A Very Bold Leap (30 page)

In other words, the moral state of La Tuque was, unfortunately, much like that of a great many towns in Quebec, where beer, television, video games, porno films, and the Loto-Québec diverted everyone’s attention from their prayers and preparations for the Last Judgment.

“I sometimes wish,” sighed Pastor Brodeur, carefully setting down his teacup, “that Satan would come back and settle into one or two of our parishioners.”

“We’re going to do our best to correct the situation,” replied Father Raphaël, with an air of great self-assurance.

He sent Charles to meet with some journalists from the La Tuque
Echo
and local radio and television stations, while Maxime and Marcel-Édouard contacted the three musicians Paster Brodeur had recruited for the meeting, which would be held in two days’; time. For convenience’s sake, the meeting had to be held in the Knights of Columbus Hall, since the church was having problems with its heating system.

Despite his eloquence and charm, Charles got nowhere trying to convince the person in charge of radio programming that it was in the station’s best interest to invite Father Raphaël in for an interview; he was enthusiastically received, however, by a writer for the La Tuque
Echo
, a certain Maurice

Morris, who took a liking to Charles and agreed to do an interview with the preacher the following morning. He then invited Charles to have a beer in a local bar. The man was just a little older than Charles, one of those guys who are good company at a bar, but still slightly rough around the edges: he liked disco, beer, soft-porn magazines, and good-looking women, among whom he enjoyed a certain success, despite having once had a bad case of acne. He was tormented by an unfortunate malady, however: he couldn’t spell worth beans, a fault that frequently got him in trouble with his boss, who was always threatening to make him take remedial grammar classes.

For reasons not immediately apparent, he found Charles a “super guy.” Out of politeness, Charles assured him that he was a super guy, too, and the two men decided to celebrate their mutual superness by making an evening of it. Over several bottles of beer they exchanged a number of humorous stories.

“Tell me,” Charles said at one point, “wasn’t Félix Leclerc born in La Tuque?”

“That he was, buddy.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing the house he was born in.”

“It was torn down a long time ago,” Maurice replied. “Or maybe it burned down, I don’t remember. It wasn’t much to look at, in any case.”

But when Charles looked disappointed, Maurice decided to show him that the town still maintained a certain historic sense, and took him to rue Saint-Joseph, where they stood before a plaque that had been set up beside a vacant lot that had once held a convent, now also long demolished, run by the Sisters of the Assumption. The sisters, according to the inscription,

WERE RESPONSIBLE FOR 67 YEARS OF SCHOLARLY AND ARTISTIC STUTTERING IN THE LA TUQUE COMMUNITY

Charles took a lively interest in the wording of the inscription and even wrote it down in his notebook, which flattered his companion no end. Their brief walk in the cold air, however, had worked up a thirst in the journalist and required them to return to the bar for corrective measures. This time, Morris authoritatively plunked his credit card on the table and announced that the night would be on him.

So it was quite late when Charles returned to the motel in which Father Raphaël had booked his troupe, having refused the local pastor’s hospitality.

He was tired, and his little outing with Morris was playing havoc with his stomach. After chatting for a quarter of an hour on the phone with Céline, he decided to go straight to bed without going out for dinner, and was asleep in minutes.

Suddenly he was awakened by a loud knocking on his door. He looked at his watch: it was two o’clock in the morning.

“Who is it?” he called out, a little nervously.

“It’s me,” Maxime replied. “Father Raphaël wants to see you.”

“In the middle of the night?” Charles called, surprised.

“In the middle of the night. Get up. He’s waiting for you.”

Still half asleep, and with his head still full of the dream he’d been having, Charles dressed and left his room. Father Raphaël’s room was a dozen doors down from his own. Despite the cold, Maxime was waiting for him outside, hands in his pockets, a curious smile on his lips.

“Mind telling me what’s up?” Charles asked good-naturedly.

“He’ll tell you himself.”

Charles grasped Maxime’s arm. “You know what it is about, don’t you. Why not tell me? Tell me or I’m not going in.”

Maxime hesitated, then gave him a contemptuous look.

