by James Welch
This morning René Soulas and his wife, Madeleine, standing on the corner of La Canebière and Cours St-Louis, pulled themselves up on the rear platform and found a seat just inside the coach. René had put in his full shift in the fish stall but had left François to clean up by himself. He had hurried home, washed himself, and put on his best suit. Madeleine was already dressed in her dark blue Provençal dress with the lace collar and sleeves, and her black straw hat with the artificial berries on the front of the crown. They had been quiet all morning, dreading this morning and the several mornings which would follow.
René had read the small article in La Gazette du Midi during a quiet time at the market. He had been so shocked he hadn’t told Madeleine or François about it. Instead, he had gone through the motions of selling fish until the market ended. Then he removed his apron and washed his hands—thank God Madeleine had already left for home to prepare lunch—and half walked, half ran all the way down to the Préfecture, and when he arrived, he had to lean against a column in the foyer to catch his breath.
He had been doubly shocked: because Charging Elk had murdered a man, of course, but also because it had happened in Rue Sainte. And he had felt doubly betrayed: Charging Elk had wanted to leave the Soulas home almost three years ago, and after all of René s preaching about the evil temptations that Marseille offered, Charging Elk had ended up in a whorehouse in one of the most godforsaken parts of town.
René had leaned against the cool marble column, catching his breath, cooling down, and alternating between anger and fright. He was angry at Charging Elk for having gotten himself in such trouble, and he was angry at himself for having allowed it. He could have been more forceful about the evils of the waterfront. And he was frightened because the young Indian would surely face the guillotine. He had to do something. He had to see Charging Elk. He made up his mind to lay aside his anger, to concentrate on whatever comfort for the Indian he could muster.
But the desk sergeant said that the prisoner was allowed no visitors. When René explained that the prisoner had lived with his family for two years, that he was like a father to the young man, that Charging Elk had nobody else, the desk sergeant simply said, “No visitors, monsieur—period.”
René didn’t tell Madeleine about the article and he knew she wouldn’t come across it herself. She didn’t read the newspaper. None of it had to do with her, she always said, better to wrap fish or chestnuts in it than to read it. René was unusually hearty at dinner, but he didn’t sleep that night, and the next morning, after market, he went back down to the Préfecture. This time he managed to get an interview with a captain, who seemed quite sympathetic, taking down names and notes, but in the end, he told him what the desk sergeant had. He did give René a reason, of sorts—that the examining magistrate had to conduct his interviews with the prisoner in a private and unsullied manner. Only in this way could he determine if a crime had been committed and a trial before the full tribunal was in order. This was the course of justice. Surely Monsieur Soulas could understand that.
But René couldn’t understand that. What harm could come of comforting a poor wretch when he had fallen? Was it not God’s will that we do all we can for one another? Didn’t the Bible say “Do unto others as we would have them do unto us”? Surely the captain could understand that.
The captain could understand that, but God’s law wasn’t the only law, as unfortunate as it might be. But cheer up, monsieur, he said, perhaps the examining magistrate will find nothing to charge your Peau-Rouge with. Perhaps it is all an unfortunate mistake.
René had walked home, as downcast as he had ever been. And he felt an overwhelming guilt for having convinced the American—Monsieur Bell—that Charging Elk would be fine in his care. He passed the fortune-teller’s window, with the red drapes, the candles burning at midday and the big eye painted on the glass, in La Canebière and thought for an instant of entering. He had never been to a fortune-teller, had never even considered it until then. But then he shuddered at the thought of what he might learn and hurried home to the unsuspecting Madeleine and the nice lunch she would have set out.
But he had been surprised to find a stranger in his flat, and a very striking one at that. The stranger sat on the divan, one leg crossed over the other, a cup of coffee balanced on his knee. He wore a dark blue silk smock and a poet’s tie made of the same material. His cream-colored trousers came to a knife-edge crease, echoing the pointed toes of the rich brown boots. René looked at Madeleine, as if to assure himself that he was in the right flat, and he saw a look on her face that was somewhere between pale horror and anxious pleasure.
