by Brian Moore
Shortly before noon we sat together on a rock, overlooking a steep canyon, eating sandwiches which I had purchased that morning in Damienville. She was telling me about her education at a convent of the Soeurs de Charité in Paris.
‘I was twelve years old when I went to Paris. I had never been out of Ganae. I didn’t know your world. I found out that the white people in France saw me as a noir. I cried a lot. How could they think I was black? Look at me. If you met me in the street in Paris would you think that I was a dirty black person?’
‘Why is a black person dirty?’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘You haven’t answered mine.’
She stared at me. ‘Would you have done all this for me if I had been a black girl?’
‘Yes. It has nothing to do with it.’
‘Are you sure?’
I could not face her. I turned away.
‘I’m sorry, Father. Forgive me. We were talking about the noirs. Even in Ganae, no one wants to be black.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘No? Then why does every noir who comes to power try to send his children to your school? Why do his children try to become like us, to marry us, to live like us?’
‘It isn’t because of your colour,’ I said. ‘It’s because you have everything and they have nothing. But, from now on, things are going to change. I know it.’
‘Do you? Do you believe your friend Jeannot? He is a dirty black person, a little noir arriviste. He’s jealous of us, he hates us. He wants to make this country into some sort of communist place. But nobody wants a communist place any more, do they? What’s his policy? Tell me? He doesn’t have one, does he? His policy is revenge, only revenge. And he’s stupid. Ganae is not a big African country. It is a little island off Central America. And who cares about Central America? Ganae wasn’t even a proper white man’s colony. It is two hundred years since we drove the French out. The noirs here weren’t trained by white colonists as they were in Africa and other places. All they’re good for is labour, cheap labour. Our independence is a joke. We live on the edge of the white world, we depend on the white world. That will never change.’
I didn’t answer her. I rose up and untied the mules. ‘We must reach the convent before dark,’ I said. ‘Are you ready?’
Later that afternoon, she broke the silence that had descended on us. It was the moment when, in the distance, across the gulf of a ravine, we saw the stone buildings and tiled roofs of the convent. She reined in her mule and pointed. ‘Is that where I will stay?’
‘Yes.’
‘When will you send for me?’
‘Not for some weeks.’
‘Are those nuns French?’
‘Some of them. Reverend Mother is French.’
‘So I am back in the convent with French nuns. Just like my schooldays. Who knows, perhaps I’ll like being here. It will be a change. Maybe I’ll become a nun.’ She laughed and kicked her mule’s sides. We moved on.
It was dark when I helped one of the convent servants unharness our weary animals. Reverend Mother had already taken Caroline Lambert up into the convent proper. As was usual with visiting priests, I was lodged in a small guest house near the stables. That night I dined alone in the convent parlour, waited on by an old nun who had been born in Boucherville, across the river from Montreal, and talked garrulously about her youth there in the time of Duplessis, a dictator of sorts, who once ruled that Canadian province.
In the morning, I said Mass for the nuns. As their attending priest came only on Sundays, this was an event. The church was full. The service was at seven. When I went up to the altar I looked to see if Caroline Lambert was present. She was not.
Later, after my breakfast in the convent parlour, I asked to see her.
‘I believe she is still sleeping, Father,’ Reverend Mother said. ‘Shall I wake her?’
‘No. It’s not important. Tell her I will telephone her very soon.’
It rained that day as the mules picked their way back over twisted tracks and I came down through a mountain fog into the lower heights above Damienville. It was almost dark when I saw the tangled tin roofs of the town below me. As I came closer, night fell and soon, amid the flickering town lamps, a stronger light blazed. It was a bonfire on what seemed to be a rubbish dump just outside the first cluster of dwellings. A group of people, old and young, circled, singing. Jugs of usque were being passed around. It seemed to be a celebration of some sort. Then the dancing, drunken throng took up a new song. I listened, stiff with surprise. It was not a song but a hymn, Jeannot’s favourite, ‘Dieu et Patrie’.
I moved on past the bonfire. A few streets later, I entered the main square of Damienville. Here there was a second bonfire, but it was dying out. Some people were moving past it, silent, peering at the ebbing flames. As I came closer, my mule reared and made a hoarse honking sound. And then I saw that the back seat of a car had been placed on a heap of stones near the flames. Tied to the seat by two wires was a stout middle-aged man. He was dead, his body bloodied by what looked like sword cuts, his face bruised and blackened by blows. Someone had placed awkwardly on his head a blue-and-white seersucker forage cap of the type once worn by Doumergue’s bleus.
Three old men were coming up the street, going towards the corpse. One of them, gap-toothed and foolish, looked over at me and called out, ‘Justice, Mon Pe.’
‘Who was he?’
‘You don’t know? Boulez, head of bleus here in time of Uncle D. He want to push out Jeannot. Those bleus they trying to come back. Today we stop them. Justice time.’
