A Very Bold Leap (21 page)

On the other hand, it was true that after a few weeks he decided, out of curiosity, and perhaps a little out of polite interest (it was always a good idea to keep on the good side of an employer who paid so handsomely), to attend one of the witness meetings.

Coïmbro had just told him that an exceptional guest was visiting the church, Pastor Bukuru Tabala-Taopé, having come directly from Africa to share an extraordinary mystical experience with the faithful members in Quebec. Céline was going out that night anyway, and so Charles had dinner with the electrician in a restaurant near the church. He ate a filet de sole that hadn’t seen the ocean for many a long day, and at seven o’clock took his place in the almost filled-to-capacity auditorium to listen to the witnessing of the foreign visitor.

Charles was looking up, inspecting the damage that a leak in the roof had caused to a painting on the ceiling that showed Jesus in the temple debating with the Doctors of Law, when a wave of shushing announced the arrival on stage of Pastor Tabala-Taopé and his introducer, Brother Miguel, both of whom had appeared at the front of the church, from which the altar had been temporarily removed. They stood a few steps from the railing, their faces grave, their hands folded, their heads slightly inclined, while an electric guitar and a saxophone, accompanied by a set of drums, played the air from the canticle “Jesus, You Bring Us Life.”

When the music stopped, Brother Miguel motioned his guest to a chair, thanked the audience for coming, and launched into a lengthy introduction. After ten minutes, Charles was so bored he could barely sit still. Pious
blandishments followed by meaningless superfluities floated in a syrupy banality larded with obscure biblical quotations, the whole thing delivered in a vibrant staccato that was meant to whip up fervour and enthusiasm but that failed to produce even the hint of an emotional response. Charles felt sorry that Brother Miguel was such a boring speaker, because despite everything he rather liked the man. He looked at Coïmbro, who was listening unperturbed, staring fixedly at the black pastor.

Finally it was Bukuru Tabala-Taopé’s turn to speak. He was a thin, nervous-looking man, nearly bald, somewhere in his forties, who had lived through an experience that had been at once both marvellous and terrifying. Two years ago, he began to relate, after a long period of hardship and overwork, he had had a heart attack. A doctor called to his aid had actually pronounced him dead. His wife, however, a fervent redemptionist, threw herself to her knees before his mortal remains and invoked the Very Powerful Name of Jesus — upon which her husband, through the grace of Our Lord and Saviour, had been brought back to life, despite the fact that the early signs of rigor mortis had already begun to set in!

The pastor made a sign and two teenagers sitting in the front row stood up and began distributing photographs to the listeners: they showed Bukuru Tabala-Taopé holding up his own death certificate.

He then began to recount the story of his voyage beyond the grave.

After having crossed a zone of storms that was so dark that no human being could imagine its opacity, he flew over Hell, of which he gave a predictably gloomy description, and finally ended up next to an enormous stone wall. He could vaguely make out the contours of an immense rectangular structure accessed by an equally massive door, also constructed of stone. The entire scene was bathed in a kind of otherworldly light that was impossible to describe. A sort of breath of wind, neither warm nor cold, enveloped the new arrival, filling him with a feeling of well-being that was both strange and exquisite. Suddenly, a being appeared before him. It was of medium height and wearing a luminous robe or tunic; his hair was blond and his face was also luminous, and in his hand he held a sword that was so shiny it hurt Tabala-Taopé’s eyes.

It was one of the Guardian Angels at the Gate of Heaven, Bukuru Tabala-Taopé declared to his rapt audience. And he had a message to deliver to the pastor, a message that was both good news and bad.

“Bukuru,” said the angel in a voice as powerful as it was melodious, “you are at Heaven’s Door. But the Lord has judged that the moment has not yet arrived for you to share with Him the joys of celestial bliss. He is sending you back to your loving wife, and to your human brothers and sisters, so that you may continue to pour out your love and your support, and in that way bring your virtue to a state of perfection. Return to Earth,” the angel said, “and fear sin.”

And that is when the pastor had come back to life, to the great joy and amazement of his wife and his children, and his friends, and his flock.