“I don’t believe it… You haven’t figured it out yet, have you, you idiot? You haven’t noticed a thing? Amazing. It’s like you walk around with a bag over your head, for Christ’s sake.”

Stunned, Charles stared at him in silence. He was about to turn back to his own room when the preacher’s door opened and Father Raphaël appeared, fully dressed, looking furious.

“What’s all this confabulating out here? Charles, come inside. I want to talk to you. As for you, Maxime, what are you doing hanging around like this?”

The preacher’s tone was so imperious, his manner so determined, that Charles couldn’t help but follow him into his room. The door closed by itself behind him.

“Have a seat, please,” said the preacher, pointing to an armchair, his voice softening. “We need to talk.”

Father Raphaël took a chair from under a small desk and set it down across from Charles.

“I’m sorry to have awakened you so late at night, but I had such an urgent need to talk to you I couldn’t sleep. That happens at times. You keep pushing
a problem to the back of your mind and you just make it worse, and finally it takes up all the space in your head. It was getting to the point that I was finding it hard to breathe.”

“You seem to be all right now,” Charles said sardonically.

“You know, Charles,” said the preacher without responding to Charles’s impertinence, “I’ve been concerned about you for a long time now. Yes, I have. You don’t have to look so surprised, I know you know what I’m talking about; you’re an intelligent young man and you notice things — I could tell that the moment I laid eyes on you. I’ve been giving you all the private signals, but you haven’t seemed to want to pick them up.”

“What signals?” Charles asked, his voice shaking slightly.

Out of the corner of his eye he tried to see if the door was locked, but there was no way he could tell.

“Why this mocking tone? I’m talking about something very serious, much more serious than you can possibly imagine. You’re so young, you see. I’m talking about Love. The Love that God wanted to spread among all human beings, but which has found it so difficult to penetrate into our hearts. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Trying to look unconcerned, Charles shook his head.

“Charles,” said the preacher seriously, “you are running the risk of passing up Love itself, even though you hold in your hand an extraordinary opportunity to experience Love in all its glory.”

“Great,” said Charles. “Another sermon!”

He wanted to swallow, but his throat was too constricted.

“My work is difficult, exhausting,” Father Raphaël continued. “It’s been fifteen years now that I’ve given myself up to this job, body and soul, without a thought for saving my strength, without a care for my health, and there are times when I feel so alone, so weak, that it sometimes occurs to me to just pack it all in, let it go…. Maybe I am nothing but a poor, frail human being, Charles, whose time in this role has run its course.”

He stopped, heaved another sigh, raised his head, and looked straight into the young man’s eyes.

“But one thing has helped me overcome such moments of weakness and exhaustion: the notion that my modest efforts have contributed to the spread of the reign of Love down here on earth… No, no, hear me out, Charles, I beg
of you. I’m only going to detain you for another minute or two. After that you can go, if you want…. Do you remember the sermon I delivered two days ago?”

“Ha! Of course I do! And it completely turned me off, too.”

“Too bad. You must have misunderstood what I was saying, or perhaps I didn’t express my thoughts clearly enough. I was thinking of you when I said those words, Charles. I profoundly believe what I said that night. I believe that it is mankind, and not God, that has imposed these stupid barriers to the open and honest expression of Love. Love is such a beautiful and noble experience that it rises above our petty, obtuse, bourgeois rules. It is Life and Liberty itself, by its very essence. You don’t believe me? I hope you will let me try to convince you of it, if not at this moment, at least soon … For now, Charles, I need to let you in on a secret — or perhaps it isn’t a secret to you after all, eh?… Perhaps there have been certain signs here and there that have led you to guess at what I’m about to tell you …?”

He stopped and smiled.

“No? … All right. I’ll press on, then. Among the responsibilities I have conferred on Maxime and Marcel-Édouard there is one I have never explicitly mentioned before. I think the time has come to tell you about it. Your spiritual development is at stake here. Anyone who stops growing ends up shrinking, never forget that.”

He stopped again, still staring into Charles’s eyes.

