No Other Life (24 page)

‘You haven’t answered my question,’ Jeannot said.

‘What will happen if you don’t co-operate? You will disappear. You may have fled the country, you may be in hiding, you may have been killed. Your followers will attempt to locate you. There will be the usual conspiracy theories but nothing will be proven. The OAS will announce that you are still the elected president of Ganae, but that you have vanished. After some months, when there is no new information, the world’s attention tends to move elsewhere. A new president will be elected and you will pass into history. I was Chief of Staff in the days of President Doumergue. I know how these things end.’

There was silence in the room. Colonel Lambert produced a silver cigarette case and offered cigarettes to me and to the General. No one accepted. Lambert then lit a cigarette and spoke for the first time.

‘So, Father Cantave. You are an intelligent man and the General is offering you a fair choice. We are asking you to help end this bloodshed and save many lives. If you do it, you will remain as president of Ganae. If you don’t, we will govern without you. It’s up to you.’

I looked at Jeannot. At the beginning of this interview he had been outraged. Now he seemed unsure. He put his hand up, shielding his eyes, as though he were in pain. At last, he said, ‘I can’t go on radio tonight. I must have time to think about this.’

The General turned to Lambert. ‘Alain?’

‘The curfew is in effect until eight o’clock tomorrow morning,’ Lambert said. ‘The storm will dampen things down in most parts of the island. Supposing I ring Father Cantave at ten o’clock tonight? That should give him time to make up his mind.’

‘Father Cantave?’ The General stared at Jeannot.

For a moment Jeannot did not answer him or look at him. At last, he said, ‘I will talk to you at ten.’

‘Good,’ the General said. He turned back to Lambert. ‘Now, what about the others? Have you heard from the Archbishop?’

‘Yes. He’s promised to speak on radio and television at nine o’clock tonight. There will be prayers for the healing of Ganae’s wounds. Senator Raymond will also take part in the broadcast.’

Outside, it began to rain again, a downpour that washed the windows of the room we were in, as though someone had turned a hose on the glass. General Macandal looked up at the sound, then asked Lambert, ‘Was there a hurricane warning, do you know?’

‘I think it’s called Dominic,’ Lambert said. ‘It’s moving up from Barbados.’

‘We’d better get back to Port Riche then,’ the General said. ‘I’ve set up an eight o’clock meeting with the American Ambassador.’

They spoke easily, conversationally, as though Jeannot and I were no longer in the room. There was something more chilling in this insouciance than in their former words of menace. The General rose from the table, put on his forage cap and said, ‘Ready, Alain?’

Lambert turned to me. ‘Father Michel, my wife is coming home tomorrow. She managed to telephone me this morning as soon as she heard I had returned. She told me of your kindness to her. Thank you. We are in your debt.’

He and General Macandal walked out of the room. The Major appeared in the doorway.

‘Come with me.’

He led us down the dark corridor and up a flight of barracks stairs. Above, I heard the sound of the helicopter as it lifted into the sky. We were led into a small room with two beds and two sinks. ‘We will bring you some supper in a while,’ the Major said. ‘Colonel Lambert will ring you at ten o’clock.’

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
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, 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?’