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 mulâtres, 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?’
‘Come with me,’ Jeannot said, taking my arm. The two dark-suited men closed in on either side of us as we entered a hangar-like space which was a television studio. Lambert followed. A make-up man in a white smock came over to Jeannot. ‘Sir, will we change your shirt?’ Jeannot shook his head.
The floor director came up and shook hands with him. Jeannot was familiar to these people, at home in this atmosphere. In the days of his campaign and his presidency Radio Libre was a place he visited every other day. Now he went up to the broadcast area and sat in an armchair. Technicians moved around him. A small microphone was attached to the collar of his dirty white shirt. The two dark-suited men stood a little off to the side and, as one of them eased his heavy buttocks against a wall, I saw the bulge of a revolver under his armpit. Lambert, who whispered something to the elegant old station manager, came into the broadcast area and stood off-camera, a little to the left of Jeannot. He raised his hand and made some signal to the dark-suited thugs. They nodded. Lights glared down on Jeannot. A television camera moved in on him. The floor manager waved to Jeannot and pointed to a clock. A young announcer stepped up to the microphone on Jeannot’s left. He watched the clock. When the hand touched eight, the camera rolled towards him and he spoke.
‘This is Radio Libre. This is a special broadcast on national television and radio. We have with us here in our studio Father Jean-Paul Cantave, President of Ganae. President Cantave.’
I looked at Jeannot and saw that he no longer sat in the armchair but had risen and stood facing the cameras. I looked at the monitor and saw that he was in close-up, his eyes staring trancelike at his unseen audience.
Brothers and Sisters,
Today, I weep.
I weep when I see our people shot dead in La Rotonde.
I weep when I see innocent farmers
Murdered in a ditch in Papanos.
I weep when I see a rich man and his family
Hacked to death in the square in Doumergueville.
I weep when I see the soldiers of Ganae,
Loosed like police dogs on the poor.
I weep because words of mine,
Yes, words which I spoke
Yesterday,
And the day before
And the day before that,
Words of mine may have sent
My Brothers and Sisters
To their deaths.
Words of mine may have sent
Soldiers into the streets of our cities
To kill and be killed.
And for what?
We have not won our freedom.
That is a long fight.
I know now
It will not happen today or tomorrow.
But it will happen.
It will happen when the people become one.
So strong, so loving that our enemies will fail.
The power of love is greater than the power of hate.
We must love our enemies
As Christ taught us to.
Even those who would rule us
By the gun and by fear.
They are our Brothers and Sisters.
We are one family. God’s family.
I have been asked to stop this killing.
I have been asked by General Macandal
And by the parliament of Ganae
To appoint Senator Raymond as my premier.
I have been asked to share the powers you gave me
With others I did not choose.
Will I do this?
He paused. At once, in the studio, there was an air of alarm. I saw the dark-suited thugs come to the alert. Lambert, staring at Jeannot, raised his hand, signalling to the floor director, ready to halt the broadcast.
Jeannot kept staring at the camera. And then he said,
I will do it.
Yes.
I will do it because
Love drives out hate.
General Macandal,
You have asked me to conclude this address
With a prayer for peace in Ganae.
I will do more than that.
I ask you, Brothers and Sisters,
Here in this city
And in all the towns and villages of our land.
It is eight o’clock in the morning.
I ask
That in two hours’ time we in Port Riche
Gather in the Place Notre Dame,
Before the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Secours.
As you, all over Ganae,
Must gather outside your churches
To pray.
To pray to Our Father that He help us now.
That He lead us to the freedom promised us.
We must ask His guidance
To end our troubles
To give us justice.
For the poor, the despised, the wretched.
Come.
Come in your thousands.
This morning, let us pray.
He bowed his head and joined his hands in an attitude of prayer, then looked off camera, signalling that he had finished his speech.
The cameras moved to the young announcer, who said, ‘That was an address by President Jean-Paul Cantave, from our studios in Port Riche.’
