A black Mercedes, flying the presidential colours on its front bumper, waited for me in the prison courtyard. The uniformed chauffeur held open the door and touched his cap respectfully before taking his place behind the wheel. As we drove through darkened streets, the city seemed asleep. There were few vehicles about and no sign of police or soldiers. Yet, somewhere in the distance, I heard shouts and, as we moved through the central market area, the sky was reddened by bonfires, attended by chanting, drunk-seeming youths. The shouts and yelling diminished as we drove towards the dead-of-night torpor of the parliament buildings and, at last, the vast deserted square surrounding the silence of the palace.
I was expected. Mathieu Clément, Jeannot’s press aide, waited at the main entrance and again I was led up many flights of marble stairs to the east wing and Jeannot’s private quarters. Tonight, he was not in his bedroom but in a large, book-lined library, the sort of ceremonial room where heads of state sit with important foreign guests, smiling and miming conversation as photographers record the meeting.
Jeannot stood by the window, looking out into the night. When he turned round, I sensed that he was apprehensive.
‘So what is the news from Rome?’
‘Cardinal Innocenti has been getting reports that you’re trying to set up a dictatorship.’
‘Reports from who? From Taburly? From the Archbishop?’
‘Probably from both,’ I said. ‘But I suspect Rome’s worried because the foreign press is beginning to say dangerous things about you. You must have seen the stories in the New York Times and Le Monde. The fact that you’ve refused to negotiate with parliament, the fact that you want to appoint your own premier – it sounds to the outside world as if nothing has changed since the days of Doumergue. And now these demonstrations – whatever you call them – are being viewed as incitements to violence.’
‘They’re nothing of the sort. They’re merely a warning that people have power and will use it to get their way.’
‘Their way?’ I said. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Justice.’
‘Justice? What sort of justice is there in putting someone like Caroline Lambert on trial when the real criminals are sitting free in Paris? Or arresting the likes of Elie Audran, whose main crime seems to be that he’s Macandal’s brother-in-law? How many other small-fry have you locked up lately?’
‘You don’t understand. We’re sending our enemies a message.’
‘What sort of message are you sending by putting someone’s wife in jail?’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘It’s Caroline Lambert. That’s what’s upset you, isn’t it?’
I felt my face hot. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I might have known. She’s clever, all right. She picked the right person. Good, kind Father Michel whose big heart is well known. What did she tell you? That she’s a victim of paranoia? Did she throw herself on your mercy? What was it, Paul?’
‘They’re going to kill her,’ I said. ‘Any day now.’
‘Who’s going to kill her?’
‘The people you taught to hate her. Her fellow prisoners in Fort Nöl.’
‘Is that what she says? It’s nonsense.’
‘Is it?’
He stared at me. ‘Why do you believe her?’
‘Why not? She’s not a criminal. She’s Lambert’s wife, that’s all she is. Don’t you realise what you’re doing? You’ve made her the scapegoat for everything that’s wrong here. You saw that crowd tonight outside the prison. But you didn’t see what I did, the crowd inside, the prisoners, screaming at her. They’ve already tried to kill her. Twice. Did you get the letter she sent you?’
‘What letter?’
‘Did you get it?’
My voice was loud. In all of our years together, Jeannot and I had never talked in this way.
For a moment he did not speak. Then he said, ‘Even you. I’ve been told it, but I didn’t believe it. She can twist any man around her little finger. Anyone.’
My anger was now so great that I couldn’t answer him. Then Jeannot, with that grace he had always possessed, came to me, gripped my shoulder and said, ‘Paul, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Maybe you’re right. I’ll ask the governor to put her under special protection.’
‘That’s not enough.’
‘What would you suggest, then?’
‘We’ve got to get her out of there.’
‘Where would we put her?’
‘I’ve thought of a place, a safe place. Let me find out if it’s possible to send her there.’
‘All right. Do it.’ He turned towards the window, and looked out at the night. Moonlight bathed the great square. ‘Now let’s talk about Rome,’ he said. ‘If Rome forces me to choose between being a priest or the President, what am I going to do? I can’t make that choice because first, last, and always I see myself as a priest. Can’t you make them understand? Can you reassure Cardinal Innocenti in some way?’