He and the other men went up to the corpse. One of them leaned forward and awkwardly punched it in the stomach. ‘Finish with you!’ he yelled.
The other two turned and smiled at me, embarrassed, as though he had committed a social gaffe.
I watched them move off. The squalid hotel in which I had lodged the night before was just across the square. As I came up to it I saw a sign, scrawled on the wall with a charcoal stick.
bas les bleus
bas les blancs
mulâtres au mur
touche pas no’ pe
When I reached the hotel I paid a bellboy to take the mules back to where I had rented them. I was too weary and sickened to eat the stringy chicken offered in the hotel dining room. As I handed back the menu and asked for some fruit, I heard a radio voice in the courtyard. I recognised the speaker: General Hemon, Army Chief of Staff.
‘. . . in Mele. Four people were killed and several were injured including fifteen soldiers of the national guard. These figures, added to those I have already mentioned in the capital, make up a total of more than forty dead. To prevent further violence I have sent additional troops to each of the main centres and have instructed the commandant of the northern region to send re-enforcements to Pondicher. President Cantave has expressed his sorrow for the deaths that have occurred. He will address parliament tomorrow morning at ten. In the meantime, the Army issues this warning. Demonstrators carrying machetes will be arrested. Looters will be shot.’
The national anthem started up when Hemon finished speaking but after a few bars an announcer’s voice said, ‘We have received confirmation of our earlier report of property damage in the suburb of Bellevue. Shalimar, the mansion of Colonel Lambert where his wife, Caroline, entertained the international jet set, is reported to have been burned to the ground. In addition, demonstrators caused extensive damage to the residence of Senator Christian, leader of the Conservative Party, and ransacked the mansion of Herve Souter, the sporting goods millionaire, who is at present on holiday with his family on the Riviera. Troops of the Porte Riche Battalion have closed off all approaches to Bellevue. Only residents and official vehicles will be allowed access.’
I went out to the lobby and asked to use the telephone.
‘I’m sorry, Father. Only emergency calls.’
‘This is an emergency. I want to call the presidential palace.’
He smiled as if he did not believe me, then pushed the phone across the desk. ‘Go ahead. Good luck.’
At first, I got a busy signal. Then an operator came on. ‘All the lines to the palace have been closed until further notice. Please hang up.’
I looked at the concierge. ‘I’ve been in the mountains,’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nobody knows how it started. Rumours, I guess, but yesterday morning the radio said that the assembly has voted to throw Jeannot out. An hour later the assembly denied it, but it was too late. People were already in the streets. You saw the sign outside? touche pas no’ pe. Leave our priest alone. Anyone who tries to get rid of Jeannot is asking for trouble.’
That night I had little sleep. At dawn I rose and went down the hall to the tin showers which were the only washing facility in the hotel. At that hour there was no service in the dining room and so I paid my bill and walked half-empty streets to the terminal where I boarded the first bus to Port Riche.
We travelled all day, stopping at every village on the route. My fellow travellers, most of them small traders, artisans, and servants of the rich, did not seem to know how the violence had begun. But one thing was certain. Everyone on the bus believed Jeannot’s enemies were trying to get rid of him. ‘They deny it, but we know it’s true. Jeannot wants justice. They afraid of that. But it will happen. Caroline Lambert and the big capitalists like Herve Souter, all those bloodsuckers who hold us down. Justice time! It’s over for them.’
When the bus finally pulled into the terminal that evening, I was unable to find a taxi. The streets of Port Riche were deserted. It was as though a curfew had been imposed and as I walked home in the half-dark streets I saw that even the beggars called derniers, solitary half-mad outcasts who camped in doorways, were huddled together for protection, a dozen of them sleeping in a semi-circle around the St Joseph fountain in the Rue Saint Sacrement with one of their number posted as a lookout on top of the saint’s statue.
When I reached the residence, Hyppolite unlocked the main door which was double-bolted and chained.
‘Want tea?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
I went into the study. Nöl Destouts was lying on the sofa, a book propped up on his huge stomach. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So you’re back already. How is Judge Letellier?’
I looked at him, surprised. I had forgotten my own lie.
‘Better, thank God,’ I said at last. ‘But what’s going on here?’
Nöl heaved himself up into a sitting position. ‘Constitutional crisis. There’ll be a fight in parliament tomorrow. Our boy Jeannot against the rest. We should go and watch the fun.’
‘How can we? What about classes?’
‘It’s Saturday,’ he said. ‘Don’t you remember anything? Join me, why don’t you? It should be interesting.’
Hyppolite arrived with cups of tea.
‘All right. What time will it begin?’
‘Around ten o’clock.’
