No Other Life

by Brian Moore

  When we drove into the palace courtyard an officer of the Garde Présidentielle met us at the main entrance. Jeannot turned to the dark-suited thugs. ‘I am going up to my private quarters. I will come back down at nine-fifteen and you can drive me to the cathedral.’

  ‘Is there more than one exit from his private rooms?’ the thug asked the officer.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. We will come with you, sir, and wait outside your door until you are ready to leave for the service.’

  To reach the presidential apartments we had to pass the suite of offices that house the President’s staff. Those offices, once filled with Jeannot’s advisers, helpers and handlers, were empty, the telephones silent, the computers switched off. The corridors where politicians, office-seekers and supplicants had waited to speak to the President, echoed to the lonely tramp of two soldiers of the guard. As we went towards the stairs that led to Jeannot’s quarters, Sister Maria came hurrying down to meet us. ‘Are you hurt?’ she asked, pointing to his bloodied shirt.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Jeannot asked.

  ‘At home. Hiding. Until we heard you on the radio this morning we thought it was a coup.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Can I get you something? Are you wounded?’

  ‘No, no. Ask Matta to bring us up some coffee. And, please, come to the rosary at ten.’

  ‘Of course I will.’ She shook her head. ‘It was awful. I thought you were dead.’

  The dark-suited men who had hung back during this conversation followed on our heels as we climbed the flights of marble stairs. At the top flight, sitting outside the doors to Jeannot’s apartments, the middle-aged sergeants who had guarded him in the early days of his presidency rose and saluted. The dark-suited men nodded to them, but did not attempt to follow when the sergeants unlocked the heavy doors to admit us. Now, at last, I was alone with him. He went into the ornate bathroom, stripped off his shirt and began to wash. I followed him in, my mind confused with questions.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I asked him. ‘What’s this about the rosary?’

  ‘We will say the rosary. We will pray for God’s help in bringing us the democracy we asked for.’

  We heard sounds in the other room. Matta, a palace servant, entered with coffee. He called in to Jeannot, ‘God bless you, you back with us.’

  When Matta had gone I asked, ‘What if Raymond and the parliament try to maintain the status quo? Raymond will never go against the Army. And Lambert is back. Aren’t you worried about all of this?’

  He came out of the bathroom and went into the huge bedroom where he took a white peasant shirt from a drawer. ‘Of course I am. We’ll never have freedom if those who lead the people don’t work for the people. Raymond and the Army will work hand in hand against them.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘Ganae has always been ruled by corrupt presidents, or by dictators. The people have always waited to be led. They must not rely on a leader. They must learn to make the revolution themselves.’

  ‘But how can they do that?’

  ‘Christ was a leader who did not lead,’ Jeannot said.

  ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘You will. Drink your coffee. We must go.’

  In Ganae, white is the colour of pomp and power. The palace is white, the parliament buildings are white and Notre Dame de Secours, which is by far the largest religious edifice, is a blindingly white, Spanish-style cathedral built in the eighteenth century to overlook what was then the largest place of public assembly in the capital, the Place Notre Dame. Because the square is laid out in uneven, eighteenth-century cobblestones it is largely avoided by motor vehicles. It is a square for strollers, surrounded in the daytime by market stalls and, at night, lit by old-fashioned gas lamps, a meeting place for the youth of Port Riche.

  In front of the cathedral, four impressive rows of stone steps lead down to the square. Three huge marble statues look out on the city: Christ, dying on the Cross; a blessed Virgin; a stern and bearded Saint Peter. The features of these statues are, like their colour, white. Perhaps because of the cathedral, the Place Notre Dame has never been the site of public demonstrations. It is, traditionally, a place of religious devotion and processions, a place where, after funerals, mourners kneel in front of the monumental statues to pray for the souls of their dead.

  As Lambert’s black-suited watchdogs drove our Mercedes towards the area, we were slowed to walking pace by the crowds converging on the square. The thugs, impatiently, began to sound the horn but Jeannot told them to be quiet. ‘Do you want this car to be mobbed?’ he said to them. ‘If they see me, the people will not let us through.’

