by Brian Moore
‘For God’s sake,’ I said. ‘His son was a pupil of mine.’
He lay back on the seat cushions. The interior of the limousine was stiflingly hot. I saw that he was trembling and sweating. I leaned over and opened the windows.
‘What happened in Rome?’
I told him. I told him all of it. As I spoke, the Java bands were playing in the square. People were singing. The soldiers guarding our limousine laughed and joked among themselves, turning now and then to look shyly in at Jeannot. When I had finished, Jeannot said, ‘Get in line, that’s the message, isn’t it? Do as we say or we’ll disown you.’
‘Wait. Innocenti’s not asking you to abandon your principles. He’s asking you to try to bring about change in a democratic manner. Arresting the likes of Caroline Lambert, and wrecking the nuncio’s residence makes you look like a loose cannon.’
‘I had nothing to do with the demonstration against the nuncio.’
‘Nonsense. You went on radio saying the Vatican has refused to recognise your government.’
‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’
‘I told you. It’s not true. That speech is exactly what Pellerat wanted you to say. Don’t you see? You’ve played into the hands of your enemies.’
He stared at me.
‘Pellerat wants Rome to turn against you, to excommunicate you. Listen, Petit. The elite is hoping you’ll make a fool of yourself. Why didn’t the police stop that mob? Why did they stand by and let them wreck the nuncio’s residence?’
He was silent. Then he said, ‘My God. Why didn’t I see it?’
‘You see it now. Do something. Go on the radio. Don’t let them get away with it.’
He put his hand on my arm. ‘You’re right. I must.’
I looked up. Pelardy was approaching. Jeannot saw him too. ‘Paul, what will you tell Rome?’
‘What would you want me to say?’
‘Buy me time. I need it.’
‘I’ll try.’
On that same afternoon Archbishop Pellerat, speaking at the head of the Ganaen hierarchy, apologised in a nationwide radio speech to the absent papal nuncio for what he termed was ‘a disgraceful attack on the nunciature by the followers of Father Jean-Paul Cantave, an attack, inspired by President Cantave’s hostility to Rome and the Holy Father’. He said it was an insult to the Holy Father that the new president of Ganae had not seen fit to issue an apology for these actions and it was the duty of every Catholic to repudiate such behaviour and the man responsible for it.
I heard the speech. I, at once, tried to reach Jeannot at the palace. I was told that he was at Radio Libre and would shortly go on the air. I called Nöl Destouts into the study and we switched on the radio. Java music was playing. Half-way through the record, the sound stopped. There was silence on the air and then a voice said, ‘The President of Ganae, Father Jean-Paul Cantave, will speak. Hold on.’ The music resumed and was again interrupted. ‘The President, Father Jean-Paul Cantave, will speak. Hold on.’
There was a background noise as though people were speaking out of range of the microphone. And then silence. Suddenly, we heard Jeannot’s voice.
Brothers and Sisters,
All my Brothers and Sisters in the good Lord,
Alone we are weak.
Together we are strong.
Étienne Pellerat, Archbishop of Port Riche,
Let me look you in the eye.
I have come to tell you I love you.
Because I love you, I must tell the truth.
Truth and love are the same.
Yesterday some of our youth went to the house
Of the Pope’s man in Ganae.
Their anger was just,
But their action was wrong.
The Pope’s man in Ganae is not our enemy.
We must respect him.
I tell him now that we love him.
If he returns to Ganae we will honour and protect him.
For he is the Pope’s man
And we are the people of the Pope.
But, Brothers and Sisters, we must not forget
Some in Ganae are not the priests of the Pope.
They are the priests of the rich,
They are the friends of our enemies.
Our enemies are vampires.
They lie in their coffins waiting to arise again
And again to drink the people’s blood.
That was in the past, Brothers and Sisters,
But they will do it again.
Some of them have fled with stolen fortunes
But they want to return.
They had power,
To these vampires, power is like blood.
