by Brian Moore
In the courtyard amid honour guards, bands, flags and loudspeakers, the Church hierarchy, appointed during the dictator’s regime, sat on rows of gilded chairs: behind them were the bemedalled generals of the junta and the leaders of the many parliamentary parties. Facing these dignitaries were row upon row of the elite, men in formal morning clothes, women carrying parasols and wearing bright garden-party dresses. We sat beneath the presidential dais, a small group of priests, nuns and social workers, specially invited by Jeannot. And I – I tell you I was filled with pride as I saw him waiting, small and frail in cheap white cotton trousers and peasant shirt, slack as a puppet on strings until the microphones were readied and the media people signalled that it was time to begin.
And then in that miraculous transformation we had so often witnessed in church, he stepped forward and it was as though some unearthly presence had come down among us. He began to speak, not in French but in Creole, his voice reaching out beyond the capital to the villages, the highlands, the remote places of the island, that voice, electric in its power, humble yet triumphant, the voice of a priest preaching truth. We were caught by that voice and, as the loudspeakers sent it booming beyond the palace gates, the multitude jamming the great square and in the teeming streets adjoining it listened as though they were his congregation. He spoke to them, not to us.
Brothers and Sisters,
At the moment in history,
A moment when
The great revolutions of this century
Are, one by one,
Falling into sad disarray,
At this moment, what has happened here?
Ganae stands on the threshold
Of revolution,
Our own revolution.
Others have failed.
But we will not fail.
We will succeed
Because our revolution
Is born not of plans and plots,
It is the voice of our people
Crying out to be free.
We have cried out and God has heard our cry.
That is why we will not fail.
That is why I stand here today.
Abruptly, he stepped back from the microphones, his head bowed, oblivious to the thunder of cheering and the cries of his name.
Gradually the cheers died to silence. There was a small commotion in the official stands. A dignitary stepped forward holding a silken sash bearing the green and gold national colours. He draped the sash over Jeannot’s neck and arranged it so that it fell across his chest. Now, Jeannot was the President, the only democratically elected president this black republic had ever known. There was a flurry of applause from the official stands but I saw Archbishop Pellerat and the nuncio exchange glances, as they smiled false smiles. The bemedalled generals clapped condescendingly, nodding to the ambassadors and the distinguished foreign observers who had monitored the polls. The generals were confident. They were the Army. They had made democracy possible, but were still in charge.
The band of the Garde Présidentielle struck up the national anthem. While the music played, Jeannot stood with his hand over his heart in a gesture of patriotic reverence. The anthem ended. Again, there was a flurry of applause. Jeannot stepped forward into the battery of microphones. Those hungry robots, the television cameras, moved in on his face.
Turning to the ex-premier of France who had headed the United Nations observer team, Jeannot thanked him in French, for helping to secure the first free election in the history of Ganae. And then, suddenly switching to Creole, ‘Today, as the first act of the People’s Government of Ganae, I wish to announce that in my capacity as Commander-in-Chief of the Army I have appointed General Auguste Hemon, Commander at Cap Nord, to be Army Chief of Staff. Again I wish to thank the members of the military junta for their co-operation in helping us form a new government. Now, let our celebrations begin.’
There was a moment of terrible silence in the courtyard. And then, in the square and in the streets outside, a storm of cheering, shots fired in the air, an explosion of fireworks, the chanting of, ‘Jeann-ot! Jeann-ot!’
Jeannot turned and walked towards the generals. He moved down the line, shaking each hand, speaking a few words to each officer. I did not hear what was said. No one could, in the din of shouting and chanting outside the palace. General Macandal, a tall, almost white-skinned mulatto, trained at West Point Military Academy in the United States, towered over Jeannot’s frail, slight figure. When Jeannot reached him and offered his hand, Macandal began to speak, his features grim, as though he delivered a reproof to an insubordinate sergeant. Jeannot smiled, nodded, and moved on. A little further down the line he shook hands with General Hemon, his new Chief of Staff, a huge noir who, until now, had not been a member of the Army’s inner circle. It was my impression that Hemon knew nothing of his promotion until he heard it announced that day.
