“No, I never thought about it, actually. Too many years behind a desk, I suppose. Mentally conditioned to avoid manual labor. A subliminal thing, I guess. What do you think?” he asked.
“I think you can go to hell for lying, not just for stealing or cheating.” Looking up, she merely shrugged, held out the hoe and said, “Here, try it.”
Hanley stepped into the garden, the soil soft and shifting, his boots sliding beneath him as he searched for balance, like walking on a beach.
“You should be wearing gloves,” she noted.
There were but a few weeds entrenched between the rows, making him wonder if she was busying herself to keep her mind from the matters that pressed her that day or maybe to think those same matters through. Holding the hoe up to inspect it, he saw the wood handle was completely unprotected by varnish, the wood dulled and grey with chinks in its surface, making gloves necessary if the hoer was to get through the day without taking on splinters. The old metal blade looked off somehow, more than bent, it was altered, was encrusted with dirt and rust, the edge showing a gleam from someone’s attempt at sharpening, the edge visibly grooved, the file used to hone it rough, the wrong tool, probably the only file available. The hoe was heavy, another sign of age, made in a time when durability was part of the equation. It looked like every hoe he had seen in Indiana when he was young. “This hoe and I are the same age, I think,” Hanley said. “We appear to be in the same shape.” Looking for a safe spot for griping, he began digging out the few weeds he saw, careful not to damage the stalks, picking up the freed weeds and placing them where they could be retrieved when he finished.
Hanley felt the nun watching him as he worked, and she cautioned him to be careful around the maize. Following behind to pick up the weeds as he worked his way between the rows, picking up speed as he grew accustom to his new job. His right hand slid up the handle, the pressure pushing a splinter through the webbed skin between his thumb and the first finger. A low cursing and a shake of his right hand brought the nun’s head up.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s nothing.”
She said, “The hoeing is not difficult. I have seen it done worse than you are doing it. You have gardened before, monsieur?” she asked
Stopping, Hanley straightened up slowly, pressing his lower back with a hand as he did. Using his wrist, he mopped sweat from his brow. “Yes, when I was a boy, I worked on the farm of a relative. I helped my aunt with her garden,” he said. He felt dampness forming on his shirt, from between his shoulders to just above his belt. There were also ovals of wetness behind the knees of his tan khaki cargo pants.
“Is this too much work for you? A man of your age must be careful. Perhaps you should hoe more slowly,” she suggested.
He ignored her.
“Mr Martin, I believe I owe you an apology. You must know, I do not apologize often. During our earlier conversations, I had been rude. I believe you Americans call it abrupt.”
“We have other names for it,” he said.
Pausing for a second to examine an ear of corn, she then said, “I know you are here to help us, I do realize that. I did not mean to be mean or, uh, uncaring, if that’s the right word, to you as you look for answers to the questions you have, that you seek. It may be that I do not understand the question itself. Is that possible?”
“Anything’s possible, I suppose. I appreciate you saying this. I didn’t intend for this to be a problem. I can assure you this will not interfere with my work. It’s just that I needed to know something. It’s because I was so successful in my life. Am I somehow required to do something to justify my luck, to show fate that it had not made a mistake when it picked me to succeed? I was taught I must do something to, you know, pay back my good fortune. I just need to know what I must do. I couldn’t find the answer before, at least not until fate appeared to step in. Two chance meetings, one was your friend, Sister Mary Kathleen. She was actually the second. The first was in France. Both seemed to point to this mission and then to you. I swear to God.”
“Please, don’t say that,” she responded.
“I’m not making this up. I mean, I leave France, and on my way back to Indiana, I meet a nun that knows of the priest I met by chance at a dinner party in a place, by the way, I had never been before. The priest heads the organization that runs this mission, that put the uncle of my friend’s wife here, put you here, a friend of the nun I met on the way home. Your friend, Sister Mary Kathleen, even lives in the same state I live in. Forgive me, but it all seemed oddly meant to be,” he said. He leaned on the hoe, a hand covering the end of the handle, his chin on the hand. “Sounds nuts, doesn’t it?” he said.
