“These are my children,” Brother Miguel explained, slightly ill at ease. “They’re here unexpectedly. I have to look after them this morning while my wife goes to the dentist.”
Then, in response to the unspoken question he read in Charles’s expression, he added, “My poor wife is so afraid of the dentist that the babysitter had to go with her.”
“Ah, I see,” said Charles, suppressing a strong urge to laugh.
This pot-bellied fifty-year-old with oversized glasses and a herd of small children seemed so reduced and old-fashioned that Charles felt a twinge of pity for him.
“Cuckoo!” shouted the child from behind the filing cabinet.
“Félix!” sighed the pastor. “Calm down a bit, please, and let me speak to this gentleman. Here,” he said, as though struck by a sudden inspiration, “take these cups of hot chocolate to your brothers and sister before they get cold. Take one cup at a time, and be careful not to spill any.”
Félix thought the suggestion a good one and began making the transfers between the office and the next room with small, careful steps. Excited whispers could soon be heard from the other room. Félix was revealed as a small boy, fragile in appearance, but with a mobile face, unusually long and covered with red spots.
“Have a seat, Charles, please,” said the pastor, indicating a chair on which a large stuffed dog was perched. “Here, give it to me. Sorry to subject you to all this … chaos! As you can see,” he added, keeping the corner of his eye on his son, “God has blessed our union: my dear wife has given me one reasonable son, two pairs of twins, and a delicious little girl with the most beautiful hair in the world, but hair that is, alas, very difficult to brush. Good. Let’s get down to brass tacks — with children you never know how much time you’re going to get.”
He leaned over and rested his elbows on his desk, and his kind face took on a serious, even slightly stiff, expression.
“For a while now, Charles, I’ve been meaning to ask you a very important and delicate question. Concerning donations.”
“Donations?”
“Without donations, Charles, our Church cannot survive. We help people within the limits of our abilities, but at the same time we depend on the help of others.”
“Of course,” said Charles, who was beginning to suspect which road the conversation was heading down.
“Can I drink my chocolate in here?” asked Félix, proud of having completed his task without incident.
“Yes, but keep quiet, okay, my boy. Daddy and this gentleman are talking about something very important.”
The child nodded his head and stared at Charles as he sipped his chocolate. He remained standing beside the desk.
“As I was saying,” Brother Miguel resumed after slowly folding his hands together on his desk, “we depend on the generosity of our members, but also on that of our employees.”
And he fixed on Charles a look every bit as grave as that of his son, who for his part was suddenly seized by a violent cough. The boy quickly set his cup down on the desk, splashing a good part of it over the wooden surface.
“You want me to give back some of my salary?” Charles asked in a low voice, his eye twitching.
“I am appealing to your sense of generosity, Charles. Generosity excludes by its very nature any sense of obligation. ‘When the Just Hand gives,’ as we read in Deuteronomy, ‘the heart of God trembles with joy.’”
“And what does it do if I refuse?”
A cry of desperation rose from the neighbouring room.
“Daddy!” one of the children called. “I have to go pee-pee!”
Laughter broke out.
“Gabriel is peeing his pants, Daddy!” shouted another voice gleefully.
“Excuse me,” said the pastor, getting up from his chair. “I’ll be right back.”
He hurried off into the next room and came back holding the hand of a small boy. He left the office, leaving the door wide open.
Several minutes passed.
Félix, unperturbed, went on sipping his hot chocolate and staring at Charles.
“Is it good?” Charles asked him, to break the silence.
The boy nodded, the trace of a smile curling his lips.
“I like hot chocolate, too,” Charles said. “But when I was your age, I couldn’t drink very much of it because it upset my stomach.”
“It doesn’t upset my stomach,” replied Félix, with an air of profound satisfaction.
There came a sharp scream from the next room, loud enough to make the adjoining wall vibrate.
“Daddy! Jacob poured chocolate on my clothes!”
“That’s because you puked in it, you pig!” shouted another voice, furiously.
Hysterical sobs, followed by the sound of pounding, then a number of thumps. The small blond girl appeared in the door.
“There’s chocolate everywhere” she announced.
Feeling out of his depth, Charles got up, grabbed a box of Kleenex that he’d just noticed on a chair, and went into the next room. Two small boys, completely saturated in chocolate, were wrestling on the floor, while a third, sitting in the corner against a bookshelf, was laughing uncontrollably. Charles separated the combatants, took half the box of Kleenex and gave it to the girl, asking her to mop up the floor, and with the other half started to clean the boys.
“My nicest shirt has got choclit on it,” Marc sobbed.
“It’s not so bad, it’s not so bad,” Charles consoled him. “Your mummy will wash it for you and it’ll be as good as new. You’ll see.” But where is that bloody Brother Miguel? he thought. Am I supposed to be their nanny, or what?
The little girl, whose name was Marie and who seemed accustomed to such scenes, left the room and came back with a rag, a plastic pail filled with water, and a wet towel; a few minutes later, the floor was clean and the two boys were returned to normal.
