I dropped Nöl off at the residence and drove directly to the palace. There was no sign of anything unusual in the great square surrounding it but when I passed through the gates I saw a phalanx of Jeannot’s picked ‘soldiers’ stationed at all approaches to the presidential offices. I was recognised by one of his aides, who told me he was not in the building but had left for Radio Libre a few minutes ago.
‘What time is the broadcast?’
The aide said no one knew.
I left the palace and drove through the market area hoping to catch up with Jeannot at the radio station. As I did, I saw an unusually large number of people in the streets. On Avenue Domville a traffic jam evolved and slowed my passage to a crawl. I had no radio in my car. While I sat stalled in traffic Jeannot was broadcasting to the nation. And so I did not hear the most fateful speech of his career. It was the ‘machete’ speech, a version of what he had already said in parliament that morning. But now he spoke to the possessors of that ‘humble sword’, telling them that, with it, they, the people, could rule. The elite and the politicians wanted to install a prime minister who was their creature. The people must say no.
I never did get to speak to Jeannot that day. He had left the radio station by the time I reached it. Within an hour of his speech, Port Riche became a city in crisis. The voices heard on the radio and blaring from army trucks were the voices of General Hemon and his aides appealing for calm, threatening looters, denying reports of violence. But there was violence. That afternoon Father Duchamp saw the bodies of four people shot by soldiers in the mud-clotted lanes of La Rotonde. Six dead rioters were brought to the morgue of Charité Hospital and the nuns there treated some thirty wounded. Four soldiers were hacked to pieces when they tried to stop a mob which broke into the parliament yard and overturned official limousines.
Violence was not confined to the capital. The radio station in Papanos said that Senator Lutyens, his wife and two sons, had been butchered by machetes and their bodies placed on a burning pyre in the city’s main square. Senator Lutyens was a former ambassador to Washington, a Doumerguist and Papanos’s leading businessman.
After supper that night I passed by Father Bourque’s study. The door was open and he called out to me.
‘Is that you, Paul?’
He was sitting in his old rattan armchair facing a window that looked out on the nearby roofs of La Rotonde. The window was open and in the distance we heard the sound of shouts and chanting. Clouds of smoke from bonfires rose above the tin roofs of the slums. ‘The Archbishop just called me,’ Father Bourque said. ‘As you know, he and I haven’t been friends over the years so he’s the last person in the world to ask for my help. But he did. He wanted to know if I could do anything to stop Jeannot. Or if you could. I said I’d speak to you but I didn’t have much hope.’
‘Both sides are doing the killing,’ I said.
‘That’s not the point. You heard about Senator Lutyens and his family. It’s terrible. Terrible. Has Jeannot no conscience at all?’
‘Jeannot didn’t order these things. I imagine he’s as distressed as we are.’
‘Is he? I wonder. Machetes! Machetes! I’m sick when I think of it.’
As he was speaking, the telephone rang. It was an enquiry from a parent. Would the college be open tomorrow? There were reports of attacks on mulâtre children. I listened as Father Bourque tried to reassure the caller. When he put down the phone he asked me, ‘Have you heard anything about these attacks?’
I said, and it was true, that the city was filled with rumours, most of them false. I said if I could be excused from classes in the morning I would go to the palace and try to find out what was going on.
‘I’d be grateful if you would,’ Father Bourque said. ‘And Paul? If you still have any influence with Jeannot, now is the time to use it.’
My room, the same room I have today, is on the side of the residence facing La Rotonde. At night because of the heat I keep the windows open. I have long been accustomed to night noises and normally I sleep soundly. But that night I was wakened shortly after two a.m. by police sirens and gunfire. When I got up and looked out of my window, I saw a gang of about twenty youths coming from La Rotonde into Rue Pelikan. They were carrying machetes and running at full tilt. The sirens grew louder and two riot trucks loaded with armed police careened into sight in pursuit of the youths, who split up, running in differing directions. The police trucks stalled, sirens wailing to a standstill as the officer in charge searched for the best route to continue the pursuit. After some minutes the police drove off, their chase abandoned.
Next morning I was due to say the eight o’clock Mass at the college. At seven-fifteen, while I was shaving, Hyppolite knocked and said, ‘Pe Destouts on telephone, wants you now.’
Nöl Destouts was due to say the seven o’clock Mass. Perhaps he had been taken ill? When I picked up the phone Nöl spoke in a low voice as though he might be overheard. ‘Paul, can you come over to the chapel at once? I’m just going to start Mass. Wait for me in the sacristy. It’s urgent.’
Nöl was the last person in the world to be alarmist. Normally, I walk to the chapel but that morning I took the school car, our little white Peugeot. The streets seemed quiet. A light rain was falling. The school chapel sits across the road from the college. When I went into the chapel I saw that only about a dozen people were attending the service. Nöl, who always said Mass quickly, was already coming up to the last gospel, so I went into the sacristy, knowing I would only have a few minutes to wait.
There was no one in the sacristy. No one living, that is. Under the bench that was used to lay out vestments I saw a large purple dustcloth of the sort that covers church statues in Holy Week. It was draped over a body. The heels of polished boots protruded from one end. Part of the cloth was stained, its purple colour darkened by what looked like blood. Outside, in the chapel, I heard coughing and movement of benches as the congregation began to leave. I went over and lifted the cloth. Priests see death more often than do other men. But now my hand trembled as it held the cloth. The face was hacked by knife cuts, the body an oozing mess. Machetes had slashed again and again at the torso and head, ripping the fabric of the military uniform so that dead flesh bulged out. The eyes were open and stared past me as though in the moment of his death Colonel Maurras had seen something he would be for ever condemned to watch. I pulled the cover back over the body. Sitting on a ledge by the window was his wallet, folded back to show a military pass and a photograph which bore his name.
Behind me, the sacristy door opened and Nöl said to his altar boy, ‘Take your surplice over to the school. I have to speak to Father Paul. You can bring it here later.’
‘Yes, Father.’
Nöl came in, shutting the door behind him. He put down chalice and paten and began to untie his chasuble. ‘Have you looked at it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maurras,’ he said. ‘He was the one you told me would come here with a political message. Right?’
‘Yes. What happened?’
‘The night porter found the body outside the school gates about five o’clock this morning. Someone rang the bell and when he went down to investigate he saw half a dozen young men walking away from the gates. They carried machetes. He didn’t unlock the gate but left the body where it lay in the street. He was afraid to touch it. This morning, when I came to say Mass, he was waiting for me. I searched the body, found that wallet and knew it was the man you were expecting. So I helped the porter carry the body in here. Who was Maurras?’
‘Do you remember the boy we buried a few years ago? Shot by a colonel of the president’s guard?’
‘I’d forgotten,’ Nöl said. ‘But obviously some people have not. Were they Jeannot’s boys, do you think?’
I didn’t answer. I said I would have to tell Jeannot at once. ‘Leave the body here. Don’t let anyone in. Tell them the eight o’clock Mass has been cancelled.’
Nöl looked at the shrouded corpse. ‘Do you think he was on his way here to tell you something?’
‘That’s what I have to find out.’
The streets were still quiet. The great square surrounding the palace was empty of army vehicles. I parked my car in the usual place and walked towards the ornamental gates. Jeannot’s ‘soldiers’ were still on guard there. I began to take heart. I was admitted and led to Pelardy’s office. Jeannot was there, talking on the telephone. I went up to him. At once, he covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘What is it, Paul?’
‘The Colonel.’
