No Other Life (13 page)

But Nöl didn’t want an argument. He put his arm around my shoulders. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Will I get us a couple of brooms?’

‘Why not?’

But as we went towards the crowd of sweepers, Pelardy, who was standing near the photographers, saw me and called out. ‘Father Paul? Jeannot wants to see you.’

Jeannot, still handing up buckets of rubbish, paused when he saw me approach. He put down his bucket and came over. ‘How is the weather in Rome?’ he said.

‘Jeannot, I have to tell you about that. When can we talk?’

He reached into his dirt-smeared trousers and took out the gold pocket watch I had given him as an ordination present. ‘We’re going to bring food in at noon. Can you wait till then?’

‘Of course.’

He went back to the photographers and television crews. ‘No, no, it’s nationwide,’ I heard him tell them. ‘I’ve made a radio appeal for the same sort of clean up in Doumergueville, Mele and Papanos.’

I moved back to Nöl who handed me a broom. ‘What does our leader say?’ he asked.

‘I’ll tell you at noon.’

Half an hour later, army trucks arrived bringing more of Jeannot’s helpers, this time nuns and schoolgirls who began to set up tables laden with bowls of beans and rice. The clean-up stopped. The photographers got into their cars. The television crew began to pack up its gear. I saw Jeannot, smiling, embracing people, and being embraced. As always, the city’s poor crowded around him, touching him, praising him, asking favours, giving advice. I thought of that Vatican drawing room, the fire burning in the grate, my hands being held by an old cardinal with shoulder-length silver hair.
If by following the preachings of Father Cantave, the people of Ganae lose the Kingdom of God, then you and I must remember our duty.

But what was my duty on that morning when Jeannot’s clean-up began? I watched him, his clothes dirty, his manner, as always, simple and direct, the people around him depending on him, believing in him, grateful for what he had done and was trying to do for them. Surely he was of the Kingdom of God as I could never hope to be? What
was
my duty? Was it, as the Cardinal said, to save these people’s immortal souls, or was it to help Jeannot relieve their mortal misery? And as I stood there with Nöl, seeing the happiness in the faces of those who crowded around the tables to eat the simple food prepared for them, into my mind came that quiet but deadly sentence:
There is no other life.

Now, suddenly, Jeannot was in front of me. He was alone. Pelardy and other members of his staff had kept back those people who were trying to speak to him. He pointed to a huge Mercedes that sat among the army vehicles. ‘Let’s go to the car,’ he said. ‘I’ll see that we’re not disturbed.’

And so I sat with him in the back seat of the Mercedes which had once been the official limousine of the dictator. Six soldiers ringed the vehicle, keeping back the crowds who gathered to peer at, and wave to, their priest-president.

‘How is your mother?’

I told him. He bowed his head. ‘So it was true.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘At first, when I heard you were in Rome, I thought you’d lied to me about that.’

‘I didn’t lie to you. I didn’t know I was to go to Rome until after my mother’s funeral.’

‘Why didn’t you telephone me?’

‘Our Provincial asked me not to.’

‘And you obeyed him?’

‘Yes.’

He looked at me. ‘Whose side are you on, Paul?’

‘Yours.’

‘Are you? You came back on a plane with Elie Audran. He was in Paris, reporting to Macandal and Lambert. You were seen talking to him at the airport this morning. Very friendly. How do you know Audran?’

‘For God’s sake,’ I said. ‘His son was a pupil of mine.’

He lay back on the seat cushions. The interior of the limousine was stiflingly hot. I saw that he was trembling and sweating. I leaned over and opened the windows.

‘What happened in Rome?’

I told him. I told him all of it. As I spoke, the Java bands were playing in the square. People were singing. The soldiers guarding our limousine laughed and joked among themselves, turning now and then to look shyly in at Jeannot. When I had finished, Jeannot said, ‘Get in line, that’s the message, isn’t it? Do as we say or we’ll disown you.’

‘Wait. Innocenti’s not asking you to abandon your principles. He’s asking you to try to bring about change in a democratic manner. Arresting the likes of Caroline Lambert, and wrecking the nuncio’s residence makes you look like a loose cannon.’

‘I had nothing to do with the demonstration against the nuncio.’

‘Nonsense. You went on radio saying the Vatican has refused to recognise your government.’

‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’

‘I told you. It’s not true. That speech is exactly what Pellerat wanted you to say. Don’t you see? You’ve played into the hands of your enemies.’

He stared at me.

‘Pellerat wants Rome to turn against you, to excommunicate you. Listen,
Petit
. The elite is hoping you’ll make a fool of yourself. Why didn’t the police stop that mob? Why did they stand by and let them wreck the nuncio’s residence?’

He was silent. Then he said, ‘My God. Why didn’t I see it?’

‘You see it now. Do something. Go on the radio. Don’t let them get away with it.’

He put his hand on my arm. ‘You’re right. I must.’

I looked up. Pelardy was approaching. Jeannot saw him too. ‘Paul, what will you tell Rome?’

‘What would you want me to say?’

‘Buy me time. I need it.’

‘I’ll try.’

On that same afternoon Archbishop Pellerat, speaking at the head of the Ganaen hierarchy, apologised in a nationwide radio speech to the absent papal nuncio for what he termed was ‘a disgraceful attack on the nunciature by the followers of Father Jean-Paul Cantave, an attack, inspired by President Cantave’s hostility to Rome and the Holy Father’. He said it was an insult to the Holy Father that the new president of Ganae had not seen fit to issue an apology for these actions and it was the duty of every Catholic to repudiate such behaviour and the man responsible for it.