The assistance Charles had rendered them seemed to have established the beginning of a friendship between him and them, and the happy sentiment also spread to include Marie and her small brother, who was still sitting on the floor and who began to give a detailed description of his mother’s fear of dentists. Félix, supremely indifferent, remained in the pastor’s office.
In order to make it easier to keep an eye on all of them, Charles herded them all into the office.
“Would you like to draw some pictures?” Charles suggested, looking desperately out into the hall for their father.
“Can’t,” said Marc, shaking his head in discouragement.
“Can’t,” repeated Jacob, making the same gesture.
Félix said, “Tell them a story. They only like hearing stories.”
“Whenever you tell them a story, they stay quiet,” confirmed Marie, with maternal condescension.
“Yay! A story!” cried Pierre. “A story! What’s it about?”
“About Blue Fox,” said Charles, astonished by his response.
A few minutes later, with his audience gathered around him on the floor and Brother Miguel still absent, Charles was well launched into the story of the Adventures of Blue Fox and his sister Clémence and his friends Gustave the Bear, the Good Witch, and Super Duck.
Carried away by his own inspiration, flattered by having a captivated audience, he lost all notion of the passing of time, and could have gone on forever had there not come the sound of a slight cough from the doorway.
A man dressed in black was standing in the opening with a sly smile on his face. There was something superior about the way he stood there, and he seemed to have been listening for several minutes.
“The pastor isn’t here?” the man said, entering the office.
Charles took an instant dislike to the man. To this antipathy was soon added a strange fear, which was unlike anything he had ever felt for another person. Everything about the man suggested fire: his look, his smile, his voice, even the way he moved, as though he was constantly struggling to keep his impetuosity under control.
The kids w
ere silent, looking warily at the man.
“He’ll be back in a minute,” Charles said coolly, wanting to get back to his story.
The man came into the room, however, and stood in front of Charles, scrutinizing him.
“You like children, I see,” he said.
“Yeah … It’s because I was one, once,” Charles said in an almost insolent tone.
“You’re still one. We are all God’s children.”
“If you say so.”
Charles made a face that bordered on being impolite.
“But it isn’t because I say so,” insisted the man. “It’s the way it is. It’s the way God wants it to be for all eternity. Don’t you agree?”
Charles reddened, and since the cause of his red face was his fear of this man, it humiliated him and made him angry. He gave a deep sigh, as though the conversation was boring him.
“Oh, well, you know, these stories … I think they all come from …” he hesitated. “… you know where.”
Then he felt he should add, “If you’ll pardon the expression.”
“It was a bit harsh.”
“Well, I just work here, see, and the only thing that really interests me is my salary.”
“Honesty is an admirable quality.”
He was about to say something that the man might have found even harsher, but when he looked up he saw Brother Miguel standing in the doorway, holding his son, who was naked from the waist down, by the hand. The pastor had been following their conversation with a horrified look on his face. The visitor turned towards him and gave a deep laugh.
“Well, well, Brother, I see you have some tough customers in your employ!”
“Tough isn’t the word for it,” blustered the pastor. At the sight of their father, the children came to life again and began whispering among themselves. “I believe he … owes you an apology, and that in due form and right this minute. Charles —”
“No, no, leave him be,” said the preacher, taking Brother Miguel by the arm. “I assure you, I found our little conversation very refreshing and wouldn’t have missed it for the world. As you know, I like people with spirit, and Charles, here, seems to have it in spades.”
“Well, that’s the truth… But nonetheless, I’m surprised to hear him speak like that…. He’s a good lad, I assure you, and a good worker, too …”
“I don’t doubt it.”
The preacher laughed again, but this time his laughter seemed forced, and carried an unpleasant note.
“I came to have a word with you, Brother Miguel, but I see you have your hands full. Would it be better if I came back after lunch?”
“Yes, of course, whenever you want. It’s just that this morning my wife had to go to the dentist’s, and —”
“Yes, that’s fine, until this afternoon, then.”
And he took himself off.
Brother Miguel closed the door behind the preacher, then, turning to his children, noticed the stains on the clothing of Marc and Jacob. He put his fists on his hips and spoke in a voice that tried to sound outraged.
“What a mess! Wait until your mother sees this! All right, vamoose! Clear out, everyone, and not another word!”
“It was a lot worse before, Papa,” Marie felt obliged to say. “This man and me, we cleaned it nearly all up.”
Brother Miguel sat down behind his desk and gave Charles a long, reproachful look, which seemed to have as much effect on Charles as the buzzing of a fly. The pastor sighed deeply.
“Do you know to whom you were speaking?” he asked.
Charles shrugged.
“That was the evangelist Raphaël Grandbois, the most prominent preacher in our Church — probably in all our churches.”
“Oh, I see. Sorry,” said Charles, flatly.
Brother Miguel nervously moved papers about on his desk.
“I’m not happy about this. Not happy at all. I hope you will take responsibility for your foolishness. But I suppose it happens to all of us. I’m no exception myself. Where were we?”
