by Brian Moore
But that night in Ville de la Baie, as I lay in the attic bedroom of Henri’s house, the only sound to be heard was a soft plop as a slab of melting snow slipped off the high, sloping roof above me to fall into deep drifts in the garden below. In a funeral parlour three streets away, my mother’s body waited burial, her voice stilled, that voice which, in sixty-seven years of daily prayer, praised and honoured a God who, in her last hours, deprived her of that ultimate consolation of religion, belief in a life after death. Until now, nothing my mother had ever said or done would have made me suspect she could harbour doubt. Nor were her dying words the panic of someone facing the mystery of death. She had been as certain in her unbelief as, all her life, she had been certain in belief. In the darkness and silence of that night before her funeral, a sad and terrible question crept into my mind. Why did God fail her at the end?
Next morning I said Mass for the repose of her soul. Afterwards, funeral cars drove us out of the town along the ice-sealed banks of the Saguenay River to the Cimetíre St Martin, its gravestones like scarecrows in a white waste of snow. There, hard permafrost earth had been spaded up from my father’s grave to make room for my mother’s coffin. As we stood, a small deputation of the living in that white field of death, I thought of another funeral, four years ago, the funeral of fifteen-year-old Daniel Lalonde, shot down by a colonel of the Garde Présidentielle. Again I heard Jeannot’s defiant voice as he stood over the grave. ‘God is with us!’ Was it a warning to those who would oppress the poor? Or was it a cry of despair, calling on a God who may not be there?
Hard clods of earth fell like stones on my mother’s coffin. Father Demarais sprinkled Holy Water on her grave and spoke the final sentence. ‘Remember, man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.’ Were those words her true obituary?
‘But you’re not leaving so soon?’ Justine asked me. ‘Surely you can stay one more night?’
We were in her house. Most of those who were at the funeral had been invited back for coffee. A boy and two girls, my nephew and nieces, were handing around plates of sandwiches and plum cake. They smiled at me familiarly, those young strangers, as did many others who greeted me in the expectation that I would remember them. But I did not. Sometimes a name came back and I looked at a face in alarmed curiosity, trying to discern the lineaments of a boy or girl who was once my friend. I smiled, I made the small change of conversation, an actor in a role I could no longer play. Now that my mother was dead, I would not come here again.
‘I’m sorry,’ I told Justine. ‘But it’s mid-term at the college. I must get back.’
I signalled to Henri who was waiting to drive me to the airport. As we put on our overshoes in the hall, one of my nieces ran out to tell me that there was a telephone call. ‘A Father Monceau. He’s calling from Jamaica.’
Father Monceau was our Provincial for the Caribbean area. ‘I’ve been tracking you down,’ he told me. ‘How is your mother?’
I told him I had just come from her funeral.
‘I am very sorry,’ he said. ‘May she rest in peace. I’m afraid I’ve called you for another reason. I wanted to reach you before you returned to Ganae. I’ve been asked to send you to Rome at once. I think it will be easier for you to fly directly from Montreal.’
‘Rome, Father?’
‘Cardinal Innocenti, who is Prefect of the Congregation for the Clergy, is conducting an investigation into the case of Father Cantave. Archbishop Pellerat is already in Rome. Will it be possible for you to get to Montreal tonight?’
‘As a matter of fact, I’m on my way there now.’
‘Good. Then you could be in Rome by tomorrow evening. If so, you’d be ready to meet with the Cardinal on Saturday.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘One more thing. This hearing is informal and confidential. At this time it’s better that Father Cantave doesn’t know about it. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Good. Well, safe journey. Oh – I will remember your mother in my prayers.’
5
‘The Cardinal has little English,’ Monsignor Giobbi informed me. ‘He has fluent French, so the proceedings will be conducted in that language. Especially as Archbishop Pellerat will be present. My own French is rather rusty. I may have to rely on your help.’
Monsignor Giobbi was the head of our house in Rome and a professor at Gregorian University where, among other subjects, he sometimes lectured on South American liberation theology. Monsignor Giobbi, a Sicilian, did not reveal his thoughts. I did not know if he was accompanying me as the head of our house or as a witness for or against Jeannot.
