Bertrand Cayzac

FLOOZMAN

«By a scandalous abundance, he brings deliverance »

With their ingenuous financial twist, Floozman stories are obviously a matter of throwing money at the material world. But on another plane, this wealth is the magical money of deliverance welled at the heart of the banking system (where a mysterious and inexhaustible money source is flowing, as can be read in the initial episode). It is spent in the utmost urgency in an increasing messianic elation mood until....

FLOOZMAN AND THE OLD LADY

Somewhere at the heart of the financial system flows a mysterious and inexhaustible money source. Fred Looseman is among the few who have found it. Like them, he has carried a long investigation, like them he has caught a glimpse of the truth and like them, as he approached the emanation origin, he has lost his memory…

Only yesterday, he was still the smart Worldwide Credit Corporation Chief Risk Officer and the president of the anti money laundering commission. Since his fall, he survives on the job the bank found him in a computer maintenance team. His family and friends have become estranged. Isolated, his faculties obscured, he only lives to mend the cash dispensers and the network which connects them up to the central computers. Sometimes, after long work hours, he happens to hear voices. Closing his eyes, he distinguishes prayers. Some are so clear and sincere that he drops his tools and starts to cry.

This is how he becomes Floozman. He comes to light and recovers his minds. His banker calls him on the phone. They both know what Floozman has to do. He has the required resources and more. But this wealth is not his: it is the magical money of deliverance.

- Floozman, I have been trying to call you for hours! Your account is overflowing!

*** Chant de la vieille dame:

«Tous ceux que j'ai connus sont morts

Et les vivants m'ont oubliée

Faut-il que je me baigne encore

Dans le courant renouvelé ?

Les rues retiennent leur tracé

Mais rien ne reste du passé

J'y vais encore en souvenir

Quand tout me dicte de partir

Le ciel s'est sûrement transformé

Et les maisons me sont fermées

Où les cousines m'attendaient

Pour aller aux fêtes de mai

Leurs enfants y sont occupés

À des affaires inouïes

Et les miens ne sont jamais nés

Et pour tous enfin le temps fuit

Libère-moi de cette errance

Apporte-moi la délivrance ».

*** Old lady chant:

«All those I knew are dead

And the living have forgotten

Shall I have to swim again

These new currents on river bed?

The streets are retaining their line

While nothing remains of the past

I still visit this empty shrine

When all whispers: You must depart!

The sky has surely transformed

And to me houses are closed

Where sweet cousins were waiting

To take me to the fairs of spring

Where their children are now busy

With unheard of businesses
While my offspring will never see

But all the lives time will press

Oh, start the dissolution dance!

And bring me the deliverance! »

Maïté is an old woman. Her red hair falls stiffly over her small shoulders. She makes up and goes out of her dark grim house. She blinks. Outside the town speaks unknown languages. Electrical signs are climbing up along the less natural angles and the colour of the sky is altered.

Not long ago, she was still recognising faces in the tumult, some of her generation. Death took them away and the memories of the past went with them, only subsisting in her mind. She goes loaded of ancient time like a battery, unable to talk about it, rich by money she can not exchange.

Her body decays, her speech gets poorer and people turn away from her. In spite of her shame, she goes before them in order not to sink: an errand, a move, a bit of conversation stolen on a shop’s doorway.

At the end of the road are looming insanity and death alone. Then in a surge of despair, one evening, Maïté bends her neck and starts praying. Like a clumsy little tit her prayer gently raises and meets mysterious emanations linked to Floozman presence in this world. Finally, it returns in words and flies anew full of vitality.

In the cash dispenser cabin, Fred Looseman opens his eyes. The vision vanishes as his telephone rings.

At her desk, Mrs Marinella does an about turn with her chair to look over the roofs.

The Floozboys take him straight away to Maïté’s house. She lives in the church area, at the centre of a village surrounded by new suburbs. In the far, through the landscape gaps, a rectilinear countryside can be seen.

Floozman rings the bell. A lot of time goes by. Floozman and the Floozboys are watching shiny little clouds in the electric blue sky. At last, Maité opens the door:

A Floozboy quickly computes Maité in enriched reality mode through his business analytics glasses connected to the internet Floozfiles. He intervenes on time to break the silence.