He put the phone down at once and turned to Pelardy and Mathieu Clément. ‘I have to speak to Paul. If you’ll just wait outside? It’s something private.’
When they left the room I told him what had happened. He listened, then asked, ‘Was he on his way to warn us?’
‘You mean who killed him? Your people or theirs?’
‘Theirs?’
‘It could be that they killed him and left him at the college gates to warn you that you’re no longer safe.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘Because, if you’re afraid of a coup, you’ll send people back into the streets to show your strength. Which may be just what the plotters want.’
He stared at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Jeannot, if this violence continues, they won’t need to stage a coup. The outside world will turn against your regime. And as soon as that happens, don’t count on your friend General Hemon. The Army will take over the government for the sake of “restoring public order”. It’s a trap as old as the history of Ganae. And I think you’re falling into it.’
‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘This is a revolution and it’s just beginning.’
‘Is it? What sort of revolution? The Army and the elite have the guns. If it comes to an open conflict thousands of our people will be killed. Even if this thing hadn’t happened with Maurras, I was going to speak to you today. I was going to tell you that you’re responsible for these deaths. It’s hard for me to say this, I who respect you, who look up to you, who think of you as a sort of saint.’
‘Oh Paul,’ he said. ‘I’m no saint. But, don’t you know how much I hate this killing?’
‘Then end it,’ I said. ‘It’s terrible and it’s working against you.’
‘But do I have the right to end it? What will happen if our people give up the struggle? What does God want me to do?’
Suddenly, Pelardy hurried into the room. ‘Jeannot, there are some army vehicles moving into the square outside. I don’t know. Is something wrong?’
Jeannot turned to me. ‘If they killed Maurras, that means they know he’s told us their plans. And it could mean they’re about to move against me. Do you have your car here?’
‘It’s parked in the public car-park across the square.’
He went to the door and opened it. ‘Mathieu?’
Mathieu Clément came in at once.
‘Mathieu, make out a special pass for Father Paul’s car to come in at the rear entrance to the palace. We’re going to drive, incognito, to Radio Libre where I’ll go on the air and make a special announcement. No one must see us leave. Once I’ve finished at the radio station we’ll drive to Lavallie. We mustn’t be followed.’
‘What’s going on? Why Lavallie?’ Pelardy asked.
‘Pele, my life may be in danger. We’ve got to get out of here. Mathieu, hurry! Get Paul’s pass.’
Ten minutes later I was sitting in my little white Peugeot outside the palace kitchens where several provisions vans were unloading the day’s food. When Jeannot came out of the building with Pelardy and Mathieu Clément, he was wearing a white cotton shirt and trousers, his head completely covered by a large floppy straw hat of the type that sugar-cane cutters used in the fields. None of the servants or delivery men noticed him. As we drove back up to the rear entrance, again, I waved my special pass at the soldiers on duty. They barely glanced at it. We drove out in silence and at once, in the great square, I saw that things had changed. The immense space, empty minutes ago, was crowded with army vehicles. There were even three tanks lined up in front of the main gates. In the courtyard, soldiers stood in riot formation, facing the presidential quarters. There was no sign of Jeannot’s personal guards. Two army staff cars were parked at the main doorway. One flew a general’s flag.
We drove out of the square. On the Avenue de la République shopkeepers were hastily pulling down iron shutters over windows and doors. Others were loading goods into taxis as though preparing to flee the city. On every street corner soldiers stood, holding automatic rifles, laughing and joking as though they had been summoned to a fête. Further up the street we heard shots. We passed a group of children who were hurling rocks at the already shattered windscreens of two cars. In the Rue Desmoulins some market stalls had been looted and wrecked. Spoiled fruit was scattered across the road.
‘I think we were lucky,’ Jeannot said. ‘If we’d waited ten more minutes we’d have been too late.’
‘If that’s so,’ I said, ‘they’ll have control of the radio stations.’
‘Let’s find out,’ Jeannot said.
Radio Libre is a two-storey concrete building on a hill overlooking the Meredieu district. In the days of the dictator it was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, its gates controlled by electricity and manned by Doumergue’s bleus. After Doumergue’s death the gates were left open and the guards removed. And now as we drove up, the gates were open. There were no soldiers about. Everything seemed normal. But suddenly Jeannot said, ‘Turn round, Paul. Don’t go in.’
‘What is it?’
‘Look.’ He pointed to the entrance. An old beige Cadillac was parked there. Beside it, a police car and a police motor cycle. ‘That’s Raymond’s car,’ Jeannot said. ‘Remember what Maurras told you. “Raymond will be at the radio station ready to broadcast as soon as he hears they’ve taken over the palace.” ’
I turned the car round. ‘Take a left up ahead,’ Jeannot said. ‘That’s Avenue Mouton. There’s a café on the corner called L’Américaine. I spoke there during the elections. They have radio and a television set. If the coup has been announced they’ll know about it.’
When we drove up to the place he had indicated he said, ‘Mathieu, you go in. We’ll stay in the car.’
Mathieu did as he was bid. It was a big café, open early because it was near the cattle market and served breakfasts of steak and Cuban beer. I parked the car half a block away. The café was crowded, not with customers but with people who had come in off the street to find out the news. Mathieu went inside. We watched him talk to some men who were sitting near the television set.
At that point, about thirty people came out of the cattle market holding up two large placards with Jeannot’s picture. They passed by us, singing the hymn ‘Dieu et Patrie’.
‘Those people know,’ Jeannot said. ‘We have our answer.’
As if to confirm it, Mathieu came out of the café and hurried towards the car. When Mathieu got in, Jeannot touched me on the shoulder. ‘Drive on. We’re going to Lavallie.’
‘Raymond made a speech on radio about fifteen minutes ago,’ Mathieu said. ‘According to him, you’ve been removed by parliament because of your refusal to govern by democratic means. The general assembly has appointed Raymond premier until elections can be held. He also said you’re believed to have fled the country.’
‘They’re pretending it isn’t a military coup,’ Jeannot said. ‘But as long as I’m free and able to contact a radio station, that lie isn’t going to work.’
We were coming on to the road that leads from Port Riche into the mountains where Lavallie is situated. It was a main road, one of six that led out of the city. Ahead, amid the trudging lines of peasants bringing their bundles to market, was the usual hodge-podge of old cars, camionettes and mule carts moving in and out of the capital. But, as we came closer, we crawled along so slowly that we were moving little faster than the pedestrians marching along the sides of the road.
‘Roadblock,’ Pelardy said.
Straddling the road were two army trucks and an armoured car, a machine gun swivelling on its turret. The officer in charge of the operation was a mulâtre with the rank of captain.
Jeannot, when he saw the officer, turned to Pelardy. ‘Why is it a captain? Because they need someone who’ll recognise me, someone who’ll be able to control the soldiers who might let me through.’
‘It will be the same at all other exit roads from the city,’ Pelardy said. ‘And they’ll have a watch on the airport and the docks.’
‘If we could get past this lot,’ Mathieu Clément said, ‘there’s a coastal village outside Lavallie. We might be able to rent a fishing boat to take us to Cuba.’
‘I can’t leave,’ Jeannot said. ‘People must know that I’m here, that I haven’t been killed.’
‘What will we do, then?’
‘We must try to get to Callil. Father Pat Redmond – remember his radio station? It’s local, so they’ve probably overlooked it.’
We were still about two hundred yards from the roadblock. ‘All right,’ Jeannot said. ‘The rest of you go through. They don’t know you.’