“Did you like Father Bertrand?” she asked.
“Yes, I did. The whole thing seems like a dream to me now. It was a bit surreal, especially the old lady. Her name was Paulinier, a local historian. Sophie, Michael Campbell’s wife, really likes her. There were five of us at the dinner party; Michael and Sophie, Father Bertrand, Madame Paulinier and me. I was staying at Michael’s home. For whatever reason, I decided to attend the Paris Air Show after years of avoiding it, letting my staff attend. I needed a change, I suppose, and went. I really enjoyed it, probably should have done it earlier. Anyway, the dinner party was a turning point for me, helped me make some big decisions. The dinner party and meeting our friend, Sister Mary Kathleen,” Hanley said. “I’ll tell you about the dinner party. It was interesting.”
***
When he stepped into the dining room, the parquet floor squealed beneath his shoes, as if he stepped on a baby’s toy. Brightly polished, the floor reflected in small, irregular shaped ovals the chandelier over the table. The aromas from the table made his stomach churn, loud enough, Hanley coughed trying to mask the gurgle. It was a lovely simple dinner of leeks with light balsamic vinaigrette, small filet mignons with broccoli, brie with chestnuts and for dessert, chocolate mousse with strawberry sauce.
After some time, Hanley watched, fascinated as a bit of leek rode the corner of Veronique Paulinier’s mouth, clinging stubbornly, refusing to fall. Apparently for Madame Paulinier, chewing was part of her oracular routine. He was seated to Madame Paulinier’s right, at one corner of the table. He watched as she savaged the food Sophie had prepared. Madame Paulinier was a woman in her late seventies, thin as a communion wafer and just as dry. However, she appeared to know the entire history of the Loire Valley and Normandy and was prepared to share it with her fellow dinner guests. Her English was broken, but she persevered as she had a new audience. Some of it was interesting and Hanley was polite. She was very different from the other guest at his host’s table
Short and wiry, Father Paul Bertrand was in his mid-sixties, with a slightly hawkish face. Hanley thought the priest to be quiet, but as they talked, he sensed an intensity below the surface.
Eventually, Mrs. Paulinier stopped her lesson long enough to attack a challenging piece of filet and Father Bertrand asked Hanley why he had come to Europe after all these years. Hanley looked at the cleric and arched his eyebrows, surprised by the question. Before he could respond, the priest apologized to explain he was aware of Michael Campbell’s repeated attempts to have Hanley visit them in England and then France. He simply wanted to know what had changed.
“Many things changed in my life within the past year. My wife and I divorced and my daughter now lives in another state. I’m alone, except for my dog. His name is Weed. He and Michael have an interesting history. You should ask Michael to explain it sometime.”
Some brie failed to make it into Michael Campbell’s mouth as he looked up at Hanley. “Hanley is trying, as most Americans do, to be humorous. Years ago, he found a mutation, a mistake of nature, dropped on his doorstep one bleak winter night. Hanley thought it was a puppy, a cute one no less and took it in. Being somewhat of a freak himself, it was love at first sight. The dog, if that is what it really is, finds legs, apparently male legs, British male legs, irresistible. I had to
carry a newspaper to beat the damned thing wherever I went when I stayed with the Martins in Indiana. It was memorable,” he said.
Hanley paused to sip his coffee and said, “After my divorce, it seemed like I needed a change, something to do beyond my normal routine. When I can, I fly my planes for enjoyment, but I needed something more. My staff began discussing this year’s air show in Paris and I made the decision to attend. The trip has been as much as I could hope for so far.” Looking at the priest, Hanley said, “Sophie tells me you were the priest in her parish when she was a young girl. She and Michael have also mentioned the organization you run and your travels for the church. To a number of countries, I understand. It sounds as if you have had a challenging task for many years, especially in Africa. How do you stay with it? I mean, you must see and deal with things that are bound to shake your belief in all things human. It must effect even a man of faith. I assume you find strength in your faith in other things,” Hanley said.