- We are Maurice Desmaison’s grand sons. The International Monetary Fund sent my brother in a mission nearby and we wanted to take this opportunity to say hello.

-Maurice! He used to spend entire days home when I was a child…My God…You resemble his mother. But I can not let you in; the house is in such disarray…

- Our grand father told us about your garden. We would like to visit it and take a few pictures. We are bringing some refreshments and, oh yes, we also have a small present for you…

-That’s right. Sorry. I’m so absent minded. Floozman takes a tiny packet trimmed with ribbons out of his pocket and hands it on to Maité.

While Maité and Floozman move on to the garden, the Floozboys unload a number of boxes out of the Rolls Royce, under the neighbour’s scrutiny.

Behind them, hidden by an oleander hedgerow, a great shuffle is going on. Gardeners are at work. Alleys are already cleared and bushes are combed. Multicolour pansies recover the flower beds and the arbours are streaming with fleshy lilacs. Blue coated roofers are walking against the deep sky.

Maïté is dozing off in the brocaded cushions which fill her large arm chair. Walking along the iridescent stitch plaited by the water sprays, a man is drawing near to Floozman.

- Well. I have studied the most beautiful houses in the area, those which are still intact and those for which we have traces. That one is very simple. We can not do much without modifying its structure in depth. Besides, in this type of village, no one has ever developed nor imported any true style. In truth, Mr Floozman, these houses are common…

- Well, here is a true question…We may certainly increase the volumes, suppress corridors, allow more light in while respecting the house consistence…As I said, the danger in this approach is newness, you see. We can avoid contemporary style but we are in danger of elaborating something which has never been done and which does not correspond to anything, if you see what I mean…

- Could you have a look at Mrs Maïté pictures? Those of her childhood, when these houses were alive. Maybe you will find material in it? You may also want to talk to her when she wakes up. She will tell you about beauty –Floozman reflects for a short while- and thus, she may see beauty anew. Well I mean she will be pleased.

-And let’s not be stuck: make the necessary layouts to render the atmosphere of her memories…Make trompe-l’oeil if you need to! This lady will not attend any other performance in this life.

Floozman is standing now. He realizes that he has become heated. The architect takes notes…

Meanwhile on the steps, a Floozboy is devising with two village men. As Floozman is coming in their direction, a second Floozboy makes a sign to move away.

- Here are city hall and regional council representatives. They want to check the worker’s papers. The neighbors have complained, about the wall. Nothing serious.

- All these workers, coming by helicopter from who knows where! Why don’t you want to consult local artisans? And the little lady, what does she thinks? Are you relatives? We want to talk to her.

As Maïté moves towards the door with a light tread, Floozman takes her gently by the arm and walks along with her.

- Good morning Ladies and Gentlemen, I am Floozman, I am rich. Immensely rich. These persons work for me. They are my lawyers as well. Mrs. Maïté is a friend. We have come to free her.

- Never mind. I will buy back houses in this area. I will not discuss the prices. I will renew them entirely and there will be work for everyone. Spread the new in town.

- Yes, yes…Everything is all right with me, they are very nice….They know Maurice Desmaison’s grand son adds Maïté with a singing voice and a sweet appeasement gesture.

- As regards the wall, I leave you with my legal team. They will help us in finding a solution, concludes Floozman before returning inside with Maïté.

The Rolls stops in front of the retirement house fence. Floozman and Maïté come out followed by two Floozboys. Floozman bends down to unlock the barrier and sits down by a silent fountain. The day could be nice and a few old persons are enjoying the sun.

- Long life to the bride! Shouts Floozman….Yes, long life to the bride and groom and long life to the wedding! There is no finer fair. All towards which we are bound manifests itself in the wedding celebration. This is why I invite you all to drink from the loving cup! You will all be invited! You will all be invited to the eternal wedding!

- Now, with director’s permission, these boys will deliver to each of you one million of million dollars. You won’t be asked for anything in exchange. They will also propose their services to prepare the party. Do not hesitate to tell them about anything you may be missing, anything which may tarnish your joy.

- Ladies, Gentlemen…Please, resumes Floozman, let the idea find its way. Let the event deploy itself and fly ahead towards the future. Come as soon as you are ready.

At that moment, a couple of teenagers pass down the street on a motorbike. The boy is leaning on the handlebar after an idea of speed. The girl is clumsily stuck on his back, her dirty heels dangerously pointing to the inside of the wheel. It is an apparition loaded with energy, suffused with sooty dreams.

