No Other Life (26 page)

A hand touched my shoulder. At first I did not recognise this stranger, dressed as for a fashionable wedding.

‘Father Michel! I was hoping I’d see you here. I’ll never forget your kindness to me. Oh – by the way – Reverend Mother sends her best wishes.’

I remembered the maddened crowds outside Fort Nöl calling for her punishment. I looked down at the thousands of peasants and slum-dwellers assembled under the morning sun. Had they seen her? What would they do if they recognised her?

‘Isn’t it dangerous for you to be here, Madame?’

‘I have my husband,’ she said. ‘With him, I never feel afraid. Besides, we are here to pray for peace, aren’t we?’

Behind her, Lambert smiled at me. Behind Lambert I saw six soldiers of the Port Riche Battalion, facing out, watching the square, their Uzis at the ready. At that moment, Bishop Laval came up to me and shook hands. ‘It’s a little after ten. When do we begin? And have you ever seen such a crowd?’

‘I’ll ask Jeannot.’

I made my way through the clerics and dignitaries on the steps until I reached the bank of microphones where Jeannot stood. He was with Pelardy. Pelardy looked grim and displeased and, as I came up to them, I saw why. Senator Raymond, a portly figure in a double-breasted white suit, eyes opaque behind the gleaming lenses of aviator glasses, stood with his arm around Jeannot’s shoulders while photographers snapped pictures. Jeannot did not return the embrace, but did not spurn it, remaining immobile, withdrawn.

‘The Bishop is asking when do we begin,’ I said.

‘Is the General here?’ Jeannot asked.

‘The General is over there,’ Raymond said, pointing to the main doors of the cathedral where, surrounded by his military aides, General Macandal stood in full dress uniform with a gold lanyard on his shoulder and four gold stars emblazoned on the visor of his cap, looking out over the multitude with the air of a conqueror.

‘Good,’ Jeannot said. ‘Then we can start the rosary.’ He looked at me. ‘Paul, a moment?’

Taking my arm, he walked me past the microphones until we were out of earshot of the others. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked up at me. Those extraordinary eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Do you remember Toumalie, Paul? The day you found me and brought me here?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Do you regret it?’

‘No,
Petit
. Of course not.’

‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I always will.’

I, myself, was in tears.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘Let us begin.’

He stepped up on to a small platform, erected so that he could be seen over the tops of the assembled microphones. He looked out on the immense crowd and raised his arms in a gesture of peace. As he did, hundreds of posters bearing his picture were hoisted aloft. Cheers and cries of ‘Jeannot! Jeannot!’ echoed across the Place Notre Dame. I looked back at General Macandal. He stood, statue still, staring up at the sky, as if to ignore the sight before his eyes.

Again, Jeannot raised his arms.

‘Rosaries! Do we have our rosaries?’

Thousands of hands held up sets of rosary beads. Tiny candles, flickering feebly in the sunlight, were also held aloft. Jeannot gestured for silence.

With this recitation of the rosary

We ask our mother Mary

To intercede for us

To ask her son, Jesus Christ,

To lead us to the freedom that was promised us.

We ask God’s help.

Without it, we will fail.

Let us pray.

Making the sign of the cross, Jeannot began to recite the rosary. As his voice ended the first verse of the Ave Maria, he was answered by a vast mumble from thousands of throats. I watched him, a small, frail figure wearing the anonymous, cheap cotton clothing of the poor, with, behind him, like a frieze of pomp and circumstance, the elegant figures of Lambert and Caroline, the gold-braided officers, the purple-robed Bishop, the clergy in their starched white surplices and red soutanes. And, in the centre of the group, sweating under the morning sun, the imposing grizzled head of the senator who, from this day on, would, as premier, represent all of these powers.

Jeannot intoned the Aves. The multitude responded. The rosary is the most mechanical of devotions, repetitious, familiar, a prayer of rote. But that morning I heard it as I had never heard it before, not as a prayer but as a muttering chant, the words repeated over and over like a slogan. Among the people grouped on the steps around me, only the young priests and nuns gave out the responses. Beside me, Caroline Lambert plucked at a thread on her silk handbag, bored and impatient as a child in church. General Macandal and his officers, the Bishop and senior clergy, stood silent, staring out at the chanting multitude as though they faced an angry mob.

I did not pray. To me, that morning, the words of the rosary were a repetitious thunder of voices imploring a blue and empty sky. Who could believe that in those cold heavens, Christ’s mother listened to their plea?

Jeannot reached the final decade. At the last response he raised his hand to his forehead, and made the sign of the cross. The multitude followed suit. There was a moment of silence, broken only by the eerie hum of the waiting loudspeakers. Behind Jeannot, white against the blue sky, their arms outstretched in poses of piety, I saw the huge statues of a dying Christ, a blessed Virgin, a stern Saint Peter. And, again, Jeannot’s voice, quiet, incantatory, that voice like no other, crept out into the great square.

Brothers and Sisters,

My hour is past.

My day is done.

When you can no longer see me,

When you can no longer find me,

I will be with you.

I will be with you

As will those who have died from soldiers’ bullets,

Who lie in ditches,

Their bodies rotting,

Their minds stilled.

They are not dead.

They live on in you.

They wait

As I wait

For you to change our lives.

But, you ask me

Who will be our leader?

The dead are our leaders.

You and only you

With the help of God

And the memory of the dead

Can bring about our freedom.

It will not happen in a day

Or in a year.

It will not happen in a riot

Or in a parliament of fools.

It will happen when you

No longer ask

For a Messiah.

You are the Messiah.

As for me

I am nothing

I came from nothing.

