by Brian Moore
He held up the letter. ‘This is from our Father General in Rome. Father General informs me that, after consultations with the Vatican, the Albanesian Order has decided to expel Father Jean-Paul Cantave.’
We sat in awful silence.
At last Nöl Destouts said, ‘But that’s ridiculous, Father! Why?’
Father Bourque continued to read from the letter. ‘The reason for expulsion is Father Cantave’s refusal to cease preaching sermons that exalt violence and class struggle. These sermons are largely to blame for the tragedy that occurred at the Church of the Incarnation when several parishioners were killed and the church was destroyed.’
Now, at last, he looked directly at Jeannot. ‘Furthermore, our General informs me that Archbishop Pellerat has decided that you will no longer be allowed to continue your duties as a parish priest. You are henceforth forbidden to say Mass publicly in any Ganaen diocese. However, as our General points out, you are still a Catholic priest.’
He folded the letter and put it in a pocket of his soutane. I looked at Jeannot. There were tears in his eyes.
‘But the Order is my family,’ he said. ‘More than a family. You found me, you took me in, you educated me and gave me life as a priest. How can you abandon me now?’
Our feelings, mine at least, were of shame, anger and embarrassment. But Father Bourque, a Frenchman of the old school, showed no emotion. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We are all sorry. But, as you know, you have brought this on yourself.’
‘Surely that’s not true, Father,’ I said. ‘Burning down Jeannot’s church, trying to kill him? How can you say he brought it on himself?’
Father Bourque looked at me coldly. ‘Paul, you are not without blame in this matter. I had hoped that you would advise Jeannot against his dangerous course of action. Instead you have encouraged him. However, it’s too late for recriminations. This is a sad day for all of us. But, remember, these decisions have been made by our General after consultation with the Vatican and with the Ganaen hierarchy. It’s Jeannot’s duty to accept them and continue to serve God in other ways.’
‘What other ways? What am I going to do?’ Jeannot’s voice was breaking. He was openly in tears.
‘The boys’ club and the orphanage were both started by you,’ Father Bourque said. ‘They have not been destroyed and I’m sure Archbishop Pellerat will permit you to continue your work there.’
‘Does that mean my boss is now Archbishop Pellerat – he’s Doumergue’s creature, he wasn’t even appointed by Rome – you know as well as I do – ’
‘Stop it!’ Father Bourque said, sharply. ‘I will not have that talk here! You are a priest and you must obey your Archbishop. There is work for you to do. Useful work. I would remind you of the vow of obedience.’
‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Jeannot said. ‘Forgive me.’
He bent his head and sat for a moment in silence. I saw that he was trembling. Then, as if gathering his forces, he said, ‘Father, of course you are right. It is useful work. But, believe me, it will change nothing here. What good will it do to save a few orphans from the streets, to teach some poor children to read a few sentences, when tomorrow there will be a thousand others just like them? Wouldn’t it be better for us to do God’s work by helping the poor to force their employers to give them some sort of living wage? Running an orphanage and a boys’ club is like bandaging a small cut in a body covered with knife wounds. If we can help the poor to better their lives, then we are doing Christian work. That is all I have tried to do. Do the rest of you think it’s fair that I be cast out?’
He looked around the table.
‘I don’t,’ I said.
‘Nor do I,’ said Nöl Destouts.
‘It no longer matters what we think,’ Father Bourque said. ‘The decision has been made.’ He looked coldly at Jeannot. ‘What you do now is up to you. You are no longer under my jurisdiction.’
That same afternoon I drove Jeannot with his books and his few belongings to the orphanage that he had recently founded. It was in the Laramie district, some streets away from La Rotonde. He was silent on the journey but when he entered the building and was greeted with joy by the children and the Sisters of Ste Marie who were running the place, he turned to me and said, ‘Paul, don’t be sad for me. It’s not over, it’s just beginning. Look at these kids. Unless we stand up against Doumergue and the rich and, yes, the Vatican too, what sort of lives are they going to have ten years from now? Remember – I am still a priest. I don’t know what I’d have done if they had taken that away from me. The people of La Rotonde will still think of me as their priest. That’s the important thing.’