-They are far too young, says the crone. Let them live. They won’t stick together and they know it very well.

- Anyway, they will eventually die, adds Floozman. And maybe have they already died to meet again…Their souls are maybe older and more composed than ours….

The motorbike is heard again, then the engine stops, very close. The two children are now entering the garden side by side, their helmet in the hand. The girl addresses Floozman:

-Sir, we’ve heard about you. I don’t know how to ask, but you have to help us…we must leave town.

- What are your names? And what is going on? Sit down and have a tea with us. We will give you one million of million dollars.

- Our fathers were from the Mancha. Listen, Basil escaped jail this morning. He told me: we must leave straight away. It was still dark…My parents don’t want me to see him but we love each other. If we stay here, they will separate us and we won’t meet ever again.

- No, no, says Floozman with a smile. Take this million of millions dollars and drive without sleep down to the Rio Grande, to the coast. Step on cargos, planes. Cross passes. Take drugs. Wake up in the city that’s made of light.

-Thank you but we’ll get nabbed, interrupts Basil. We’d better hide for a while.

-Take them in the team, at least during the wedding. We’ll disguise them, suggests a Floozboy.

- Take them in the team! Says Floozman. The wedding celebration will take place tonight! Go and spread the news at the Central Café and on the market while I inform Mrs. Maïté.

Floozman returns in the constant half light of the small living room where Mrs. Maïté is resting. Decolorized white blue hair meshes emerge from the squat armchairs which backs are turned towards him. Hoary hands on the armrests. Maïté has visitors.

In a fluid magic move, the two hosts turn and do not turn to him while laughing the same laugh, unveiling teeth pure and white as the canticle sheep flock. Dazzled, Floozman faces two lively young maiden dressed in the pre war fashion. From the bottom of her armchair, Maïté is smiling ingeniously.

- We are coming for the wedding. We are very old friends of Maïté. We haven’t seen each other for a long time.

- Welcome, says Floozman - very cool - but I haven’t seen the wedding couple yet. Unless the two kids…

- These children will go in space, calmly says Clara while sliding along the mirror without giving rise to any reflection. And their children will be such that I can not describe them. They will not be human anymore, you see, Mr Floozman…

- They will not get married. They will not see any wedding. They will not see any burial either since there will be no more ground under their feet.

- Not a clod! Says Clara clicking the syllabus with her tongue for the fun of it. They will leave the solar system behind them. And we haven’t event been to Paris in this world!

- I don’t know. They won’t have the possibility to buy nor to sell for generations. I do not know what will help them. Or I know but this is a secret.

- But which God will they have? Asks Maïté from the depth of her cushions. If they are not human anymore, will they still be in the image of our? Please take some more tea.

- The God of the universe! Settles Vera while flailing her black hair over her shoulders. Do you have a Bible, Maïté?

- Oh my god, yes, I think so… She heads to the book shelves shuffling her feet…

- Excuse-me, but it is starting! We have a crowd out there, all sorts of people. And journalists as well. We need to organize some activity.

- Well. Arrange a procession and quickly purchase a large field for the wedding, answers Floozman. Up there on the crest.

Lo and behold! At soon as the young woman opens the book, a circle of fire forms around the block. Muffled screams are heard in the crowd and above the flames rumble Vera’s voice raises and becomes a chant.

And with her clear tiny voice, Maïté reads a paragraph. Although the words are in her language, none can recognize their meaning but confusedly, at this spirit edge where speech and noise part. Maïté reads with pleasure, then jubilation. All the sudden, she cries out:

- This is the bible of the future. Such as it shall be revealed to the children of these children. There is also yours, and theses of each of your parents. The Verb….

Meanwhile at the police station, a young inspector leans back heavily on his chair.

- The Rolls belongs to a lawyer, fine. The bills are authentic, recent notes but nothing to say either. The cards transactions are withdrawn on the account of the lawyer’s father who is an associate partner. Nothing wrong.

- We have to understand before escalating. We can’t proceed otherwise. Catch him as you can. He will end up doing some damned stupidity, anyway.

Before the firemen’s eyes, Floozman and Maïté emerge from the steam curls laughing, followed by the young ladies. The house is intact, golden and streaming with waters.