In the background I heard the recorded music of the national anthem. Lambert went up to Jeannot who stood patiently, as crew members removed his microphone.
‘That was very moving,’ Lambert said. ‘Excellent. I have just one question, however. This prayer service. What will it consist of?’
‘We will say the rosary. That’s all. The service will not be held inside the cathedral. I hope we will have too great a crowd for that. I also hope that, as this is a religious service, there will be no military presence in the Place Notre Dame.’
Lambert smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but in the present state of unrest an assembly of this size will have to be policed.’
‘Peacefully,’ Jeannot said. ‘That’s all I ask.’
‘We will issue instructions. The military will behave. You have my word.’
The elegant old station manager came up self-importantly. ‘Colonel, General Macandal is on the line.’
‘Excuse me one moment,’ Lambert said. He went off with the station manager.
Jeannot came over to me. ‘Let’s go back to the palace, Paul.’
One of the dark-suited thugs held up his hand: ‘We must wait for the Colonel, sir.’
‘Then let us wait,’ Jeannot said. He smiled at me. ‘This is the era of co-operation.’
So, we waited. After a few minutes, Lambert returned. ‘General Macandal sends his compliments. He too, was pleased with what you have just said. He agrees with me, though, that we must have some policing presence at this rosary ceremony. He also suggests that Archbishop Pellerat be invited to take part in the service.’
‘The Archbishop is welcome to attend, if he wishes,’ Jeannot said. ‘As I said, it will not be a service, but a simple recitation of the rosary. I will lead the prayers and we will need microphones set up in the square so that the congregation can follow them. And now, I would like to go back to the palace.’
‘Of course. My men will drive you.’ Lambert turned and pointed to the thugs. ‘They will also take you to the service when the time comes.’
Jeannot looked at me. ‘Ready, Paul?’
‘Excuse me,’ Lambert said. ‘May I suggest that you won’t be bothered by the press if you leave by the back entrance. It’s up to you.’
‘Good. I don’t want any more questions.’
The station manager unlocked the small door and we were led through a yard, filled with rusting radio equipment. A black Mercedes waited. The dark-suited thugs then drove us out on to Rue Madame Ponset. The curfew had ended and the streets were busy with people. But it was far from a normal morning. There was an air of danger, excitement and disruption. No one seemed to be at work. As we drove through the market area, crowds were assembling and moving on foot and on bicycles in the direction of the Place Notre Dame. Some of these people held aloft placards bearing Jeannot’s picture. Two women carried a long, sheet-like banner behind which some forty people marched as in a procession. The banner read: jeannot, libérateur!
When we drove into the palace courtyard an officer of the Garde Présidentielle met us at the main entrance. Jeannot turned to the dark-suited thugs. ‘I am going up to my private quarters. I will come back down at nine-fifteen and you can drive me to the cathedral.’
‘Is there more than one exit from his private rooms?’ the thug asked the officer.
‘No.’
‘Good. We will come with you, sir, and wait outside your door until you are ready to leave for the service.’
To reach the presidential apartments we had to pass the suite of offices that house the President’s staff. Those offices, once filled with Jeannot’s advisers, helpers and handlers, were empty, the telephones silent, the computers switched off. The corridors where politicians, office-seekers and supplicants had waited to speak to the President, echoed to the lonely tramp of two soldiers of the guard. As we went towards the stairs that led to Jeannot’s quarters, Sister Maria came hurrying down to meet us. ‘Are you hurt?’ she asked, pointing to his bloodied shirt.
‘Where is everyone?’ Jeannot asked.
‘At home. Hiding. Until we heard you on the radio this morning we thought it was a coup.’
‘It was.’
‘Can I get you something? Are you wounded?’
‘No, no. Ask Matta to bring us up some coffee. And, please, come to the rosary at ten.’
‘Of course I will.’ She shook her head. ‘It was awful. I thought you were dead.’
