by Brian Moore
He shut the door. Jeannot went at once and lay down on the bed, covering his eyes with his hand.
‘Migraine?’
‘It will pass. Just let me lie quietly for a little. Can we put the light out?’
And so I sat on the other bed in darkness. Outside, the storm beat on the window. I watched Jeannot who lay face down, unmoving. What would I do if I were him? In the past twelve hours I had seen violent and senseless death more often than at any time in my life. He had seen it too and yet, when he went on radio, he had not tried to stop it. Was he still certain that his actions were God’s will?
An hour later there was a knock on the door. This time it was Lieutenant Sami, accompanied by a soldier who brought us coffee and a dish of eggs and bread.
‘Why are you here in the dark?’ Sami asked, switching on the light.
‘Turn it off,’ I said.
‘No, it’s all right.’ Jeannot sat up in the bed. I saw that he was sweating, his face drained, his eyes clouded. ‘Are you listening to the radio?’ he asked Sami. ‘Is there still trouble in the streets?’
‘Things are quieter now,’ Sami said. ‘It’s the hurricane. It’s hit Mele. They say it will bypass the rest of the island but it’s raining everywhere. You know that there’s a curfew, don’t you? People will be shot if they go out in the streets.’
‘Yes, we know. Thank you,’ Jeannot said.
When Sami and the soldier left the room, Jeannot said, ‘They can’t turn the clock back, can they? People took to the streets today, thousands of them. We’re winning. What do you think?’
‘You say we’re winning. The world is on our side. But you said, earlier, that the Army has taken over, that the Army is now the law. What protection will our people have against armed soldiers? You say it’s too late for Macandal and Lambert to turn the clock back. But what about those who’ve died already, what about the others who will die tomorrow and the next day and the next? They can’t turn the clock back either.’
He looked at me with pain-clouded eyes. ‘If there are enough of us, if our will is strong, it won’t last long. But the question I ask myself is this. If I refuse them and they shoot me tonight, will the people carry on without me? Macandal is lying when he says he’d pretend I’d disappeared. He’d hang my corpse on a lamppost in the Avenue de la République to prove that I’m no longer a danger. And then what will people do? That’s what I must think of now.’
He bent his head, his hand over his eyes. ‘Do you mind if we put out the light for a while? And not talk?’
I switched off the light. Fifteen minutes later it was switched on again. The Major stood in the doorway. ‘Colonel Lambert is on the telephone. Come.’
Jeannot left and was gone for half an hour. When he came back he went to the sink, washed his face and wiped it with a towel. He seemed alert, his old self.
‘What happened?’
‘I told Lambert I will remain as president and accept Raymond as my premier. I will speak on Radio Libre tomorrow morning but I insisted that it be live and that I be seen on television. The people must see me, they must know I’m still here, still in charge. I have also promised to hold a press conference and reassure the foreign journalists.’
At that moment I felt a strange sense of relief. ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I think you’ve made a wise decision.’
‘I didn’t make a decision. I prayed to God for an answer. He has given me an answer I could not have dreamed of.’
‘Tell me.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t. God has decided this game. Tomorrow, we will play it out. Now, try to get some sleep.’
10
Something happened that night. I woke to the sound of truck engines starting up in the courtyard below. Floodlights had been switched on and their reflection silvered the darkness of our room. I heard the sound of soldiers’ boots, voices shouting orders and the slamming of tailboards as the vehicles moved out. I got up and went to the window. Below, a dozen trucks filled with armed soldiers were moving in convoy through the main gates of the fort. When they had gone, a lone soldier crossed the courtyard to close the gates behind them. I looked back at Jeannot. He lay on the bed, his hands crossed on his chest, his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, immobile as the funerary statue of a medieval knight, recumbent on a tombstone. Below, the noise died to silence. The courtyard lights were shut off. His profile became a silhouette. It did not move. I stared at it. I was watching someone I did not know.
Shortly after dawn, Lieutenant Sami unlocked the door to admit a soldier who brought us coffee, bread and bananas. Sami said we would be leaving for Port Riche in half an hour. But minutes after he left the room the helicopter in the courtyard below began to rev up its rotary blades. The Major appeared.
‘I’m sorry, but we must hurry. Are you ready?’
Outside, the rains had ended. A rust-coloured dawn faded to the monotonous blue of a Ganaen summer’s day. Lieutenant Sami shook hands with me just before I boarded the helicopter, saying, ‘Some day I must come and visit you at the college, Father. Those were happy times for me. Good luck on your journey.’
Jeannot was already in the helicopter. The Major, who sat directly behind us, took his revolver from its holster and held it slack on his lap. We flew high over the desolate plain that surrounded the fort. Within minutes we came to the coastline, a white rim of breakers far below us. In the noise of the engines I could barely hear the pilot’s voice on the intercom but I caught the words. ‘ETA seven-twenty-seven . . . Escort?’
Suddenly, on our left, two small army training planes flew alongside, then climbed above us. Our pilot turned and shouted back to the Major, ‘All clear. All clear. We can go in.’