Father Bertrand appeared to consider the question. “My faith is also in other people and the goodness within them. I happen to believe that most men and women are good and actually do care for the plight of others. Women especially are caring and willing to help those less fortunate than themselves. So faith includes my belief in the good to be found in my fellow man, as well as God. If not for that hope, I might be building airplanes also,” he said.
Hanley smiled.
Sipping some wine, the priest said, “The Fathers of Notre Dame have been a mission program since the late 1800s. We press our faith into many remote areas, especially Africa. Currently, we have a number of missions operating in Chad, Benin, Mozambique, Ethiopia and the Sudan. Things are more difficult now than ever before.”
A cough, then another stopped the conversation, as Madame Paulinier worked the roll she was eating down her dry throat. After a moment of struggle, she thought to lubricate her throat with wine, which smoothed the process.
Father Bertrand continued, saying, “Before, we struggled with poverty, disease and corrupt governments. Now, we also struggle with something bigger. Before, we were supported by our Muslim brethren, even though their beliefs are different. They knew we were there to help, to minister aid as well as faith. Now, some Muslim clerics see us as the enemy and our missions are now in an even more dangerous place.” He looked at Sophie. She stared at her friend. Hanley saw her expression had changed.
“A dear friend of mine, Sophie’s uncle, Jean-Robert, is in the south of Sudan, in a mission in Mapuordit. It is a small station with only one priest and a few sisters working with the children, mostly orphans. They also care for lepers. Fighting has left so many homeless and the children suffer the most. Currently, there are one hundred little ones receiving aid at the Mapuordit mission. This is but a fraction of the orphans to be found in that region. Many children are now afraid of seeking the aid of our priests and nuns. They have seen the punishments inflicted and will not risk being hurt or killed. Thousands have died due to their fear,” the priest explained.
“Does the Sudanese government help in any way?” Hanley asked.
“No, we must contend with many different issues, from the government as well as the growing movement of radical Muslims and the SPLA. The SPLA is a particularly vicious group, formerly Marxist, now just thugs using violence to stay in power in south Sudan. They recruit children, boys of ten or twelve years, and teach them to be soldiers. They are not soldiers, Mr Martin. They are children raised to believe they can take whatever they want from others through intimidation and murder, if need be.” Father Bertrand stopped to sip his wine.
Hanley thought that perhaps Madame Paulinier might seize the moment and begin again her discourse on the lore of Loire. But the old lady sat and waited for the priest to continue. She must have realized the conversation had moved in a direction she would not interrupt.
“One thing most people do not realize is the long-term damage caused by the loss of families; mothers and fathers raising their children. The caring and teaching that happens every day within a family is immense and its importance goes unnoticed and unappreciated by most people. Perhaps greatest among those losses is the teaching of values. Everything from the value of life to the value of love and sharing is denied to these children. By the time these children are ten or twelve years old, they have learned to survive on their own, often by ruthless means. It’s easy to build monsters using material like this,” Father Bertrand said.
Turning his wine glass by the stem and watching the rotation of the deeply red fluid, Hanley asked, “Is there any American aid coming into these countries, into Sudan?”
“Some, but much of that never reaches the people in need, or if it does, it goes to those nearest the point it enters the country. Supplies not taken through the major ports or airports are moved by truck to the remote areas. Thieves and groups like the SPLA take the rest before it can reach outposts and missions like those in Torit or Mapuordit. They use food as a weapon,” the priest explained.
Michael Campbell said, “It’s a logistics problem. Currently, the most common way of moving goods into Sudan’s southern interior is by truck. Jean-Robert writes to Sophie and her father about the conditions there. He tells us that the truck routes are difficult even without the bandits. The roads are horrible, the trucks old. Breakdowns are a common occurrence. He says dust eventually stops anything mechanical and once the trucks stop, they are stripped of their cargo. There is an airstrip near Mapuordit, but few planes make the jump from the main cities or ports to the interior. A plane could at least bring in medical supplies and fly out those in need of serious medical attention, which many are, from what Jean-Robert says,” Campbell said.