“This is Monsieur St-Cyr. He is a famous journalist.” Then she turned toward the man. “And this is my husband, René.”
The man stood and offered his hand. “Enchanté Monsieur Soulas. This is indeed a pleasure.” As René took the hand and pumped it, the man said, “Of course, the circumstances are unfortunate.”
“Yes, of course.” René glanced quickly at Madeleine and he knew she knew. He had wanted to tell her in his own good time, but perhaps it was better that she know from the beginning. The next few weeks or months would be hard on her. But she deserved to know.
“I read your column faithfully, Monsieur St-Cyr. It is an honor to have such a famous journalist in our home.” Then he added, “But your picture doesn’t do you justice,” and wished he hadn’t.
But St-Cyr laughed. He was used to this kind of reaction. Even at the Gazette, his fellow reporters teased him about his flamboyant costumes, which seemed to get more outlandish as the years passed. But then so had his columns, and the people loved it.
“Please sit, monsieur. Would you like some more coffee? Madeleine—” But she had already gone into the kitchen. René watched St-Cyr settle his thin frame back in the cushions of the divan and he marveled at the delicacy with which one leg swung over the other. The journalist slouched on the divan as though he owned it, as though he were at ease anywhere he was in the world. In spite of the “unfortunate circumstances.” René was thrilled to see such a celebrated journalist at ease in his home. “Wouldyou like a cigar?” he said.
“No, no, monsieur. Thank you. I have my own cigarettes.” St-Cyr tapped one out of the packet. René noticed that he had been using Madeleine’s silver salver, which was full of potpourri, for an ashtray. There were two butts in it. The journalist lit his cigarette and dropped the match in the dish. Even though René was worried that the potpourri would catch on fire, it would be awkward to get him a proper ashtray.
St-Cyr leaned forward and said in a low voice, “I’m terribly sorry about your wife. I thought she knew. I’m afraid it was quite a shock to her.”
“She would have to know eventually. I was going to tell her myself, perhaps today.” But René wanted to see Charging Elk, to have some words with him, before he broke the sad news to Madeleine. He said as much to St-Cyr.
“Perhaps I can help. Perhaps I can arrange a visitation. Even tomorrow.”
That had been two and a half months ago, and René had yet to see Charging Elk. He had read St-Cyr’s column two days later and was more than impressed with the journalist’s ability to make such a spellbinding story out of a bit of knowledge of Charging Elk. He still remembered snatches of the column, including the way it began: “M. Charging Elk, child of nature or born killer? That is the question that confronts us. ...” But he had been completely shocked to read the name of the dead man—Armand Breteuil. According to the article they were unknown to each other until Breteuil and the whore, one Marie Colet, hatched their dastardly plot, but René remembered that dark morning on the Quai des Belges when he had introduced him to Charging Elk and Breteuil had later enlisted the indien to help him load his fish. René had been worried then, but he thought his warning to stay away from perverts like Breteuil had been forceful enough. So René had been shocked by the whole business, start to finish, but he also wondered if the incident in the whorehouse was really the only time the two men had com
e together since the introduction on the Quai des Belges. He had wanted to tell St-Cyr about the incident on the quai, but he thought it could only do more harm than good. In a far corner of his mind, one that he barely acknowledged for fear of what he would find out, he wondered about Charging Elk’s sex life.
René and Madeleine got off the omnibus a block from the Palais de Justice. They stood for a moment, watching the lumbering wagon turn into Cours Pierre Puget. A worker in a blue peasant’s uniform was washing windows on the shady side of the street. He had a wet rag tied around his neck and he worked fast. The windows dried almost immediately in the close heat. But René envied him—a simple man performing a simple task. He would probably grumble to his wife tonight about his menial lot in life, but right now it didn’t seem so bad. He took Madeleine’s elbow and urged her toward their destination. Both of them were tight-lipped and awkward, as though they were the accused and were showing up for their own trial.