They will kill to get it.
We must keep our power.
We must act now.
Caroline Lambert was rich, thanks to the poor.
In a country that is poor, thanks to the rich.
You, Brothers and Sisters, have asked for justice.
I promise you that justice.
In the name of Jesus who has given us our power.
Amen.
There was silence on the airwaves. And then, suddenly, voices shouted. ‘Jeann-ot! Jeann-ot!’
The national anthem blared. Nöl switched it off. ‘Why does he always wind up sounding violent, even when he’s making a sort of apology?’
‘He has enemies,’ I said. ‘We don’t. We haven’t been shot at, forced into hiding, our church burned down, our parishioners killed.’
‘I didn’t say he wasn’t sincere. The most dangerous thing about Jeannot is that he is. And the people who surround him are sincere. But their ideas of how to change things are as dead as the Soviet Union. Liberation theology is out of date. This is a capitalist world and we have to live in it.’ Nöl looked at his watch. ‘I must go. I have a study group at six-thirty.’
When Nöl left I sat by the window as sunset darkened the roofs of a nearby slum. This wasn’t ‘liberation theology’. This was a faith built around one man. Listening to Jeannot speak, it had come to me that this must be how people once heard the voice of Jesus, the voice of an obscure agitator in a remote province of the Roman empire denouncing the sins of the rich and preaching the Kingdom of God. The poor of Ganae believed in Jeannot as their Messiah, a Jesus come amongst them. The Kingdom of God is founded on faith. Faith is reason’s opposite. Jeannot believed that God had chosen him. Now he would use that belief to change the lives of others. At that moment I was besieged by doubts. But I had faith in him. And so, I hoped to change things.
For two weeks after our meeting Jeannot did not get in touch with me. I hesitated to call. I had nothing to report. I had done as he asked. Rome had been informed that our talks had gone well. And then, one morning while I was in class, a servant knocked on the door and told me I was wanted urgently in the school parlour.
Something about his manner alerted me. ‘Who is it?’
‘A gentleman. He didn’t say, sir.’
The school parlour is a hot dusty room, its windows shuttered against the sun, its rattan furniture worn by years of use. It is a place where parents come to talk to their sons during school hours. When I went there that morning the room seemed empty. And then, as though he had been hiding, a man who had been standing behind the opened door came out into the slatted sunlight. He wore an open-necked shirt and trousers and at first I did not recognise him. But when he spoke, I remembered him. Colonel Maurras of the Garde Présidentielle who shot the boy, Daniel, at the gates of the palace. In the few years since I had seen him his hair had become grey, his face lined, his body coarse and thickening. He inhaled on a cigarette, coughed, and put it out.
‘Do you remember me, Father?’
‘Yes, Colonel.’
When I said that he went to the door and closed it, shutting us in.
‘First, let me say that if you are questioned about my coming here tell them I came to ask if you will admit my nephew to your school.’
‘You are still in the Army?’
> He nodded. ‘After the shooting I asked for a transfer to Doumergueville. I tried to forget what happened. But, of course, that wasn’t possible. That’s why I came today. I am not brave, Father. But I remember what Father Cantave said to me that morning. I feel I owe it to him to warn you that he is in great danger.’
Again, he looked at the closed door. ‘We will not be interrupted?’
‘I doubt it.’
I pointed to a chair, but he shook his head and walked to the window, peering out through the shutters. In the distance I heard singing as the school choir began to practise a hymn. He turned back to me and spoke in a low voice, his words jumbling into each other.
‘I don’t know details, so don’t ask me, and you must tell Father Cantave that if he brings me in for questioning he is signing my death warrant and perhaps his own. There are those who are planning a coup. I can’t tell you when it will happen, but it will not be until after the parliamentary elections in April. What happens at the elections will be the excuse. The Army doesn’t want it to look like a military coup. If the Army deposes Father Cantave and forms a junta there will be international protest. So the idea is to put some other politician in power. Don’t ask me who, I don’t know his name. I can tell you this. The coup is being planned in Paris. Lambert’s at the head of it. When it happens, General Macandal will fly back to Ganae and take over the Army. General Hemon, who is backing Father Cantave, will be offered exile. Lambert believes that when Hemon realises the situation he will co-operate.’