‘I can try.’
‘Please, Paul? It means – well, you know what it means to me.’
The following day I sent a facsimile report to Cardinal Innocenti. I did not send it through the nunciature because I did not want Taburly to contradict me. I told the Cardinal that Jeannot very much regretted the demonstrations and had promised to negotiate peacefully with his political rivals when the Senate elections came up in six weeks’ time. When I sent that report I was, as always, loyal to Jeannot and working on his behalf. But, for the first time, we were trading with each other. If I helped him, he would help me. For – there is no other word for it – I had become obsessed with Caroline Lambert. In those few days she was constantly in my mind: the image of her sitting across from me in that sinister room, tears in her eyes, her hands touching mine.
I had a plan. I remembered a visit I had made to a convent of Carmelite nuns in a remote part of Cap Nord. I managed to get through to the Mother Superior on the telephone. When I explained my dilemma, she agreed to take Caroline Lambert in until such time as she came to trial.
That same evening I went to the presidential palace. Jeannot received me during his dinner hour. He sat at a long table with his aides, all of them eating and arguing together. First, I told him of my report to Cardinal Innocenti. He was pleased. Then I told him about the Carmelite nuns. He looked up and down the table to see if any of his aides were listening. But the group was noisily engaged in some debate about how to get rice supplies to a starving village in Mele.
Jeannot leaned towards me. ‘How would she get there? It would have to be done in secret. Someone would have to take her. Who could we trust?’
‘I’ll take her.’
There was a silence. Then he said, ‘You know I don’t want to do this. You also know I can’t refuse you. Tell me. The convent isn’t a prison. What’s to prevent her running away?’
‘The convent is like a prison. It’s remote, on a mountain top, approached by a dirt track, which can be travelled only on foot or by muleback. There is no village for forty miles in any direction. I’ve spoken to the Reverend Mother and she’s promised they’ll keep a very close watch on her. If, and when, you hold a trial, she will have to return to Port Riche. I know that.’
He looked at me. ‘And the other, more important, matter?’ he said. ‘If you are not at the college, how will I be warned?’
‘Remember, we’ve been told that it won’t happen until after the elections at the end of April. Tomorrow is the 15th of March. I’ll only be gone for three days, at most.’
‘Still . . .’
‘Look. If the Colonel shows up, Nöl Destouts will take the message. Nöl will be deputising for me. He’s your friend. We can trust him. I’ll ask him to telephone you.’
‘He’s my friend,’ Jeannot said. ‘But I don’t want you to tell him what’s going on. We’ve agreed, haven’t we? We tell no one.’
And so, I did as Jeannot asked. I told Nöl only that the Colonel’s message, if it came, was a code for something political and that he must telephone Jeannot as soon as he received it.
‘But where are you off to?’ Nöl wanted to know.
I lied. I told everyone at the college that I was going to Cap Nord because Jacques Letellier, one of my scholarship pupils, now a judge, had become seriously ill. On the day after my second meeting with Jeannot, I went to the orphanage in Laramie that was run by the Sisters of Ste Marie. There I obtained a nun’s habit and sandals which I stowed into a canvas bag. Sister Dolores, a tall, heavily built Ganaen, the owner of the habit, was intensely curious as to my reason for borrowing it. I don’t remember what lie I told her, but by now I had become glib at dissembling.
Shortly before dawn on the following day I drove up to the grim gates of Fort Nöl. Jeannot had telephoned ahead. I was admitted at once and led to the governor’s office. There, sitting on a bench, was Caroline Lambert. The governor, roused early from his bed, was drinking coffee at his desk. I handed him the letter that Jeannot had given me. He read it suspiciously, then asked, ‘Where are you taking her?’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t say.’
I opened the canvas bag and took out the nun’s habit and sandals. ‘Put these on,’ I told her.
The governor watched as she struggled into the oversized, old-fashioned habit.
‘Pull the head-dress forward,’ I said. ‘Conceal your face.’
‘No release form, no transfer of the prisoner,’ the governor said. ‘It’s as though I’m letting her escape.’
He rose and looked out at the main prison courtyard.
‘Is that your car down there?’