Between the Palais de Justice and another building, René could see, on the high hill, Notre Dame de la Garde and the golden Virgin surmounting the steeple, and he remembered having prayed just last night, as he did every night, to the Virgin for succor for his young friend. But he had no sign that she heard him. Now he couldn’t look at her, for she cast a dazzling light beneath the late-morning sun.
René showed the letter of summons to a young man behind a desk in the tall, gloomy foyer of the Palais de Justice. He gave them directions and they ascended a wide staircase and walked to the end of a windowless hall, their footsteps echoing sharply on the marble floor. Another young man, this one in the dark tunic and blue trousers with the red stripe of the gendarmes, looked over the letter, then glanced pointedly at each of them before leading them into courtroom B.
René was surprised that they were in a long balcony that arched around the large courtroom. There were three rows of benches, each stepped down to the railing. And he was surprised that the benches were nearly filled. He had never been in a courtroom and at first he thought these must be the officials. But there were so many of them. How would justice ever get done?
The floor below was nearly deserted by comparison. A few men in black robes sat at each of several dark wooden tables, chatting among themselves. On one side, sitting in two rows in a box, were a group of men, all staring straight ahead, as though they were waiting for a theatrical performance to begin, but their faces were as grim as infantrymen waiting for the order to charge into the teeth of the Huns.
The gendarme brought them to a special roped-off section of the balcony. He unfastened a brass hook from a stanchion and said, “Here we are.” René almost bowed to the young gendarme, as though he were a monsignor or a grand bourgeois. “Thank you,” he whispered as he sat hesitantly on the hard bench. He could not remember being this intimidated ever before. He pulled his handkerchief from a pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead and upper lip. He glanced back toward the door they had come in, which was now closed. And he felt trapped in the large, airless room.
He suddenly felt Madeleine’s hand on his own. “Are you all right, René?”
“Its just a little warm. That’s all.”
“But your hand is trembling.”
“I didn’t realize it would be this big. And the people . . .” Just then he spotted a small oval platform, like a pulpit, just below them. It had a picket balustrade around it and a single chair in the middle. René suddenly forgot his discomfort and gazed lovingly at the man sitting on the chair. “Madeleine,” he whispered, as though in a daze, and she looked at him, then followed his eyes to the man in the chair.
“Good Lord,” she said. “He is so young still.”
They sat in silence for a moment, looking at the long, dark hair, the deep copper face, the narrow eyes, and the shadowy cheeks beneath the ridge of bone. They were no more than seven meters away from Charging Elk.
“He looks so handsome,” Madeleine said.
René leaned forward over the balcony rail and whispered as loudly as he dared, “Charging Elk. Sssst. My friend.”
Charging Elk glanced around him but he didn’t look up.
“Sssst. Here, my friend.”
But a gendarme suddenly appeared from beneath the bacony and René ducked back.
Just then a man beside a door in the front of the room announced that the people should all rise, and the murmuring and shifting ceased as the people obeyed. They watched in silence as three older men in red robes, white bibs, and caps of office filed up to the ornate bench beneath the seal of the French Republic. Each carried a portfolio, and as they settled into the tall red velvet chairs, the one in the center turned in one direction, then the other. The other magistrates nodded, and the one in the middle, a spare man with spectacles and a blunt white beard, announced that the Cour d’Assises de la République was now in session. He cautioned the spectators to refrain from disruptive behavior. He urged both the procureur générai and the advocate for the accused to be “to the point.” He pointed out that he himself would ask questions not only of the accused, but of his advocate and of the procureur général.He also addressed the jury, cautioning them to use good judgment, to refrain from speaking of the proceedings outside the courtroom, and to remember that they were to make their decision of guilt or innocence based solely on the evidence they were to hear. Then he nodded to the procureur, who was conferring with one of his associates. The procureur, a tall, ruddy man with white muttonchops and a prominent stomach that caused his robe to stick out over the tips of his glossy shoes, stood, and with a slight bow to the magistrates, commenced his opening argument.
