‘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.
A few days after my release from Fort Nöl, the nuncio handed me a letter from Cardinal Innocenti which had been sent by diplomatic pouch. It was marked ‘confidential’ and sealed with a papal seal. In it, the Cardinal expressed his regret for what had happened to me and asked if I had any news of Jeannot. He also said he was anxious to have my impressions of the current state of affairs in Ganae. Any information I could give him would, he reassured me, remain confidential.
I was grateful for his efforts in securing my release and in my report I tried to summarise my own impressions and conjectures. I told him that ‘All searches, killings, beatings and other intimidation of Father Cantave’s followers among the poor have failed to quench their faith in his eventual return, and so the government seems to have decided that its wisest course of action is to pretend that the battle is won. Father Cantave’s name is never mentioned by the government-controlled media. If questioned about his return, civilian and army leaders pretend indifference. Raymond, the premier, recently told Le Monde that “Cantave is now irrelevant. Ganae has moved on to a new stage of democracy.” I should also mention a statement made by Archbishop Pellerat to a group of visiting American bishops, which may not have come to the attention of Your Eminence. He was quoted as saying, “The ideas of social revolt promulgated by Father Cantave have been repudiated by the poor. They have had enough of the rioting and killings that his teachings inspired. In addition, his followers among the clergy, those priests and nuns who advocated radical social change, have been left without leadership.”
‘Your Eminence, the truth of the matter seems to be that Father Cantave’s ideas have not been repudiated but, indeed, have in some way been strengthened by his mysterious absence. The poor, more than ever, consider him a sort of Messiah and await his eventual return.
‘To answer your primary question I have no news at all of Father Cantave, nor do I expect to have any. He did not confide in me before his disappearance. In our last days together he told me that people must not rely on one leader. They must learn to make the revolution themselves. When I asked him how they could do that, he answered, “Christ was a leader who did not lead.” It is possible therefore that, in some way, he hopes to emulate Our Lord by passing into legend. I do not expect to see him again.’
A month after I sent this report I received a reply from Cardinal Innocenti thanking me for my ‘interesting and informative letter’. He made no comment on its contents and hoped that I would call on him, if ever I revisited Rome.