He stopped speaking and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. ‘I have been asked to take a small group of soldiers to the palace on the morning of the coup. I know the procedures to gain entry. We will arrest and hold Father Cantave. As we do this, the politician I have told you about will be driven to Radio Libre to make a broadcast. He will announce that Father Cantave has been replaced as president because of his refusal to co-operate with parliament and govern by democratic methods. When we hear the broadcast begin, we, at the palace, will shoot Father Cantave.’ He paused and nervously lit a fresh cigarette. ‘When they asked me to join the coup they believed I was Doumergue’s man. They didn’t guess that I cannot kill Father Cantave. I cannot kill a saint, although he is a saint who does not know how to govern this country and his rule will not last. I don’t know what you will do now, or how you can advise him. He must change his guard at the palace. It should be a guard of soldiers who are his followers. But this is the most important part, Father, and this is what you must tell him. He must pretend to know nothing of this plan. If he does, I promise you I will tell you the date and the time as soon as I find out. So when we arrive at the palace he will have gone into hiding. Will you tell him that?’
‘Yes.’
‘I may be followed here today. They are being very careful. We must have a code, you and I. The simplest thing would be for me to come here to the college and leave a message if I do not reach you. The message will say that I want to bring my nephew to see you and I will propose a date. That date will be the date of the coup.’
Then this strange man came up to me, gripped me by the shoulders and stared into my face. ‘Do as I say, Father, and he will be saved. But you must warn him. If he attempts to arrest me or to contact me in any way, they will kill me. I am putting my life in his hands. And in yours.’
Still holding me, he pressed his sweating cheek against mine. Then, releasing me, he opened the door and, with no farewell, walked off down the corridor to the school’s main entrance. An army jeep was parked by the front door. I watched him get in and drive away.
That evening at six when my school duties were completed and my absence would not be noticed, I left the residence and drove to the palace. I did not telephone ahead. When I was admitted to the main hall I asked for Pelardy but, instead, was greeted by Sister Maria. ‘Father Cantave is ill,’ she told me. ‘Is it urgent?’
When I said yes, she asked me to wait. I noticed that there were several young soldiers standing by the entrance, armed with automatic pistols and bearing a shoulder flash which I had not seen before. The Garde Présidentielle had been in evidence at the main gates but when Sister Maria came back and led me up flights of marble stairs, along panelled corridors and again up more stairs, I saw small groups of these young soldiers at every turn. On the top floor of the palace, we went towards a wing that jutted out over the main square. The usual presidential bodyguards, those heavy-set sergeants, were nowhere in sight. Instead, two young soldiers opened a double set of doors to admit us to a huge bedroom dominated by a tall four-poster bed, a room which could have been a royal bedroom in some European palace. There were many chairs grouped around the bed, all of them empty.
The room was hot. The great windows that looked out over the presidential square and the rooftops of the parliament buildings were closed and covered by screens. There was a smell of medicine and rubbing alcohol. The bed itself was surrounded by mosquito netting. As I came closer I saw Jeannot, wearing a long white nightshirt, propped up among many pillows. Above him, a simple wooden crucifix was nailed to the headboard. At his side were two telephones and his breviary. A mass of official-looking files was strewn about the bed. He appeared to be asleep, but when Sister Maria left the room he opened his eyes and smiled at me.
‘Ridiculous, isn’t it, this bed. Yet, there’s a lot of history in this room. Did you know this is the bed Doumergue died in? Screaming, they say. Seydoux, who was president in the twenties, was shot to death at that window. They came for President Mouton in the middle of the night. He hid under this bed and they dragged him out and cut his throat. That was in the nineteenth century. He was noir, like me. Then there was President Beauvais, in the eighteen-nineties, the one whose carriage was called the virgin’s hearse. He brought them to bed here. Thirteen-year-old girls, mostly.’