He motioned me to stop the car. He got out and slipped into the queue of men and women who were trudging along the edge of the road. I saw him speak to a woman who was laden with baskets. He took some of the baskets and fell in behind her. In his cane cutter’s floppy hat, his worn shirt and trousers, he looked no different from the others. The soldiers ahead, intent on checking the vehicles on the road, were paying little attention to the pedestrians who shuffled past the armoured car.
Our line of vehicles speeded up. We left Jeannot behind. When we reached the roadblock, the officer looked first at me, the blanc, and then at Pelardy, the mulâtre.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To the St Viateur School,’ I said.
He nodded and waved us on.
We drove slowly and pulled in at a turn in the road, out of sight of the soldiers. When I saw Jeannot coming towards us, still part of the peasant group, I thanked God for his deliverance. But when Jeannot got into the car and we drove slowly on in the stream of rickety vehicles my prayer mocked me. What deliverance?
Then, confirming my fears, Pelardy said to Jeannot, ‘I’ve been thinking. You shouldn’t risk a radio address. It’s far too dangerous. You should try for asylum in one of the embassies and put your case from there. It’s not going to be easy for you. Raymond’s saying this is a political upset. Unfortunately, the world’s going to believe him.’
‘Nonsense,’ Jeannot said.
‘Is it? Your “machete” speech was reported in all the foreign media. Since then we’ve had street riots, property burned down, people killed. That’s what the world is hearing about. And there’ll be more of it once our people realise that they’ve lost their little priest.’
‘They haven’t lost me,’ Jeannot said. ‘When I go on radio they’ll rise up and turn these plotters out. And the world will back us. We represent democracy, we were freely elected. The United Nations – every parliament, every country – will be on our side.’
‘If you go on radio,’ Pelardy said, ‘the Army will make sure you don’t do it twice. This is a small island. They’ll find you and kill you.’
Jeannot turned around and smiled at Pelardy who was sitting in the back seat. ‘I know you don’t believe in God, Pele. But God is here, He is with us now and He, not I, dictates these events. If it’s His will that I be killed, then I must accept it. In the meantime, we’ll go to Callil.’
We drove on. Two miles up the road, I turned off on a small road that led to the Pondicher region. For the next twenty miles, the only vehicles we saw were three heavy old army trucks laden with vegetables, which passed us slowly, going in the opposite direction. A sergeant sitting on top of the load was listening to a blaring portable radio. The announcer was speaking in Creole. I couldn’t catch the words.
‘Did you hear?’ Jeannot asked. ‘He said something about a riot in Mele. That means they haven’t taken over the radio stations yet. If they had, they’d never let that news get out.’
I looked at him. He was smiling and cheerful as I’d rarely seen him in these last weeks. He saw my look and said, ‘Cheer up, Paul. We’re winning. I know it.’
Shortly after two o’clock we reached Callil, a large village which had grown up around two coffee plantations owned by a wealthy mulatto family who lived in Port Riche. The peasants who worked in these plantations lived in huts made of wooden frames, walled with mud-daubed wattles and thatched with palm branches and guinea grass. Approaching Callil, one could imagine oneself in rural Africa. But in the past ten years, with help from Jeannot and his boys’ club workers, Father Pat Redmond of the Holy Ghost Fathers had built a church, an elementary school and, because he was a fervent radio ham, a small transmitting station from which he broadcast sermons and news of the region. Redmond, a carrot-haired Irish priest, was a natural rebel, often in trouble with his religious superiors. He was one of Jeannot’s strongest supporters.
Now his parishioners, seeing our car, ran down to the village well, where Redmond was at work repairing the pump. ‘Jeannot! Jeannot, ici!’
At once it seemed that half the occupants of the village came running out of their dwellings and up from the coffee groves to cluster around Jeannot, cheering, embracing him as he got out of the car. ‘Wait, wait,’ I heard him say. ‘Were soldiers here today?’
‘Not today. They came two days ago. We had a demonstration but they stopped it. They took Marie-Claire Boulez and her husband. Shot them. There.’ They pointed to a crucifix of palm branches and a wreath of frangipani placed against a wall of the village school.
At that moment I saw Pat Redmond come up the rutted path from the well, red-faced, and a little out of breath, his cassock hiked up around his waist showing baggy khaki trousers and heavy workboots. Attached to his belt was a small radio which he shut off as he came towards us. Jeannot went to him, asking, ‘You heard about the coup?’
‘Of course.’ He pointed to the radio on his belt. ‘I’ve been listening all morning.’
‘Tell us,’ Pelardy said. ‘We have no radio.’
‘Macandal’s plane arrived from Paris an hour ago. Lambert is with him. General Hemon has stepped down as Army Chief of Staff. So it looks as if you’ve lost your backing.’
‘The people will back me,’ Jeannot said.
Redmond hesitated, then said, ‘Jeannot, you’re not safe here. The Margitals have their spies. They’re probably phoning them from the plantation office, right this minute.’
The Margitals were the plantation owners. I had thought of the same thing. But Jeannot said, ‘We won’t stay long. I came to make a broadcast. Is that possible? I’ve got to let people know that I’m safe.’
Redmond glanced at the expectant villagers clustered around us. ‘Let’s go inside.’
He led us into the schoolhouse where children sat at homemade desks, listening to Father Rourke, a Holy Ghost Father in his twenties, who had recently come to help run the parish. We went into Pat’s crowded office, one part of which was partitioned off and filled with his radio equipment.
But he did not take us in there. Instead, he shut the outer door of the office and said, ‘We’ve had a lot of trouble here. The day after your “machete” speech our people marched down to the plantation office asking for proper wages. The Margitals were scared and called in the soldiers. Two people were shot to death and I had to send fourteen others, some of them kids, over to the hospital in Melun. It was like the old days with Doumergue’s bleus. Brutal.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jeannot said.
‘Are you?’
We were standing in a semi-circle, Pelardy, Mathieu Clément, myself, Pat, Jeannot. In the other room we heard children’s voices recite a verse. Behind the desk an old wall clock ticked away. I stared at Pat’s sun-reddened Irish face, his cold, blue, Gaelic eyes.
Then Jeannot said, ‘Of course I’m sorry that these things happened. But I’m not ashamed of it. The people themselves will make the revolution. I am only the catalyst. This morning, the elite tried to get rid of me. They failed. I am here. I am still President. When people find that out they will go into the streets again and demand that I be reinstated. I’m not asking for violence. I ask for justice. Democracy must prevail.’
‘And if it doesn’t,’ Pat Redmond said, ‘how many of our people will be killed? Half an hour ago I spoke with friends over the short-wave radio. The streets of Port Riche, Mele, Doumergueville and Papanos are filled with soldiers. Maybe, the only thing that really works in this country is the staging of a coup. They’ve taken over Radio Libre – ’
‘I know that,’ Jeannot said. ‘That’s why I’m here. I don’t know anything about radio but if I speak on your transmitter it will be picked up, won’t it? Abroad, as well?’
‘It’s not only your speech that will be picked up,’ Pat said. ‘You’ll be picked up. Once they find out where the broadcast is coming from, they’ll close off all roads to Callil in half an hour. Where will you hide?’
‘People will hide me,’ Jeannot said. ‘But that’s not important. The important thing is that I speak out now. That the truth is broadcast to the rest of the world, to the United Nations, to the Organisation of American States. If that happens they’ll never get away with this. Will you help me?’
‘No.’