When Jeannot had completed his tour he joined the UN observers and, as he chatted with the ex-premier of France, a major-domo appeared leading a group of palace flunkies, all of them dressed in ridiculous Ganaen state uniforms in a style that dated back to the eighteenth century, knee breeches, gold-and-white waistcoats, pomaded wigs. The flunkies circulated, holding silver trays filled with glasses of champagne. Champagne in hand, the official party moved to the central courtyard where long tables were laden with every sort of food. I saw the elegant ladies of the elite glance back at General Macandal, then begin an alarmed, excited whispering. Their husbands remained silent, stiff-faced and shocked. The nuncio and the Archbishop engaged in anxious parley as they moved towards the food.
And then, in the second shock of the day, Jeannot, leaving the ex-premier of France, ran ahead of everyone in the official party and, opening his arms in welcome, was surrounded by ragged orphans from his orphanage and some forty or fifty of the poor from the slums of La Rotonde. All wore official badges of invitation to the inner courtyard and had been seated out of sight until the party began. The elite and the generals, shocked and haughty, were nevertheless obliged to mingle with these ragged children and half-starving slum-dwellers who at once began greedily, happily, to devour the rich food.
Outside the palace gates, the huge square was a riot of dancing, cheering and singing. Bottles of usque were passed around and large, crude, stencilled portraits of Jeannot were hoisted aloft, his image dancing like a carnival mask above the heads of the people. I stood with Nöl Destouts, holding my champagne, my mind going back to a mountain track over which no car had ever driven. A little boy’s arms held me tight as the mule picked its way down a steep incline. Behind us on a ramshackle porch, a woman nursed a baby, the woman who had given the boy away as casually as she would give away a puppy from a litter.
And now, suddenly, Jeannot appeared in front of me, wearing the silk sash of the presidency, clasping me to him so joyously that I spilled my flute of champagne on to the ground. He stood, embracing me in front of the generals, the nuncio, the bishops, the ex-premier of France. I heard the elegant ladies, near us, ask, ‘Who is the priest, the blanc?’ But the orphans, the street boys, the poor, did not ask. They knew. They surrounded us, cheering us, giving us their love, as we hugged each other in that unforgettable moment of victory.
4
At that time, the Régence was Porte Riche’s grandest hotel. It sat on a hill overlooking the city, hidden from view by a phalanx of tropical trees. It was an oasis, closed off, the playground of foreigners, its flamingo-coloured buildings surrounded by formal gardens of exotic flowers and plants. At the rear of the hotel the palm-shaded swimming pool was flanked by an open-air bar at which, every evening, the foreign press, visiting businessmen, and people from the embassies gathered to exchange the rumours of the day. Three weeks after Jeannot became president, I went there for a drink at the invitation of Marc Robin, a Canadian epidemiologist who was visiting Ganae as a member of an international commission on AIDS. We arrived just before sunset. The poolside bar was crowded and we could not find an empty table. But, al
l at once, a whispering started. Several people got up and ran into the hotel. ‘What’s happening?’ I asked a waiter.
‘It’s happening now,’ the waiter said mysteriously. ‘Go and see.’
