No Other Life

by Brian Moore

  God has given me this sword.

  I warn you.

  Do as the people ask.

  And do it now.

  The chamber was silent as a church. I stared down at the heads of the lawmakers as they watched this slight, boyish figure turn from the Speaker’s podium and make his way down the chamber. No one moved to stop him or to follow him. The flunkies guarding the doors threw them open. Jeannot walked out. At once, the silence ended in pandemonium. Manes Planchon drew his revolver and fired it, bringing a momentary pause in which he shouted, ‘You heard? You heard? Who is the violent one? He is!’

  Nöl and I were already on our feet. We hurried towards the exit and down the stairs to the ground floor. When we ran outside we saw, driving through the main gateway, a black Mercedes flying the presidential colours.

  ‘I’m going to the palace,’ I said. ‘Will I drop you off?’

  He nodded. ‘What will you do there?’

  ‘I must talk to him.’

  ‘Too late. Remember Diderot. “Between fanaticism and barbarism there’s only one step.” Jeannot’s just taken that step.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Nöl said. ‘Do you?’

  9

  I dropped Nöl off at the residence and drove directly to the palace. There was no sign of anything unusual in the great square surrounding it but when I passed through the gates I saw a phalanx of Jeannot’s picked ‘soldiers’ stationed at all approaches to the presidential offices. I was recognised by one of his aides, who told me he was not in the building but had left for Radio Libre a few minutes ago.

  ‘What time is the broadcast?’

  The aide said no one knew.

  I left the palace and drove through the market area hoping to catch up with Jeannot at the radio station. As I did, I saw an unusually large number of people in the streets. On Avenue Domville a traffic jam evolved and slowed my passage to a crawl. I had no radio in my car. While I sat stalled in traffic Jeannot was broadcasting to the nation. And so I did not hear the most fateful speech of his career. It was the ‘machete’ speech, a version of what he had already said in parliament that morning. But now he spoke to the possessors of that ‘humble sword’, telling them that, with it, they, the people, could rule. The elite and the politicians wanted to install a prime minister who was their creature. The people must say no.

  I never did get to speak to Jeannot that day. He had left the radio station by the time I reached it. Within an hour of his speech, Port Riche became a city in crisis. The voices heard on the radio and blaring from army trucks were the voices of General Hemon and his aides appealing for calm, threatening looters, denying reports of violence. But there was violence. That afternoon Father Duchamp saw the bodies of four people shot by soldiers in the mud-clotted lanes of La Rotonde. Six dead rioters were brought to the morgue of Charité Hospital and the nuns there treated some thirty wounded. Four soldiers were hacked to pieces when they tried to stop a mob which broke into the parliament yard and overturned official limousines.

  Violence was not confined to the capital. The radio station in Papanos said that Senator Lutyens, his wife and two sons, had been butchered by machetes and their bodies placed on a burning pyre in the city’s main square. Senator Lutyens was a former ambassador to Washington, a Doumerguist and Papanos’s leading businessman.

  After supper that night I passed by Father Bourque’s study. The door was open and he called out to me.

  ‘Is that you, Paul?’

  He was sitting in his old rattan armchair facing a window that looked out on the nearby roofs of La Rotonde. The window was open and in the distance we heard the sound of shouts and chanting. Clouds of smoke from bonfires rose above the tin roofs of the slums. ‘The Archbishop just called me,’ Father Bourque said. ‘As you know, he and I haven’t been friends over the years so he’s the last person in the world to ask for my help. But he did. He wanted to know if I could do anything to stop Jeannot. Or if you could. I said I’d speak to you but I didn’t have much hope.’

  ‘Both sides are doing the killing,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not the point. You heard about Senator Lutyens and his family. It’s terrible. Terrible. Has Jeannot no conscience at all?’

  ‘Jeannot didn’t order these things. I imagine he’s as distressed as we are.’

  ‘Is he? I wonder. Machetes! Machetes! I’m sick when I think of it.’