  When he had said that, he sat with his head down, his hands covering his face as, slowly, we gained access to the square. At once, I saw a crowd larger than any I had ever seen assembled there. Police, arm-linked in double lines, had cleared an aisle for the cars of dignitaries. An army truck was positioned at each of the four entrances to the square but the military presence seemed negligible. Slowly, bumping and lurching, we drove over the uneven cobblestones and reached the front steps of the cathedral. Waiting on these steps were a contingent of the elite, several high army officers and their wives, leading parliamentarians, and a group of robed clerics. I did not see the Archbishop among them, but Bishop Laval, under whose jurisdiction the cathedral lay, came down the steps to welcome Jeannot. Father Bourque, Nöl Destouts and others from our college were also present and as we climbed the steps towards the microphones and the podium, a group of Jeannot’s ‘liberation theology’ priests and nuns surrounded him, besieging him with questions. I heard him ask about the microphones. The sacristans of the cathedral had set up loudspeakers which were used when the cathedral could not accommodate the crowds at a large ceremony. The prayers would be heard all over the huge square and broadcast to the rest of the country.

  A hand touched my shoulder. At first I did not recognise this stranger, dressed as for a fashionable wedding.

  ‘Father Michel! I was hoping I’d see you here. I’ll never forget your kindness to me. Oh – by the way – Reverend Mother sends her best wishes.’

  I remembered the maddened crowds outside Fort Nöl calling for her punishment. I looked down at the thousands of peasants and slum-dwellers assembled under the morning sun. Had they seen her? What would they do if they recognised her?

  ‘Isn’t it dangerous for you to be here, Madame?’

  ‘I have my husband,’ she said. ‘With him, I never feel afraid. Besides, we are here to pray for peace, aren’t we?’

  Behind her, Lambert smiled at me. Behind Lambert I saw six soldiers of the Port Riche Battalion, facing out, watching the square, their Uzis at the ready. At that moment, Bishop Laval came up to me and shook hands. ‘It’s a little after ten. When do we begin? And have you ever seen such a crowd?’

  ‘I’ll ask Jeannot.’

  I made my way through the clerics and dignitaries on the steps until I reached the bank of microphones where Jeannot stood. He was with Pelardy. Pelardy looked grim and displeased and, as I came up to them, I saw why. Senator Raymond, a portly figure in a double-breasted white suit, eyes opaque behind the gleaming lenses of aviator glasses, stood with his arm around Jeannot’s shoulders while photographers snapped pictures. Jeannot did not return the embrace, but did not spurn it, remaining immobile, withdrawn.

  ‘The Bishop is asking when do we begin,’ I said.

  ‘Is the General here?’ Jeannot asked.

  ‘The General is over there,’ Raymond said, pointing to the main doors of the cathedral where, surrounded by his military aides, General Macandal stood in full dress uniform with a gold lanyard on his shoulder and four gold stars emblazoned on the visor of his cap, looking out over the multitude with the air of a conqueror.

  ‘Good,’ Jeannot said. ‘Then we can start the rosary.’ He looked at me. ‘Paul, a moment?’

  Taking my arm, he walked me past the microphones until we were out of earshot
of the others. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked up at me. Those extraordinary eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Do you remember Toumalie, Paul? The day you found me and brought me here?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Do you regret it?’

  ‘No, Petit. Of course not.’

  ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I always will.’

  I, myself, was in tears.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Let us begin.’

  He stepped up on to a small platform, erected so that he could be seen over the tops of the assembled microphones. He looked out on the immense crowd and raised his arms in a gesture of peace. As he did, hundreds of posters bearing his picture were hoisted aloft. Cheers and cries of ‘Jeannot! Jeannot!’ echoed across the Place Notre Dame. I looked back at General Macandal. He stood, statue still, staring up at the sky, as if to ignore the sight before his eyes.

  Again, Jeannot raised his arms.

  ‘Rosaries! Do we have our rosaries?’

  Thousands of hands held up sets of rosary beads. Tiny candles, flickering feebly in the sunlight, were also held aloft. Jeannot gestured for silence.

