by Damian Serbu
“And by the power of your suffering you shall make others suffer.” Xavier grabbed at Marcel’s leg as he chanted but was kicked in the face and fell back. “As you were delirious at the end of your life make this one, too, blind and confused.” Xavier lurched forward but landed several feet short of Marcel. “Finally, protect me who worships your designs on earth.”
It took all the effort he could muster to pull himself up and scan the mob.
There was Marcel, with his unmistakable slouch, pushing through the crowd. Xavier started forward but stumbled back against the wall. Marcel jeered at the men who protected the priests and blended into the mob. However, he shoved to the front and threw the powder at a guard. Michel turned just as the dust hit his coat and blew into his face. Xavier again tried to move forward but his steps were slow and uneven. He had to save Michel, but could only flounder.
Xavier watched helplessly as Michel staggered and looked around bewildered. He grabbed his head and then reached for his sword. His eyes were glassy, as if he could not focus on anything, and he failed to answer his men’s questions. Xavier gathered himself enough to walk— slowly and by running into people—but he was finally in motion.
Then Xavier experienced time as if it had slowed down, each motion suspended. Xavier noticed the expression on everyone’s face, especially Michel’s pure bewilderment. First Michel took out his sword, and then the mob attacked. They came from everywhere, ripped apart the carriages, and pulled out the priests. They threw rocks, beat on the bodies, and screamed. One by one, the masses murdered the priests and attacked anyone who defended them.
Xavier still muddled forward, but too late.
Before his eyes clouded with tears, some men threw Michel against the wall. Brave, strong, Michel, who normally could have commanded the situation, could not control his muscles. His head bled badly when another stole his sword and plunged it into his chest. Then, unceremoniously, they let him fall to the ground.
Despondent, Xavier shoved himself forward suddenly to reach Michel. Without thinking, he yanked his brother off the ground and dragged him away from the angry masses, who still attacked. He managed to get a couple of blocks away before the alcohol and fatigue dulled his senses. Xavier had to stop, so he carefully propped Michel against the wall in a quiet alley. Then he saw that in carrying Michel he forced the sword deeper into his chest.
“Michel...dear God, Michel. Talk to me. Please. Oh, how I have failed.”
Michel, with labored breathing, smiled slightly at his brother. He weakly reached up and touched Xavier’s head.
“Xavier, my little brother,” he whispered. Blood spewed out his mouth.
“We need help. I couldn’t save you.” Xavier started for a doctor but turned around, afraid to leave. Michel motioned for Xavier to come closer.
“Stay with me. Don’t leave. There’s nothing that can be done.”
Xavier wanted to protest and demand that Michel fight for his life, but looking at the wound and the blood, he knew better, so he slumped against Michel’s body and clung to it tightly.
“Xavier,” Michel stuttered. “I love you. Please, you can’t blame yourself or try to be responsible for everything in the world.”
“It’s my fault. I could have saved you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“I saw him do it,” Xavier sobbed.
“Who?”
“Marcel. I can never forgive myself.”
Michel, who held Xavier in return, scolded him fiercely. “I’ve but moments. I don’t have time for drunken games. This wasn’t you. Protect Catherine. This Marcel is evil. He’s the culprit, not you.”
“But—”
Michel’s eyes widened in what had to be pain. He again hugged Xavier and as the last breath escaped his body, whispered to him, “I love you. I’ll always watch over you.” And Michel’s body relaxed into dead weight in Xavier’s arms. Xavier screamed with rage and agony.
“God, damn you! How have you let this happen to him? You wanted me to serve you. I gave up all my dreams for you, and this is how you repay me? I renounce you! I’ll never again believe that any goodness governs this dark and horrible world.”
Xavier had no idea how long he lay there, passed out, but he awoke when some officials came by picking up dead bodies.
“Is he dead?” they asked, pointing to Michel.
