No Other Life (25 page)

‘Come with me,’ Jeannot said, taking my arm. The two dark-suited men closed in on either side of us as we entered a hangar-like space which was a television studio. Lambert followed. A make-up man in a white smock came over to Jeannot. ‘Sir, will we change your shirt?’ Jeannot shook his head.

The floor director came up and shook hands with him. Jeannot was familiar to these people, at home in this atmosphere. In the days of his campaign and his presidency Radio Libre was a place he visited every other day. Now he went up to the broadcast area and sat in an armchair. Technicians moved around him. A small microphone was attached to the collar of his dirty white shirt. The two dark-suited men stood a little off to the side and, as one of them eased his heavy buttocks against a wall, I saw the bulge of a revolver under his armpit. Lambert, who whispered something to the elegant old station manager, came into the broadcast area and stood off-camera, a little to the left of Jeannot. He raised his hand and made some signal to the dark-suited thugs. They nodded. Lights glared down on Jeannot. A television camera moved in on him. The floor manager waved to Jeannot and pointed to a clock. A young announcer stepped up to the microphone on Jeannot’s left. He watched the clock. When the hand touched eight, the camera rolled towards him and he spoke.

‘This is Radio Libre. This is a special broadcast on national television and radio. We have with us here in our studio Father Jean-Paul Cantave, President of Ganae. President Cantave.’

I looked at Jeannot and saw that he no longer sat in the armchair but had risen and stood facing the cameras. I looked at the monitor and saw that he was in close-up, his eyes staring trancelike at his unseen audience.

Brothers and Sisters,

Today, I weep.

I weep when I see our people shot dead in La Rotonde.

I weep when I see innocent farmers

Murdered in a ditch in Papanos.

I weep when I see a rich man and his family

Hacked to death in the square in Doumergueville.

I weep when I see the soldiers of Ganae,

Loosed like police dogs on the poor.

I weep because words of mine,

Yes, words which I spoke

Yesterday,

And the day before

And the day before that,

Words of mine may have sent

My Brothers and Sisters

To their deaths.

Words of mine may have sent

Soldiers into the streets of our cities

To kill and be killed.

And for what?

We have not won our freedom.

That is a long fight.

I know now

It will not happen today or tomorrow.

But it will happen.

It will happen when the people become one.

So strong, so loving that our enemies will fail.

The power of love is greater than the power of hate.

We must love our enemies

As Christ taught us to.

Even those who would rule us

By the gun and by fear.

They are our Brothers and Sisters.

We are one family. God’s family.

I have been asked to stop this killing.

I have been asked by General Macandal

And by the parliament of Ganae

To appoint Senator Raymond as my premier.

I have been asked to share the powers you gave me

With others I did not choose.

Will I do this?

He paused. At once, in the studio, there was an air of alarm. I saw the dark-suited thugs come to the alert. Lambert, staring at Jeannot, raised his hand, signalling to the floor director, ready to halt the broadcast.

Jeannot kept staring at the camera. And then he said,

I will do it.

Yes.

I will do it because

Love drives out hate.

General Macandal,

You have asked me to conclude this address

With a prayer for peace in Ganae.

I will do more than that.

I ask you, Brothers and Sisters,

Here in this city

And in all the towns and villages of our land.

It is eight o’clock in the morning.

I ask

That in two hours’ time we in Port Riche

Gather in the Place Notre Dame,

Before the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Secours.

As you, all over Ganae,

Must gather outside your churches

To pray.

To pray to Our Father that He help us now.

That He lead us to the freedom promised us.

We must ask His guidance

To end our troubles

To give us justice.

For the poor, the despised, the wretched.

Come.

Come in your thousands.

This morning, let us pray.

He bowed his head and joined his hands in an attitude of prayer, then looked off camera, signalling that he had finished his speech.

The cameras moved to the young announcer, who said, ‘That was an address by President Jean-Paul Cantave, from our studios in Port Riche.’

In the background I heard the recorded music of the national anthem. Lambert went up to Jeannot who stood patiently, as crew members removed his microphone.

‘That was very moving,’ Lambert said. ‘Excellent. I have just one question, however. This prayer service. What will it consist of?’

‘We will say the rosary. That’s all. The service will not be held inside the cathedral. I hope we will have too great a crowd for that. I also hope that, as this is a religious service, there will be no military presence in the Place Notre Dame.’

Lambert smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but in the present state of unrest an assembly of this size will have to be policed.’

‘Peacefully,’ Jeannot said. ‘That’s all I ask.’

‘We will issue instructions. The military will behave. You have my word.’

The elegant old station manager came up self-importantly. ‘Colonel, General Macandal is on the line.’

‘Excuse me one moment,’ Lambert said. He went off with the station manager.

Jeannot came over to me. ‘Let’s go back to the palace, Paul.’

One of the dark-suited thugs held up his hand: ‘We must wait for the Colonel, sir.’

‘Then let us wait,’ Jeannot said. He smiled at me. ‘This is the era of co-operation.’

So, we waited. After a few minutes, Lambert returned. ‘General Macandal sends his compliments. He too, was pleased with what you have just said. He agrees with me, though, that we must have some policing presence at this rosary ceremony. He also suggests that Archbishop Pellerat be invited to take part in the service.’

‘The Archbishop is welcome to attend, if he wishes,’ Jeannot said. ‘As I said, it will not be a service, but a simple recitation of the rosary. I will lead the prayers and we will need microphones set up in the square so that the congregation can follow them. And now, I would like to go back to the palace.’

‘Of course. My men will drive you.’ Lambert turned and pointed to the thugs. ‘They will also take you to the service when the time comes.’

Jeannot looked at me. ‘Ready, Paul?’

‘Excuse me,’ Lambert said. ‘May I suggest that you won’t be bothered by the press if you leave by the back entrance. It’s up to you.’

‘Good. I don’t want any more questions.’

The station manager unlocked the small door and we were led through a yard, filled with rusting radio equipment. A black Mercedes waited. The dark-suited thugs then drove us out on to Rue Madame Ponset. The curfew had ended and the streets were busy with people. But it was far from a normal morning. There was an air of danger, excitement and disruption. No one seemed to be at work. As we drove through the market area, crowds were assembling and moving on foot and on bicycles in the direction of the Place Notre Dame. Some of these people held aloft placards bearing Jeannot’s picture. Two women carried a long, sheet-like banner behind which some forty people marched as in a procession. The banner read:
jeannot, libérateur!

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.