The dark-suited men who had hung back during this conversation followed on our heels as we climbed the flights of marble stairs. At the top flight, sitting outside the doors to Jeannot’s apartments, the middle-aged sergeants who had guarded him in the early days of his presidency rose and saluted. The dark-suited men nodded to them, but did not attempt to follow when the sergeants unlocked the heavy doors to admit us. Now, at last, I was alone with him. He went into the ornate bathroom, stripped off his shirt and began to wash. I followed him in, my mind confused with questions.
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked him. ‘What’s this about the rosary?’
‘We will say the rosary. We will pray for God’s help in bringing us the democracy we asked for.’
We heard sounds in the other room. Matta, a palace servant, entered with coffee. He called in to Jeannot, ‘God bless you, you back with us.’
When Matta had gone I asked, ‘What if Raymond and the parliament try to maintain the status quo? Raymond will never go against the Army. And Lambert is back. Aren’t you worried about all of this?’
He came out of the bathroom and went into the huge bedroom where he took a white peasant shirt from a drawer. ‘Of course I am. We’ll never have freedom if those who lead the people don’t work for the people. Raymond and the Army will work hand in hand against them.’
‘And so?’
‘Ganae has always been ruled by corrupt presidents, or by dictators. The people have always waited to be led. They must not rely on a leader. They must learn to make the revolution themselves.’
‘But how can they do that?’
‘Christ was a leader who did not lead,’ Jeannot said.
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘You will. Drink your coffee. We must go.’
In Ganae, white is the colour of pomp and power. The palace is white, the parliament buildings are white and Notre Dame de Secours, which is by far the largest religious edifice, is a blindingly white, Spanish-style cathedral built in the eighteenth century to overlook what was then the largest place of public assembly in the capital, the Place Notre Dame. Because the square is laid out in uneven, eighteenth-century cobblestones it is largely avoided by motor vehicles. It is a square for strollers, surrounded in the daytime by market stalls and, at night, lit by old-fashioned gas lamps, a meeting place for the youth of Port Riche.
In front of the cathedral, four impressive rows of stone steps lead down to the square. Three huge marble statues look out on the city: Christ, dying on the Cross; a blessed Virgin; a stern and bearded Saint Peter. The features of these statues are, like their colour, white. Perhaps because of the cathedral, the Place Notre Dame has never been the site of public demonstrations. It is, traditionally, a place of religious devotion and processions, a place where, after funerals, mourners kneel in front of the monumental statues to pray for the souls of their dead.
As Lambert’s black-suited watchdogs drove our Mercedes towards the area, we were slowed to walking pace by the crowds converging on the square. The thugs, impatiently, began to sound the horn but Jeannot told them to be quiet. ‘Do you want this car to be mobbed?’ he said to them. ‘If they see me, the people will not let us through.’
When he had said that, he sat with his head down, his hands covering his face as, slowly, we gained access to the square. At once, I saw a crowd larger than any I had ever seen assembled there. Police, arm-linked in double lines, had cleared an aisle for the cars of dignitaries. An army truck was positioned at each of the four entrances to the square but the military presence seemed negligible. Slowly, bumping and lurching, we drove over the uneven cobblestones and reached the front steps of the cathedral. Waiting on these steps were a contingent of the elite, several high army officers and their wives, leading parliamentarians, and a group of robed clerics. I did not see the Archbishop among them, but Bishop Laval, under whose jurisdiction the cathedral lay, came down the steps to welcome Jeannot. Father Bourque, Nöl Destouts and others from our college were also present and as we climbed the steps towards the microphones and the podium, a group of Jeannot’s ‘liberation theology’ priests and nuns surrounded him, besieging him with questions. I heard him ask about the microphones. The sacristans of the cathedral had set up loudspeakers which were used when the cathedral could not accommodate the crowds at a large ceremony. The prayers would be heard all over the huge square and broadcast to the rest of the country.
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.