  With this recitation of the rosary

  We ask our mother Mary

  To intercede for us

  To ask her son, Jesus Christ,

  To lead us to the freedom that was promised us.

  We ask God’s help.

  Without it, we will fail.

  Let us pray.

  Making the sign of the cross, Jeannot began to recite the rosary. As his voice ended the first verse of the Ave Maria, he was answered by a vast mumble from thousands of throats. I watched him, a small, frail figure wearing the anonymous, cheap cotton clothing of the poor, with, behind him, like a frieze of pomp and circumstance, the elegant figures of Lambert and Caroline, the gold-braided officers, the purple-robed Bishop, the clergy in their starched white surplices and red soutanes. And, in the centre of the group, sweating under the morning sun, the imposing grizzled head of the senator who, from this day on, would, as premier, represent all of these powers.

  Jeannot intoned the Aves. The multitude responded. The rosary is the most mechanical of devotions, repetitious, familiar, a prayer of rote. But that morning I heard it as I had never heard it before, not as a prayer but as a muttering chant, the words repeated over and over like a slogan. Among the people grouped on the steps around me, only the young priests and nuns gave out the responses. Beside me, Caroline Lambert plucked at a thread on her silk handbag, bored and impatient as a child in church. General Macandal and his officers, the Bishop and senior clergy, stood silent, staring out at the chanting multitude as though they faced an angry mob.

  I did not pray. To me, that morning, the words of the rosary were a repetitious thunder of voices imploring a blue and empty sky. Who could believe that in those cold heavens, Christ’s mother listened to their plea?

  Jeannot reached the final decade. At the last response he raised his hand to his forehead, and made the sign of the cross. The multitude followed suit. There was a moment of silence, broken only by the eerie hum of the waiting loudspeakers. Behind Jeannot, white against the blue sky, their arms outstretched in poses of piety, I saw the huge statues of a dying Christ, a blessed Virgin, a stern Saint Peter. And, again, Jeannot’s voice, quiet, incantatory, that voice like no other, crept out into the great square.

  Brothers and Sisters,

  My hour is past.

  My day is done.

  When you can no longer see me,

  When you can no longer find me,

  I will be with you.

  I will be with you

  As will those who have died from soldiers’ bullets,

  Who lie in ditches,

  Their bodies rotting,

  Their minds stilled.

  They are not dead.

  They live on in you.

  They wait

  As I wait

  For you to change our lives.

  But, you ask me

  Who will be our leader?

  The dead are our leaders.

  You and only you

  With the help of God

  And the memory of the dead

  Can bring about our freedom.

  It will not happen in a day

  Or in a year.

  It will not happen in a riot

  Or in a parliament of fools.

  It will happen when you

  No longer ask

  For a Messiah.

  You are the Messiah.

  As for me

  I am nothing

  I came from nothing.

  Today I go back

  To those from whom I came,

  The poor, the silent, the unknown.

  From today on

  We wait for you.

  As the dead wait for you.

  To bring us freedom.

  Brothers and Sisters,

  You are the anointed ones.

  With God’s help

  You will not fail.

  He bowed his head. The loudspeakers hummed in eerie tension. Then, abruptly leaving the podium, he walked down the steps and went towards the great multitude, his arms outstretched as if to embrace them. Suddenly, sticks beat on sticks, drums pounded, tin cans rattled, voices chorused, ‘Jeannot! Jeannot!’ Heads bobbed up and down. People rushed forward, embracing him, passing him on from one group to another, as he went deeper and deeper into the mass of bodies. In less than a minute I could no longer see him. Lambert’s dark-suited thugs, who had hung back, now plunged into the crowd trying desperately to locate him. But the mass of people, like a great wave, pushed them aside.

  I saw Lambert signal to his soldiers who quickly formed a ring around Caroline as though expecting her to be attacked. But the vast, chanting, drumming throng ignored the lines of dignitaries massed on the cathedral steps. The huge square exploded into sound and movement as, the prayers ended, a wild celebration began. After a moment, the dignitaries turned to each other, confused. General Macandal signalled to the Bishop and both went back into the church. The elite and their wives exchanged hasty farewells and hurried to their limousines. The young nuns and priests rushed down into the square, joining the celebration.