“No, no.” Xavier answered. His head pounded. He was not as drunk, which made him feel even worse. He cried the second he looked at Michel’s limp body.
Resolved to do something, he awkwardly picked up his brother, maneuvering him over his shoulders, and carried him toward the house, staggering beneath Michel’s weight. He had no idea why he did this, but it made him feel good to do something.
He was slightly lost when someone stopped him.
“Abbé?” Xavier looked blankly at the newcomer. “Abbé, it’s me, Denys. Oh, abbé.”
Denys helped set Michel down, and Xavier cried into his shoulder.
“Abbé, let me help. You can’t go this way.”
“Isn’t this the shortest way?” Xavier wept and his head hurt terribly. He needed another glass of wine. He wanted to bless a barrel of wine and then pour it all over the ground to show that God was nothing.
“Abbé, please let me help. You can’t take this route, it passes Ata Carmelite Convent.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid that someone would recognize you.”
“So? Isn’t that just one of the places that they imprisoned the priests?”
“There are no more priests or nuns there. They attacked them this afternoon. I heard that there were over one hundred fifty of them, all murdered and mutilated.”
Denys pulled him up. He lifted Michel onto his back and then took the priest’s hand and led him along.
Denys and Xavier plodded along until they reached the Saint-Laurent house. They walked up the front stairs, and guards shouted and moved people out of the way. Without knowing how he got there, Xavier glanced around the main greeting room, where they gently placed Michel on the couch. For the first time, Xavier saw Michel’s blood everywhere, covering Denys and the white couch fabric in crimson. Xavier, too, was bloody. Oh, Michel, he thought. I have failed you.
Xavier sat away from everyone as they looked at Michel or fussed over his body. What were they doing? Then Catherine entered the room hurriedly. She stopped in the doorway and stared at Michel in shock, wavered a bit, but typical of his sister she remained strong. Always in command of the situation, she barked orders and began the funeral arrangements at once. Only Xavier saw the fight within her to maintain control. Then her tears came.
“Xavier?” Catherine asked. “Where’s Xavier?”
Denys pointed him out. Xavier would have gone to her but found he could not move.
“Is he hurt? Why is he bleeding? For God’s sake, call the doctor, how can you leave him?”
“Catherine,” Denys answered. “He’s fine. It’s Michel’s blood.”
Catherine raced across the room and embraced Xavier. Then, without verbal instruction, she urged him to move. He followed her out of the room, and they held each other up the stairs and finally into his room. Alone, they both released more of the anguish, weeping together. Finally, after what seemed hours, exhaustion clouded his mind. Xavier only knew that he welcomed it as he fell asleep.
Xavier: Flight of the Drunken Priest
2 September 1792
XAVIER AWOKE LATER that day at dusk, when Thomas used to visit, he thought, and only then did he remember Michel’s death.
Someone had tucked him safely in bed, probably Catherine, and even changed his clothes. Magically gone were his stained garments, replaced with clean pajamas. Xavier tilted onto the floor and looked under his bed at his precious, secret stock of wine. He grabbed a bottle and opened it while seated cross-legged on the floor. He relished the swirl in his head as intoxication took control.
He sat alone fo
r a long time getting very drunk as darkness took over. He did look under the door to see that they had stationed a guard as the alcohol worked its coping alchemy. Was he a prisoner because he had murdered Michel? Did they place armed soldiers at his door to arrest him? No, that was too much to hope.
He walked to the window to watch the world pass by as the wine tingled and replaced the blood in his veins with its passion. He tried not to think at all, about Thomas, Michel, or anything, but that was difficult. Indeed, he was almost positive that the black form of Thomas watched him from across the street in a shadow. The wine played tricks on him. The tall man with long black hair and beautifully formed body was only in Xavier’s imagination. His bottle was empty too soon, so he opened another and took a drink, careful not to spill on his shirt.