“We were discussing my salary,” Charles replied. “I asked you what would happen if I refused to hand over part of my pay.”
Brother Miguel looked away, embarrassed.
“Do whatever your conscience tells you to do, Charles. Just so you know, everyone here donates part of their salary to the Church, in one form or another, but no one is forced to do it. I only wanted you to think about it.”
Charles found this hypocritical response very distressing. It seemed clear to him that the pleasant conditions under which he had signed up for the job had been nothing but a lure; these people had no doubt used them often to draw other naïve persons like himself into their trap.
He stood up and coolly offered his hand to the pastor.
“I will think about it,” he said. “I’ll let you know what I decide tomorrow.”
But he knew full well that a refusal meant he would probably lose his job.
As he was about to leave the office, he heard the sound of footsteps and turned back. Félix was standing in the middle of the office under the disapproving eye of his father, while the rest of the children had crowded into the doorway and were smiling up at him.
“When … When are you going to finish the story?” asked the little boy in a pleading tone.
Upon leaving Brother Miguel’s office, Charles ran into José Coïmbro, who had been asked by the pastor to bring Charles to the presbytery before taking him to work.
“Hey, you’ll never guess what!” cried the electrician. “I just saw Father Raphaël, the preacher I was telling you about the other night! He’s the one we’re going to hear tonight.”
“I’m very much afraid you’ll be going on your own, my friend,” Charles said coolly.
“No way! You promised me you’d come.”
“I never promised any such thing.”
“Come on, Charles, I’m begging you! You have to hear this man! No one speaks like he does, I’m serious!”
“I just heard him speak in Brother Miguel’s office. That was more than enough for me.”
The electrician stared at Charles, struck dumb, his mouth hanging comically open.
“You spoke to him? Just you and him? Just like you’re talking to me now, here, at this moment?”
“Just like that,” said Charles mockingly. “I spoke to him with my mouth, and he answered me with his.”
“Don’t you see how lucky you are! What did he say to you?”
“He gave me shit. Come on, it’s late, let’s get to work.”
For the rest of the day, José redoubled his efforts to convince Charles to go with him to hear the sermon to be delivered by the man who, for some time, had been known only by his Christian name, as though he were some kind of angel sent by God. Charles refused. Coïmbro persisted. Their conversation became heated. The electrician threatened to find another assistant. Charles threatened to bring the whole thing to Brother Miguel, then, realizing that the pastor might not exactly be in his corner at the moment, decided to make peace by agreeing to meet Coïmbro outside the church at seven o’clock.
He showed up at seven sharp, in a bad mood; for dinner he’d eaten a greasy poutine that had begun to decompose in his stomach into a ball of acidic gas. He fully intended to take his leave the minute the sermon became too unbearably boring.
Coïmbro was waiting for him at the church entrance. He waved his arms wildly to get Charles to hurry up.
“Hurry, hurry,” he said, pushing Charles inside. “If we don’t get in early, we’ll have to listen to the sermon standing up.”
The sanctuary was jam-packed and humming with a low murmur of expectation. There was a lot of grey hair in the audience, but also many young people, couples, women with small children, blacks, whites, South Americans, a few Asians — most, it seemed to Charles, from modest backgrounds. Their faces were serious, fervent, sometimes stricken with deep melancholy or else animated by ecstatic jubilation, the cause of which seemed outside themselves, supe
rnatural. An old woman in a white cotton dress printed with cherries and bananas was praying quietly, her hands joined together, her eyes raised to heaven.
Charles and his companion were separated. Coïmbro found a seat in the third row; Charles chose a more prudent spot in the centre of the church, closer to an aisle.
On the right, in the open space created by the removal of the altar, three musicians (electric guitar, saxophone, and drums), all of them in their twenties, played softly, smiling at one another. Charles looked discreetly at the faces around him, then at his watch. He sighed. Having nothing else to do, he looked up at the vaulted ceiling. The wet patch that earlier had been threatening the head of Christ as he lectured to the Doctors of Divinity had now reached his right cheek, which appeared to be slightly puffy, giving the Son of God a somewhat sinister expression. The sound that filled the church was rising by the second. There was the loud crying of a child, then a low, imperious voice, that of a black man, called out, “Praise the Lord!” which was greeted by a round of applause.
Suddenly there was the sound of hollow footsteps at the front of the church and the hubbub fell silent, leaving only the sound of the musicians to be heard. Charles stretched his neck and saw Father Raphaël standing at centre stage, wearing a black habit with long skirts, looking a bit distracted as he turned his head from left to right as though searching for someone in the audience. He seemed bigger than Charles remembered him, and both fiercer and more impressive than he had been in Brother Miguel’s office. His face was strained and seemed to give off a mysterious energy. All at once he gave a little start and looked over at the musicians as though he had just then become aware of their presence.
“My friends,” he said. “Friends! Stop the music, I beg you, for although its intention is to celebrate Jesus, what it really does is express our human misery, our limited intelligence, our corrupted hearts, our bodies weakened and
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