‘Yes.’
‘The six o’clock guard shift comes on in about ten minutes’ time. If you leave quickly, I don’t think anyone will notice her.’
And so, as dawn came up, a priest and a nun passed through the gates of Fort Nöl and drove down to the terminal at Rue Desmoulins where decrepit public transport buses leave for the rural regions.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To a convent, far from here.’
‘Not a prison?’
‘No. But you must stay there for a time. I’ve given my word that you won’t run away. I must trust you. And I’m asking you to trust me.’
She turned and looked at me directly. ‘Of course I trust you.’
When we reached the bus station, Hyppolite was waiting for me outside the entrance. He did not look at the ‘nun’ who was with me. When I handed him the car keys, he smiled and said, ‘Bon voyage, Pe Paul.’
We watched him drive off in the car. I took her into the terminal and pointed to a bench near the ticket booths. ‘Will you wait there?’
She nodded and sat, her head bent forward, her face concealed by the ample head-dress. I went to the booth and bought two tickets to Damienville, the last stop on the northern route. As I paid for the tickets I looked back at her. What would I do if she tried to run away?
When I returned with the tickets and two beignets which I bought from a nearby kiosk, she took the food, thanked me and ate, still hiding her face from the other passengers who ran about, shouting at each other, asking questions, searching for the right departure platform. I had to leave her again while I, too, searched. When, at last, I found the Damienville bus, I seated us in the back row, behind a mother and three small, noisy children.
The bus, half-filled, began to move out of the terminal, its ancient engine noisily backfiring as we rolled into the Rue Desmoulins. One of the children, a little girl not more than five years old, put her head over the back of the seat, staring at us. After a moment she put her index fingers into her ears, wiggling them in performance for our benefit. Caroline Lambert laughed. The child, delighted, disappeared from view. And then Caroline, turning to me, put her hand on mine.
‘Thank you for saving my life.’
Her hand, holding mine. My hand, pressing hers, returning the secret embrace in a contact intimate as the touch of no other person in my life. I did not speak, nor did she. The ancient bus rumbled through the centre of the city, anonymous, unnoticed, a busload of poor folk – factory workers, farm labourers, artisans who had come to the city to offer their wares. I was alone with her, her body close. I trembled in strange exaltation.
In Ganae, as in no other country, to leave the slums of the capital is to enter an alternate scene of misery, the desolation of a land denuded of its trees, its fields debilitated by ignorant plantings of crop upon crop, its peasants living in lean-to shacks which give little shelter from the unrelenting sun and drenching rains. All day long, our bus travelled dusty roads, climbing into the harsh mountains, stopping in small villages, usually on the banks of a stream, where large-eyed children, their bodies brittle from undernourishment, clustered around the embarking or descending travellers in a listless charade of begging for coins. And then in late afternoon, as we came within twenty miles of Damienville, a man climbed on to the bus, holding in his arms a young goat. He sat himself down on a seat directly ahead of us and for a frightening moment he seemed to recognise Caroline, peering at her, smiling in an excited, half-mad way. She turned to the window, avoiding him, and at that point I saw that he was a Down’s syndrome victim. I leaned towards Caroline and whispered in French. I was sure he would speak only Creole. At that, she relaxed slightly but kept her head turned away from him. It was then that I looked at the goat, its long, sinful face like a carnival devil’s mask, its yellow, green-flecked orbs watching me, unblinking, the eyes of the evil one. I do not believe in the devil and not since boyhood have I feared hellfire. But, in some way I did not understand, it was as though the goat-eyes knew and incited my hidden desires. I heard my mother’s dying voice:
Please, Paul. It is not too late. Leave the priesthood now.
The goat flicked its head upwards, its eyes closing in a shame-filled blink. I looked at Caroline Lambert, hiding in her nun’s robe. She was seventeen years my junior, she was beautiful and foreign, someone from a world I could never enter. My longing for her was as unreal as that fleeting sight of the devil in the mask of a mindless goat.
There is only one hotel in Damienville, a dismal place where we ate in a dining room that smelled of rancid oil. Later, we were shown to rooms, small and squalid as cells. I tried to pray but could not. I lay on the dirty mattress, half-dozing, knowing that she lay a few doors away, my mind filled with the bitter irony of that beautiful, sensual face, framed in the purity of a religious robe.