And so Xavier drank to forget the “problems,” as he labeled them. Thomas, Michel, the church, all of those ghosts who haunted him. But he never really forgot. It was more that the wine tricked him into thinking that he could cope with what had happened.
But even with the wine, he wondered if he could survive. Why did he exist at all? Was it worth the pain and struggle? Just as he was spiraling into depression, he heard something. Catherine’s steps. As she came into his room, he thought that maybe he could live for Catherine. He loved her so much.
“Catherine, I don’t know how I let it happen.”
“Xavier, I hardly have time for such nonsense. I’ve a lot to do and you need supper. It’s the wine talking, nothing else, so forget about it.”
Xavier had not anticipated a cold response. He wanted more hugs and mourning, to cling to each other in sorrow. However, typical of Catherine, she reacted as she did after their father died. She took control, made the arrangements, and buried herself in work. Still, it hurt that she failed to see Xavier’s needs. His drinking made him long for affection more than ever.
“I don’t want to eat.”
“Xavier, I’m in no mood for a three-year-old.”
Catherine yanked him off the floor and pushed him around the room, making him get ready to go downstairs. She was efficient, distant, and controlling, and treated him like one of the servants. Xavier reminded himself that she mourned this way—but it hurt because he needed more. He silently went through the motions of getting dressed, her biting comment having severely stung. Then the wine took over.
“Fuck you, Catherine.”
“What?” She spun around to face him.
“If you don’t want me around I’ll leave.”
“Did you hear me? I’ve a brother to bury, and so do you. And I’m still running this salon. Our brother died this morning. In case no one else noticed. However, his death hasn’t changed the fact that I run the salon and manage all the family’s affairs. So get up, stop whining, and help me. I can’t attend to you every minute.”
“Then I’ll leave.”
“God dammit, Xavier. You’re going to keep your ass in this house and do as I say. Which begins with moving your body.”
Xavier fell to the ground. The last thing he wanted was Catherine’s wrath. He figured that it was God again, another punishment, this time for failing to save Michel and then for cursing God publicly. Damn God, too, Xavier thought. Fuck Catherine, fuck God, fuck the entire world.
He sat limply, not out of defiance but because he really did not care what happened. Maybe he could just stay on the floor until he dwindled away to nothing.
Catherine had stopped at the door and turned around. Xavier braced himself for angry retribution and flinched when her skirt rustled toward him and she knelt down. Xavier would not look at her.
“Xavier, listen to me.” She said this softly, almost in a whisper, and then Catherine eased herself onto the floor and touched Xavier’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” She brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Forgive me.
I didn’t mean those things. I hurt, too.”
Xavier cried.
“I’m just really busy. You’re not in the way. We’re all that’s left, no mother or father, and now no eldest brother. I’d never contemplated children. They seemed like such a nuisance and restriction. But I think that Marcel and I must have children, if anything to preserve the Saint-Laurent legacy. I’d love to raise a daughter.”
Xavier felt ill at the mention of the man who, along with his failure, murdered his brother. Catherine rambled about the family and future generations but Xavier stopped listening. Now he really had nothing to say. The potion still obviously controlled Catherine, as she said inane things about his charm, beauty, and caring ways. Another of God’s cruelties, that he suffered Michel’s death, could have prevented it, and was probably going to watch his sister’s demise as she succumbed to the same fate. God was masterful in His wicked cruelty. Was this because Xavier could not control himself? Or was there no God? Which was it?
“So,” Catherine said, “I mourn Michel as desperately as you do, but I need you to let me cope with it in my own way. With Marcel, the three of us can persevere as a Saint-Laurent clan.”
Maybe it was the wine, perhaps the sorrow, or Xavier might have just felt cruel. But he lashed out.
“Marcel is no Saint-Laurent and wouldn’t know how to have a decent conviction if his life depended upon it.”
“What?” Catherine asked.
“I just don’t like him.”
“Well, I refuse to have this conversation. It’s not your decision, no more than it was Michel’s. I was sharing my feelings with you. I thought that’s what you wanted, and this is how you repay me?”