All this could have been related in five minutes, but the pastor spoke for an hour and a half in his nasal, monotonous voice, rolling all his
r’s
, transforming his
o’s
into
ou’s
, and sprinkling
l’s
all over the place. Charles never did find out how the pastor’s fabulous adventure ended, because he fell asleep.

“That was awful,” declared a sombre-faced Coïmbro as they left the church. “My cat could have given a better talk than that. I mean, I believe his story, but the grace of God wasn’t in him…”

Charles laughed.

“Come on, José. Don’t tell me you believe all that claptrap! Posing for a photograph of himself with his death certificate! What a childish trick! I suppose next he’s going to paste some plastic wings on his back and pass himself off as an angel.”

Coïmbro tried to defend the resuscitated pastor, but without much conviction, relying mainly on the authority and prestige of Brother Miguel, who always chose his guests with great care and discernment.

“Wait until next week, Charles,” he said, suddenly bubbling over with enthusiasm. “It’ll be another thing altogether. I guarantee you, my friend, that it will be an extraordinary night. The guy who’s going to come and speak to us, I’ve heard him before. Three times. And all I can tell you, Charles, is … is…”

He searched for the words but couldn’t find any that would express his feelings. In the end he grabbed his companion’s arm.

“You’ve got to come! Promise me you’ll come!”

“I’d rather spend the time in a meat grinder,” Charles laughed.

“No, Charles, come. Come next week or our friendship is over!”

And Coïmbro stalked off angrily down the street.

A
week later, sitting on his bed, his eyes closed, Charles was inhaling the fragrance from a pretty, apricot-coloured slip that Céline must have left him the previous night as a memento of their long, fevered evening of love-making, when the phone gave its small, imperious ring, which was about as welcome and friendly as a parking ticket. It was Brother Miguel. He apologized for calling him so early; he’d been wanting to discuss an important matter with him for a couple of weeks now, but had always been detained in the four corners of Montreal by work. Would Charles be so kind as to stop by his office at around eight o’clock in the morning?

“What the devil does he want with me?” Charles asked himself, intrigued but vaguely uneasy as he made his way north on the subway.

As he neared the presbytery, he noticed that someone had placed a splint on a branch of the small chestnut tree that some idiot had broken the previous week. The sight of the bandaged tree, all perked up with its large leaves turned joyously towards the sun, brought a smile to his lips.

As he entered the building, his attention was immediately drawn to the smell of hot chocolate that floated down the hall; then he heard the laughter of children coming from Brother Miguel’s office. He knocked on the door.

“Come in, Charles,” called the pastor.

He was greeted by a surprising spectacle. Brother Miguel was sitting behind his desk, on which were six steaming cups of hot chocolate, and he was brushing the long, blond hair of a young girl of about five years old. When she saw Charles, the girl leapt to her feet with a frightened cry, broke away from Brother Miguel’s arms, and ran into the next room; four other children, whom Charles hadn’t noticed until then, also jumped to their feet
and followed her, shoving each other aside in their haste to escape; a sixth, hidden behind a filing cabinet, raised his head and let out an impertinent “Cuckoo!” before returning to his hiding place.

“These are my children,” Brother Miguel explained, slightly ill at ease. “They’re here unexpectedly. I have to look after them this morning while my wife goes to the dentist.”

Then, in response to the unspoken question he read in Charles’s expression, he added, “My poor wife is so afraid of the dentist that the babysitter had to go with her.”

“Ah, I see,” said Charles, suppressing a strong urge to laugh.

This pot-bellied fifty-year-old with oversized glasses and a herd of small children seemed so reduced and old-fashioned that Charles felt a twinge of pity for him.

“Cuckoo!” shouted the child from behind the filing cabinet.

“Félix!” sighed the pastor. “Calm down a bit, please, and let me speak to this gentleman. Here,” he said, as though struck by a sudden inspiration, “take these cups of hot chocolate to your brothers and sister before they get cold. Take one cup at a time, and be careful not to spill any.”

Félix thought the suggestion a good one and began making the transfers between the office and the next room with small, careful steps. Excited whispers could soon be heard from the other room. Félix was revealed as a small boy, fragile in appearance, but with a mobile face, unusually long and covered with red spots.