We stood there, all of us, as though shot by that one word. We were the faithful and Jeannot was our leader. He had helped Pat build his church and build the schoolhouse we stood in. He was asking for something vital, something only Pat could give.
‘Are you afraid?’ Jeannot said.
‘Yes. This is my parish, these are my people. If we help you, we’ll be punished. They won’t shoot me, but they will shoot men, women and kids who can’t read or write, who never heard of the United Nations or the OAS, who marched down to the Margitals’ office last week because you told them to. You say you won’t preach violence but it’s too late for that. Violence has begun. The people believe in you. They will march against armed soldiers to defend you. They think of you as the Messiah. I don’t.’
‘If only I were,’ Jeannot said. He went up to Pat and embraced him. ‘All right, Pat. Follow your conscience. That’s what they taught us.’
He turned to Mathieu Clément. ‘There’s another possibility, do you remember that station in Cap Gauche, the one run by Willi – Willi something?’
‘Willi Narodny,’ Mathieu said. ‘He’s a wild man.’
‘And he doesn’t have a parish,’ Jeannot said. He turned back to Pat. ‘Can I use your phone? Is that all right?’
‘I can do better than that,’ Pat said. ‘Willi’s a ham. We talk all the time. Come in here.’
He led Jeannot into the room that was his radio station. As they went in, Jeannot closed the door, leaving me, Mathieu and Pelardy alone in the outer office.
‘He should go to an embassy,’ Pelardy said. ‘Tell him, Father. He’ll listen to you.’
‘He won’t.’
‘How far is Cap Gauche from here?’ Pelardy asked Mathieu.
‘An hour. But we have to go through Papanos. Pat said it’s full of soldiers, remember?’
‘I’m not going with you,’ Pelardy said.
We looked at him.
‘Because you’re not going to make it. Let me go back to Port Riche. I’ll go to the Canadian Embassy and ask for their help. If we could get him in there, he’d be safe.’
But when, a few minutes later, Jeannot and Pat came out of the radio room and Pelardy made his suggestion, Jeannot said at once, ‘A prisoner in an embassy, surrounded by Lambert’s soldiers, waiting for the big world to help me out? No thanks.’ He turned to me. ‘Paul, will you take me to Cap Gauche? I’ve spoken to Willi. His station hasn’t been shut down. He’s been told he can stay on the air but he must issue no news bulletins until he’s given one by the coup leaders. He’s obeyed so far, but he’s willing to help me.’
Pelardy said, ‘Jeannot, let me tell you one thing. You don’t understand politics, you never will. If you want to be a martyr, I can’t stop you. But if you go on to Papanos and are arrested, it will be the end of everything we fought for. I’m going back to Port Riche.’
Jeannot turned to Mathieu. ‘And you?’
‘I’m your press secretary,’ Mathieu said. ‘You want to make a broadcast. Fine.’
And so we stood there with Jeannot in that room, two who would go with him, two who had refused him. Jeannot made no difference between us. As he had embraced Pat Redmond, he now embraced Pelardy.
‘Pele, I want to thank you for all you’ve done. In a few weeks this will be behind us. You’ll be back in your old office telling me what to do.’
We went outside. A crowd of some fifty people waited, as though they expected Jeannot to make a speech. Instead, he waved to them and walked quickly to the car. People, seeing him leave, ran to him, crowding around him, touching him as though he were some sort of talisman. When we reached the car, Pat Redmond called out, ‘Jeannot, just a minute.’ He then unhooked the little portable radio from his belt. ‘Take this. At least you’ll know what’s going on.’
Then Redmond, who was a foot taller than Jeannot, bent down and scooped him into his arms as though he were a child. ‘God bless you, lad. Safe journey.’
And so we set off. I drove. Mathieu sat beside me while Jeannot, in the back seat, endlessly spun the radio dial. The stations of Ganae played mindless Java music. At last he caught a Spanish-language voice broadcasting from San Juan. Jeannot spoke Spanish. He listened, becoming more and more excited at what he heard. ‘Do you know what’s happened? Everyone – the American government, the OAS, the French – everyone refuses to recognise Raymond as premier! Americans say they will cut off aid.’
The Spanish-language station was now broadcasting other news. Jeannot again fiddled with dials. We heard a voice from Barbados. ‘The Port Riche International Airport has been closed and a Reuter’s correspondent was attacked by soldiers as he attempted to enter an area of the slums where the Army is shooting at rioters. The rioters are supporters of Father Cantave, the deposed president. Canada and France have responded to the OAS appeal and have withdrawn assistance programmes to Ganae totalling some forty-eight million dollars.’
‘You see,’ Jeannot said excitedly, ‘they won’t get away with it.’
‘Jeannot,’ Mathieu Clément said. ‘Listen to me. Pele was right. I think you should try to find asylum in one of the embassies. The world is on your side now. Let the OAS do your fighting for you.’
‘I will, after the broadcast,’ Jeannot said. ‘But first, people must hear my voice.’
Jeannot was listening again to a Spanish-language broadcast as I drove our little Peugeot off the gravelly side road and on to a pot-holed main highway which led towards Papanos. Soon, we overtook a local bus and passed it. But the road was curiously empty. No market women walked its rim bearing their daily burdens, no donkeys laden with charcoal impeded our passage. We stared ahead waiting for a sight of army vehicles. But even as we came within a few miles of Papanos, the road was deserted.
Now, on the horizon, we saw a heavy column of smoke.
‘What is it, a bonfire?’ Jeannot asked.
‘It’s bigger than that,’ Mathieu said.
At a turn in the road people came towards us on foot, carrying bundles and babies, a very old woman being pulled along in a makeshift cart, a man herding three goats. They were peasants. When they saw our car approaching they hesitated, as though afraid of us.
I stopped the car. Mathieu got out and went towards the people. After a few minutes, Mathieu came back and got in.
‘Soldiers have burned their village. They say people were shot and thrown in a ditch.’
‘But why?’ Jeannot said.
‘When the radio announced the coup, the village people came out of their houses calling for you. After a while army units drove in from Papanos. The villagers threw rocks at them. The soldiers opened fire, then burned the village down. They say the Army’s still there.’
‘Should we go on?’ Mathieu asked.
‘We must.’
I drove on. When we came to the village I saw that the huts had been reduced to smoking, skeletal frames. A few people sat in the middle of the ruins. We drove past them slowly. They did not look up. At the far end of the village three army trucks were zig-zagged across the road. From one of them we heard the static of an intercom. The soldiers, about twenty of them, were sitting on the ground, eating their midday meal. For a moment I thought they would ignore us, but as we drove up to them, a sergeant put down his plate, got up and pointed a rifle at me. I stopped. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and came towards us, unhooking a clipboard from his belt. I rolled down the window. He looked in, then handed me the clipboard and a pencil.
‘Put down your licence number. Where are you going? Papanos?’
‘Further. St Viateur.’
I wrote down the number on the line he indicated. The licence numbers of other vehicles were listed above mine, written in different hands. He looked at what I had put down, walked to the front of the car to check it against the licence plate, then waved us on. As we drove up the road, Jeannot said, ‘He’s calling in our number.’
Through the rear-view mirror I saw that the Sergeant was using the truck’s intercom. ‘Licensed to the Collège St Jean,’ Mathieu said. ‘Right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Driven by a blanc priest. They’ll know it’s you, Father.’