Next morning I rented two mules and we set off up a twisting mountain track towards the region known as Pondicher. Here, in the high country, the air was thin and clear. Here, the land had not been endlessly divided among poor subsistence farmers, but belonged to a few rich families, people of Caroline’s sort. As we climbed upwards, we could see below us clouds like great grey airships, drifting into the tops of tall pines. This was Ganae as it must have been centuries ago, in those unknown times of the Arunda Indians, before the French conquest, before black slaves, imported from Africa, won their freedom by butchering their owners in the years of revenge and revolt.
We were alone. No birds sang. All was silence. I was riding on muleback in a landscape magical as a painting by Poussin. I looked at her, riding ahead, her body bobbing in the saddle as the mule picked its way upwards, and again, I was suffused by a sense of loss for a path not taken, an unlived other life.
Shortly before noon we sat together on a rock, overlooking a steep canyon, eating sandwiches which I had purchased that morning in Damienville. She was telling me about her education at a convent of the Soeurs de Charité in Paris.
‘I was twelve years old when I went to Paris. I had never been out of Ganae. I didn’t know your world. I found out that the white people in France saw me as a noir. I cried a lot. How could they think I was black? Look at me. If you met me in the street in Paris would you think that I was a dirty black person?’
‘Why is a black person dirty?’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘You haven’t answered mine.’
She stared at me. ‘Would you have done all this for me if I had been a black girl?’
‘Yes. It has nothing to do with it.’
‘Are you sure?’
I could not face her. I turned away.
‘I’m sorry, Father. Forgive me. We were talking about the noirs. Even in Ganae, no one wants to be black.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘No? Then why does every noir who comes to power try to send his children to your school? Why do his children try to become like us, to marry us, to live like us?’
‘It isn’t because of your colour,’ I said. ‘It’s because you have everything and they have nothing. But, from now on, things are going to change. I know it.’
‘Do you? Do you believe your friend Jeannot? He is a dirty black person, a little noir arriviste. He’s jealous of us, he hates us. He wants to make this country into some sort of communist place. But nobody wants a communist place any more, do they? What’s his policy? Tell me? He doesn’t have one, does he? His policy is revenge, only revenge. And he’s stupid. Ganae is not a big African country. It is a little island off Central America. And who cares about Central America? Ganae wasn’t even a proper white man’s colony. It is two hundred years since we drove the French out. The noirs here weren’t trained by white colonists as they were in Africa and other places. All they’re good for is labour, cheap labour. Our independence is a joke. We live on the edge of the white world, we depend on the white world. That will never change.’
I didn’t answer her. I rose up and untied the mules. ‘We must reach the convent before dark,’ I said. ‘Are you ready?’
Later that afternoon, she broke the silence that had descended on us. It was the moment when, in the distance, across the gulf of a ravine, we saw the stone buildings and tiled roofs of the convent. She reined in her mule and pointed. ‘Is that where I will stay?’
‘Yes.’
‘When will you send for me?’
‘Not for some weeks.’
‘Are those nuns French?’
‘Some of them. Reverend Mother is French.’
‘So I am back in the convent with French nuns. Just like my schooldays. Who knows, perhaps I’ll like being here. It will be a change. Maybe I’ll become a nun.’ She laughed and kicked her mule’s sides. We moved on.
It was dark when I helped one of the convent servants unharness our weary animals. Reverend Mother had already taken Caroline Lambert up into the convent proper. As was usual with visiting priests, I was lodged in a small guest house near the stables. That night I dined alone in the convent parlour, waited on by an old nun who had been born in Boucherville, across the river from Montreal, and talked garrulously about her youth there in the time of Duplessis, a dictator of sorts, who once ruled that Canadian province.
In the morning, I said Mass for the nuns. As their attending priest came only on Sundays, this was an event. The church was full. The service was at seven. When I went up to the altar I looked to see if Caroline Lambert was present. She was not.
Later, after my breakfast in the convent parlour, I asked to see her.
‘I believe she is still sleeping, Father,’ Reverend Mother said. ‘Shall I wake her?’