The Major nodded and leaned forward, shouting in Jeannot’s ear. ‘We’ll be landing soon.’
The helicopter banked and turned towards the sea. Ahead, we saw the sprawl of Port Riche, the docks, the deserted exhibition grounds, the gleaming white shell of the presidential palace. As we came lower, the streets seemed empty. It was not yet eight. The curfew was still in effect. Soldiers were stationed at all the major crossroads and a cluster of army vehicles was parked in the Place Mafoux, a few streets away from the palace. Now we were over Radio Libre with its high, barbed-wire fences, its antenna, and, in the car-park, some thirty armed soldiers. Clouds of dust billowed across the steps of the front entrance as the helicopter settled down near a group of official limousines. When the dust cleared and we climbed out of the helicopter, six soldiers surrounded Jeannot, like a bodyguard. Some yards away I saw a dozen foreign journalists and as many photographers, who were being held back from approaching us.
On the steps of the radio station, Colonel Lambert, in uniform, a revolver holstered on his belt, beckoned the soldiers to bring Jeannot inside, then smiling at the foreign journalists, called out in English over the noise of the helicopter, ‘All right, gentlemen, all right. In a moment, in a moment.’
From the main hallway of the radio station, we were taken quickly into a small room. Lambert preceded us, accompanied by two civilians. Jeannot’s military escort remained outside. The two men who came into the room with Lambert wore dark suits, white shirts, and black ties. They were large, heavily-built mulâtres, sullen and tense, as though at any moment they might be called on to do something violent. Although he kept smiling, I could see that Lambert was also tense. He said to Jeannot, ‘Father Cantave, everything has been arranged as you wished. Your address will be carried live on both television and radio. There has been one hitch, which is that the foreign press wants to interview you before you make your address. I know you didn’t want that. But I would be grateful if you would tell them yourself.’
‘Of course,’ Jeannot said. ‘Let them in. I’ll speak to them now.’
‘One moment,’ Lambert said. ‘We have made an agreement and I intend to live up to my part of the bargain. Just remember that I control the facilities of Radio Libre this morning. If I hear something which negates our bargain, your address
will be terminated at once.’
‘I would have expected as much,’ Jeannot said. ‘I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that.’ He turned and stared at the two dark-suited strangers. ‘Who are these men?’
Lambert smiled. ‘Your guardian angels. It’s just for today. Shall I bring the press in?’
‘Yes.’
They came in, in a rush, the photographers at once snapping pictures, the reporters crowding forward, the questions overlapping. ‘Would you say this was a coup – have you been ill-treated – is it true that you’ve been replaced?’ I recognised most of them as regulars at the bar of the Hotel Régence, resident correspondents for their national newspapers and networks, and, thus, well briefed on recent events. Jeannot held up his hands, silent until the noise subsided.
‘Gentlemen, I am about to make a public address. It will be on television and radio and I think it will answer your questions. Other than that I am not prepared to discuss the events of the past twenty-four hours. I hope that what I tell the people will help to arrest this tragic chain of events. That is all, gentlemen.’
‘Why is there blood on your shirt?’ someone called out. ‘Were you injured – were you attacked?’
‘It’s not my blood,’ Jeannot said. ‘It is the blood of my friend Mathieu Clément who was killed yesterday in a tragic accident. I have not been attacked.’
He turned to Lambert. ‘All right. Let’s go.’
The two dark-suited men at once cleared a passage for us through the reporters and photographers. In the corridor we were surrounded by the six armed soldiers who led us at a brisk pace up a flight of stairs and into a suite of offices and studios. An elderly, elegant man, smelling strongly of scent, came forward, welcoming Jeannot like an old friend. ‘Good to see you, Monsieur le Président. Everything’s ready for the broadcast. Do you want to go straight in?’
‘Come with me,’ Jeannot said, taking my arm. The two dark-suited men closed in on either side of us as we entered a hangar-like space which was a television studio. Lambert followed. A make-up man in a white smock came over to Jeannot. ‘Sir, will we change your shirt?’ Jeannot shook his head.
The floor director came up and shook hands with him. Jeannot was familiar to these people, at home in this atmosphere. In the days of his campaign and his presidency Radio Libre was a place he visited every other day. Now he went up to the broadcast area and sat in an armchair. Technicians moved around him. A small microphone was attached to the collar of his dirty white shirt. The two dark-suited men stood a little off to the side and, as one of them eased his heavy buttocks against a wall, I saw the bulge of a revolver under his armpit. Lambert, who whispered something to the elegant old station manager, came into the broadcast area and stood off-camera, a little to the left of Jeannot. He raised his hand and made some signal to the dark-suited thugs. They nodded. Lights glared down on Jeannot. A television camera moved in on him. The floor manager waved to Jeannot and pointed to a clock. A young announcer stepped up to the microphone on Jeannot’s left. He watched the clock. When the hand touched eight, the camera rolled towards him and he spoke.
‘This is Radio Libre. This is a special broadcast on national television and radio. We have with us here in our studio Father Jean-Paul Cantave, President of Ganae. President Cantave.’