In the lobby a group of people stood around an old-fashioned black-and-white television set. The sound was not working, although the concierge kept trying to adjust the volume. In eerie silence, interrupted occasionally by electronic squeals, we watched five or six weapons carriers filled with armed soldiers rushing along a country road. The television camera, having trouble keeping up, gave us a glimpse of a large Mercedes racing at high speed. The soldiers in the weapons carriers preceded and followed this automobile as it swung under an archway sign:
àroport international de porte riche
At the main entrance to the airport terminal another Mercedes had already arrived. Disembarking from it were two elegantly dressed women, three children and a uniformed nursemaid. As they stood on the pavement, the first Mercedes drove up and a tall, almost white-skinned civilian got out. At once, all of the waiting soldiers and officers saluted. I recognised him: General Macandal. With him was a handsome young man sporting a flamboyant black moustache which gave him the look of a film star of former times. The General hurried across the tarmac, kissed both women, then, taking the arm of the older one, went with her into the terminal building. The nursemaid followed with the children. The handsome man who had accompanied the General began an agitated conversation with the young woman. She was beautiful, light-skinned, chic. I would have taken her for an elegant Parisian. As he talked, she kept shaking her head and when he tried to take her arm, she pulled away from him. At last, angry, he turned and went alone into the terminal. In the background soldiers were carrying several Vuitton trunks through the doors. Other soldiers, their rifles up, guarded this transfer as though the contents of the trunks were valuable. When the television cameras tried to enter the terminal, an officer blocked their way. Frustrated, the crews turned their cameras on the beautiful young woman who had stayed behind.
At that point the concierge managed to restore sound to the television set. She was answering questions.
‘No, I am not leaving. This is my country. I won’t let that priest push me out.’
‘But your husband is going to France, isn’t he?’
‘Yes he is. You don’t know what happened two days ago, no, it was not reported, was it? But those canailles, stirred up by the priest, tried to burn down our house. Can you blame my husband if he doesn’t want to stay here?’
‘So, you’re not afraid to stay then, Madame?’
‘My family built Ganae. My great-grandfather, as you know, was president of this country. I will not let noir agitators dictate to me. Now, I must go. Goodbye to you.’
As she said this, her chauffeur held open the rear door of the Mercedes. She got in. The Mercedes drove away.
‘Who is she?’ I said, to no one in particular.
People looked at me. ‘You don’t know, Father? That’s Caroline Lambert.’
‘Who?’
‘Colonel Lambert’s wife. He was the one with the moustache. You know – he’s King Coke.’
And then, at once, the room was filled with speculation. ‘So there won’t be a coup, after all.’
‘Don’t be so sure. Macandal can still mount one from abroad.’
‘How much did they take out, I wonder?’
‘In those trunks or in Swiss bank accounts?’
Everyone laughed.
‘Why did France agree to give asylum to Lambert? Macandal, yes – but King Coke? Isn’t he under investigation by Jeannot’s commission?’
‘There’s been no trial yet. Nothing has been proved.’
‘Lambert will be back. He’ll get bored in France.’
‘I doubt it,’ someone else said. ‘I think he was genuinely afraid of the mobs. Jeannot has been coming on strong about punishing drug lords.’
‘And didn’t you hear Jeannot’s speech on Radio Libre last week? About Caroline, her jet-set friends, her parties, her jewels, her yacht, all of it paid for by King Coke’s drug payoffs. It was a brilliant move. Jeannot had to get his mobs out in force. Caroline was the trigger he used.’
I looked at the man who said this. I knew him: Hector Al-Said, a Lebanese, the owner of a furniture factory and one of the few businessmen who had contributed to Jeannot’s campaign. ‘What mobs, Hector?’ I asked. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Haven’t you heard the rumours? They’ve been saying the Army will never let him get away with sacking Macandal. So Jeannot sent his people into the streets to show the Army he has real power.’
‘People power,’ someone said.
‘Poor people’s power,’ Hector said.
Our group began to move away from the television set. Outside, the night lights came on around the pool. I sat with Marc Robin, confused, barely able to keep up a conversation. Jeannot and I had talked several times on the telephone in the weeks since his inauguration. He had not mentioned any of this. Why? Was it because he had entered into a corrupt world of politics and intrigue to which he couldn’t possibly admit me? I did not believe that was true. Jeannot had never concealed his actions from me. He was completely honest. He was the sort who speaks out. But now I sat listening to people talk of him in a way I had never heard before. These people, the people from the embassies, the foreign press, the American businessmen, had been expecting his downfall. Tonight, to their astonishment, his enemies had fled the country. He seemed to have won. But in the Hotel Régence there was no applause.