It was nine a.m. Across Rome on the stroke of the hour church bells rang out, calling the faithful to worship. The doors of the Vatican ante-room opened and Father Sykes, an English priest who was the Cardinal’s secretary, beckoned us to follow him. He led us down a long corridor lined with portraits of cardinals from another age and opened the doors of a large, high-ceilinged drawing room. It was winter in Rome. Under an ornate mantelpiece, a fire burned in a huge grate. Around the fire were grouped armchairs and a sofa, covered in blue brocade. Seated there were four clerics, all of whom looked up as we entered. Cardinal Innocenti rose, peering at me over gold-rimmed half-spectacles. He was a small, stooped man in his seventies, his silver hair almost shoulder-length beneath his crimson skullcap, giving him the look of one of those medieval cardinals whose portraits we had seen in the corridor. The other clerics rose, following his lead. One was black, tall, a bald eagle who stared at me with no word of greeting. And yet he was my Archbishop, Étienne Pellerat, head of the Ganaen hierarchy. Monsignor Rinaldi, the papal nuncio in Ganae, nodded to me but did not speak. The Cardinal and the fourth cleric, an unknown monsignor, greeted me in Italian.
I was nervous. I had never been in the Vatican before, other than as a tourist. A white-gloved servant appeared, carrying a tray with cups of espresso. The Cardinal, switching to French, invited me to sit with him on the sofa, thanking me for coming and saying I must be tired from my long journey. He then turned and nodded to Father Sykes who opened a leather-bound dossier and, speaking directly to me and to Monsignor Giobbi, said, ‘The Cardinal has called an inquiry today into the case of Father Jean-Paul Cantave. As most of you know, Monsignor Rinaldi has been recalled here by the Vatican Secretariat of State. For the moment, the post of nuncio in Ganae is vacant and the Holy Father has decided that it will not be filled until we have clarified matters there. His Holiness has based his decision on a report furnished by Monsignor Rinaldi. Archbishop Pellerat has recently read this report. Therefore, I think we will begin with the Archbishop’s comments on the situation.’
He turned to Pellerat. ‘If that is convenient for Your Grace?’
Pellerat rose and stood with his back to the fire. He bowed slightly to the Cardinal. ‘Eminence, in Ganae we are facing a crisis which is not only political but religious. To discuss, first, the religious aspect. Since Cantave’s election to the presidency, he has gathered around him a number of younger priests and nuns who think of themselves, not so much as members of the Catholic Church, but members of Cantave’s church, the “People’s Church” as he calls it. These young people, inspired by his rhetoric, have embraced the doctrines of “liberation theology” which, as you know, often advocates revolutionary action to overthrow established governments. These young clerics have no faith in the parliamentary process or, indeed, in democracy. They are, in fact, turning the poor against their pastors if those pastors refuse to embrace Cantave’s doctrines. So we have now in Ganae a schismatic church, which is advocating a break with Rome.’
The Cardinal looked at Monsignor Rinaldi, the nuncio, as if for guidance. ‘But from your report, Monsignor, I was under the impression that it is not a break with Rome but a break with the local hierarchy which Father Cantave is trying to foment?’
‘That is true, Eminence,’ the nuncio said. ‘The hierarchy, as you know, was appointed not by the Vatican but by the
dictator Doumergue and, unfortunately, in the backlash against Doumergue’s regime the Ganaen bishops are perceived by the poor, erroneously of course, as supporters of the former regime.’
I looked at Archbishop Pellerat and saw that he was stiff with ill-suppressed anger. ‘I beg to differ with Monsignor Rinaldi. I think I know our people better than he does. The people respect our views, and indeed, they revere the episcopate. Yes, our appointments were proposed by President Doumergue. But I would remind you that all of those appointments were ratified by the Vatican.’
‘Of course, of course,’ the Cardinal said. ‘The appointments were, as you say, agreed to by His late Holiness. Now – you mentioned the political aspect?’