I looked at Jeannot and saw that he no longer sat in the armchair but had risen and stood facing the cameras. I looked at the monitor and saw that he was in close-up, his eyes staring trancelike at his unseen audience.
Brothers and Sisters,
Today, I weep.
I weep when I see our people shot dead in La Rotonde.
I weep when I see innocent farmers
Murdered in a ditch in Papanos.
I weep when I see a rich man and his family
Hacked to death in the square in Doumergueville.
I weep when I see the soldiers of Ganae,
Loosed like police dogs on the poor.
I weep because words of mine,
Yes, words which I spoke
Yesterday,
And the day before
And the day before that,
Words of mine may have sent
My Brothers and Sisters
To their deaths.
Words of mine may have sent
Soldiers into the streets of our cities
To kill and be killed.
And for what?
We have not won our freedom.
That is a long fight.
I know now
It will not happen today or tomorrow.
But it will happen.
It will happen when the people become one.
So strong, so loving that our enemies will fail.
The power of love is greater than the power of hate.
We must love our enemies
As Christ taught us to.
Even those who would rule us
By the gun and by fear.
They are our Brothers and Sisters.
We are one family. God’s family.
I have been asked to stop this killing.
I have been asked by General Macandal
And by the parliament of Ganae
To appoint Senator Raymond as my premier.
I have been asked to share the powers you gave me
With others I did not choose.
Will I do this?
He paused. At once, in the studio, there was an air of alarm. I saw the dark-suited thugs come to the alert. Lambert, staring at Jeannot, raised his hand, signalling to the floor director, ready to halt the broadcast.
Jeannot kept staring at the camera. And then he said,
I will do it.
Yes.
I will do it because
Love drives out hate.
General Macandal,
You have asked me to conclude this address
With a prayer for peace in Ganae.
I will do more than that.
I ask you, Brothers and Sisters,
Here in this city
And in all the towns and villages of our land.
It is eight o’clock in the morning.
I ask
That in two hours’ time we in Port Riche
Gather in the Place Notre Dame,
Before the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Secours.
As you, all over Ganae,
Must gather outside your churches
To pray.
To pray to Our Father that He help us now.
That He lead us to the freedom promised us.
We must ask His guidance
To end our troubles
To give us justice.
For the poor, the despised, the wretched.
Come.
Come in your thousands.
This morning, let us pray.
He bowed his head and joined his hands in an attitude of prayer, then looked off camera, signalling that he had finished his speech.
The cameras moved to the young announcer, who said, ‘That was an address by President Jean-Paul Cantave, from our studios in Port Riche.’
In the background I heard the recorded music of the national anthem. Lambert went up to Jeannot who stood patiently, as crew members removed his microphone.
‘That was very moving,’ Lambert said. ‘Excellent. I have just one question, however. This prayer service. What will it consist of?’
‘We will say the rosary. That’s all. The service will not be held inside the cathedral. I hope we will have too great a crowd for that. I also hope that, as this is a religious service, there will be no military presence in the Place Notre Dame.’
Lambert smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but in the present state of unrest an assembly of this size will have to be policed.’
‘Peacefully,’ Jeannot said. ‘That’s all I ask.’
‘We will issue instructions. The military will behave. You have my word.’
The elegant old station manager came up self-importantly. ‘Colonel, Gener
al Macandal is on the line.’
‘Excuse me one moment,’ Lambert said. He went off with the station manager.
Jeannot came over to me. ‘Let’s go back to the palace, Paul.’
One of the dark-suited thugs held up his hand: ‘We must wait for the Colonel, sir.’
‘Then let us wait,’ Jeannot said. He smiled at me. ‘This is the era of co-operation.’
So, we waited. After a few minutes, Lambert returned. ‘General Macandal sends his compliments. He too, was pleased with what you have just said. He agrees with me, though, that we must have some policing presence at this rosary ceremony. He also suggests that Archbishop Pellerat be invited to take part in the service.’
‘The Archbishop is welcome to attend, if he wishes,’ Jeannot said. ‘As I said, it will not be a service, but a simple recitation of the rosary. I will lead the prayers and we will need microphones set up in the square so that the congregation can follow them. And now, I would like to go back to the palace.’
‘Of course. My men will drive you.’ Lambert turned and pointed to the thugs. ‘They will also take you to the service when the time comes.’
Jeannot looked at me. ‘Ready, Paul?’
‘Excuse me,’ Lambert said. ‘May I suggest that you won’t be bothered by the press if you leave by the back entrance. It’s up to you.’
‘Good. I don’t want any more questions.’
The station manager unlocked the small door and we were led through a yard, filled with rusting radio equipment. A black Mercedes waited. The dark-suited thugs then drove us out on to Rue Madame Ponset. The curfew had ended and the streets were busy with people. But it was far from a normal morning. There was an air of danger, excitement and disruption. No one seemed to be at work. As we drove through the market area, crowds were assembling and moving on foot and on bicycles in the direction of the Place Notre Dame. Some of these people held aloft placards bearing Jeannot’s picture. Two women carried a long, sheet-like banner behind which some forty people marched as in a procession. The banner read: jeannot, libérateur!