  Crossing the now empty steps, coming towards me, I saw the familiar bulk of Nöl Destouts in his frayed soutane and red Cuban sandals.

  ‘Paul, did you know about this?’

  ‘No.’

  Below us, a mass of swirling bodies, four thousand bobbing heads, a deafening, joyous, carnival din.

  ‘Mesiah,’ Nöl said.

  11

  ‘I have an excellent memory,’ Colonel Lambert said. ‘ “When you can no longer see me, when you can no longer find me, I will be with you.” Those were his exact words. Do you agree, Father?’

  I said I did.

  ‘Accusations that he has been killed by police or army agents are, I can assure you, totally false. In my view, the sentence I have just quoted to you means that he didn’t flee abroad, that he is somewhere on this island, hiding like a lizard under a rock, and by this tactic encouraging the civil unrest and rioting of the past two months. More deaths, is that what he wants?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I don’t know what he wants.’

  ‘Second point. Foreign businesses are pulling out of Ganae to a far greater extent than is generally known. And when factories close here, they won’t open again. Result: the misery of the common people will be greater than ever before. Is that what he wants?’

  ‘There’s no point in your telling me all this,’ I said. ‘I am not in touch with him.’

  ‘I don’t believe you, Father. I’m sure you mean well. You’re a good man, everyone says so. I’m going to be honest with you. General Macandal wants to take a stronger line with dissenters and those clergy who continue to promote civil unrest. That will mean more interrogations and detentions. But before that happens I wanted to invite you here to see if there is any way we can convince your friend that we’re willing to discuss further p
olitical compromise if it will help to end this crisis.’

  We were sitting in one of the living rooms in Lambert’s mansion, which was rumoured to be the largest private house in Ganae. One wall of the room was glass, with a view of a swimming pool, designed to give the impression that it was a Roman bath. As we talked, Caroline Lambert swam slowly, gracefully, up and down the pool. Embarrassed, I realised that I had not stopped watching her.

  I said to Lambert, ‘You know that I am not in touch with him. You have had me followed day and night. My correspondence has been opened and I believe my telephone calls are being monitored. My friend Pelardy is in jail, held for the past three months without charge. In the slums of the cities and in villages and towns throughout the country innocent people have been beaten and shot to stifle their protests against the regime which you have put in place. If I knew where Jeannot was, I wouldn’t advise him to meet you. It would put his life in danger.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Lambert said. ‘I’ll ignore your accusations and exaggerations. If Father Cantave can be persuaded to come forward, then you can be certain no one would dare to harm him. The whole world is curious as to his fate. He knows very well that he would be safe.’

  At that point, Caroline Lambert climbed out of the swimming pool. A maid was waiting with a large white bath wrap, and a parasol which she held over Caroline’s head. The ladies of the mulatto elite fear the sun: for them it is the colour of darkness. Caroline, followed by her servant, walked towards us along the edge of the pool and, seeing me in the living room, theatrically mimed surprise then slid open the glass door and came inside.

  ‘Father Michel, what a pleasure! How are you? Excuse me, I’m wet and horrid, I must go and change. But, how nice to see you. Alain, you must arrange that Father Michel come to dinner soon. Remember our journey on the mules, Father? What an adventure that was.’

  She went on through the suite of huge rooms and waved to me just before I lost sight of her. It was the last time I spoke to Caroline Lambert. Now, I look back to my foolish passion for her as yet another mockery of my wasted life. I did see her once again, a few years later, at a reception that I attended to welcome a new minister of education. While I was being introduced to the minister in my capacity as principal of the Collège St Jean, Caroline Lambert came up to us. She wore a golden evening dress and looked more beautiful than ever. My heart jumped. She greeted the minister warmly but when she was introduced to me, she smiled, mouthed the polite greeting one makes to a stranger, then walked on.