A Very Bold Leap

by Yves Beauchemin

  He quickly explained the problem to Charles, and gave him explicit instructions. Charles left the room still in a state of astonishment over this bizarre meeting, during which he had had the impression that he’d been talking to two or three different people.

  The next few days confirmed that a profound change had taken place in the preacher. Sometimes he would invite Charles to eat with him alone in his room, which he had never done before. During these sessions Charles learned that Father Raphaël was a great devotee of fine food — and knew how to get it no matter where he found himself — and a connoisseur of fine wines. Charles was able to eat only in moderation in his presence, despite the man’s insistence that he help himself. More and more it seemed to Charles that the preacher’s entire attention was directed at him. Maxime and Marcel-Édouard might not have existed. Strangely enough, the pair didn’t seem to feel any jealousy about the situation, and even occasionally displayed a kind of snide amusement at the whole thing, which Charles was unable to explain.

  In his dealings with Charles, Father Raphaël would suddenly become solicitous, almost caressing, all the while somehow maintaining such an aristocratic distance — with his air of ironic self-absorption that gave others the impression that he was amusing himself by pretending to have certain feelings — that Charles would interpret the pose as the expression of a superior knowledge of life, one that belonged to a different era, and that seemed a bit strange only when viewed from the perspective of modern vulgarity.

  But he remained on his guard, without precisely knowing where the source of his mistrust lay. He had heard, of course, of the case of the famous preacher D∗∗∗∗, who had been convicted as a pedophile some years before and who, having served his time in prison, had since been wafted away somewhere and was no doubt now working as a fireman or a taxi driver, sighing over memories of his opulent and voluptuous former life. But there was nothing in Father Raphaël’s behaviour suggestive of the disturbing actions of the other, as they had been minutely discussed in the newspapers. In any case, Charles was no longer a child, and had only to keep his eyes open.

  Although even he felt the idea was ludicrous, he began to sleep with a knife under his pillow. At times he also thought about resigning, but then he would remember his growing bank account and put off making a decision from one week to another.

  The two meetings in Granby were phenomenally successful.

  Marcel-Édouard, who was forever coming up with bright new ideas, had suggested they “work the room” by opening with the witness of a musician whom Father Raphaël had used on earlier occasions, mostly because he liked the man’s playing. After a brief introduction (electronic keyboard, drums, saxophone, and guitar), the man recounted the moving story of his battle with drugs. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he accompanied his story on the keyboard. He told about his miraculous salvation after he had accepted Jesus into his life. Then he told the even more moving story of two young men who had confided to him that they were hovering on the brink of suicide but were still locked in their sinful ways, and were trying to find the road to redemption.

  There followed a rousing version of the hymn “God Will Find You in the Storm,” and then Father Raphaël came on and delivered his sermon, with an eloquence that was new to Charles; his deep, wrenching voice took on the tones of a cello and sent shivers down even Charles’s spine, although he had heard it all before; the preacher brought his audience to delirium and was kept in the hall until after midnight by the pumped-up crowd, who didn’t want him to stop. Exhausted, sweat running down his face, he shook hands, gave blessings, allowed himself to be touched and stroked, listened patiently to everyone’s confidences and secrets, and gave advice to anyone who asked. He took a Down’s-syndrome child in his arms and whispered a few words into its ear, and the child responded with a smile — “For the first time!” the child’s mother exclaimed in a state of jubilation. The take surpassed all their hopes, and was the jewel in the crown of a magnificent night.

  Nonetheless, one passage in the preacher’s long sermon had made a strong impression on Charles.