‘No. It’s not important. Tell her I will telephone her very soon.’
It rained that day as the mules picked their way back over twisted tracks and I came down through a mountain fog into the lower heights above Damienville. It was almost dark when I saw the tangled tin roofs of the town below me. As I came closer, night fell and soon, amid the flickering town lamps, a stronger light blazed. It was a bonfire on what seemed to be a rubbish dump just outside the first cluster of dwellings. A group of people, old and young, circled, singing. Jugs of usque were being passed around. It seemed to be a celebration of some sort. Then the dancing, drunken throng took up a new song. I listened, stiff with surprise. It was not a song but a hymn, Jeannot’s favourite, ‘Dieu et Patrie’.
I moved on past the bonfire. A few streets later, I entered the main square of Damienville. Here there was a second bonfire, but it was dying out. Some people were moving past it, silent, peering at the ebbing flames. As I came closer, my mule reared and made a hoarse honking sound. And then I saw that the back seat of a car had been placed on a heap of stones near the flames. Tied to the seat by two wires was a stout middle-aged man. He was dead, his body bloodied by what looked like sword cuts, his face bruised and blackened by blows. Someone had placed awkwardly on his head a blue-and-white seersucker forage cap of the type once worn by Doumergue’s bleus.
Three old men were coming up the street, going towards the corpse. One of them, gap-toothed and foolish, looked over at me and called out, ‘Justice, Mon Pe.’
‘Who was he?’
‘You don’t know? Boulez, head of bleus here in time of Uncle D. He want to push out Jeannot. Those bleus they trying to come back. Today we stop them. Justice time.’
He and the other men went up to the corpse. One of them leaned forward and awkwardly punched it in the stomach. ‘Finish with you!’ he yelled.
The other two turned and smiled at me, embarrassed, as though he had committed a social gaffe.
I watched them move off. The squalid hotel in which I had lodged the night before was just across the square. As I came up to it I saw a sign, scrawled on the wall with a charcoal stick.
bas les bleus
bas les blancs
mulâtres au mur
touche pas no’ pe
When I reached the hotel I paid a bellboy to take the mules back to where I had rented them. I was too weary and sickened to eat the stringy chicken offered in the hotel dining room. As I handed back the menu and asked for some fruit, I heard a radio voice in the courtyard. I recognised the speaker: General Hemon, Army Chief of Staff.
‘. . . in Mele. Four people were killed and several were injured including fifteen soldiers of the national guard. These figures, added to those I have already mentioned in the capital, make up a total of more than forty dead. To prevent further violence I have sent additional troops to each of the main centres and have instructed the commandant of the northern region to send re-enforcements to Pondicher. President Cantave has expressed his sorrow for the deaths that have occurred. He will address parliament tomorrow morning at ten. In the meantime, the Army issues this warning. Demonstrators carrying machetes will be arrested. Looters will be shot.’
The national anthem started up when Hemon finished speaking but after a few bars an announcer’s voice said, ‘We have received confirmation of our earlier report of property damage in the suburb of Bellevue. Shalimar, the mansion of Colonel Lambert where his wife, Caroline, entertained the international jet set, is reported to have been burned to the ground. In addition, demonstrators caused extensive damage to the residence of Senator Christian, leader of the Conservative Party, and ransacked the mansion of Herve Souter, the sporting goods millionaire, who is at present on holiday with his family on the Riviera. Troops of the Porte Riche Battalion have closed off all approaches to Bellevue. Only residents and official vehicles will be allowed access.’
I went out to the lobby and asked to use the telephone.
‘I’m sorry, Father. Only emergency calls.’
‘This is an emergency. I want to call the presidential palace.’
He smiled as if he did not believe me, then pushed the phone across the desk. ‘Go ahead. Good luck.’
At first, I got a busy signal. Then an operator came on. ‘All the lines to the palace have been closed until further notice. Please hang up.’
I looked at the concierge. ‘I’ve been in the mountains,’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nobody knows how it started. Rumours, I guess, but yesterday morning the radio said that the assembly has voted to throw Jeannot out. An hour later the assembly denied it, but it was too late. People were already in the streets. You saw the sign outside? touche pas no’ pe. Leave our priest alone. Anyone who tries to get rid of Jeannot is asking for trouble.’