But Nöl Destouts, when I told him this, shook his head and said, ‘How can he be a priest if he has nowhere to say Mass and no congregation? It’s all over. They don’t have to shoot him now. He’s finished.’
I don’t remember whether I believed Nöl. I know that in the weeks that followed I felt that I, too, was finished. I had lost my courage. My days and nights were filled with resentment against Father Bourque and the General of our Order, against the Archbishop, the nuncio and, of course, those cardinals far away in Rome who had condoned a dictator’s actions in burning down a church and killing members of its congregation. I felt, as never before, a sense of revulsion at my daily tasks. I stared at my rich mulatto students and saw, in them, their fathers – army officers, industrialists, Doumerguists – those who had allowed the massacre to take place. I began to spend all of my free time at Jeannot’s orphanage and in the boys’ club whose membership grew until, on any afternoon, there might be a hundred youths in and around the premises. And, lacking a pulpit, Jeannot preached to them, as he still preached to anyone who would listen.
Then something happened, something obscure and sinister, some convulsion in that hidden inner circle that surrounded Doumergue. One rumour held that it was an attempt by his wife and son to kill his mistress, another that he was revenging himself against a senior officer who had slept with his daughter. But suddenly the nights were filled with the sounds of army trucks on the move, shots fired at random, sirens screaming in the dawn hours. These night moves were taking place not in slums or rural areas but in the elite districts of Port Riche and in Doumergueville, the newly renamed second city of Ganae. For us at the college the first certain sign of unrest was the sudden disappearance of a few of our students. Later we were told that they and their parents had fled the country.
And then, one Sunday morning after an ominous radio silence of several hours, Uncle D. himself was heard on the national radio. He announced in his usual oblique manner that certain snakes had been found to be moving out into the sunlight, waiting to attack any of the poor people of Ganae who walked in their path. These snakes, he said, were yellow-skinned snakes and they had been given added poisonous fangs by certain traitors in the armed forces. But no matter how cunning these snakes might be they could not escape punishment. That punishment had been meted out by the dedicated leader of the Ganaen people, appointed by God to protect the poor. That man, Pierre-Marie Doumergue, had swiftly moved against these snakes and cut off their heads. The nation had been saved and now must give thanks for its deliverance.
Within the next few days, reports came back to us, through priests in Cap Sud, that squads of bleus had raided southern villages, burned houses and fired on any peasants who tried to stop the burnings. Jeannot, hearing these reports, spent a two-night vigil alone in prayer in the St Jean-Baptiste Church, a few streets away from his orphanage.
A week after the dictator’s broadcast I went up to the boys’ club to teach my Sunday class in a literacy programme that Jeannot had started. When I went into the club I saw that fewer boys than usual were using the recreation hall. ‘Where is everyone?’ I asked Father Cachot.
‘Didn’t you hear? They say that last night in Papanos the bleus massacred nearly a hundred peasants. It was some sort of food riot. They’re starving up there. Anyway, the kids here are organising a demo. They’re marching
on the palace.’
At that moment, we heard shouting in the courtyard. I went out and saw a crowd of people carrying long sticks, which they held like drumsticks, beating them together to create a din. The marchers were not only street boys. There were young priests from various parishes around the city, sisters from the Convent Ste Marie and, improbably, because until now they would have been afraid to take part, a group of the desperately poor residents of La Rotonde. Makeshift banners were being prepared. They held one up.
stop the killing. justice for the people
I ran back into the building and into Jeannot’s office. Father Cachot was on the phone. ‘No, we didn’t do it,’ he was telling someone. ‘It’s the kids themselves. I’m trying to find him. Yes, I know.’
‘What’s going on?’ I asked. ‘Where’s Jeannot?’
‘I don’t know.’
Suddenly, I had an idea. I ran out again and down the street to the Church of St Jean-Baptiste. When I went into the church I saw him kneeling in a pew in a side aisle, almost hidden from view. His head was bent in prayer. I hurried up to him. ‘Jeannot, come quickly. Have you heard about this demo?’