René and Madeleine were tight-lipped but spellbound by the procureur général’s oratory as he accused Charging Elk of the most heinous crime he had come across in his nineteen years of public service. He pounded the railing in front of the jurors and pointed at the accused and said he was not only an illegal immigrant but a savage who could never comprehend the necessary rules and obligations of a civilized society. He cited poets and painters, composers and sculptors, politicians and priests, the great chefs of France, one of whom had been brutally, coldheartedly murdered by a villain who would not know a leg of mutton from a noisette de veau. “Why,” the prosecutor sputtered, “he lives in Le Panier, that notorious district of cutpurses and murderers and drug-runners. He is not a simple vagabond or a poor child of nature, as some would have us believe. He is a part of that den of iniquity, that black wound in the breast of decent Marseille society. If I were ten years younger, I would go up there and clean it out myself. You can mark my words.”
Even though they had been forewarned by Charging Elk’s advocate, René was startled by the exaggerations and outright lies and Madeleine was outraged. She gripped his knee harder and harder and puffed and snorted. René glanced around and he noticed that some in the balcony were looking at them. He squeezed his wife’s hand and attempted a comforting smile, but she would not look at him.
Charging Elk either did not understand what the prosecutor was saying about him or chose to accept the outrageous accusations as part of this strange proceeding. He sat calmly but alertly his legs crossed, his long, brown hands nestled in his lap. Réne had seen this pose hundreds of times, when he dragged Charging Elk to a café to drink anisette with his friends, or when one of the children, when they were younger, told him about the days adventures. Even if he didn’t understand the words, the expression of friendly alertness never left his face.
That was the Charging Elk that René knew, the Charging Elk who had eventually won over Madeleine with his patience and goodwill, so that now she was seething with every word the unlucky prosecutor uttered.
“Can’t they stop his filthy lies?” she suddenly whispered in a fierce voice that carried far enough to make René cast a nervous glance toward the chief magistrate.
“It is his job, my dear wife,” he whispered, without looking at her. “This is the way they do it. Next it will be Charging Elk’s advocate’s turn to defend him. When h
e interviewed me, he said not to worry. It is the prosecutor’s job to make our friend look bad. It’s the way things are done.”
“But it’s not fair to have to listen to all these lies. What if the magistrates believe him?”
“They take it all with a grain of salt. They are experienced men, men of honor.” René glanced over at the two rows of men in the oblong box. They are the ones we have to worry about, he thought. The advocate had said that the jurors held Charging Elk’s fate in their hands. They might be honorable men but they were not experienced. Even now, they sat expressionless, but with eyes and ears wide open to the prosecutor and his venomous accusations. René remembered the dazzling gold virgin atop Notre Dame de la Garde and said a small, halting prayer to her. He was beginning to have that hopeless feeling again.
“He looks like a boiled pig,” said Madeleine, thrusting her chin toward the prosecutor.
Charging Elk sat on the plain wooden chair in the prisoner’s dock, looking at his brown shoes, which were now scuffed and dull. He was wearing his dark suit, the one the tailor had made for him in a happier time. The man who was on his side and who would speak up for him had sent it to the cleaners and had gotten him a couple of clean shirts and a tie. He said Charging Elk had to look like a respectable gentleman. But Charging Elk was disappointed in the scuffed brown shoes. He had been only too happy to dress up after the many sleeps in the gray prisoner’s clothes. And when he pointed out to the man who would speak for him the sad state of the brown shoes, the man said not to worry, nobody would see them. But Charging Elk could see them and he was disappointed.
He sat on a level between the balcony and the floor where all the important ones sat and sometimes stood. All were silent except for the man who accused him of many bad things. His advocate had said that the other man was his enemy and would try to convince the jury and the magistrates that Charging Elk was a bad man. And although Charging Elk could make out only a little of what the accusing one said, he knew that he was in trouble. He understood the words “savage” and “murderer” and “evil heart.” He could see that the men in the box were listening with big ears.