That night I had little sleep. At dawn I rose and went down the hall to the tin showers which were the only washing facility in the hotel. At that hour there was no service in the dining room and so I paid my bill and walked half-empty streets to the terminal where I boarded the first bus to Port Riche.
We travelled all day, stopping at every village on the route. My fellow travellers, most of them small traders, artisans, and servants of the rich, did not seem to know how the violence had begun. But one thing was certain. Everyone on the bus believed Jeannot’s enemies were trying to get rid of him. ‘They deny it, but we know it’s true. Jeannot wants justice. They afraid of that. But it will happen. Caroline Lambert and the big capitalists like Herve Souter, all those bloodsuckers who hold us down. Justice time! It’s over for them.’
When the bus finally pulled into the terminal that evening, I was unable to find a taxi. The streets of Port Riche were deserted. It was as though a curfew had been imposed and as I walked home in the half-dark streets I saw that even the beggars called derniers, solitary half-mad outcasts who camped in doorways, were huddled together for protection, a dozen of them sleeping in a semi-circle around the St Joseph fountain in the Rue Saint Sacrement with one of their number posted as a lookout on top of the saint’s statue.
When I reached the residence, Hyppolite unlocked the main door which was double-bolted and chained.
‘Want tea?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
I went into the study. Nöl Destouts was lying on the sofa, a book propped up on his huge stomach. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So you’re back already. How is Judge Letellier?’
I looked at him, surprised. I had forgotten my own lie.
‘Better, thank God,’ I said at last. ‘But what’s going on here?’
Nöl heaved himself up into a sitting position. ‘Constitutional crisis. There’ll be a fight in parliament tomorrow. Our boy Jeannot against the rest. We should go and watch the fun.’
‘How can we? What about classes?’
‘It’s Saturday,’ he said. ‘Don’t you remember anything? Join me, why don’t you? It should be interesting.’
Hyppolite arrived with cups of tea.
‘All right. What time will it begin?’
‘Around ten o’clock.’
Next morning we were late in starting because Nöl overslept. It was almost eleven when we reached the parliament buildings. After a security check we were admitted to the Spectators’ Gallery overlooking the assembly. There are places never visited that, nevertheless, one feels one knows: stock exchanges, parliaments, courtrooms. But the sight of the Ganaen assembly in full session was unlike anything I could have imagined. Some of the congressmen and senators were armed, pistols strapped to their waists or holstered under their armpits. The Speaker made no attempt to preserve order. When we took our seats, Manes Planchon, the Mayor of Port Riche, a huge sweating mulâtre, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, cowboy boots and holstered revolver, was shouting at the top of his voice, ‘You aren’t the only one who was elected by the people, Père Cantave! This is a democracy, have you never heard of that word? We, too, were elected by the people! You think because you won big, that gives you all the power. Well, it doesn’t. There are rules in this chamber. This is the assembly of the people, elected by the people. And you have been elected to obey these rules.’
I looked down at the front benches of the government where Jeannot sat. Some of those around him shouted back angrily but when he whispered to Pelardy his supporters’ protest ceased. At this point, an elderly, elegant senatorial person, waving a large white silk handkerchief like a flag of truce, stepped down from the government benches, passing Jeannot, moving to the Speaker’s podium.
‘My party is the party of our President,’ he cried. ‘Or should I say it was the party of our President. We who elected him have been shut out of the political process. Every recommendation we make is greeted with derision by a group of left-wing political amateurs who surround President Cantave. I ask you now, my President. Were these people appointed by you to be your only advisers? You have consistently ignored the party that chose you as its candidate. You have rejected the assembly’s proposals for a qualified prime minister and are proposing a nobody who happens to be one of your toadies. At this point, with sadness in my heart, I must turn my back on you.’
From the opposition benches there were cheers and applause. The old man stood, as though undecided as to where he should now sit. At a nod from Pelardy, one of Jeannot’s supporters rushed up to a microphone. ‘Wait a minute, Senator. Do you think that the President of the United States or France would accept a prime minister picked by others? Ridiculous!’