“So?” Charles prompted. “What’s this big secret?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you for some time now, Charles, but knowing your character and your impetuous nature, I’ve held back… I’ve told myself that… But you have arrived at a stage in your development that makes it absolutely necessary that you …”

“Come on, man, spit it out,” Charles said. “Stop going round in circles!”

Father Raphaël gave a nervous laugh, then leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees.

“All right. As I was saying, one of the responsibilities I’ve given to Maxime and Marcel-Édouard is every so often to organize what we call a Festival of Love — which takes place very much on the quiet, as you can well imagine.”

“No, I can’t well imagine,” Charles said dryly, although the expression on his face suggested that he was beginning to catch on. “What are you talking about?”

“At my request,” the preacher continued as though swept up in a feverish dream, “Maxime and Marcel-Édouard, after sizing up the crowd, recruit several young men and women from among the faithful, and bring them to me so that we can celebrate the mysteries of Love together, and experience God’s Pleasure. And I must say that, over the years, they have become excellent hunters, and very imaginative celebrants themselves …”

His hand began to reach out towards Charles, but stopped, remaining suspended in mid-air.

“I want to invite you to our little brotherly love-ins, Charles, and perhaps even…. I even dream that one day, after carefully preparing your girlfriend, you might invite her to come and celebrate God’s Love with us. Why not? But perhaps I’m going a bit too quickly for you … I wouldn’t want to —”

He did not finish his sentence. Charles had leapt to his feet, emitting a strange cry, a kind of strangled roar. A deep, almost primeval anger had surged up within him, a blind, uncontrollable fury Alarmed, Father Raphaël jumped up at the same time, and Charles’s foot caught him squarely in the groin. A muffled groan escaped from the preacher’s mouth, and he doubled over, his hands clutching at himself. Charles kept hitting him, kicking him, and pounding him with his fists, shouting and calling him names. His victim fell to the floor; one of his cheeks had split open and blood was spurting out in a thick, steady stream. Charles could see its red stain spreading beneath the man’s hair.

Suddenly the door burst open and Maxime and Marcel-Édouard rushed in and threw themselves on Charles. After a brief struggle they managed to pin him down on the floor. The preacher, still doubled up on the carpet, continued to moan. Showing surprising strength, Marcel-Édouard kept Charles face down on the floor with his arms twisted up behind his back, while Maxime sat on Charles’s legs and contemplated the preacher with a curiously deadpan expression.

“What the hell are you doing?” cried Marcel-Édouard. “Go help him! I don’t need you here!”

Maxime got up and ran some cold water over a towel, then began to wipe the blood off Father Raphaël’s face. The preacher stopped moaning, but his breath was ragged. His head was turned towards the wall, and every so often the delicate ministrations of his assistant forced a groan from him. The young man left the room and came back several minutes later with some bandages.

Still lying on the floor, Charles, too, was having difficulty breathing, under the weight of his assailant. The pain in his right shoulder brought tears to his eyes.

“Let me go, you’re hurting me,” he said to Marcel-Édouard, who ignored him.
The old bugger is going to call the police
, he told himself,
and they’ll throw me in the clink. But I’ll be able to tell them a thing or two! Maybe I did go a little too far, maybe I should have just walked out on him. I don’t know what came over me… But he deserved to be taught a lesson, the old pig!

Once the bandages were in place, Father Raphaël stood up painfully and, with Maxime’s help, sat down on the edge of his bed. For a moment all was silence in the room. The two young men watched the preacher, letting him get his wits together and waiting for his orders.

“There’s some rope in the trunk of the car,” Father Raphaël finally said to Maxime in a strained voice. “Go get it.”

“What?” Charles cried in protest. “You have no right to take justice into your own hands!”

“Shut up, asshole!” Marcel-Édouard spat out, twisting Charles’s arm higher up his back. Charles cried out in pain.

“Be careful, Marcel-Édouard,” said the preacher. “We must remain calm.”

They tied Charles up, starting with his feet. After a brief struggle to regain his freedom, Charles gave up and let them do what they wanted. Then Father Raphaël said a few words to Maxime, which Charles couldn’t hear, and the latter left the room again and came back ten or fifteen minutes later.