  “My brothers,” Father Raphaël had declared, raising his arms slowly above his head to silence the crowd, “God does not confer useless gifts. Intelligence, youth, and beauty — these gifts carry with them responsibilities, they come with duties; don’t forget that! The more we receive from Him, the more we are called upon to give in return; the happier we are, the harder we must work for the happiness of others. The law of God’s love is a holy law! Without love, my brothers, man becomes nothing but a wreck in human form. He despises himself and abandons everything. Love does not calculate; it does not make comparisons; it does not judge. Love transcends gender and all forms of prejudice; it holds itself above custom, tradition, and usage; it obeys nothing but its own vocation, which is to give! Remember, my brothers and sisters, the words of the prophet: ‘My love is so great that I no longer see people as men or women, or as young or old, or as rich or poor. I see them only as creatures of God.’ Creatures of an all-powerful God, my brothers, filled with such great goodness that He thinks of nothing but our greater well-being. Never forget, never forget for a moment, that if God has given us a fleshy envelope, it is for the sole purpose of allowing us to manifest our love for one another. But He has done much more than that: by giving us free will, He has made us part of His own will. It is through His free will that man can see what is good for him and good for his neighbour. Inspired by the grace of God, man makes his rules and makes his choices. And there is not one way of doing good, my brothers and sisters, there are thousands of ways, and each one of us must discover those that are best for each of us. Throughout history, my dear friends, men of closed and controlling minds have tried to find — and too often have indeed found — ways to restrict the many possible ways there are to do good, by imposing false rules, grievous and obscure machinations, apparently inspired by the Bible but owing nothing to the true Word of God. Do not listen to these men, my brothers, listen only to your hearts, illuminated by the grace of God. Be free, my brothers and sisters, be as free as the children of God, let love invade your lives, ignore the false and nefarious rules of man. Think only of your own happiness and that of others, as God has intended us to do.”

  Charles, hearing these incendiary words for the first time, wondered what they could possibly mean. He could find nothing in them but a frank and open incitement to complete immorality. He asked Maxime and Marcel-Édouard for their reactions, but received nothing in return but disdainful smiles.

  And so Charles, deeply displeased and disquieted, decided it was time for him to look around for another job.

  The day after the Granby meeting, Father Raphaël and his assistants left for La Tuque, where one of the pioneers had recently opened a church. La Tuque was a small town in the Mauricie, apparently bursting with the faithful waiting impatiently for a visit from the preacher, who had been described to them almost as the reincarnation of Christ.

  Upon their arrival, they went first to the home of the pioneer. Robert Brodeur lived in a large, dilapidated log house at the edge of town. He was a short man in his thirties, with large, moist, trusting blue eyes and the air of a man who was constantly deep in thought, as though unable to tear himself away from contemplating the mission that God had conferred upon him. He and Father Raphaël had met on several previous occasions, and Brodeur obviously held the preacher in high, almost beatific, esteem.

  When tea was served, they discussed the spiritual health of the La Tuque community, which apparently left much to be desired. The town had been wracked by an attack of religious fervour some thirty years before, when a certain Abbé Côté, on orders from the archbishop, had come to exorcise two young girls, the Labrosse sisters, who had been possessed by demons; one of them had twice been seen dancing in the air off the balcony of the family home; the other, hospitalized after falling into a catatonic fit, had been found levitating above her hospital bed, and had had to be strapped down with heavy lea
ther belts. No one had dared go near either of them.

  After nine days of fasting, self-flagellation, and public prayer, the Abbé Côté had successfully purged the Evil One from the girls’; bodies. But Satan had not left without a fight: the victims had been seized with violent convulsions; they rolled on the floor and ground their teeth in such a terrifying manner that they had afterwards had to be fitted with dentures.

  When the Abbé Côté left La Tuque, the town had organized a party in his honour. It was held in the Community Club, which was later renamed the Knights of Columbus Hall. For a long time the town talked of those nine epic days of struggle against the Spirit of Evil. A retired notary even had a brochure printed up that related the extraordinary and edifying events. But that had been a long while ago, and time had done its work. Memories of the great occasion had become faded and diluted, indifference had set back in, and almost no one in La Tuque spoke any more of the Labrosse sisters — who, for their part, had left town the day after their deliverance.