‘And now there’s a breviary in the bed.’
‘True.’ He laughed. ‘How are you, Paul? Where have you been?’
‘Are you ill, Jeannot?’
‘It’s nothing. A little fever. I feel cold all the time. What’s wrong? You have that familiar worried look.’
I pulled aside the mosquito netting and sat on the edge of his bed. When I began to tell him what had happened that morning he sat up with his hand over his eyes, a gesture which signalled that he was fighting off a migraine. When I finished, he nodded and said, ‘Strange that it would be you who would find out. I’ve been expecting this. You know about Raymond?’
Alphonse Raymond was the head of the Progressive Party which ran a poor second to Jeannot in the elections.
‘What about him?’
‘Parliament wants to make him our premier. I’ve refused. I want my premier to be someone from my own group. So they’re calling me a dictator. Raymond must be the one they’ve picked to replace me as president.’
‘But that’s parliament,’ I said. ‘This colonel is talking of a military coup.’
‘It’s one and the same thing,’ Jeannot said. ‘They’re all in it together, the parties, the generals, the businessmen, the elite. I have only one strength and I’ll have to use it. The people. We must show our fist.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ll see. As for having my own guards, I’ve already thought of that. Did you notice my hand-picked soldiers?’
‘Yes. Who are they?’
‘They’re not real soldiers. They’re my own bleus, boys who were once in the Ste Marie Orphanage. Because, as your colonel pointed out, we can no longer trust anyone in the real army. The question is – can we trust your colonel?’
‘Why shouldn’t we?’
‘We’re supposed to relax until he tells us the coup is under way. If he’s a plant, then we’re being lulled into a false sense of security.’
He reached up and gripped my hand. ‘Paul, thank you for coming. Don’t stay away. Come every day, if you can. This is our moment of truth.’
7
In Ganae television is perceived as an instrument of governmen
t. And so the event which occurred one week after I spoke to Jeannot may have been planned and staged by his staff. For, on the following Monday morning, the daily sludge of canned musical programmes was interrupted by a seemingly unscheduled telecast, a look at the city of Port Riche in what seemed to be the first stages of a revolution.
There was a large television set in the main dining hall of the college. I don’t know who had turned it on. But, shortly before lunchtime, the college servants, setting out cutlery for the midday meal, were suddenly aware of what was happening. Within minutes, classes had been interrupted and priests, students, and everyone else crowded into the big room, watching in amazement.
We were looking at the Avenue Beaucaire, a main thoroughfare leading up to the parliament buildings. A mass of people holding aloft placards with makeshift banners and the now familiar portrait of Jeannot was moving in a great chanting flood, filling the street, crowding against the adjoining buildings. The television crews, unskilled in spontaneous filming, moved erratically ahead of the demonstrators, cameras tilting upwards to catch glimpses of the banners’ hand-printed slogans.
jeannot is us – raymond is them
power to the poor
jeannot
our voice – don’t shut him out
As we watched, the procession approached the gates of the parliament buildings. Inside the courtyard the cars of parliamentary delegates could be seen parked in rows, a sign that parliament was in session. In front of the gates soldiers were disembarking from trucks and hastily shuffling into a double line to block the demonstrators. At the head of the crowd I saw four young priests wearing white soutanes, two of them holding aloft processional crucifixes, and two presenting open pages of bibles, as though bearing witness. Behind them were the familiar faces of Port Riche’s lower town, women in white bandannas and ugly flowered dresses, grey-grizzled, rheumy-eyed old men, thin starveling girls in short white shifts, nervous, stick-like little boys. The television cameras, rising higher, showed the thick mass of the crowd behind these emblematic representatives of the slums. Suddenly, the voice of a commentator was heard.
