Mischa Berlinski - Peacekeeping

I said, “I’ll let you gentlemen talk.”

But the Sénateur said, “We have no secrets — not even from our northern friends.”

“Stay, brother,” the judge said.

So I sat back down. The cat strolled out on the terrace and surprised me by once again hopping into the Sénateur’s lap. She was ordinarily a timid creature. The Sénateur took her lightly veined ears between his thick fingers and massaged them.

“She likes you,” the judge said as the cat began to purr.

“If only she could vote!”

The Sénateur roared with laughter at his own joke, and the cat, frightened, jumped off his lap. Inside the house, I heard my telephone ringing. I went inside to answer it, and when I came back five minutes later, the two men were discussing the election with surprisingly good-natured civility. They were gossiping about the various personages of the Grand’Anse and the places they had visited in the course of the campaign. They had declared a truce for the evening.

“And his grandfather was Noé Fourcand,” said the Sénateur. “You, Monsieur, remind me quite a bit of Avocat Fourcand.”

The judge smiled indulgently. He expected to win the election now and was happy to be deferential.

The Sénateur took a sip from his rum. He had been no older than ten when Noé Fourcand had made his reputation—“And you, Monsieur, will find this story of particular interest. Noé Fourcand was a great orator, like you, Monsieur, and a magnificent conscience of our city — and like you, Monsieur, a substantial man, broad and strong. You might be his twin.”

The Sénateur closed his eyes as he recalled the long-ago afternoon when Père Fouquet, bishop of Jérémie, found Josué Jean, town beggar and thief, rifling through the collection plate:

“We followed Josué Jean through the streets of Jérémie, tossing stones at this man who dared violate the sanctity of the holy space. As you and your supporters would stone me! We took him before the juge de paix , and I recall even now the smell of sweat and fear as the commissaire de gouvernement rose up to condemn poor Josué Jean, who stole from our church two gourdes! Thank goodness for the alert and dedicated priest who noticed this impious villainy in action! The commissaire demanded a sentence on Josué Jean’s head of six months’ seclusion, as a gesture of respect that one owes our saints and holy places.

“Josué Jean, simpleminded in his rags, regarded his accusers in stupefaction, his dark face lightened with dust from the street. Would no one dare rise to say a word on his behalf, offer up for him a defense, advocate his cause?

“And it was Noé Fourcand who taught us all a lesson in courage. He arrived just as the noontime bell from the Cathédrale had sounded.

“And I remember, Monsieur, his bass voice, his grave demeanor — all of these things, Monsieur, in which you seem to reincarnate his presence.

“And he said, ‘It is at midday, my brother and sisters, when the Angelus sounds, that the Christian man ought to grant himself a minute of retirement to consider his actions from the first portion of the day. Retire now, magistrate! Retire now, citizens! Retire now, implacable priest! Demand of God to inspire in you a decision marrying wisdom to your power! Act now in the spirit of a true Christian!’

“His words, Monsieur, caused me to drop the stone I had in my hand.

“Noé Fourcand said, ‘Before us we have a poor man, a man whose eyes alone tell us of his days and nights of hunger. His stomach and his entrails are tangled by the knots of hunger! Feel his suffering pain, oh Christian brothers! This man could turn for compassion only to Christ Almighty, friend of the poor and suffering! And what does he see, entering the holy space of Mother Church, but the words of our Lord, “Come unto me, those who are hungry?” And what does he spy but the collection box? And what does he feel but the Divine presence? And what does he do but break the box open, his weakened hands trembling, in obedience to Divine commandment and answered prayers? And who among us would condemn him, whose only crime is to be poor?’

“And I tell you, Monsieur, this speech had an effect on the crowd I have not seen since you also began to inspire our people with your grandiloquent oratory. The rage fled from my heart as swiftly as it had once arrived. Not only did we liberate Josué Jean and feed him, but at the next election thereafter, we made Avocat Fourcand our sénateur .

“Noé Fourcand!” the Sénateur said. “And how many years has it been since I’ve said that name. And here he is again!”

The Sénateur put his hand on the judge’s thigh. He looked at the judge with an expression on his ugly face not unlike tenderness. “You don’t want this burden.”

“I think I do.”

“I remember Noé Fourcand’s funeral. He was hardly in office a year before his heart gave way beneath the weight of his new responsibility. How his widow wailed!” the Sénateur said.

The cat wandered back out onto the deck, and the Sénateur leaned over, picked her up, and settled her on his lap.

The judge smiled. “Sénateur, you should write these stories down. When you’re no longer here, our history will be lost. When you are in retirement, I advise you to write a history of this town.”

The Sénateur shook his head.

“You have misunderstood me, young man. Men like you and Noé are not meant for the burden of public office.”

“And why is that?”

The Sénateur took the judge’s hand in his. The judge bridled at the touch, but allowed the Sénateur to hold his hand.

The Sénateur said, “Because you and Noé are too fine. That is a compliment, my friend, that no one will any longer extend to me. My mother always said to cherish every kind word.”

The judge took his hand back.

“Sénateur—,” the judge began.

The Sénateur interrupted. “Life is too short for us to be enemies. Only cats have time to fight. You and I must be friends.”

The judge said, “When they call me Sénateur, you and I will be friends.”

“In politics, you will learn to concentrate on essentials. I am proposing friendship. Can we not — compromise?”

The judge was quiet for a long time. Then he started to laugh. I thought he was going to choke. His body shook.

“Would you build the road?” Johel asked.

“I am not opposed.”

“And traffic on the road?”

“We could share,” the Sénateur said. He spread his hands wide, as if to encompass between them endless bounty. “We could serve each other’s needs. Eat at each other’s tables. Laugh at each other’s jokes. And share the harvest of our beautiful land.”

“And you would be?”

“What I am. The Sénateur of the Grand’Anse.”

“And I would be?”

The Sénateur slapped his hands together. “You will be young!”

The Sénateur stood up, groaning slightly. He extended his hand in my direction and the judge’s. The judge started to stand up also, but the Sénateur said, “Sit on my mother’s porch and enjoy the night air. It is wisdom to learn from the mistakes of your elders. I should have spent more time sitting on this porch and thinking of the most pleasant things in life.”

The judge sat silently on the Sénateur’s mother’s porch. I thought, just for a moment, that he might accept the Sénateur’s offer. He was a tired man imagining a quiet life: a house by the sea, a library of books, a garden. His face grew peaceful in his fantasy. The stress and tension and anxiety of his campaign ebbed from his fat features. His eyes closed. Then, like a film run backward, his face reacquired its former rigidity. He stood up, took his leave of me, and drove down to campaign HQ, where, I learned the next day, he stayed at his desk working by gas lamp until the early hours of the morning.