Today I go back

To those from whom I came,

The poor, the silent, the unknown.

From today on

We wait for you.

As the dead wait for you.

To bring us freedom.

Brothers and Sisters,

You are the anointed ones.

With God’s help

You will not fail.

He bowed his head. The loudspeakers hummed in eerie tension. Then, abruptly leaving the podium, he walked down the steps and went towards the great multitude, his arms outstretched as if to embrace them. Suddenly, sticks beat on sticks, drums pounded, tin cans rattled, voices chorused, ‘Jeannot! Jeannot!’ Heads bobbed up and down. People rushed forward, embracing him, passing him on from one group to another, as he went deeper and deeper into the mass of bodies. In less than a minute I could no longer see him. Lambert’s dark-suited thugs, who had hung back, now plunged into the crowd trying desperately to locate him. But the mass of people, like a great wave, pushed them aside.

I saw Lambert signal to his soldiers who quickly formed a ring around Caroline as though expecting her to be attacked. But the vast, chanting, drumming throng ignored the lines of dignitaries massed on the cathedral steps. The huge square exploded into sound and movement as, the prayers ended, a wild celebration began. After a moment, the dignitaries turned to each other, confused. General Macandal signalled to the Bishop and both went back into the church. The elite and their wives exchanged hasty farewells and hurried to their limousines. The young nuns and priests rushed down into the square, joining the celebration.

Crossing the now empty steps, coming towards me, I saw the familiar bulk of Nöl Destouts in his frayed soutane and red Cuban sandals.

‘Paul, did you know about this?’

‘No.’

Below us, a mass of swirling bodies, four thousand bobbing heads, a deafening, joyous, carnival din.

‘
Mesiah
,’ Nöl said.

11

‘I have an excellent memory,’ Colonel Lambert said. ‘ “When you can no longer see me, when you can no longer find me, I will be with you.” Those were his exact words. Do you agree, Father?’

I said I did.

‘Accusations that he has been killed by police or army agents are, I can assure you, totally false. In my view, the sentence I have just quoted to you means that he didn’t flee abroad, that he is somewhere on this island, hiding like a lizard under a rock, and by this tactic encouraging the civil unrest and rioting of the past two months. More deaths, is that what he wants?’

‘I’ve told you, I don’t know what he wants.’

‘Second point. Foreign businesses are pulling out of Ganae to a far greater extent than is generally known. And when factories close here, they won’t open again. Result: the misery of the common people will be greater than ever before. Is that what he wants?’

‘There’s no point in your telling me all this,’ I said. ‘I am not in touch with him.’

‘I don’t believe you, Father. I’m sure you mean well. You’re a good man, everyone says so. I’m going to be honest with you. General Macandal wants to take a stronger line with dissenters and those clergy who continue to promote civil unrest. That will mean more interrogations and detentions. But before that happens I wanted to invite you here to see if there is any way we can convince your friend that we’re willing to discuss further political compromise if it will help to end this crisis.’

We were sitting in one of the living rooms in Lambert’s mansion, which was rumoured to be the largest private house in Ganae. One wall of the room was glass, with a view of a swimming pool, designed to give the impression that it was a Roman bath. As we talked, Caroline Lambert swam slowly, gracefully, up and down the pool. Embarrassed, I realised that I had not stopped watching her.

I said to Lambert, ‘You know that I am not in touch with him. You have had me followed day and night. My correspondence has been opened and I believe my telephone calls are being monitored. My friend Pelardy is in jail, held for the past three months without charge. In the slums of the cities and in villages and towns throughout the country innocent people have been beaten and shot to stifle their protests against the regime which you have put in place. If I knew where Jeannot was, I wouldn’t advise him to meet you. It would put his life in danger.’

‘That’s not true,’ Lambert said. ‘I’ll ignore your accusations and exaggerations. If Father Cantave can be persuaded to come forward, then you can be certain no one would dare to harm him. The whole world is curious as to his fate. He knows very well that he would be safe.’

At that point, Caroline Lambert climbed out of the swimming pool. A maid was waiting with a large white bath wrap, and a parasol which she held over Caroline’s head. The ladies of the mulatto elite fear the sun: for them it is the colour of darkness. Caroline, followed by her servant, walked towards us along the edge of the pool and, seeing me in the living room, theatrically mimed surprise then slid open the glass door and came inside.

‘Father Michel, what a pleasure! How are you? Excuse me, I’m wet and horrid, I must go and change. But, how nice to see you. Alain, you must arrange that Father Michel come to dinner soon. Remember our journey on the mules, Father? What an adventure that was.’

She went on through the suite of huge rooms and waved to me just before I lost sight of her. It was the last time I spoke to Caroline Lambert. Now, I look back to my foolish passion for her as yet another mockery of my wasted life. I did see her once again, a few years later, at a reception that I attended to welcome a new minister of education. While I was being introduced to the minister in my capacity as principal of the Collège St Jean, Caroline Lambert came up to us. She wore a golden evening dress and looked more beautiful than ever. My heart jumped. She greeted the minister warmly but when she was introduced to me, she smiled, mouthed the polite greeting one makes to a stranger, then walked on.

Her husband did not forget me. Some weeks after our meeting in his house, I was taken from the college residence in the middle of the night and interrogated in Fort Nöl. The questions were no different from those that had been asked before. Where was Jeannot? Who had I seen last month when I went to Jamaica to visit our Provincial? The manner, however, was different. I was punched, kicked and called a liar, held in Fort Nöl for three days and released only when, through our Order, my plight was communicated to Rome and Cardinal Innocenti. Apologies were offered to the Provincial and to the papal nuncio, but not to me.