  As he was speaking, the telephone rang. It was an enquiry from a parent. Would the college be open tomorrow? There were reports of attacks on mulâtre children. I listened as Father Bourque tried to reassure the caller. When he put down the phone he asked me, ‘Have you heard anything about these attacks?’

  I said, and it was true, that the city was filled with rumours, most of them false. I said if I could be excused from classes in the morning I would go to the palace and try to find out what was going on.

  ‘I’d be grateful if you would,’ Father Bourque said. ‘And Paul? If you still have any influence with Jeannot, now is the time to use it.’

  My room, the same room I have today, is on the side of the residence facing La Rotonde. At night because of the heat I keep the windows open. I have long been accustomed to night noises and normally I sleep soundly. But that night I was wakened shortly after two a.m. by police sirens and gunfire. When I got up and looked out of my window, I saw a gang of about twenty youths coming from La Rotonde into Rue Pelikan. They were carrying machetes and running at full tilt. The sirens grew louder and two riot trucks loaded with armed police careened into sight in pursuit of the youths, who split up, running in differing directions. The police trucks stalled, sirens wailing to a standstill as the officer in charge searched for the best route to continue the pursuit. After some minutes the police drove off, their chase abandoned.

  Next morning I was due to say the eight o’clock Mass at the college. At seven-fifteen, while I was shaving, Hyppolite knocked and said, ‘Pe Destouts on telephone, wants you now.’

  Nöl Destouts was due to say the seven o’clock Mass. Perhaps he had been taken ill? When I picked up the phone Nöl spoke in a low voice as though he might be overheard. ‘Paul, can you come over to the chapel at once? I’m just going to start Mass. Wait for me in the sacristy. It’s urgent.’

  Nöl was the last person in the world to be alarmist. Normally, I walk to the chapel but that morning I took the school car, our little white Peugeot. The streets seemed quiet. A light rain was falling. The school chapel sits across the road from the college. When I went into the chapel I saw that only about a dozen people were attending the service. Nöl, who always said Mass quickly, was already coming up to the last gospel, so I went into the sacristy, knowing I would only have a few minutes to wait.

  There was no one in the sacristy. No one living, that is. Under the bench that was used to lay out vestments I saw a large purple dustcloth of the sort that covers church statues in Holy Week. It was draped over a body. The heels of polished boots protruded from one end. Part of the cloth was stained, its purple colour darkened by what looked like blood. Outside, in the chapel, I heard coughing and movement of benches as the congregation began to leave. I went over and lifted the cloth. Priests see death more often than do other men. But now my hand trembled as it held the cloth. The face was hacked by knife cuts, the body an oozing mess. Machetes had slashed again and again at the torso and head, ripping the fabric of the military uniform so that dead flesh bulged out. The eyes were open and stared past me as though in the moment of his death Colonel Maurras had seen something he would be for ever condemned to watch. I pulled the cover back over the body. Sitting on a ledge by the window was his wallet, folded back to show a military pass and a photograph which bore his name.

  Behind me, the sacristy door opened and Nöl said to his altar boy, ‘Take your surplice over to the school. I have to speak to Father Paul. You can bring it here later.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Nöl came in, shutting the door
behind him. He put down chalice and paten and began to untie his chasuble. ‘Have you looked at it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maurras,’ he said. ‘He was the one you told me would come here with a political message. Right?’

  ‘Yes. What happened?’

  ‘The night porter found the body outside the school gates about five o’clock this morning. Someone rang the bell and when he went down to investigate he saw half a dozen young men walking away from the gates. They carried machetes. He didn’t unlock the gate but left the body where it lay in the street. He was afraid to touch it. This morning, when I came to say Mass, he was waiting for me. I searched the body, found that wallet and knew it was the man you were expecting. So I helped the porter carry the body in here. Who was Maurras?’

  ‘Do you remember the boy we buried a few years ago? Shot by a colonel of the president’s guard?’

  ‘I’d forgotten,’ Nöl said. ‘But obviously some people have not. Were they Jeannot’s boys, do you think?’