- Everything is all right! Floozman calls out to the crowd where the Floozboys are already, repeating “it’s all right” while slipping bills in limp hands.

All the sudden, as if magnetized by the warm radiance of the walls, the mob marches onto the house.

At this moment, the Rolls turns around the corner of the block and interposes itself.

Quickly the Floozboys deploy a canon bill and fire pressurized notes on the mob which scatters instantaneously while Floozman and his friends are escaping.

Now the Rolls is rolling across fields. Behind it, radios buzz and crackle. In a packed column, police reinforcements are leaving town at full speed. Around them, wheat and giant corns are waking up to the evening fragrances, indifferent, cosmic, shivering.

Indeed the horizon is drawing back. The crest vanishes in the far, yielding ground to an immense plain. At a fantastic speed, the black road extends itself into infinity while grain silos are rising to become fantastic blind towers erected against the sky.

This is the hour when the rich farmer’s daughter gets dressed up to go in town.

The glow-worms are encrypting around the house a peaceful message addressed to her father. It says: «you who live in a fold of time, you who led cattle with the old Maudru, let us please the use of a path. Let us confound the powers of daylight… »

Suddenly, Floozman appears in the middle of a wheat field. The column stops and deploys along the bank after a coordination time. Policemen come out of their cars and aim their guns at him.

The tall silhouette walks on them. At each step it unfolds and splits in two so that every policeman is soon confronted with Floozman.

- The house did not burn. We did no harm. We did not get any profit out of this illusion. Each Floozman answers peacefully. Now that their eyes are accustomed to the shadow, the policemen can see the blue skin and the lawyer robe of the infinitely rich standing before them. They also see his prodigious androgynous beauty…

Each Floozman takes a step towards his policeman. The glow-worms are now producing a heady music.

- Second warning! Yells the lieutenant. The radios keep on buzzing a little bit. Despite everything, the policemen let themselves be approached and taken by the arm. Worse! The Floozmen are dragging them into the heart of the cultivation, in different directions.

The farmer’s daughter is gliding on the road in her silver coupé. In the hollow of the field and in the woods beyond, amazing couples are dancing and devising.

We believe that constellations are vaulted along the earth curve but this is not true.

Meanwhile in the twilight, the little group is climbing the hill, followed at a distance by the crowd. The breeze is swelling Floozman’s black coat. For a short time Basil’s motorcycle flies by the crest as if to meet the evening star rising in the indigo sky.

At the top, black dressed women are already hauling long white tablecloths out of the flank of helicopters lying in the grasses. Victual boxes are unloaded. Men in tank tops are piling up barrels. On a round stone, others are slaughtering beasts and collecting blood.

Soon high fires are lighting the whole field. In freshly dug cuttings entire sheep and beefs are being roasted.

Silent machines finish building terraces on the hillside. As soon as they are levelled, these alveolus are paved with golden tiles then marble tables are erected. Blue silk tents are deployed and adorned with flower garlands where insects are settling back. Banners are dancing in the evening wind. Similar to these in their slender spectral body, Clara and Vera are in the sky with diamonds.

Conniving, they will extend all the blessings of that world on Quitteria and Basil’s union when a little later the children will embrace each other in the long grass, offering to the night pollens the pale sweetness of their naked skin.

- Look up! Cries up Floozman and he points ten new helicopters shooting up from behind the crest, adorned with innumerable lights. The people are coming!

[Prestige sequence begins] Valentino Enciennada and the actress Flora Dupont who he has been dating since last week are the first to descend from the helicopter. She is naked but the Carfu drape in translucent golden micro fibres which is girding her loins without veiling her pubic growth colorized by the neo constructivist designer Lounar Chatsky. Valentino is wearing a raw plastic smoking, quite relax. They are followed by Cynthia Roquepy, very fresh in her Pantin tailor. She came alone but she has visibly sympathized with the Broom brothers who have kept their Primi tennis suit. They are heading to the V.I.P. Tivoli where a Provençal buffet set out by Boudiou himself is waiting for them. The second helicopter lands gracefully, the sliding door opens and, Yes! This is the intrepid Indira Shopping who is pushing open the heavy panel by herself. She is superb in the corolla of her bell shaped dress designed by Zulfy. In spite of her recent divorce, she smiles to the photographers and we have to admire the courage of this young woman carried too fast to the summits of cinema» [Prestige sequence end]

- I picture you on the verandah…You liked to hear Elvis voice filling the evening when the first stars were trembling above the appeased countryside. You were waiting for you lover who was a long time coming, so long was the road from a city to another. Large dark strips of land were between them while the warm song vibration seemed to extend to the entire continent. A fertile continent as filled with promises as an immense unknown planet. He was driving to you in the summer night, the hair in the wind and the air had a smell of time like in Mars valleys a certain evening.