‘We got through,’ Jeannot said. ‘God is telling us: “Keep going.” ’
Ten minutes later we reached Papanos. At first the city seemed deserted, shops shuttered, streets empty of traffic. But as we drove closer to the centre we came upon overturned vehicles, shopfronts broken into, and, a strange sight, some fifteen pigs moving across a square, rooting in and eating from heaps of rubbish. Suddenly, there were soldiers everywhere, some in army trucks, some in a variety of vehicles which they had commandeered, camionettes, taxi-buses, private cars, delivery vans. They drove aimlessly through the streets at the city’s centre, blowing horns, firing off rifles at random. Sometimes, soldiers leaped down from a vehicle, to smash a shop window and loot its contents, sometimes they poked open guns from car windows and took potshots at chimneys, stray cats, billboards and lampposts. Because of this, the streets were empty and the few people who had been caught unawares huddled in doorways, trying to keep out of sight. Once, a soldier poked a gun at us and, grinning, fired over our heads. It was a scene of macabre carnival, fragmented as in a disturbed and senseless dream.
Jeannot turned on the radio and we heard a voice speaking in Creole. ‘We ask for understanding, we ask the people of Ganae to show, once again, their great patriotic virtues – ’
‘That’s Raymond,’ Mathieu said.
‘We ask that you, our honest citizens, abstain from demonstrations and public meetings during this state of emergency. We ask that each town and village of the nation observe the curfew which will go into effect this evening from eight p.m. until eight a.m. The Army warns that those who do not obey the curfew risk being shot as looters. We ask for healing – we ask for – ’
But I no longer heard the radio. I was deafened by a chorus of car horns demanding that I get out of the way. I pulled into the side of the road to let six army trucks rush by. Soldiers stood up in these trucks, drinking jugs of usque and shouting the lyrics of an obscene song. When they were out of sight, we drove on to the edge of town, taking the fork that led to Cap Gauche. As we left Papanos we saw, in a ditch at the crossroads, two dead men, a dead pregnant woman and two small, frightened children. The adults had been shot in the head, execution style. As we passed by, the children, seeing us, cowered down in the ditch, hiding behind the bodies, their hands covering their heads as though to ward off invisible blows.
I turned to look at Jeannot. He sat at the window staring down at the children. The excitement I had seen in his face when he listened to the Spanish radio was replaced by a look of desolation. What must he be thinking, he who was at the centre of these events?
As we drove on, Mathieu Clément said, ‘Those soldiers are like wild animals! My God! Why do they let them loose like this?’
‘It’s part of a plan,’ Jeannot said. ‘The soldiers are poor, they’re noir, they might turn against their masters and join the people. So the Army encourages them to get drunk and loot and fire off guns. When that happens, people hide from uniforms. The Army becomes lawless. And, all at once, it’s the only law in the land.’
I looked at him. His voice was calm as though he were explaining a lesson to a student. But he was weeping. He wiped the back of his hand over his eyes. ‘How far to Cap Gauche?’ he asked.
‘Another half-hour,’ Mathieu said.
I looked at the road ahead. I heard the radio crackling. Now, on the band, the only sound was music, coming from Radio Libre, Radio Mele and Radio Nord. Here, as we climbed into the mountains, the foreign stations were lost in static. Jeannot switched off.
‘Look out!’ Mathieu said suddenly. Ahead, coming around a bend in the road, were two army trucks. Soldiers stood up in them, singing. The trucks came rushing down the crown of the road as though our car were invisible. I swerved to the right, skidded, corrected the skid and, at that moment, the first truck passed by me. The singing soldiers were drunk. Someone fired off a rifle. The second truck was on me now and it was as though the driver wanted to force us off the road. Again I swerved, our old car running dangerously close to the ragged shoulder and the deep ditch below it. I was trying to keep the car on the road and, at first, did not hear the second round of shots. Part of my windshield shattered, coruscating into a maze of patterns. On the right-hand side of the car where Mathieu sat, I heard the ping of bullets as they struck the door.
‘Keep going!’ Jeannot shouted.
The soldiers in the second truck had also been taking potshots at our car but now, when I looked back, both trucks were disappearing down the roadway. At that moment Mathieu, sitting beside me, slumped forward, his forehead striking the shattered windshield. Blood trickled from his ear. I braked. Jeannot jumped out and came around to Mathieu’s door. He had trouble opening it because the bullets had forced it out of shape. Jeannot reached in and, staggering, lifted Mathieu out of the car and put him down by the side of the road. He took Mathieu’s bloodied face in his hands and I saw his lips move in prayer.
I did not know Mathieu as he did. I knew that Mathieu was twenty-nine years old, the son of a neg riche, a successful noir rice trader. He had studied at our college and won an American scholarship which took him to the Columbia School of Journalism in New York. Five months ago he had returned to Ganae to act as press aide in Jeannot’s presidential campaign.
I stood by his corpse, not in tears as Jeannot was, but sick, my mind filled with images of death: Mathieu, the corpse on the bonfire at Damienville, the mutilated body of Colonel Maurras in the college sacristy, the children hiding behind their dead parents in a Papanos ditch.
Ahead of us, the road was empty. Birds sang. Stormclouds scudded over the horizon. Large, heavy raindrops began to fall, warning of a downpour. We lifted Mathieu’s body and put it on the floor in the back of the car. I used a rock to smash the rest of the windshield and remove it so that I could see to drive. Then, rain pelting in our faces, we went on. We were now only minutes from Cap Gauche, a rocky peninsula joined to the mainland by an isthmus. When we reached the causeway we saw a group of people walking across it, coming away from Cap Gauche. To our surprise some were carrying bedraggled posters bearing Jeannot’s picture, holding them over their heads as shelter from the rain.
We drove on to the peninsula and came to the fishing town of Skele. The place seemed quiet, almost empty. There were no troops in sight. Jeannot, who remembered Skele from the time of his campaigning, gave me directions which led us to a hill above the harbour and a large Victorian gingerbread mansion with a widow’s walk and a rounded turret from which a radio antenna poked up into the rain-drenched sky. As we drove up, a bearded man waved to us from the bay window of the mansion’s front living room.
‘That’s Willi,’ Jeannot said.
Willi Narodny, a bachelor in his fifties, was one of those adventurers who exile themselves from European society to live among the people of distant lands. Some years ago he had started a factory here, making baseball catcher’s mitts, a factory which now employed half of the adult population of Cap Gauche. Through his ham radio station he promoted liberal and ecological causes. Now, shirtless, in cut-off jeans and hiking boots, he came hurrying out to meet us.
‘Quick! Get out of the car and give me your car keys.’
We stared at him, uncomprehending.
‘I just heard on the police radio that they’re looking for a white Peugeot. They have the licence number.’
I handed him the keys. He got into the Peugeot and, as he did, saw what was in the back seat.
‘Oh Jesus. Who is he?’
‘A friend,’ Jeannot said.
‘Wait here. I’ll hide the car in my garage.’
We watched him drive around to the rear of the big house. I looked at Jeannot.
‘Are you still going to broadcast?’
‘I hope so.’
Willi came hurrying up. ‘Come inside.’
He led us into a crowded front room of the mansion. I saw a jumble of radio equipment similar to the transmission gear at Pat Redmond’s place.
‘Do you want a drink?’
We said no.
Willi went to a sideboard, took out a bottle of whisky and poured some into a glass. He drank, then asked, ‘Did that happen on the road?’
‘Yes. Some soldiers drove by, firing at random.’
‘The Army’s on the rampage all right,’ Willi said. ‘There’s trouble everywhere.’
