Zadie Smith

The doorbell rang. [...] This was a Haïtian fellow called Pierre [...]. [...] In the car, on the radio, men were screaming at each other in a French that was not, as far as Howard could tell, actually French.
'The airport, please,' said Howard, over this.
'OK, yes. We have to go slow, though. Streets pretty bad.'
'OK, not too slow, though.'
'Terminal?'
The accent was so pronounced Howard thought he heard the name of Zola's novel.