  I didn’t answer. I said I would have to tell Jeannot at once. ‘Leave the body here. Don’t let anyone in. Tell them the eight o’clock Mass has been cancelled.’

  Nöl looked at the shrouded corpse. ‘Do you think he was on his way here to tell you something?’

  ‘That’s what I have to find out.’

  The streets were still quiet. The great square surrounding the palace was empty of army vehicles. I parked my car in the usual place and walked towards the ornamental gates. Jeannot’s ‘soldiers’ were still on guard there. I began to take heart. I was admitted and led to Pelardy’s office. Jeannot was there, talking on the telephone. I went up to him. At once, he covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘What is it, Paul?’

  ‘The Colonel.’

  He put the phone down at once and turned to Pelardy and Mathieu Clément. ‘I have to speak to Paul. If you’ll just wait outside? It’s something private.’

  When they left the room I told him what had happened. He listened, then asked, ‘Was he on his way to warn us?’

  ‘You mean who killed him? Your people or theirs?’

  ‘Theirs?’

  ‘It could be that they killed him and left him at the college gates to warn you that you’re no longer safe.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘Because, if you’re afraid of a coup, you’ll send people back into the streets to show your strength. Which may be just what the plotters want.’

  He stared at me. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Jeannot, if this violence continues, they won’t need to stage a coup. The outside world will turn against your regime. And as soon as that happens, don’t count on your friend General Hemon. The Army will take over the government for the sake of “restoring public order”. It’s a trap as old as the history of Ganae. And I think you’re falling into it.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘This is a revolution and it’s just beginning.’

  ‘Is it? What sort of revolution? The Army and the elite have the guns. If it comes to an open conflict thousands of our people will be killed. Even if this thing hadn’t happened with Maurras, I was going to speak to you today. I was going to tell you that you’re responsible for these deaths. It’s hard for me to say this, I who respect you, who look up to you, who think of you as a sort of saint.’

  ‘Oh Paul,’ he said. ‘I’m no saint. But, don’t you know how much I hate this killing?’

  ‘Then end it,’ I said. ‘It’s terrible and it’s working against you.’

  ‘But do I have the right to end it? What will happen if our people give up the struggle? What does God want me to do?’

  Suddenly, Pelardy hurried into the room. ‘Jeannot, there are some army vehicles moving into the square outside. I don’t know. Is something wrong?’

  Jeannot turned to me. ‘If they killed Maurras, that means they know he’s told us their plans. And it could mean they’re about to move against me. Do you have your car here?’

  ‘It’s parked in the public car-park across the square.’

  He went to the door and opened it. ‘Mathieu?’

  Mathieu Clément came in at once.

  ‘Mathieu, make out a special pass for Father Paul’s car to come in at the rear entrance to the palace. We’re going to drive, incognito, to Radio Libre where I’ll go on the air and make a special announcement. No one must see us leave. Once I’ve finished at the radio station we’ll drive to Lavallie. We mustn’t be followed.’

  ‘What’s going on? Why Lavallie?’ Pelardy asked.

  ‘Pele, my life may be in danger. We’ve got to get out of here. Mathieu, hurry! Get Paul’s pass.’

  Ten minutes later I was sitting in my little white Peugeot outside the palace kitchens where several provisions vans were unloading the day’s food. When Jeannot came out of the building with Pelardy and Mathieu Clément, he was wearing a white cotton shirt and trousers, his head completely covered by a large floppy straw hat of the type that sugar-cane cutters used in the fields. None of the servants or delivery men noticed him. As we drove back up to the rear entrance, again, I waved my special pass at the soldiers on duty. They barely glanced at it. We drove out in silence and at once, in the great square, I saw that things had changed. The immense space, empty minutes ago, was crowded with army vehicles. There were even three tanks lined up in front of the main gates. In the courtyard, soldiers stood in riot formation, facing the presidential quarters. There was no sign of Jeannot’s personal guards. Two army staff cars were parked at the main doorway. One flew a general’s flag.

