Office of Innocence (14 page)

XII

It was Palm Sunday. A week before his death, Christ entered Jerusalem, a rebel prophet, before the hooves of whose donkey the people strewed cloaks and palm leaves. Christ had a week to suffer, a week to live. To mark this civic triumph which would bring about Christ's death at the hands of jealous authorities, both Judean and Roman, the altar was dressed with palm leaves, and a pile of cut palms stood on a table at the side of the altar, to be blessed and distributed to Mass-goers.

These palms were cut each year by seminarians in the deep gullies of the Blue Mountains, and supplied the parishes of the archdiocese and of much of the palmless hinterland of New South Wales. Darragh, as a student, had traipsed down with others into the sunless, lush groins of earth to cut the native tree palms, to load the branches, fresh and moist, in sacks, and then to climb out of the valley with them to the escarpment, where a Carolan-like monsignor from Darlinghurst had braked a large truck borrowed from one of the faithful who ran a transport company. This monsignor, secure in his power, dispensed them all from their Lenten fast, for the truck was loaded with good things—pastries, cakes, and pies. Lent was suspended for one giddy, plump hour as custard tarts and those pink-and-brown delicacies named Neenish tarts were fed into mouths absolved by the monsignor of their own greed. Palms clipped by virgin youths were piled on the truck bed.

The Lenten fast would end at noon on Easter Saturday. And then the Resurrection would bring joy. So Darragh hoped. He loved the liturgies of Holy Week, and looked to them to restore him to his former self by their manifold mysteries and wonderfully engrossing rites. Since it might be the last Easter of Christian Australia, Darragh had resolved to observe it thoroughly. On Wednesday night the Lamentations of Christ were sung in the cathedral, Darragh catching a train to take part. As each lamentation was concluded—
Oh, my people, why have you abandoned me?
—one more candle was doused, to leave the great nave of the cathedral in deeper darkness. Darragh was back at the cathedral on Thursday morning for the Mass at which the oils were consecrated by the archbishop, and took St. Margaret's metal vials, filled with the next year's oils, back to Strathfield with him. On Thursday afternoon, after a Mass at which the monsignor enacted Christ's humility by washing the feet of some of the parish schoolchildren, the altar of St. Margaret's was stripped to naked stone, and the tabernacle left as open as an empty tomb. The Eucharist was moved to a side altar, where the devout kept watch till a late hour, as if in response to Christ's complaint to the sleepy apostles in the Garden of Gethsemane, “Couldst thou not watch one hour with me?”

On Good Friday, a further vigil, and the Mass of the Pre-Sanctified, that is, the Eucharist consecrated the day before. The crucifix and Christ's pierced feet were venerated, the reading of the Passion of Christ by the monsignor, Darragh, and Mr. O'Toole of the finance committee was conducted, and, later, the fourteen Stations of the Cross were led by Darragh. Each of the episodes of the Passion and Death was honored by a numbered depiction of the event attached to the church walls, seven on the west side, seven on the east. The same prayers were recited at each station, to celebrate the event illustrated: Jesus Is Flogged, Jesus Greets His Grieving Mother, Jesus Receives the Crown of Thorns, and all the other intimate tortures to which, for fallen humanity, the Son of God dedicated himself.

Then Easter Saturday, and the donning of the white vestments of Christ's imminent Resurrection, and at midnight Mass the lighting of the fire in the entryway of St. Margaret's from which the ornate paschal candle was lit and then carried to the sanctuary and installed in its place.
Christus surrexit hodie, alleluia!

These demanding ceremonies, with attendant sessions to accommodate sinners making a late run to the confessional, lifted the priest out of his lethargies and routines, and Darragh did not think for many seconds of aridity, nor congratulate himself on the redemption of Mrs. Flood or grieve the loss of Mrs. Heggarty.

The monsignor was going away with Monsignor Plunkett for a two-day golfing holiday at Bowral, and would not be in the parish from Easter Sunday noon until very late on Tuesday evening. There was some financial trick to occur on the Tuesday, the rolling over of a money bill, but Mr. Crotty, treasurer of the finance committee, would attend to it. All that the monsignor needed to do was sign two or three sheets of official parish paper in case the bank manager needed a formal letter from the parish priest of St. Margaret's for his files. Mr. Crotty knew what to put in the letter over the monsignor's signature.

So Darragh received the signed sheets with the illustration of the splendid church in the upper right-hand corner, and put them in his desk before going off to Rose Bay and lunch with his mother and Aunt Madge. At his mother's that Easter Sunday, he ate sumptuously of the traditional meal of lamb and drank sherry with Aunt Madge, who intended, now that Lent was over, to really hit the pictures and catch up on films sacrificed in the penitential season.

On the second morning of the monsignor's absence, when Frank Darragh was eating a breakfast rather richer than normal, the butter plenteous for once on the table because of the American sergeant's generosity, Mrs. Flannery went to answer the cranking sound of the bell key. Having himself heard that noise from the front door, more a rasp than a ring, Darragh had hoped it was not a particular tormented young parishioner, a fellow about eighteen, who attended Mass each day, spending most of his time in his pew rocking on his knees, eyes shut, a sad case of excessive piety. He would frequently approach Frank and ask for an impromptu session in the confessional, at which he would confess some nuance of desire which he thought would damn him to the pit of hell if it were not instantly absolved. This poor, freckled fellow, who seemed to lack friends, was locked in such a relationship to his own sinfulness that no other events counted with him. Even a Japanese invasion would hardly shake his career as the Narcissus of guilt. He was the only person who was likely to interrupt breakfast to plead for absolution.

But it was not him at the door after all. Mrs. Flannery came back to tell Frank, “It's an American military gentleman.” She clearly approved of the visitor, and lowered her voice. “I think it might be the one who brought us those nice things.” There was obvious hope for the arrival of further nice things. “He's waiting in the hall.”