‘What about Cap Gauche?’ Jeannot asked. ‘We saw some people crossing the causeway just now.’
‘Those were fishermen from Bouglie. At noon today they staged a demonstration in the town.’
‘Was there trouble?’
‘No. The local garrison had sent its troops to Papanos, before the demo started. What are your plans, Jeannot? Do you still want to go on the air?’
‘It’s up to you. I want to let the people know I’m still here, still free.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘We’ll leave right away.’
‘You can’t, not in that car. You’ll be picked up. Where are you headed?’
We looked at each other.
‘Maybe Lavallie,’ Jeannot said. ‘If we can get there.’
‘Can either of you handle a motor bike?’
‘I can,’ I said.
‘I have one. It’s old but it works.’
‘What about the broadcast?’ Jeannot said. ‘Is it possible?’
‘Of course it’s possible. But you’ll have to keep it short. I’ll tape it and air it later today and make sure it’s also picked up abroad. By the time they trace it back – if they do – you’ll be long gone.’
A few minutes later, Jeannot sat in front of a microphone in that crowded room overlooking the town of Skele. In front of him, a red lamp bulb switched to green.
Brothers and Sisters,
I speak to you from Ganae.
Yes, I am here.
I am still your priest. I am still your president.
Soon, I will speak to you again from Port Riche.
The plotters, the rich,
The generals, the old Doumerguists,
The bleus who have come out of hiding,
All will be punished and disgraced.
Today, on the orders of the criminal Macandal
Who has crept back into this country,
Soldiers are given bottles of usque.
They are told to get drunk.
And drunk, they are killing their brothers,
For what reason?
For no reason.
But yes, there is a reason,
A reason in the mind of General Macandal.
The reason is fear.
Fear is his weapon and he will use it.
He will use soldiers and guns to make you afraid.
If you are afraid, you will not rise up and demand
That freedom be given back to Ganae.
He is afraid.
He is afraid because you have gone into the streets,
To show that the freedom we have won is ours.
That we are not afraid of drunken soldiers,
That we are not afraid of murderers with guns.
We are millions.
They are few.
Already, their coup has failed.
People of Ganae,
Know your power.
Use it.
We will defend the election.
We will defend democracy.
Already, the great world has learned the truth.
Already, in the capitals of America and Europe,
These criminals have been denounced.
Their time is short.
Their day is done.
They have failed.
So go into the streets.
Rejoice.
You are the people.
You have the power.
Use it.
Jeannot looked up, signalling that he had finished. The green lamp switched to red.
‘Too long?’
Willi shook his head. ‘No. But tell me. Do you realise what you’re saying?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Go into the streets. Use your power. Last week they did that, didn’t they? They used machetes and they got away with it. But things have changed. The Army’s on the loose now. The Army has the guns. You’re inviting a massacre.’
‘If the people come out on the streets in full force, the Army can’t shoot all of them, can they? They’d have to kill hundreds, maybe thousands. And by tomorrow Port Riche will be filled with foreign journalists.’ He stood up, putting his hand on Willi’s shoulder. ‘This is what I want to say. I believe it will work. Will you send it?’
‘OK, I made a promise,’ Willi said. ‘I don’t like it, but I’ll send it out an hour from now.’
‘Thank you.’
Jeannot turned to me. ‘What will we do about Mathieu?’
‘The boy in your car?’ Willi said. ‘There’s a priest here, Father Briand, a supporter of yours.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Jeannot said. ‘He helped in my campaign.’
‘I’ll ask him to arrange the burial,’ Willi said. He picked up the bottle again. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a drink?’
‘I don’t drink,’ Jeannot said. ‘Maybe Paul?’
I shook my head.
‘Well, then.’ Willi fumbled in his shorts pocket and handed me a key. ‘Let’s go and get the bike.’
A few minutes later we stood in his garage, as he wheeled an old motor bike out from the shadows. I looked back at our little white Peugeot, its windshield shattered, its doors pocked with bullet marks, Mathieu dead inside. I had not said a prayer for his soul. The familiar words came to mind. ‘Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon him.’ But they were remembered, not said. Perpetual light? Eternal rest? My mother’s words came back.
Willi was explaining the workings of the motor bike. He handed me a pair of goggles. To Jeannot he gave a visored helmet. ‘Let Jeannot wear the helmet,’ he said. ‘I don’t have two of them. But it’s like a mask. He won’t be recognised.’
I wheeled the bike out into the sunlight. Jeannot climbed on behind me. I kicked the engine into life. Willi waved to us.
Minutes later, we roared back across the causeway, the road empty, the rain ended. I looked down at Jeannot’s hands clasped around my waist and felt his frail body press against mine. Back through the years, a woman sat on a ramshackle porch, watching, as I went down a hilly road on muleback, a little boy hanging on behind me, a boy she had given into my care.
We were headed for Lavallie where Nöl Destouts had lent us his small cottage in the hills. The locals were mountain people, like the people of Toumalie, Jeannot’s village. There were no bleus among them. If there was a place in Ganae where he might go to ground, Lavallie was that place.
But twenty minutes up the road, after crossing the causeway, we saw an army roadblock ahead. Vehicles and pedestrians were being checked by soldiers. Sober soldiers. The operation was being supervised by a captain wearing the shoulder flash of the Port Riche Battalion. I brought the motor bike to a stop.
‘They’ll be looking for your little white Peugeot,’ Jeannot said. ‘Not for two men on a motor bike.’
‘They’ll be looking for you and for a blanc priest. We can’t risk it.’
‘Is there another road to Lavallie?’
‘No.’
I turned the bike round and we drove back the way we had come. As we approached the causeway, I saw that a second roadblock was being set up there. We were now cut off in both directions. A convoy of three army trucks was crossing the causeway, coming from Cap Gauche.
‘Those trucks may have been to Willi’s,’ Jeannot said. ‘One thing is sure. Someone back at Pat Redmond’s place has given them that description of your car and told them we’re in this area.’
Our danger had doubled. Before, we had been hiding. Now, we were hunted. As we halted in the middle of the road, the truck convoy rumbled through the roadblock. In a few minutes it would be on us. Hurriedly, we pulled the motor bike into the long grasses and lay down beside it, not knowing if we could be seen from the road. After a few moments we felt the ground shake as the trucks passed above us. I buried my head in the grass, cringing, as though at any moment a bullet would strike my back. When the sound diminished, Jeannot sat up, lifted the visor of his helmet and scanned the hills around us. He pointed to a village that stuck out on a rocky promontory overlooking the road and the valley below. ‘Let’s hide the bike and go up there.’
‘But it’s completely cut off,’ I said. ‘What will we do there?’
‘That place is too small to have police or soldiers. The people will hide me.’
I didn’t know what to say. I was afraid. I wanted to hide. I felt that at any moment we might be discovered by soldiers down here on the road. Yet if we went up that rocky path to that isolated place we would be cut off, on foot, unable to escape if pursued. We set off, pushing the heavy bike up the narrow path, looking for a place to hide it. Trees and bushes had long ago been razed for firewood and the bare mountain slopes offered no cover. We heard a noise above us. It grew louder. Coming over the mountaintop was a helicopter, a rare sight in Ganae. As it came towards us we saw its army markings. Hastily, we dragged the bike off the path and lay down beside it with little hope of not being seen. But the helicopter flew over us and did not pause. We watched it circle towards the second roadblock, hover, then lift up to disappear behind a hill.
‘Missed us,’ Jeannot said.