“Have a seat, Charles, please,” said the pastor, indicating a chair on which a large stuffed dog was perched. “Here, give it to me. Sorry to subject you to all this … chaos! As you can see,” he added, keeping the corner of his eye on his son, “God has blessed our union: my dear wife has given me one reasonable son, two pairs of twins, and a delicious little girl with the most beautiful hair in the world, but hair that is, alas, very difficult to brush. Good. Let’s get down to brass tacks — with children you never know how much time you’re going to get.”

He leaned over and rested his elbows on his desk, and his kind face took on a serious, even slightly stiff, expression.

“For a while now, Charles, I’ve been meaning to ask you a very important and delicate question. Concerning donations.”

“Donations?”

“Without donations, Charles, our Church cannot survive. We help people within the limits of our abilities, but at the same time we depend on the help of others.”

“Of course,” said Charles, who was beginning to suspect which road the conversation was heading down.

“Can I drink my chocolate in here?” asked Félix, proud of having completed his task without incident.

“Yes, but keep quiet, okay, my boy. Daddy and this gentleman are talking about something very important.”

The child nodded his head and stared at Charles as he sipped his chocolate. He remained standing beside the desk.

“As I was saying,” Brother Miguel resumed after slowly folding his hands together on his desk, “we depend on the generosity of our members, but also on that of our employees.”

And he fixed on Charles a look every bit as grave as that of his son, who for his part was suddenly seized by a violent cough. The boy quickly set his cup down on the desk, splashing a good part of it over the wooden surface.

“You want me to give back some of my salary?” Charles asked in a low voice, his eye twitching.

“I am appealing to your sense of generosity, Charles. Generosity excludes by its very nature any sense of obligation. ‘When the Just Hand gives,’ as we read in Deuteronomy, ‘the heart of God trembles with joy.’”

“And what does it do if I refuse?”

A cry of desperation rose from the neighbouring room.

“Daddy!” one of the children called. “I have to go pee-pee!”

Laughter broke out.

“Gabriel is peeing his pants, Daddy!” shouted another voice gleefully.

“Excuse me,” said the pastor, getting up from his chair. “I’ll be right back.”

He hurried off into the next room and came back holding the hand of a small boy. He left the office, leaving the door wide open.

Several minutes passed.

Félix, unperturbed, went on sipping his hot chocolate and staring at Charles.

“Is it good?” Charles asked him, to break the silence.

The boy nodded, the trace of a smile curling his lips.

“I like hot chocolate, too,” Charles said. “But when I was your age, I couldn’t drink very much of it because it upset my stomach.”

“It doesn’t upset my stomach,” replied Félix, with an air of profound satisfaction.

There came a sharp scream from the next room, loud enough to make the adjoining wall vibrate.

“Daddy! Jacob poured chocolate on my clothes!”

“That’s because you puked in it, you pig!” shouted another voice, furiously.

Hysterical sobs, followed by the sound of pounding, then a number of thumps. The small blond girl appeared in the door.

“There’s chocolate
everywhere
” she announced.

Feeling out of his depth, Charles got up, grabbed a box of Kleenex that he’d just noticed on a chair, and went into the next room. Two small boys, completely saturated in chocolate, were wrestling on the floor, while a third, sitting in the corner against a bookshelf, was laughing uncontrollably. Charles separated the combatants, took half the box of Kleenex and gave it to the girl, asking her to mop up the floor, and with the other half started to clean the boys.

“My nicest shirt has got choclit on it,” Marc sobbed.

“It’s not so bad, it’s not so bad,” Charles consoled him. “Your mummy will wash it for you and it’ll be as good as new. You’ll see.”
But where is that bloody Brother Miguel?
he thought.
Am I supposed to be their nanny, or what?

The little girl, whose name was Marie and who seemed accustomed to such scenes, left the room and came back with a rag, a plastic pail filled with water, and a wet towel; a few minutes later, the floor was clean and the two boys were returned to normal.

The assistance Charles had rendered them seemed to have established the beginning of a friendship between him and them, and the happy sentiment also spread to include Marie and her small brother, who was still sitting on the floor and who began to give a detailed description of his mother’s fear of dentists. Félix, supremely indifferent, remained in the pastor’s office.

In order to make it easier to keep an eye on all of them, Charles herded them all into the office.