His eyes were closed. He opened them, made the sign of the cross, then, genuflecting to the altar, rose and joined me. ‘I didn’t start this,’ he said. ‘I’m praying it will not go badly.’
‘But you’ve got to stop it. Doumergue has outlawed public demonstrations. And they’re marching on the palace.’
‘I can’t. Don’t you see? They’re defending the poor against violence. It’s our duty to help them.’
As we left the church, we heard the long sticks begin to beat a tattoo. The demonstrators had already moved out of the courtyard. Some of the youth club boys, seeing Jeannot, pulled him into their ranks. I went up to him as the procession began to move out on to Avenue de la République. ‘Jeannot, speak to them. They could be killed.’
‘Paul, you don’t have to come. Stay here.’
But, of course, I could not stay. I joined the march. At the start there were perhaps eighty marchers, but as the procession moved into the big Meredieu district, people who came out to watch read the banners and joined the throng. It was seven o’clock in the evening at the end of a burning hot day. As the ranks of the marchers thickened, police and army vehicles were seen moving into the side streets. They did not attempt to block the procession and, within minutes, disappeared as though called back by some central command. Now, the procession was coming to an end of the Avenue de la République which leads into the great square of the presidential palace.
The palace dominates the city. It is a replica of the American White House, but twice as large, a cluster of blindingly white buildings surrounded by formal gardens and high, ornate gilded railings. To reach the palace the marchers must cross the vast empty square that surrounds it, an area forbidden to all but official vehicles. And now, as the sun blooded the evening sky, the marchers were met by the sight of army tanks and weapons carriers blocking the side streets that gave on to the square. As the procession of a hundred and fifty marchers came off the Avenue de la République, army tanks moved in behind them, effectively cutting off their retreat. The marchers, ignoring the tanks, beating their sticks, chanting, ‘Stop the killing!’, moved boldly across the huge empty square, coming to a halt at the gilded main entrance to the palace. The din and chanting ceased.
I, with Jeannot, was in the front rank of the marchers. As the demonstrators stood there in silence, smartly uniformed soldiers of the Garde Présidentielle appeared in the main courtyard, moving in orderly formation, their rifles at the ready. Leading them, on horseback, was their colonel, who had unsheathed his revolver from its holster. There was no sign of the surly bleus who normally lounged around in that courtyard. The main gates of the palace were open. It was a formal confrontation, the President’s elite guard, standing inside the courtyard, facing down the mob.
Suddenly, from somewhere behind the marchers, a volley of shots was fired over the heads of the crowd. In fear, I ducked my head. Others all around me cowered down, but Jeannot moved forward.
In a sight none of us will forget, this small insignificant young man, his white cassock dragging the dust behind his sandalled heels, walked slowly towards the opened gates of the palace, the gun barrels of the Garde Présidentielle aimed at him like the rifles of a firing squad. When he entered the courtyard he knelt down, bowed his head and joined his hands in prayer.
There was a moment of total silence. The guards, aiming, looked up at their colonel as if waiting for an order. I saw the Colonel hesitate, then turn and look back at the long french windows on the ground floor of the palace. His horse, fidgeting, made a sudden sidestep as though shying at some invisible object on the ground. The Colonel, steadying his horse, stood up in his stirrups, staring back at the windows as though searching for something there. Suddenly, he barked out a command. The Garde Présidentielle lowered their weapons.
The central set of windows opened and in the red light of the setting sun a stooped figure shuffled out on to the marble steps. He wore a shabby black suit and a battered Homburg hat. As he stepped down, carefully, each marble stair negotiated as though he would fall, he removed his hat and held it by his side. The reddened evening light fell on the bald black skull of an authentique, a noir as dark as the poorest peasant from Cap Sud or slum dweller of La Rotonde. His face was disfigured by ugly grey blotches or sores. I saw him moisten his lips with his tongue.
The demonstrators stood, transfixed. The only sounds in that vast square were the clacking hoofs of the fidgeting horse and the slow, dragging steps of the dictator as Doumergue walked slowly towards the open gates and the kneeling figure in his path. He stopped directly in front of Jeannot and, looking out over the crowd, made a feeble signalling gesture with his left hand. At once a bemedalled military aide ran out from the palace, carrying a hand microphone, attached to a long coil. Doumergue waited, staring ahead into the red sky like a blind man until the microphone was put into his hand. At that moment he gave his battered hat to the military aide and tapped the microphone with his fingers to see if it was working. The sound of the tap echoed, eerily loud, from public-address speakers high above the palace courtyard.