I heard the speech. I, at once, tried to reach Jeannot at the palace. I was told that he was at Radio Libre and would shortly go on the air. I called Nöl Destouts into the study and we switched on the radio. Java music was playing. Half-way through the record, the sound stopped. There was silence on the air and then a voice said, ‘The President of Ganae, Father Jean-Paul Cantave, will speak. Hold on.’ The music resumed and was again interrupted. ‘The President, Father Jean-Paul Cantave, will speak. Hold on.’

There was a background noise as though people were speaking out of range of the microphone. And then silence. Suddenly, we heard Jeannot’s voice.

Brothers and Sisters,

All my Brothers and Sisters in the good Lord,

Alone we are weak.

Together we are strong.

Étienne Pellerat, Archbishop of Port Riche,

Let me look you in the eye.

I have come to tell you I love you.

Because I love you, I must tell the truth.

Truth and love are the same.

Yesterday some of our youth went to the house

Of the Pope’s man in Ganae.

Their anger was just,

But their action was wrong.

The Pope’s man in Ganae is not our enemy.

We must respect him.

I tell him now that we love him.

If he returns to Ganae we will honour and protect him.

For he is the Pope’s man

And we are the people of the Pope.

But, Brothers and Sisters, we must not forget

Some in Ganae are not the priests of the Pope.

They are the priests of the rich,

They are the friends of our enemies.

Our enemies are vampires.

They lie in their coffins waiting to arise again

And again to drink the people’s blood.

That was in the past, Brothers and Sisters,

But they will do it again.

Some of them have fled with stolen fortunes

But they want to return.

They had power,

To these vampires, power is like blood.

They will kill to get it.

We must keep our power.

We must act now.

Caroline Lambert was rich, thanks to the poor.

In a country that is poor, thanks to the rich.

You, Brothers and Sisters, have asked for justice.

I promise you that justice.

In the name of Jesus who has given us our power.

Amen.

There was silence on the airwaves. And then, suddenly, voices shouted. ‘Jeann-ot! Jeann-ot!’

The national anthem blared. Nöl switched it off. ‘Why does he always wind up sounding violent, even when he’s making a sort of apology?’

‘He has enemies,’ I said. ‘We don’t. We haven’t been shot at, forced into hiding, our church burned down, our parishioners killed.’

‘I didn’t say he wasn’t sincere. The most dangerous thing about Jeannot is that he is. And the people who surround him are sincere. But their ideas of how to change things are as dead as the Soviet Union. Liberation theology is out of date. This is a capitalist world and we have to live in it.’ Nöl looked at his watch. ‘I must go. I have a study group at six-thirty.’

When Nöl left I sat by the window as sunset darkened the roofs of a nearby slum. This wasn’t ‘liberation theology’. This was a faith built around one man. Listening to Jeannot speak, it had come to me that this must be how people once heard the voice of Jesus, the voice of an obscure agitator in a remote province of the Roman empire denouncing the sins of the rich and preaching the Kingdom of God. The poor of Ganae believed in Jeannot as their Messiah, a Jesus come amongst them. The Kingdom of God is founded on faith. Faith is reason’s opposite. Jeannot believed that God had chosen him. Now he would use that belief to change the lives of others. At that moment I was besieged by doubts. But I had faith in him. And so, I hoped to change things.

For two weeks after our meeting Jeannot did not get in touch with me. I hesitated to call. I had nothing to report. I had done as he asked. Rome had been informed that our talks had gone well. And then, one morning while I was in class, a servant knocked on the door and told me I was wanted urgently in the school parlour.

Something about his manner alerted me. ‘Who is it?’

‘A gentleman. He didn’t say, sir.’

The school parlour is a hot dusty room, its windows shuttered against the sun, its rattan furniture worn by years of use. It is a place where parents come to talk to their sons during school hours. When I went there that morning the room seemed empty. And then, as though he had been hiding, a man who had been standing behind the opened door came out into the slatted sunlight. He wore an open-necked shirt and trousers and at first I did not recognise him. But when he spoke, I remembered him. Colonel Maurras of the Garde Présidentielle who shot the boy, Daniel, at the gates of the palace. In the few years since I had seen him his hair had become grey, his face lined, his body coarse and thickening. He inhaled on a cigarette, coughed, and put it out.

‘Do you remember me, Father?’

‘Yes, Colonel.’

When I said that he went to the door and closed it, shutting us in.

‘First, let me say that if you are questioned about my coming here tell them I came to ask if you will admit my nephew to your school.’

‘You are still in the Army?’

He nodded. ‘After the shooting I asked for a transfer to Doumergueville. I tried to forget what happened. But, of course, that wasn’t possible. That’s why I came today. I am not brave, Father. But I remember what Father Cantave said to me that morning. I feel I owe it to him to warn you that he is in great danger.’

Again, he looked at the closed door. ‘We will not be interrupted?’

‘I doubt it.’

I pointed to a chair, but he shook his head and walked to the window, peering out through the shutters. In the distance I heard singing as the school choir began to practise a hymn. He turned back to me and spoke in a low voice, his words jumbling into each other.

‘I don’t know details, so don’t ask me, and you must tell Father Cantave that if he brings me in for questioning he is signing my death warrant and perhaps his own. There are those who are planning a coup. I can’t tell you when it will happen, but it will not be until after the parliamentary elections in April. What happens at the elections will be the excuse. The Army doesn’t want it to look like a military coup. If the Army deposes Father Cantave and forms a junta there will be international protest. So the idea is to put some other politician in power. Don’t ask me who, I don’t know his name. I can tell you this. The coup is being planned in Paris. Lambert’s at the head of it. When it happens, General Macandal will fly back to Ganae and take over the Army. General Hemon, who is backing Father Cantave, will be offered exile. Lambert believes that when Hemon realises the situation he will co-operate.’