“Would you like to draw some pictures?” Charles suggested, looking desperately out into the hall for their father.

“Can’t,” said Marc, shaking his head in discouragement.

“Can’t,” repeated Jacob, making the same gesture.

Félix said, “Tell them a story. They only like hearing stories.”

“Whenever you tell them a story, they stay quiet,” confirmed Marie, with maternal condescension.

“Yay! A story!” cried Pierre. “A story! What’s it about?”

“About Blue Fox,” said Charles, astonished by his response.

A few minutes later, with his audience gathered around him on the floor and Brother Miguel still absent, Charles was well launched into the story of the Adventures of Blue Fox and his sister Clémence and his friends Gustave the Bear, the Good Witch, and Super Duck.

Carried away by his own inspiration, flattered by having a captivated audience, he lost all notion of the passing of time, and could have gone on forever had there not come the sound of a slight cough from the doorway.

A man dressed in black was standing in the opening with a sly smile on his face. There was something superior about the way he stood there, and he seemed to have been listening for several minutes.

“The pastor isn’t here?” the man said, entering the office.

Charles took an instant dislike to the man. To this antipathy was soon added a strange fear, which was unlike anything he had ever felt for another person. Everything about the man suggested fire: his look, his smile, his voice, even the way he moved, as though he was constantly struggling to keep his impetuosity under control.

The kids were silent, looking warily at the man.

“He’ll be back in a minute,” Charles said coolly, wanting to get back to his story.

The man came into the room, however, and stood in front of Charles, scrutinizing him.

“You like children, I see,” he said.

“Yeah … It’s because I was one, once,” Charles said in an almost insolent tone.

“You’re still one. We are all God’s children.”

“If you say so.”

Charles made a face that bordered on being impolite.

“But it isn’t because I say so,” insisted the man. “It’s the way it is. It’s the way God wants it to be for all eternity. Don’t you agree?”

Charles reddened, and since the cause of his red face was his fear of this man, it humiliated him and made him angry. He gave a deep sigh, as though the conversation was boring him.

“Oh, well, you know, these stories … I think they all come from …” he hesitated. “… you know where.”

Then he felt he should add, “If you’ll pardon the expression.”

“It was a bit harsh.”

“Well, I just work here, see, and the only thing that really interests me is my salary.”

“Honesty is an admirable quality.”

He was about to say something that the man might have found even harsher, but when he looked up he saw Brother Miguel standing in the doorway, holding his son, who was naked from the waist down, by the hand. The pastor had been following their conversation with a horrified look on his face. The visitor turned towards him and gave a deep laugh.

“Well, well, Brother, I see you have some tough customers in your employ!”

“Tough isn’t the word for it,” blustered the pastor. At the sight of their father, the children came to life again and began whispering among themselves. “I believe he … owes you an apology, and that in due form and right this minute. Charles —”

“No, no, leave him be,” said the preacher, taking Brother Miguel by the arm. “I assure you, I found our little conversation very refreshing and wouldn’t have missed it for the world. As you know, I like people with spirit, and Charles, here, seems to have it in spades.”

“Well, that’s the truth… But nonetheless, I’m surprised to hear him speak like that…. He’s a good lad, I assure you, and a good worker, too …”

“I don’t doubt it.”

The preacher laughed again, but this time his laughter seemed forced, and carried an unpleasant note.

“I came to have a word with you, Brother Miguel, but I see you have your hands full. Would it be better if I came back after lunch?”

“Yes, of course, whenever you want. It’s just that this morning my wife had to go to the dentist’s, and —”

“Yes, that’s fine, until this afternoon, then.”

And he took himself off.

Brother Miguel closed the door behind the preacher, then, turning to his children, noticed the stains on the clothing of Marc and Jacob. He put his fists on his hips and spoke in a voice that tried to sound outraged.

“What a mess! Wait until your mother sees this! All right, vamoose! Clear out, everyone, and not another word!”

“It was a lot worse before, Papa,” Marie felt obliged to say. “This man and me, we cleaned it nearly all up.”

Brother Miguel sat down behind his desk and gave Charles a long, reproachful look, which seemed to have as much effect on Charles as the buzzing of a fly. The pastor sighed deeply.

“Do you know to whom you were speaking?” he asked.