And now we heard that reedy yet commanding voice, familiar to us as the voice of a relative, speaking in Creole, the common tongue:
‘My people. You have come here to talk to me. You have heard bad rumours which are not true. Those rumours are spread by enemies of the poor people of Ganae who know I am their protector. You have come here like children who have been deceived. I am sorry that our enemies have lied to you. Your life is hard. You work hard. This is the Sabbath day, a day of rest for you, and for me. I ask you now. Do not believe these stories. They are not true. Go home. Go in peace.’
Jeannot, still on his knees, looked up at the dictator. ‘God has given us the strength to come here. We pray to Him to help us now. If you did not do the killing in Papanos you must punish those who did.’
The dictator stared at him for a moment, then lifted the clublike microphone that he held in his hand and brought it down with a sickening sound on Jeannot’s head. Jeannot, stunned, fell forward, sprawling on the ground. At that moment, one of Jeannot’s orphans, a fifteen-year-old boy called Daniel Lalonde, broke suddenly from the ranks of the crowd and ran in at the opened gates, his long stick upraised to strike the dictator.
A single shot rang out. The boy staggered, then fell prostrate a few feet away from Doumergue. I saw the Colonel on his horse, the revolver in his hand. Jeannot rose from his knees, went to the boy and bent over him, lifting him into his arms. Blood, spreading from a wound in the boy’s neck, spilled on to Jeannot’s white cassock in a great crimson stain.
The dictator, still holding the microphone in his hand, said, in a voice which echoed eerily on the loudspeakers, ‘Bring him inside.’
But Jeannot, carrying the boy, turned away from Doumergue and walked out through the gates. Several of us ran to as
sist him. When I helped lift the boy from Jeannot’s arms I saw that he was dead. I looked back. The presidential guards were closing the gates. The Colonel had holstered his revolver but sat, slumped on his horse as though he had suffered a wound.
Suddenly, Jeannot called to the marchers, ‘Go home! Go home! God will avenge us! God will avenge us!’
The marchers were no longer a mob, no longer threatening. They were people, shocked, stunned, frightened by violence. Behind the now-closed gates the dictator shakily remounted the marble steps and reentered his palace. The presidential guards still held ranks, their rifles aimed at the marchers who were retreating, half-running, across the vast empty square.
Jeannot, his cassock soaked with the dead boy’s blood, his forehead cut and bruised from the dictator’s blow, walked back with me, silent, at the heels of the fleeing crowd. The red sky went black as the sun fell swiftly behind the distant sea.
In darkness, we brought the dead boy home.
3
In Ganae, because of the heat, funerals are sudden. We buried Daniel at noon on the following day. As Jeannot was not allowed to say Mass in public, I officiated at the church. But, at the gravesite Jeannot conducted the burial service. People covered the cemetery like bees over a hive. Soldiers, massed in double lines as at a public demonstration, surrounded the grave. When the cheap plywood coffin was lowered by ropes into its last resting place, Jeannot, his frail neck protruding from a white surplice, stepped forward and sprinkled Holy Water into the pit, then turned to face the staring military.
‘God is with us!’ he called out. ‘God is with us!’ It was not a prayer but a cry of defiance and the multitude, hearing it, repeated it in a disjointed chorus, a rolling thunder in the noonday heat. Then Jeannot cried, ‘But they are killing us in Papanos, they are killing us in Mele. When, oh Father, are we going to live in peace?’
Waiting as only he knew how to wait, staring over the heads of the mourners as though he saw God in the pitiless noon sky. In that moment of silence, the soldiers stood at bay, watching this unpredictable figure in their midst. Then, as though he heard a voice, Jeannot called out, ‘And my Father answers me. You will live in peace when you put your faith in a People’s Church, a church that will lead a people’s revolution, so that our country can breathe free.’