‘The political situation is this,’ the Archbishop said. ‘Cantave has been president for four months. In that time he has consistently fought with parliament, vetoing not only its legislative proposals but also its recommendations for the appointment of ministers, ambassadors, etcetera. He has surrounded himself with left-wing exiles who are openly hostile to the business interests of the country. He incites the people to violence and threatens to put members of the country’s elite on trial for what he calls “crimes against the poor”. Ganae is on the brink of chaos.’
‘What are the possibilities of his being overthrown?’ the Cardinal asked.
The Archbishop shrugged. ‘Coups are a fact of life in Ganae. At the moment Cantave is protected by General Hemon, the Army Chief of Staff who is his appointee. If some officers decided to challenge Hemon, then . . .’ Again, he shrugged.
‘There is another important factor,’ the nuncio said. ‘He is a hero to the great majority of the poor. They call him their “Little Priest”. In my view, if you were to force him to choose between being their priest or their president, you would put him in a difficult position.’
The fourth cleric, the one I took for a Vatican diplomat, now spoke up. ‘Eminence, our information is that, if forced to choose, he will, of course, choose the presidency.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the Cardinal said. ‘Monsignor Pecci, excuse me. I haven’t introduced you. Gentlemen, this is Monsignor Pecci of the Second Section of the Secretariat of State.’
I looked at this stranger. The Vatican Secretariat of State is, in effect, the Vatican’s diplomatic service. Its influence is immense. It must have been Pecci or his superiors who had decided to withhold recognition.
The Cardinal, sitting beside me on the sofa, peered at me through his gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘Perhaps, at this point, we should hear Father Michel’s views. I am told that Father Michel has a great influence on Father Cantave, perhaps greater than anyone else. Is that so, Father?’
I was sick with tension. When I began to speak my voice was anxious and angry in a way that made me seem unstable. I began by saying that I did not feel that I had any special influence on Jeannot. ‘I am his friend,’ I said. ‘I believe him to be one of the most honest young men I have known. He is deeply religious and when he was expelled from our Order it was one of the great sorrows of his life. Monsignor Rinaldi is right when he says that forcing him to choose between the priesthood and the presidency would place him in a great dilemma. Father Cantave did not seek to become president of Ganae. He was an unwilling candidate and only agreed to run when persuaded by others that if he did not the elections would be a sham. Both before and since his election he has consistently fought for the rights of the poor. He has many enemies and has survived an attempt on his life. His church was burned down and his parishioners killed. Because of these things the people trust him implicitly. The overwhelming vote he received is proof that the poor of Ganae have lost all faith in their former leaders and, unfortunately, this includes the clergy who were silent during the years of the dictator’s rule. Father Cantave is the voice of the poor and their voice should surely be heard. I would suggest that now is the time for the hierarchy and the nuncio to forget their previous strictures against him and try to come to terms with the new situation that has arisen. The People’s Church is not a schismatic church but part of the Catholic Church. It should not be ignored or disparaged. We should try to unite the Church and the people of Ganae behind this new democratic government. Has there ever been a clearer case of doing what the Pope himself has asked us to do: opting for the poor of this world?’
When I sat down, the Cardinal asked Monsignor Giobbi, ‘Monsignor, is there anything that you wish to add to what has been said?’
‘I tend to agree with Father Michel,’ Giobbi said. ‘I believe we should try to reach some sort of peace with Father Cantave.’
The Cardinal turned to the Archbishop. ‘Do you have any further comment at this time?’
‘Yes. I totally disagree with Father Michel. Cantave is trying to found a schismatic church and unless he is disowned we will have a state of religious chaos in Ganae. In my view he should be excommunicated.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ the Cardinal said. He rose from the sofa and walked towards the fire where he stood warming his hands. I looked at his stooped back, long silver hair and crimson skullcap, at the broad crimson sash wound around the middle of his black soutane. What was he thinking? He leaned further into the great fireplace, rubbing his hands together, then stretching his long fingers towards the flames. Monsignor Pecci, the Vatican diplomat, looked over at Father Sykes, raising his eyebrows in question. Father Sykes smiled non-committally, closed his leather folder and sat, composed and waiting.
