No Other Life

by Brian Moore

  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 tonigh
t. 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.’