  In other words, the moral state of La Tuque was, unfortunately, much like that of a great many towns in Quebec, where beer, television, video games, porno films, and the Loto-Québec diverted everyone’s attention from their prayers and preparations for the Last Judgment.

  “I sometimes wish,” sighed Pastor Brodeur, carefully setting down his teacup, “that Satan would come back and settle into one or two of our parishioners.”

  “We’re going to do our best to correct the situation,” replied Father Raphaël, with an air of great self-assurance.

  He sent Charles to meet with some journalists from the La Tuque Echo and local radio and television stations, while Maxime and Marcel-Édouard contacted the three musicians Paster Brodeur had recruited for the meeting, which would be held in two days’; time. For convenience’s sake, the meeting had to be held in the Knights of Columbus Hall, since the church was having problems with its heating system.

  Despite his eloquence and charm, Charles got nowhere trying to convince the person in charge of radio programming that it was in the station’s best interest to invite Father Raphaël in for an interview; he was enthusiastically received, however, by a writer for the La Tuque Echo, a certain Maurice

  Morris, who took a liking to Charles and agreed to do an interview with the preacher the following morning. He then invited Charles to have a beer in a local bar. The man was just a little older than Charles, one of those guys who are good company at a bar, but still slightly rough around the edges: he liked disco, beer, soft-porn magazines, and good-looking women, among whom he enjoyed a certain success, despite having once had a bad case of acne. He was tormented by an unfortunate malady, however: he couldn’t spell worth beans, a fault that frequently got him in trouble with his boss, who was always threatening to make him take remedial grammar classes.

  For reasons not immediately apparent, he found Charles a “super guy.” Out of politeness, Charles assured him that he was a super guy, too, and the two men decided to celebrate their mutual superness by making an evening of it. Over several bottles of beer they exchanged a number of humorous stories.

  “Tell me,” Charles said at one point, “wasn’t Félix Leclerc born in La Tuque?”

  “That he was, buddy.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing the house he was born in.”

  “It was torn down a long time ago,” Maurice replied. “Or maybe it burned down, I don’t remember. It wasn’t much to look at, in any case.”

  But when Charles looked disappointed, Maurice decided to show him that the town still maintained a certain historic sense, and took him to rue Saint-Joseph, where they stood before a plaque that had been set up beside a vacant lot that had once held a convent, now also long demolished, run by the Sisters of the Assumption. The sisters, according to the inscription,

  WERE RESPONSIBLE FOR 67 YEARS OF SCHOLARLY AND ARTISTIC STUTTERING IN THE LA TUQUE COMMUNITY

  Charles took a lively interest in the wording of the inscription and even wrote it down in his notebook, which flattered his companion no end. Their brief walk in the cold air, however, had worked up a thirst in the journalist and required them to return to the bar for corrective measures. This time, Morris authoritatively plunked his credit card on the table and announced that the night would be on him.

  So it was quite late when Charles returned to the motel in which Father Raphaël had booked his troupe, having refused the local pastor’s hospitality.

  He was tired, and his little outing with Morris was playing havoc with his stomach. After chatting for a quarter of an hour on the phone with Céline, he decided to go straight to bed without going out for dinner, and was asleep in minutes.

  Suddenly he was awakened by a loud knocking on his door. He looked at his watch: it was two o’clock in the morning.

  “Who is it?” he called out, a little nervously.

  “It’s me,” Maxime replied. “Father Raphaël wants to see you.”

  “In the middle of the night?” Charles called, surprised.

  “In the middle of the night. Get up. He’s waiting for you.”

  Still half asleep, and with his head still full of the dream he’d been having, Charles dressed and left his room. Father Raphaël’s room was a dozen doors down from his own. Despite the cold, Maxime was waiting for him outside, hands in his pockets, a curious smile on his lips.

  “Mind telling me what’s up?” Charles asked good-naturedly.

  “He’ll tell you himself.”