-Today, such nights may not materially exist anymore in the universe. However, their faint echo is still propagating itself. It subsists mostly in the continuum nodes which correspond to the second focus of all the ellipses that could have been formed at that time in the same referential, taking as a first focus the spatio-temporal coordinates of the very place where you kissed your lover – on the verandah or on the stair since you came down a few steps to welcome him. These wave packets are in motion and, god willing, we will pick them up and materialize them for a few moments, do you see, Maïté?

At this moment, the Voice speaks. A white helicopter is now lying by the stage. His round shaped open door evokes the rocket in ‘Mickey on the moon’. On the plasma screens which are dancing against the constellations, Elvis appears in his body of glory.

- Maïté, says Elvis, looking at her from everywhere. We are satiated with days and we are happy. I want to live with you in death, and this is my song for you all tonight, he cries out to the invited.

The night vibrates gently, deep down into the bones. Maïté looks at Floozman straight in the eyes, smiling. She embraces him with strength, then sinks in his arms.

Then, without a word and without turning back, she moves lightly towards the stage, her naked feet barely touching the grass;

The flames screen the white silhouette from Floozman’s sight. Or is it the flames that he sees through Maïté’s pale spectrum?

The Voice gets lost in helicopters rustle brought by a gust of wind. The top of the trees trembles. Around the buffet crumbling under victuals, uneasy inspectors are watching the sky, a cup of Champaign in hand.

Directions are given straight away. Elvis and the Floozboys chain a sidereal “jailhouse Rock” revival. Maïté is quietly waiting in a moon beam by the small white helicopter.

The crowd is dancing frenetically. The Floozboys are at the consoles. The sound becomes solid and percussive in its low frequencies.

- Mr. Floozman, you are organizing this event. What is the meaning of such a party?

- Mr. Floozman, nobody knows your identity. When will you reveal your face? A blond journalist with a very professional attitude is asking:

-The body of an old woman was just found on the other side of the crest. What will you do about that?

Floozman looks for a way out and sees the sky turning blue in the east. The Floozboy try to contain the assailants flow.

- We need a morning shift. We need…we must dispatch drugs so that the guests can endure dawn. It is beautiful. Bring them back to the tents and into the sofas. We need…we forgot the L.S.D, the poems! It is too late….

- Good morning. I am Jeremy Dru, from ‘Raviparty’ magazine. How do you manage to get authorizations so fast despite the recent regulation tightening?

Floozman has a vision of the immediate future. The ground is littered with garbage, tablecloths are stained, animal grease is jellifying in the empty plates. Faces are marked by fatigue. Music pulses indefinitely without any spirit. Further, Maïté withered but dignified body lies in the grass. Her nice white dress spread around and her jewels bespeak her struggle against age. There is not enough wind in the banners, not enough purity in the daylight, not enough grandeur…He sees the thick police of the titles in the local paper.

He is feeling dizzy. Reluctantly, he distinguishes and analyses every question. Every utterance forces its way to his excited reason. Multiple responses are forming against his will, dividing the flow of his thoughts. A part of his spirit computes and ponders. He wants to speak but he is not himself anymore. A chasm opens up before these streams which carry him, ever smaller and weaker towards a hazy below.

The people are already leaving like a flock of sparrows. Roadies and technical staff bump into the little group. Police alarms resound.

Pscchhhhhhhh…With a striking speed, a green mist engulfs the hills like the Northern Pacific smog does. Through the thick smoke, amid confusion, the Floozboys are evacuating Fred Looseman.

A moment later, a bunch of engineers emerge unnoticed from a gap, arms loaded with equipments. Only Fred Looseman is smiling.

In the axis of the sun, a small white helicopter moves away and vanishes. A blazing reflection forms an ellipse on the screen.