Darragh abandoned his breakfast, put his serviette in its silver ring, and went out immediately to see Fratelli. The sergeant's fingers, Darragh noticed at first, were working away, moving nervously around the rim of the large white helmet he held in his hands. Looking at the painting of St. Jerome, he was full of a restive energy which had not been there on his last visit. He wore a white webbing pistol belt and a baton in its leather sheath, and was white-gaitered as if for duty. The armband with the letters MP on it completed the effect. He looked quite heroic.

“Father, hi,” said Fratelli.

“Happy Easter, Sergeant,” said Darragh. “If it's not too late.”

“It's not too late,” said Fratelli, rather distracted. He extended a hand lightly to Darragh's elbow. “We have an AWOL situation. A colored soldier who's been missing from his company these two weeks past. I suppose you'd call it desertion, technically. He's a Catholic. Louisiana. You speak French, Father?”

“Not much. Why do you ask?”

“Our boy speaks Creole, or Cajun or whatever. A French language anyhow. But he's got English too. Could you come and talk with him? Otherwise he's likely to get shot.”

Shot? Here on the Western Line of Sydney? It sounded like a film. Fratelli had over-stipended him for a Mass for the repose of a soul, and now he found himself in a film.

“See,” said Fratelli, laying on Darragh his ponderously earnest almond eyes, “he's been hiding with this woman up in Lidcombe. A white woman! The neighbors spotted him and called us. Just like back home, no one likes that sort of thing. See, these guys run when cornered, and some of the white MPs won't stand for that.” A wave of Raphaelite ruthlessness passed over Fratelli's eyes. The courtier or the angel in Fratelli was merciful but all the time held a sword behind his back. “But you could talk to him, kind of tell him the Virgin wants him to give himself up, and so on. Maybe you ought to take one of those things you wear around your neck.”

“A stole?”

“Yeah, you better take one of those.”

“But Lidcombe isn't in my parish. Can you wait a moment?”

Fratelli grimaced. “Ten minutes,” he suggested. “See, I've got this squad waiting outside. I'm in some trouble if that boy skips before we get there.”

Darragh went to the Catholic Directory by the telephone and got the number for Lidcombe parish, Father Gerald Tuomey, P.P. He rang it and the housekeeper answered. He asked if Father Tuomey or his curate was in. The housekeeper said no. Both were out. He began to explain—the American MPs wanted him to go with them to Lidcombe to give spiritual guidance to an American soldier whom they intended to arrest.

“There's no American soldier here, Father,” the housekeeper assured him.

No, he explained. Within Lidcombe parish. He had hoped to get Father Tuomey's approval, and to inform him as a courtesy.

“Well, he isn't here, Father, I'm sorry.”

“Will you tell him I called?”

There was no real choice, he told himself, hanging up, panting as if he'd just run a sprint. Darragh put on his clerical stock, to which the white celluloid collar was always affixed, tied its strings around his shirt, and fetched his coat. A small stole, purple on one side, white on the other, was always in his pocket—the minimum vestment for solemn moments. Leaving the presbytery, he found that two military cars and a truck were parked near the school, and early-arriving schoolchildren were being entertained by having the military police ask them their names. “Michael, eh? Does anyone call you Mickey?” One of the military police was Australian—he wore a slouch hat, though he too was armbanded, bore ammunition-pouch webbing, and had a pistol at belt. Darragh was comforted to see him. Something recognizable in an impending alien scene. He stopped to tell the children to go to the playground.

The scale of this military party, the fact that it was made up of troops of two nations, allayed his earlier canonical fear that Lidcombe was beyond his parish. This was obviously an urgent foray which transcended narrow borders.

“We're going,” called Fratelli to those of his men who were on the pavement. Those who had been talking to the children climbed back into the truck. Darragh joined Fratelli in the front seat of the first car. The corporal driver and the master sergeant both turned to him. “You're a local, Father. What's the best way to Bombay Street, Lidcombe? It's north of the railroad station.”

This seemed to Darragh an excessive demand, that he, the spiritual counselor, should also be called on to navigate. “Surely you know the way,” said Darragh. He saw himself for a second, in this heightened scene, like a nineteenth-century farmer suddenly reluctant to show the mounted traps the way a convict escapee had gone.

“Sure, we looked up the Parramatta Road route,” the driver said, “but there might be a better one.”

It seemed to Darragh that Fratelli understood his reluctance. He lowered his voice.

“Look, Father, you're a decent guy. But we're coming back with this Negro whatever route we take.”

“Go up Barker Road,” said Darragh, “and turn right at Flemington. Then you can take Parramatta Road.”

“Got that, Corporal?” asked Fratelli. Along Albert Street, Darragh could see they were still in the known universe of ordinary bungalows, not unlike his mother's in Rose Bay, and the occasional slightly grander two-story house with wrought-iron balconies. The earth reached under a giant sky which seemed a guarantee of tranquillity. It was not a sky in which black soldiers could conceivably be shot.

They swung across the bridge over the railway at Flemington and passed the saleyards where sheep came to await slaughter, and then leftwards into the main road. Across the yellow tiles of the Sheepyard Inn (locals called it the Sheep Shit), doors grimly shut now, offering no beer until the afternoon bacchanalian hour or two, fell the shadow of their convoy, the shadow of men on an ammunition-pouched mission. The sparse shops of Parramatta Road were passed—Italian greengrocers recently returned from internment, milk bars, butchers, an opaque-windowed wine bar with its purple-faced dipso sitting hunched outside it, waiting for it to open and serve him sweet muscat sherry. Garages, Moran and Cato's grocers, the accustomed sequence, over which glided the silhouette of Sergeant Fratelli's convoy.