Next morning, early, I rang the presidential palace. It was no longer possible to reach Jeannot directly. All calls went through his assistants. My call was routed to Pelardy.
‘Is it a personal matter, Father?’
‘Yes.’
I waited. After several minutes Pelardy came back. ‘Would it be possible for you meet with President Cantave tomorrow morning? I can schedule it for ten o’clock.’
I told myself that, of course, things had changed. It was no longer possible for us to meet informally, as in the old days. I told Pelardy I would be there.
In the days of Doumergue the interior of the palace was forbidding: empty corridors, vast marbled reception rooms, the silence of a museum in early morning before it opens its doors to the public. But now it resembled a gigantic, noisy courthouse: nuns and priests, social workers, politicians, foreign consuls, street people, a few members of the elite, street merchants, peasant delegations from Mele and Cap Nord, all waited for an audience. Vendors moved through the crowds, wooden trays around their necks, selling sweet local drinks and tiny, bite-sized sandwiches. Where once the dictator’s palace flunkies ruled these corridors, wearing white suits, black ties and proper shoes, now, young men in T-shirts emblazoned with Jeannot’s picture laughed, beat sticks in local folk rhythms and danced up and down the corridors as they went about their self-appointed task of controlling and ordering the crowds. They knew me from the orphanage. They waved me on.
In a large suite of offices closed off from the rest of the palace I saw a group of people, some at computer terminals, some talking urgently on telephones, some holding discussions in conference rooms. They were the new nucleus surrounding Jeannot, a mixture of professionals and cranks, chartered accountants, environmentalists, civil servants, and a handful of economists and lawyers who had returned from exile in New York and Paris to help build the new Ganae. There was among all of these people a group camaraderie and sense of mission, a carry-over from the recent election campaign in which I had taken no part.
Pelardy appeared, waved to me and led me at once to an inner office where Jeannot was holding audience with whoever was next on his agenda.
Two sergeants of the Garde Présidentielle, big, burly men who had probably been the dictator’s bodyguards, sat on cane chairs outside the shut inner door. Pelardy nodded to them and one rose to admit me. Inside, the room was large with an ornate ceremonial desk facing a double se
t of french windows that looked out on a hedge of pink-and-white hibiscus blossoms. Jeannot sat, not at the desk, but on a small stool in the corner of the room. A ring of empty chairs surrounded him and he was listening to an old woman, possibly a street merchant, who sat facing him. He leaned towards her, his head bent, his right hand covering his eyes as though he were hearing her confession. The old woman talked agitatedly, her voice high and angry, the Creole words jumbled so that I could not hear what she was saying. Was she denouncing someone? Jeannot leaned close and whispered to her, stopping her tirade. Rising, he put his hand on her head in a gesture of benediction. Stiffly, she got to her feet. Obedient, she took her leave of him. As she went towards the door, she saw me, stopped, and whispered, ‘C’e Mesiah, c’e Mesiah. Deu même, t’entends?’
Jeannot came towards me, smiling. He looked at the old woman who was now going out of the door. ‘What did she tell you?’
‘That you’re God Himself. What’s the matter, Petit? Isn’t it enough to be President?’
He laughed and led me across the room, seating me on the chair facing his little stool. ‘I suppose you’ve come about the nuncio?’
‘The nuncio?’
‘You mean you haven’t been told?’
‘No. What?’
‘He left for Rome on Saturday. I thought he’d gone on holiday, but now I hear he’s been recalled for good. Which means the Vatican isn’t going to recognise my government.’
‘But that’s incredible.’
‘Not at all. Rome has been told that if I remain in power I’ll start a heretical, breakaway church. Any day now, I expect the Vatican will announce that I’m no longer a Catholic priest. And what will I do then? I can fight the Army, I can fight the elite, but I can’t fight Rome. The Pope may be my enemy but still – he’s the head of the Church.’