  We drove out of the square. On the Avenue de la République shopkeepers were hastily pulling down iron shutters over windows and doors. Others were loading goods into taxis as though preparing to flee the city. On every street corner soldiers stood, holding automatic rifles, laughing and joking as though they had been summoned to a fête. Further up the street we heard shots. We passed a group of children who were hurling rocks at the already shattered windscreens of two cars. In the Rue Desmoulins some market stalls had been looted and wrecked. Spoiled fruit was scattered across the road.

  ‘I think we were lucky,’ Jeannot said. ‘If we’d waited ten more minutes we’d have been too late.’

  ‘If that’s so,’ I said, ‘they’ll have control of the radio stations.’

  ‘Let’s find out,’ Jeannot said.

  Radio Libre is a two-storey concrete building on a hill overlooking the Meredieu district. In the days of the dictator it was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, its gates controlled by electricity and manned by Doumergue’s bleus. After Doumergue’s death the gates were left open and the guards removed. And now as we drove up, the gates were open. There were no soldiers about. Everything seemed normal. But suddenly Jeannot said, ‘Turn round, Paul. Don’t go in.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Look.’ He pointed to the entrance. An old beige Cadillac was parked there. Beside it, a police car and a police motor cycle. ‘That’s Raymond’s car,’ Jeannot said. ‘Remember what Maurras told you. “Raymond will be at the radio station ready to broadcast as soon as he hears they’ve taken over the palace.” ’

  I turned the car round. ‘Take a left up ahead,’ Jeannot said. ‘That’s Avenue Mouton. There’s a café on the corner called L’Américaine. I spoke there during the elections. They have radio and a television set. If the coup has been announced they’ll know about it.’

  When we drove up to the place he had indicated he said, ‘Mathieu, you go in. We’ll stay in the car.’

  Mathieu did as he was bid. It was a big café, open early because it was near the cattle market and served breakfasts of steak and Cuban beer. I parked the car half a block away. The café was crowded, not with customers but with people who had come in off the street to find out the news. Mathieu went inside. We watched him talk to some men who were sitting near the television set.

  At that point, about thirty people came out of the cattle market holding up two large placards with Jeannot�
��s picture. They passed by us, singing the hymn ‘Dieu et Patrie’.

  ‘Those people know,’ Jeannot said. ‘We have our answer.’

  As if to confirm it, Mathieu came out of the café and hurried towards the car. When Mathieu got in, Jeannot touched me on the shoulder. ‘Drive on. We’re going to Lavallie.’

  ‘Raymond made a speech on radio about fifteen minutes ago,’ Mathieu said. ‘According to him, you’ve been removed by parliament because of your refusal to govern by democratic means. The general assembly has appointed Raymond premier until elections can be held. He also said you’re believed to have fled the country.’

  ‘They’re pretending it isn’t a military coup,’ Jeannot said. ‘But as long as I’m free and able to contact a radio station, that lie isn’t going to work.’

  We were coming on to the road that leads from Port Riche into the mountains where Lavallie is situated. It was a main road, one of six that led out of the city. Ahead, amid the trudging lines of peasants bringing their bundles to market, was the usual hodge-podge of old cars, camionettes and mule carts moving in and out of the capital. But, as we came closer, we crawled along so slowly that we were moving little faster than the pedestrians marching along the sides of the road.

  ‘Roadblock,’ Pelardy said.

  Straddling the road were two army trucks and an armoured car, a machine gun swivelling on its turret. The officer in charge of the operation was a mulâtre with the rank of captain.

  Jeannot, when he saw the officer, turned to Pelardy. ‘Why is it a captain? Because they need someone who’ll recognise me, someone who’ll be able to control the soldiers who might let me through.’

  ‘It will be the same at all other exit roads from the city,’ Pelardy said. ‘And they’ll have a watch on the airport and the docks.’

  ‘If we could get past this lot,’ Mathieu Clément said, ‘there’s a coastal village outside Lavallie. We might be able to rent a fishing boat to take us to Cuba.’

  ‘I can’t leave,’ Jeannot said. ‘People must know that I’m here, that I haven’t been killed.’