Suddenly, someone among these lawmakers fired his revolver at the ceiling. The Speaker, roused at last, stood and shouted. ‘That is dangerous! People could be killed. Sergeant, remove Congressman Laniel. Remove him at once!’
But nobody moved to remove the one who had fired the shot. Instead, two other shots were loosed off and the shouting became pandemonium. It was then that Jeannot rose up from the front bench, quiet and preoccupied as though he were alone in the room. He walked slowly towards the Speaker’s chair. The shouting continued. He held up his hand, like a schoolboy asking to be recognised. Although the Speaker did not acknowledge his gesture, the din died down.
Jeannot stood waiting, looking up at the ceiling of the chamber, until there was near silence. Then, in that extraordinary transformation that came over him when he faced an audience, he began.
Brothers,
Friends and Enemies,
And yes, my enemies who are my friends,
I speak to you, to all of you today.
My Brothers,
We who have been elected to serve our country,
All of us, yes, all of us, were elected to this chamber.
I do not deny that. Why should I deny it?
The people have chosen us, yes,
But remember that God speaks through the people
And so God has chosen us,
All of us,
Even those who carry guns and swear untruths.
Even those who toady to the rich and rob the poor.
God has placed you in this chamber.
I do not ask you to elect Hercule Harsant as prime minister
Because I want to rule through him.
I ask you because
God has placed me here to serve the poor.
Because
I have prayed to Jesus who is my Lord and master,
I have asked Him to put into this mouth of mine
Words which will make you know,
All of you – even you, my friend and enemy,
Manes Planchon. And you, Longvy, and you, Parigot.
All of you,
That my cause is just.
That my path is the true path.
And you must also know
That I am no one.
That I have no ambitions.
And yet
I speak for Jesus.
Jesus is the poor.
I speak for them.
Some of you are angry because Ganae is changing.
Because the people
Will no longer stand still.
They will no longer stand for parliamentary rules
Or parliamentary tricks.
Already, it has begun.
The time of the machete.
What do I mean by that?
I mean the trouble we have seen these past days.
Mansions of the rich have been burned down.
People have been killed.
These things have happened and we sorrow for the dead.
But we do not repent.
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.
Justice must be done.
It has not yet been done.
We cannot start to feed our people,
We cannot start to give them a decent, humble life.
If we are not united,
If we are not strong,
The poor cannot be free.
Unless they are rid of those who exploit them.
You know who I am talking about,
I do not have to spell it out again.
But what I have to say now, I have not said before.
Justice is a sword.
It has been put into the hands of my people.
My people are the poor.
The sword of the poor is used to cut down cane.
It is a humble sword.
Machete.
A rough tool, made of iron.
I say to you now.
The humble sword awaits us.
It will punish us.
It is tired of our brawling,
It is tired of this chamber.
It cannot wait much longer.
I warn you, my Brothers.
Beware that sword.
Machete.
If it is raised against you
It will be because you failed the poor.
Put away your revolvers.
They will not help you.
You have soldiers and tanks
But none of it will help you
Against the sword.
Do as the people ask.
Let us have justice.
I speak for them. I act for them.
I am nothing.
But I am God’s servant.
God has given me this sword.
I warn you.
Do as the people ask.
And do it now.
The chamber was silent as a church. I stared down at the heads of the lawmakers as they watched this slight, boyish figure turn from the Speaker’s podium and make his way down the chamber. No one moved to stop him or to follow him. The flunkies guarding the doors threw them open. Jeannot walked out. At once, the silence ended in pandemonium. Manes Planchon drew his revolver and fired it, bringing a momentary pause in which he shouted, ‘You heard? You heard? Who is the violent one? He is!’
Nöl and I were already on our feet. We hurried towards the exit and down the stairs to the ground floor. When we ran outside we saw, driving through the main gateway, a black Mercedes flying the presidential colours.
‘I’m going to the palace,’ I said. ‘Will I drop you off?’
He nodded. ‘What will you do there?’
‘I must talk to him.’
‘Too late. Remember Diderot. “Between fanaticism and barbarism there’s only one step.” Jeannot’s just taken that step.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Nöl said. ‘Do you?’