  Charles grasped Maxime’s arm. “You know what it is about, don’t you. Why not tell me? Tell me or I’m not going in.”

  Maxime hesitated, then gave him a contemptuous look.

  “I don’t believe it… You haven’t figured it out yet, have you, you idiot? You haven’t noticed a thing? Amazing. It’s like you walk around with a bag over your head, for Christ’s sake.”

  Stunned, Charles stared at him in silence. He was about to turn back to his own room when the preacher’s door opened and Father Raphaël appeared, fully dressed, looking furious.

  “What’s all this confabulating out here? Charles, come inside. I want to talk to you. As for you, Maxime, what are you doing hanging around like this?”

  The preacher’s tone was so imperious, his manner so determined, that Charles couldn’t help but follow him into his room. The door closed by itself behind him.

  “Have a seat, please,” said the preacher, pointing to an armchair, his voice softening. “We need to talk.”

  Father Raphaël took a chair from under a small desk and set it down across from Charles.

  “I’m sorry to have awakened you so late at night, but I had such an urgent need to talk to you I couldn’t sleep. That happens at times. You keep pushing a problem to the back of your mind and you just make it worse, and finally it takes up all the space in your head. It was getting to the point that I was finding it hard to breathe.”

  “You seem to be all right now,” Charles said sardonically.

  “You know, Charles,” said the preacher without responding to Charles’s impertinence, “I’ve been concerned about you for a long time now. Yes, I have. You don’t have to look so surprised, I know you know what I’m talking about; you’re an intelligent young man and you notice things — I could tell that the moment I laid eyes on you. I’ve been giving you all the private signals, but you haven’t seemed to want to pick them up.”

  “What signals?” Charles asked, his voice shaking slightly.

  Out of the corner of his eye he tried to see if the door was locked, but there was no way he could tell.

  “Why this mocking tone? I’m talking about something very serious, much more serious than you can possibly imagine. You’re so young, you see. I’m talking about Love. The Love that God wanted to spread among all human beings, but which has found it so difficult to penetrate into our hearts. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Trying to look unconcerned, Charles shook his head.

  “Charles,” said the preach
er seriously, “you are running the risk of passing up Love itself, even though you hold in your hand an extraordinary opportunity to experience Love in all its glory.”

  “Great,” said Charles. “Another sermon!”

  He wanted to swallow, but his throat was too constricted.

  “My work is difficult, exhausting,” Father Raphaël continued. “It’s been fifteen years now that I’ve given myself up to this job, body and soul, without a thought for saving my strength, without a care for my health, and there are times when I feel so alone, so weak, that it sometimes occurs to me to just pack it all in, let it go…. Maybe I am nothing but a poor, frail human being, Charles, whose time in this role has run its course.”

  He stopped, heaved another sigh, raised his head, and looked straight into the young man’s eyes.

  “But one thing has helped me overcome such moments of weakness and exhaustion: the notion that my modest efforts have contributed to the spread of the reign of Love down here on earth… No, no, hear me out, Charles, I beg of you. I’m only going to detain you for another minute or two. After that you can go, if you want…. Do you remember the sermon I delivered two days ago?”

  “Ha! Of course I do! And it completely turned me off, too.”

  “Too bad. You must have misunderstood what I was saying, or perhaps I didn’t express my thoughts clearly enough. I was thinking of you when I said those words, Charles. I profoundly believe what I said that night. I believe that it is mankind, and not God, that has imposed these stupid barriers to the open and honest expression of Love. Love is such a beautiful and noble experience that it rises above our petty, obtuse, bourgeois rules. It is Life and Liberty itself, by its very essence. You don’t believe me? I hope you will let me try to convince you of it, if not at this moment, at least soon … For now, Charles, I need to let you in on a secret — or perhaps it isn’t a secret to you after all, eh?… Perhaps there have been certain signs here and there that have led you to guess at what I’m about to tell you …?”