their youth and dare to call themselves righteous. I have never understood how the children of the idle rich think that by reading books or setting themselves up in a poor neighborhood for a week, month or year will somehow make them brothers with the impoverish and weak. Or how this crusade of pity somehow makes them licensed to act in their name.
I am an officer of the law, I have surrendered everything for that vocation. Had I chosen another path of the criminal and Rom Baro I could have had a wife and family, had a kumpania of my own. Perhaps I could have been as Valjean is, a thief and con artist who once had society blessing my name. Perhaps, I could have been as my father was, a slave of the galleys instead of the guard. Could I have been possibly more then what I am now? Would I have been happier? Wiser?
Those who look above, beyond and behind what they are fail to understand one thing; that is it impossible to dream. Once the choice is made, once a path is committed too, there is no going back. I could no more be Gypsy now then to admit that my world was a lie. I could no more show mercy to the whore and convict then ask them to show me the same luxury should our roles be reversed and my life rests on theirs.
But still people- and I suppose, at times, even I- look up at the endless stars and dream of something beyond, above and behind them.
And even as I do, I wonder what do we gain from such idle fantasies.
Muse: Inspector Javert
Fandom: Les Miserables
Word Count: 373
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[18 Aug 2006|03:29am] |
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Do you tend to make friends easily? Why/why not?
You’d be surprised how quickly someone wants to befriend a cop, especially those breaking the law. More so, you’d be surprised how quickly they come in handy in day-to-day business of an Inspector. I do not practice reciprocity as some of the others do; I never shy away from arresting either informer or malcontent but I know well enough that most of these people would betray their mother for the profit, at times as simple as a sous piece. It’s a trait I share with them.
Besides, criminals are the most honest men I have yet encountered. They rarely lie to old Javert; it’s a matter of professional courtesy. Not to mention, I know how to avoid leaving bruises. In the end, however loathed I am to admit it; cops and criminals are more the same then we are different. We do what must to live- if what you call us doing living- and the other side of world think we are monsters for it. We break and build the world they step on. The desperation builds familiarity and the familiarity builds friendship.
I look to them for my livelihood, for assurance that today is similar in statue to the next and the one behind. They too look to me for the one thing I can give them: the promise that someone is watching after them. Odd too, is that is also true for me; I am an Inspector in the Paris police force. No one outside the world I haunt will ever recall or remember my name or face. No one but these souls who laugh and tease and run from me will ever remember after I have gone.
How queer this world we live in, when the realization that the only one who remembers you is the one who would, and probably will, one day either take or ruin your life.
Muse: Inspector Javert
Fandom: Les Miserables
Word Count: 322
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| Spirits and the sea |
[05 Aug 2006|03:50am] |
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(Blame goes to Pirates of the Caribbean and toothaches on the part of the typist for this and because if anyone needs a drink, it’s the Inspector first class)
Javert hated the sea but at least the spirits were pleasing.
Toulon Prison was by no means his choice as a first assignment: it was a ill-hidden rumor that Toulon not only housed the undesirable of the convict force but also the police. Javert took those rumors with a drink and a shrug. The prison was pushed into a corner of France that was far enough from his upbringing and his future that Javert enjoyed it most days, even if the sun was always too hot, the convicts were little more then animals and infants, and there was little chance of proving oneself to his superiors. The prison was decaying and the guards had to cycle shifts on the Galley ships (which went against a solemn principal of his: Javert was born on land, and as such was determined to stay there) but for the most part Toulon was home.
The first home the Police ensign could claim. As such his native blood despised it, but as he was expected, he made do as best he could.
One day, he’d be an Inspector in Paris. He had no doubts concerning this end. He had settled his fate long ago in his spirit. A child of the jails created a man of the prisons. He decided on the manner.
Till then, his soul was content to sit in the tavern with the other young guards and joked. He could drink them all under the table, and supplemented his income with wagers concerning that particular talent. Today found him finishing off a watchman twice his again, and at least three times his girth.
Javert had a small row of empty bourbon bottles lined up like his perimeter and he swaggered behind them like a general defending his post.
Years from now, an Inspector first class would reflect on this memory with shuddering and disgust.
For now a Gypsy guard was having fun seeing his superiors struggling to keep the room from spinning out of control.
He was midway through his drink when a loud canon shook the little bar. Those guards with reflexes still sobered enough jumped. Javert looked up with only a minor disgruntled expression on his face.
The escape canon, a convict was on the lam.
Grabbing his coat and his drinking partner, Javert made it to the door. He exited not before doubling back to finish the two drinks left unmanned on the table.
It was, after all, the spirit that made up a good cop.
Muse: Inspector Javert
Fandom: Les Miserables
Word Count: 417
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