But I did not feel so sure.
‘Let’s leave the bike behind those rocks,’ Jeannot said. ‘At least it won’t be seen from the road.’
We pulled the bike in behind some boulders. Jeannot put his helmet down beside it. ‘They didn’t see us,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
He led. I followed. As we continued up the rocky path leading to the hilltop village, I kept glancing back at the roadblock below. If the Army had learned that we were somewhere between Cap Gauche and Papanos, they would send in hundreds of soldiers to flush us out. Pelardy was right. Jeannot, free in Ganae, was a man marked down for death.
The village ahead of us was of the poorest sort, some fifteen wood-frame shacks, with walls of mud-daubed wattles, their roofs thatched with palm branches. On the steep slopes around them were a few mean fields of congo peas and yams. In the centre of the village we saw three hobbled donkeys, a pen containing a few pigs and, on the rocky bluffs above, six mountain goats. Now we heard the sound of drums and a mandoline. Voices chanted a dirge which I did not recognise. But Jeannot did.
‘It’s a wake,’ he said. ‘In that house.’
Children playing on a makeshift see-saw waved to us as we went to the open door of the shack Jeannot had pointed out. Inside, people were beating drums, clapping hands, and singing to the sound of the mandoline. When they saw Jeannot they smiled and beckoned him to come in. But when we did and the singers saw my blanc face, their voices faltered. The music stopped.
The dead man was seated at a table dressed, as was the custom, in his best clothes, a clean white shirt, denim trousers, sandals. His old felt fedora was perched jauntily on his head. On the table was a funerary wreath fashioned from white frangipani and red immortelles. A dish of plantains, beans and rice had been set before him and an unlit cigarette drooped from his lips. He was a peasant in his thirties, scarecrow thin, as were most of the others in the room. And then I saw the bullet hole in his temple. The blood had been cleaned away.
People nodded humbly to me, the priest. They looked with curiosity at Jeannot, not recognising him.
Jeannot smiled at them and said, ‘God is with us.’
It was as though he had spoken his name. There was, at once, an amazing stillness in the room. In a chorus, voices answered.
‘C’e Mesiah. C’e Mesiah!’
People came forward touching him as they might touch a sacred object. ‘Mesiah! Mesiah!’ They wept, they smiled, they bowed to him in reverence.
Jeannot, moving through the crowd, went to the table and gently touched the dead man’s hand.
‘Who killed our brother?’
Stumbling, interrupting each other in their eagerness to tell, the villagers explained that they had gone down to Papanos two days ago to join other peasants in a protest against parliament’s refusal to accept Jeannot’s choice of premier. The dead man was carrying a poster with Jeannot’s picture and had been shot by soldiers when he tried to hoist it up over the entrance to the town hall.
And now, as in a biblical miracle, Jeannot had appeared at the dead man’s wake. The villagers did not ask why he had come or how he knew of the death. The Messiah is not a man. He co-exists in the world of the flesh and the world of the spirit. To them, Jeannot had appeared in their village as the Virgin might appear. He was God’s messenger. Because of this, the room was filled with a strange exaltation. These lives of poverty, of endless toil, of children’s early deaths, of storms that washed away the meagre crops, of soldiers and bleus who beat and pillaged, were, in that room, on that day, transformed into the promise of a future life. Now, with the Messiah come among them, they believed anew. Paradise would be theirs.
In that moment their gratitude was moving, awkward and intense. Women came forward with bowls of food, pushing it into our hands. Men poured cups of homemade beer and brought them to Jeannot, smiling shyly as they tried to force him to drink. We were seated at the table with the dead man, and offered precious cigarettes. Our sandals were removed and the village women brought water to wash our muddied feet. And now the drums began to beat again, the mandoline twanged to a more lively tune. The wake resumed, but all was changed: life had vanquished death. The corpse, stiff and silent at the table, would rejoin us one day in another, truer world.
We were hunted men. On the roads below us and in the sky, soldiers were searching for Jeannot. And yet in that room it was as though we had been rescued from our enemies. We ate the food given us and clapped our hands, as the villagers sang in celebration. I did not ask Jeannot what we should do next. But in the midst of the singing he said to me, ‘These people may not even know there’s been a coup. They say they have no radio here.’
‘Will you tell them?’
‘Later. Perhaps they know some place, higher up the mountain, where we might hide for a day or two.’
Just then, a very old woman was led up to meet Jeannot. She was the dead man’s grandmother. Jeannot embraced her and said, ‘He is in heaven now. He is happy.’
‘I know,’ the old woman said. ‘He make a lot of mistakes in his time, but he stood for you last week in the town. That buys him his ticket to paradise. Eh, Jeannot?’
He smiled and embraced her again. A few minutes later, over the singing and the drums, we heard the clatter of helicopter propellers. The helicopter circled the huts of the village, hovered, then tilted up and moved off down the mountainside. People who had run out to look came back into the room. ‘Soldiers! Soldiers coming!’
‘Stay here,’ I told Jeannot. I went out of the hut. A long line of soldiers was advancing up the mountainside, spread out as in a military exercise. On the bluffs behind the village other soldiers were crouched, rifles at the ready. The helicopter came back, hovered stationary above us, then moved down to the road where a dozen army trucks and two weapons carriers were parked in convoy.
I ran back into the room and told Jeannot.
‘You were right,’ he said. ‘They saw us with the motor bike. They know we’re here.’
Villagers came crowding around him. ‘Soldiers coming, Jeannot. What do they want?’
‘They want me,’ Jeannot said. He took my arm. ‘If they take me, they won’t care about you. Let’s see if we can find somewhere for you to hide.’
‘No. We’ll stay together.’
Now we heard the sound of gunfire. We ran out. The soldiers, coming up the mountain, were firing their rifles in the air to frighten the villagers who stood staring down at them. When the rifles went off, some of the people crowded back behind the huts. But one woman shouted, ‘They come for Jeannot. They going to shoot him!’
At that, in a sudden shift of mood, the crowd grew angry. Some ran into their huts and reemerged with machetes. The first soldiers were now only a hundred yards away. When they saw the villagers come out with machetes, they hesitated and looked at their officer, a lieutenant, who was coming up beside them. ‘Go on!’ he shouted. ‘Go on! They have no guns.’
The soldiers, closer now, again raised their guns and fired over the villagers’ heads. The villagers stood their ground. The soldiers advanced. The officer shouted, ‘Open fire!’
They fired into the crowd. Two men fell. A woman, bleeding from a wound in her shoulder, ran forward screaming wordlessly at the attackers.
Jeannot, standing beside me, pushed past his defenders, stepping in front of the villagers. The officer, recognising him, hastily called out, ‘Hold your fire!’
Jeannot walked a few paces towards the soldiers, then stopped. He raised his hands in a gesture of truce. Suddenly, all was quiet. He spoke in a normal tone.
‘Brothers, put down your guns. Do not kill your own people. I am here. Put down your guns.’
He stood, alone, a slight, frail, shabby figure, yet, as always when he wished it, commanding absolute attention. The soldiers lowered their guns. In the silence we heard the crunch of boots on the rocky path as a captain came up to join the Lieutenant. Both were mulâtres and wore the shoulder flash of the Port Riche Battalion. The Captain drew his pistol and pointed it at Jeannot.
‘You are under arrest, Father Cantave.’
‘You must leave these people in peace,’ Jeannot said. ‘They have nothing to do with me.’
He walked towards the officers. I followed him. When he reached the officers, he turned and called back to the villagers.