Next morning we were late in starting because Nöl overslept. It was almost eleven when we reached the parliament buildings. After a security check we were admitted to the Spectators’ Gallery overlooking the assembly. There are places never visited that, nevertheless, one feels one knows: stock exchanges, parliaments, courtrooms. But the sight of the Ganaen assembly in full session was unlike anything I could have imagined. Some of the congressmen and senators were armed, pistols strapped to their waists or holstered under their armpits. The Speaker made no attempt to preserve order. When we took our seats, Manes Planchon, the Mayor of Port Riche, a huge sweating mulâtre, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, cowboy boots and holstered revolver, was shouting at the top of his voice, ‘You aren’t the only one who was elected by the people, Père Cantave! This is a democracy, have you never heard of that word? We, too, were elected by the people! You think because you won big, that gives you all the power. Well, it doesn’t. There are rules in this chamber. This is the assembly of the people, elected by the people. And you have been elected to obey these rules.’
I looked down at the front benches of the government where Jeannot sat. Some of those around him shouted back angrily but when he whispered to Pelardy his supporters’ protest ceased. At this point, an elderly, elegant senatorial person, waving a large white silk handkerchief like a flag of truce, stepped down from the government benches, passing Jeannot, moving to the Speaker’s podium.
‘My party is the party of our President,’ he cried. ‘Or should I say it was the party of our President. We who elected him have been shut out of the political process. Every recommendation we make is greeted with derision by a group of left-wing political amateurs who surround President Cantave. I ask you now, my President. Were these people appointed by you to be your only advisers? You have consistently ignored the party that chose you as its candidate. You have rejected the assembly’s proposals for a qualified prime minister and are proposing a nobody who happens to be one of your toadies. At this point, with sadness in my heart, I must turn my back on you.’
From the opposition benches there were cheers and applause. The old man stood, as though undecided as to where he should now sit. At a nod from Pelardy, one of Jeannot’s supporters rushed up to a microphone. ‘Wait a minute, Senator. Do you think that the President of the United States or France would accept a prime minister picked by others? Ridiculous!’
Suddenly, someone among these lawmakers fired his revolver at the ceiling. The Speaker, roused at last, stood and shouted. ‘That is dangerous! People could be killed. Sergeant, remove Congressman Laniel. Remove him at once!’
But nobody moved to remove the one who had fired the shot. Instead, two other shots were loosed off and the shouting became pandemonium. It was then that Jeannot rose up from the front bench, quiet and preoccupied as though he were alone in the room. He walked slowly towards the Speaker’s chair. The shouting continued. He held up his hand, like a schoolboy asking to be recognised. Although the Speaker did not acknowledge his gesture, the din died down.
Jeannot stood waiting, looking up at the ceiling of the chamber, until there was near silence. Then, in that extraordinary transformation that came over him when he faced an audience, he began.
Brothers,
Friends and Enemies,
And yes, my enemies who are my friends,
I speak to you, to all of you today.
My Brothers,
We who have been elected to serve our country,
All of us, yes, all of us, were elected to this chamber.
I do not deny that. Why should I deny it?
The people have chosen us, yes,
But remember that God speaks through the people
And so God has chosen us,
All of us,
Even those who carry guns and swear untruths.
Even those who toady to the rich and rob the poor.
God has placed you in this chamber.
I do not ask you to elect Hercule Harsant as prime minister
Because I want to rule through him.
I ask you because
God has placed me here to serve the poor.
Because
I have prayed to Jesus who is my Lord and master,
I have asked Him to put into this mouth of mine
Words which will make you know,
All of you – even you, my friend and enemy,
Manes Planchon. And you, Longvy, and you, Parigot.
All of you,
That my cause is just.
That my path is the true path.
And you must also know
That I am no one.
That I have no ambitions.
And yet
I speak for Jesus.
Jesus is the poor.
I speak for them.
Some of you are angry because Ganae is changing.
Because the people
Will no longer stand still.
They will no longer stand for parliamentary rules
Or parliamentary
tricks.
Already, it has begun.
The time of the machete.
What do I mean by that?
I mean the trouble we have seen these past days.
Mansions of the rich have been burned down.
People have been killed.
These things have happened and we sorrow for the dead.
But we do not repent.
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.
Justice must be done.
It has not yet been done.
We cannot start to feed our people,
We cannot start to give them a decent, humble life.
If we are not united,
If we are not strong,
The poor cannot be free.
Unless they are rid of those who exploit them.
You know who I am talking about,
I do not have to spell it out again.
But what I have to say now, I have not said before.
Justice is a sword.
It has been put into the hands of my people.
My people are the poor.
The sword of the poor is used to cut down cane.
It is a humble sword.
Machete.
A rough tool, made of iron.
I say to you now.
The humble sword awaits us.
It will punish us.
It is tired of our brawling,
It is tired of this chamber.
It cannot wait much longer.
I warn you, my Brothers.
Beware that sword.
Machete.
If it is raised against you
It will be because you failed the poor.
Put away your revolvers.
They will not help you.
You have soldiers and tanks
But none of it will help you
Against the sword.
Do as the people ask.
Let us have justice.
I speak for them. I act for them.
I am nothing.
But I am God’s servant.