“The mission cannot afford to employ a pilot and plane on a full-time basis. Those that are there can make much more money flying for businesses or wealthy families. The dangers are many and life is hard. Although there is a true mission in Sudan, few people are inclined to be a part of it,” Father Bertrand said.
Hanley had been listening intently as his friend and the priest talked about the need for a plane and a pilot. For a second, he thought of himself in Sudan, but then, recognizing how foolish that was, stopped.
Madame Paulinier set her wine glass down, the edge of the glass on her bread plate, the opposite edge on the table and then let go. The glass began its fall to the tabletop with the small amount of wine left in it. Hanley caught the glass at its mid-fall point and set it upright. While saving the glass, Hanley had not taken his eyes from Father Bertrand. Michael Campbell muttered, “Damned good,” while the priest finished explaining why the Fathers of Notre Dame could not afford the services of a pilot and plane.
Sophie watched her grandmother’s crystal begin its fall. When she realized Hanley Martin saved the crystal glass, she said, “Merci”. Hanley heard her exhale, looked to see what he thought was an expression of relief on her face. He smiled and said, “You’re welcome.”
“Father, do the people served by the Mapuordit mission believe the missionaries are there to help or not?” Michael asked.
“Yes, I believe they still do.. When I was there, the people of the region saw the Catholic missionaries as religious, as representatives of the God the whites believed in. They had respect for the priests and nuns. Some of that has changed. The adults now fear they will be punished if they show support or any type of acceptance of the mission and its people. The children follow the adults and if there are none, they do whatever it takes to survive. Children are smart and they absorb everything around them. They learn quickly. Adults make the mistake of confusing intelligence and experience. Just because a child has little experience does not mean they cannot understand.” He thanked Michael Campbell as he filled his wine glass. “The church and the mission of the Fathers of Notre Dame are committed to the southern Sudan. The needs of the orphans are many and the situation grows worse with each passing day. We will not leave until driven out. I fear this talk is difficult for our hosts; perhaps we should speak o
f other things.”
Hanley said, “One last question, Father. Have any Americans ever worked in your mission?”
“No, they have not.”
Madame Paulinier offered to complete her history of the Loire Valley and Normandy. Father Bertrand suggested she abbreviate the lesson as she still had three hundred years to go and the evening might not be long enough to accommodate her profound knowledge. She took this as a compliment and continued with the lesson.
The hosts and guest moved to the living room where the lesson was completed. Father Bertrand asked Hanley when he started his own businesses and what had been his motivation.
“Well, the idea came to me on the first date I had with my wife. We were at dinner in a little Italian restaurant in Kokomo and we were telling each other our plans for the future. I had been thinking about someday starting my own business, but my plans were not very well thought out. That conversation helped me begin to identify an idea, an idea for my first business. It also led to other things, as you may have guessed,” he said. He had not thought about that dinner for some time. “Lately, I’ve begun to wonder what I might do now that I find myself alone, now that my daughter lives too far away for me to be involved in her life as much as I was before. The truth be known, I haven’t been that involved for some time.”
Turning in his chair, the priest asked Hanley, “Mr Martin, what will you do now, once you return to Indiana?”
Hanley said, “I’m not sure. It seems I’m at a crossroad in my life. I can’t say for sure what got me to this point. It’s hard to identify the combination of people and experiences that render a life, especially after all these years. I’ve always had this need to be useful and it’s greater now than ever. For whatever reason, I also feel I should be doing something else, other than running my business. What is that, time running out on me? I don’t want to grow old and realize I haven’t done enough with my life. I’m not trying to minimize the importance of my family or my businesses. I do believe I need to do more. What that is, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll come and work for you in Africa.”
Sometimes the Darkness Page 16