“I just find it odd that you’re hiding behind a man.”
“I’m doing no such thing.” Catherine sprang from the floor and hovered over him. “You won’t turn into a patriarch. I forbid it.”
“Oh, for the love of heaven, Catherine, you know that I’m not that way. I just hate to see you acting like a weak little woman, bowing to some fiend of a man who only cares for himself and wants to plug your hole for pleasure.”
“I am warning you to hold your tongue.”
“I blame myself for Michel’s death because Marcel did it. He killed our brother.”
“You’re a drunken, delusional, fool right now. I told you to stop.”
“And you’re a blind whore courting a murderer.” The wine had gone too far. He predicted without seeing it that Catherine’s hand was about to smack his face. Slap. The sting hurt, his cheek burned, and Catherine marched out of the room indignantly. Why did he drive those he loved to hit him?
Why had he said those things to her? A self-fulfilling prophesy?
Now he had alienated Catherine. Then he heard another familiar gait coming down the hall. If only he had another bottle of wine.
Before Maria got to the door, Xavier dove under the bed and grabbed a bottle, propelled into action by some unseen force. He was rustling around when he felt her grab his legs and yank him out, which made him laugh hysterically, especially since he triumphantly gripped more wine.
Maria frowned as she snatched it from him.
“You and your drinking are becoming a bigger and bigger problem. Catherine told me the cruel things you said. I don’t care what we think about Marcel, now’s not the time to say those things. Get control of yourself.”
“But he killed Michel! How can you just take her side?”
“Shut up, Xavier. Shut up about your nonsense and the things that you think you saw in some drunken stupor. Will you please snap out of this?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means your drinking, your depression, your seeing things, your acting like a child, all of this nonsensical behavior that was induced by your failed love affair with that vile man who tried to seduce you into evil. Thomas was no better than Marcel but you can’t see it. Well, it’s time that you heard the truth since you’ve decided to tell your version of it to everyone else.”
“You don’t know the first thing about Thomas.” Xavier did not care to listen to Maria. If he had lashed out at Catherine, he hardly had pat
ience for Maria’s drivel. Their relationship had cooled since the revolution. Xavier still cared for her, but since the revelation that Maria slept with other women, and after she encouraged Xavier to do the same with priests, Xavier had a hard time understanding her. This governing principle made no sense to Xavier—you could have sex only with someone from within the church? One minute Maria teased about her women, the next she made dogmatic pronouncements about her faith and God’s law. Xavier lay against the bed, having been pulled completely out from under it, and stared at her in bewilderment.
“You’re in a fight for your soul. This revolution has challenged many of us. You’re no exception. It’s no coincidence that it happened at the same time that Thomas came into your life. Xavier, come back to God. Even if we must keep it a secret, there’s much work to do. Follow Him and end your misery.”
“Maria, spare me the proselytizing. God and I don’t get along.”
“Such blasphemy.”
His rage mounted. “I followed Him. I struggled with my faith. And look what it brought. Nothing, Maria, absolutely nothing. I lost my brother. I witnessed the event and knew it was coming while I could do nothing about it. That’s my thanks for following God’s church. I watch people die all around me, and where is He as all of Paris turns against itself? Where is He as they burn His churches and murder masses of the men and women who allegedly swore to uphold His laws? Don’t toy with me by using some trite theology when you pick and choose the parts of it that suit you while disregarding the rest. And don’t talk about Thomas. You sleep with the same sex and it makes no sense that it’s fine just because they’re in the church. I loved him, but God told me that it was wrong. So I fought my urges. I never caved in. And you see what that got me. I forced him to do things that I know he’d never have done. I chased him away though I loved him. And the entire time, I told myself that God needed this, that this was the way to obey Him and that I’d be rewarded for my faith in the end. Alas, all He left me was wine. He only offered the blissful misery of eternal drunkenness.”