The Cardinal nodded his head towards the flames, as though listening to some argument which only he could hear. At last, still chafing his hands, he turned to face us. ‘First let me say that, at the moment, I do not see a reason for excommunicating Father Cantave.’
‘But surely, Eminence – ’ Archbishop Pellerat was so angry he could barely control his voice. ‘Isn’t it true that he deliberately disobeyed the Holy Father’s order that no priest be allowed to take up political office?’
The Cardinal smiled. ‘The law of the Church in Canon 287 states that clerics are not to assume an active part in political parties unless the need to protect the rights of the Church or to promote the common good requires it.’ Again, he smiled. ‘I quote from memory, of course. But let me emphasise that any such decision can only be taken by the competent ecclesiastical authority. At this moment, I am that authority. I have heard your views and I thank all of you for giving them to me and for the trouble you have taken in preparing them. I will consult with Cardinal Ludovici of the Secretariat, but I can tell you now that we will postpone any decision, pending further developments.’ He turned to the Archbishop. ‘Your Grace can be assured that I will be in personal contact with you as soon as we have decided on a course of action.’ He nodded politely to the others. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to speak privately with Father Michel.’
Father Sykes opened the drawing-room doors and ushered the others out. Monsignor Giobbi, passing by, murmured that he would wait for me. Father Sykes was the last to leave, closing the double doors behind him. Now I was alone with the Cardinal who sat down on the sofa. ‘Sit beside me, Father, this is my good side.’
Again he chafed his hands and stretched them towards the fire. ‘Jeannot,’ he said. ‘That’s what they call him, isn’t it? He is small, like me. And not very robust, I am told?’
‘His health seems frail, yes, Eminence.’
‘And the people love him. Tell me. Do you think he will succeed?’
‘I don’t know. He faces enormous problems. As you know, the country is desperately poor.’
‘That is true. But my question is: will he succeed in forming what the Archbishop calls a “schismatic” church?’
‘With respect, Eminence, the Archbishop is not au courant with the true situation. As I said earlier, Father Cantave has no intention of setting up a schismatic church.’
‘Martin Luther had no idea that he was setting up a schismatic church when he protested against certain of the Pope’s decrees. Your friend Father Cantave may be unaware
of the danger of his actions. We are not. Monsignor Pecchi, who you met this morning, informs me that the people of Ganae – the poor – see “Jeannot” not only as their priest, but as a sort of Redeemer. The people believe that God miraculously protects him from assassins’ bullets and other dangers. Do you know anything of this?’
‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘But Father Cantave has nothing to do with such talk. He would certainly try to discourage it.’
‘Are you sure? We hear otherwise.’
I was angry and it showed in my answer. ‘Well, it’s simply not true, Eminence.’
‘Good.’ He paused, then, surprisingly, took my hand, holding it between his hands as though he were about to entreat me. ‘Let me explain. I know that Father Cantave and others like him sincerely believe that by improving the lot of the poor they are doing God’s work. They also believe that Rome is hostile to change, that here in the Vatican we do not understand the modern world. They are wrong. We understand the world, as it was, as it is, and as it may become. We know that the Church is changing and will change. But if, by following the preachings of Father Cantave, the people of Ganae lose the Kingdom of God in the course of improving their lot here on earth, then you and I must remember our duty. Our duty, and Father Cantave’s duty, is to remember always that, while it is a holy and wholesome thought to wish to improve the material lives of the poor, the primary task of the Church is, and has always been, to save their immortal souls. In this day and age, that task may not be uppermost in the minds of clerics such as Father Cantave. Sincere as he may be, he is still mortal, frail, capable of falling into heresy and leading his people away from the true faith.
‘Now, Father. After hearing what you had to say this morning I would like to enlist your help. I want you to assure Father Cantave that we wish him success in what he has set out to do. It would please us, were the conditions right, to give full and enthusiastic support to his government. Under the rules of canon law that I spoke of earlier, we may even decide that it is possible for him to remain a priest while he acts as president of his country. In return, we propose certain conditions. He must cease to advocate any form of revolution. He must make peace with the Archbishop and those clergy who are not his followers. He was elected to bring democracy to Ganae. Let him work to effect that transition in a democratic manner.’