‘Put away your machetes. Help those who are injured. Go in. Go in.’
His voice broke. He said, ‘God bless you.’
He turned to the officers. ‘I am the one you want. Let Father Michel go home.’
The officer shook his head. ‘I have orders,’ he said. ‘I must bring him in.’
We started down the path in single file, followed by the Captain and the Lieutenant. The soldiers remained spread out uncertainly on the mountainside until a sergeant called, ‘Return to transport. Return to transport.’
I looked up. The villagers were watching us, their machetes slack in their hands. Some of them knelt by the two who had been shot. When we reached the road Jeannot turned and waved to them. From far off, their voices came down the mountainside, singing ‘Dieu et Patrie’.
Soldiers going back to their trucks passed by us on the crowded road. I saw them stare at Jeannot with a mixture of awe and curiosity. Some smiled and waved to him, as to a friend. The Captain, noticing this, spoke to a sergeant. The Sergeant came up to us, gesturing with his Uzi, pointing in the direction we should take. The army helicopter was parked further down the road. When we reached it, the pilot leaned over to help us climb into the machine. The Captain and the Lieutenant also boarded. The Captain spoke to the pilot and at once the rotary blades began their deafening merry-go-round. We lifted off and tilted over the mountaintop. Below, the villagers of that unknown village looked up at us. They had seen their Messiah. Two of them may have died for him.
It was now late afternoon and, as the helicopter clattered over the hills, tropical rain drenched the plastic walls that enclosed us. The Captain, sitting opposite Jeannot, reached forward and plucked the pocket radio from Jeannot’s shirt pocket. ‘Not allowed,’ he shouted.
I noticed that the young Lieutenant kept staring at me. At last, leaning towards me, he shouted in my ear, ‘Do you know me, Father? Sami, Henri Sami. I was a student of yours. Yes! At the college.’
I did not remember him but I knew his family name. The Samis were among the richest of the mulâtre elite.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked him.
‘There.’ He pointed ahead. Through the rain-cleared space caused by the pilot’s windshield wipers, I saw, below us, a fort, set in a rocky plain and surrounded by high stone walls. The Ganaen flag flew from a turret in the courtyard. As we landed in that courtyard in a rush of propeller backdraft, the rain had slackened to a drizzle. A sign above the main gate read:
armée de ganae
cap belle isle
état major
The fort seemed deserted. When we got out of the helicopter the windows on each floor were shuttered. The ground-floor doors were closed. A soldier, waving landing batons, was our only welcomer. The Captain and Lieutenant Sami jumped down and looked around them uncertainly. One of the doors opened. A major emerged and came up to us. Our escorts saluted him. We were led through the opened door of the fort into a darkened corridor and then into a room. No one spoke. The Major nodded to the others and all three went out, leaving Jeannot and me alone. We heard them lock the door. Jeannot seated himself in one of six chairs which were arranged around a plain wooden table. The room was without any other furniture. On the wall was a blackboard which had been scrubbed clean.
‘The broadcast,’ he said. ‘Willi said he would send it “in an hour”. What time is it now?’
I looked at my watch. ‘Five o’clock.’
‘If it went out at one and was picked up, people may already be in the streets.’
There were no lights on in the room. As it grew darker I found a switch but it did not work. Towards six we heard a bell ring in the corridor. Minutes later, floodlights were switched on in the courtyard outside. We went to the window and saw the soldier who had guided our helicopter down standing in the middle of the yard. His red landing batons were now illuminated. He waited. We waited. Above, growing louder, we heard the sound of a helicopter. The soldier guided it to a landing some twenty yards away from the helicopter that had brought us to this place. In the floodlights it was highly visible.
‘See the decal?’ Jeannot said. ‘Three stars. That’s Hemon’s helicopter.’
But when the helicopter door opened and an officer appeared it was not General Hemon. This officer was light-skinned, very tall, wearing combat uniform and the insignia of a four-star general, the only such ranking in the Ganaen Army. As he turned around, the Major, who had come into the glare of the floodlights, saluted him with punctilio. General Macandal acknowledged the salute. Behind him, vaulting down easily from the helicopter, was Colonel Lambert. I recognised him at once; his handsome face, his dashing manner, the flamboyant, film-star moustache. He too wore combat gear, pressed, neat, unused in battle. The Army of Ganae has never fought a war.
Preceded by the Major, the General and Lambert walked towards our building. As we watched from our darkened room, the room light came on. We heard a bell ring in the corridor outside and the shuffle of soldiers’ boots on stone floors. Our enemies approached. I felt a sudden panic: the barracks had become a prison from which we would never come out alive.
A key turned in the door. General Macandal and Colonel Lambert entered the room. The Major pulled the door shut again, leaving us alone.
Jeannot did not rise from his chair, nor did he speak. General Macandal, tall, towering over Jeannot, his face a mask of contempt, turned to Lambert. ‘Get rid of the priest. We will talk to him alone.’
‘Father Michel stays here,’ Jeannot said.
The General looked at him. ‘You are no longer in charge. A state of martial law is now in effect.’
‘I will not talk to you or to anyone unless Father Michel is present as my witness,’ Jeannot said.
The General sat down at the other end of the table. ‘All right, let him stay,’ he said to Lambert.
Lambert sat, straddling a chair, his legs thrust out. He turned, looked at me, and smiled in a friendly manner.
‘What is this talk of martial law?’ Jeannot said.
‘You have been here all afternoon,’ the General said. ‘So, of course you have no idea of the damage you have done. I have been forced to declare martial law because of the speech you broadcast earlier today. I hope it will be a temporary measure. That depends on you.’
‘So the people are back in the streets,’ Jeannot said. ‘And your coup has failed.’
‘Listen to me!’ the General said. ‘In the last two hours crowds of looters and rioters have been running wild in Port Riche, Mele, Doumergueville and Papanos. In the rural regions the peasants have burned down property and threatened the lives of soldiers, police and elected officials. We don’t yet know how many people have been killed. I have ordered the Army not to retaliate, but in some cases these orders have been disobeyed. I hold you responsible for these events.’
‘Nonsense,’ Jeannot said. ‘You engineered this coup. You are responsible for everything that has happened.’
‘You are responsible,’ the General said. ‘The truth is, you have never wanted democracy for Ganae. You have tried to foment a revolution, a war of the poor noirs against the rest of us. You pretend to be a priest but you are not a priest, you are a revolutionary, preaching class warfare. You are not fit to govern Ganae. That is why Senator Raymond has become premier. Parliament is trying to save this country from a civil war which you are attempting to provoke. If that happens, the country will be destroyed. I am offering you a compromise. We have decided we will allow you to remain as president under certain conditions. Do you wish to hear them?’
‘Where is General Hemon?’ Jeannot said.
The General sighed and stared at the ceiling. ‘Will you stop all this nonsense! Listen to me! These are the conditions under which we will allow you to remain as president. You will be taken tonight to Radio Libre. There will be journalists present. You will tell them that you have come there to broadcast an appeal for an end to this violence. We will then broadcast a taped speech, made by you, in which you announce that you concur in parliament’s decision to appoint Senator Raymond as premier. You will say that you accept this as a measure to try to restore order and peace in Ganae. You will explain that you now wish to share power with the premier and with parliament. I would suggest that you end with a prayer for peace.’
‘And how do you propose to make me do this?’ Jeannot asked.
‘You will do it because it is in your interest to co-operate with us.’
‘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.’