In July 2017, Australian police charged the Vatican’s Cardinal George Pell with historic child sex offences. If you are one of his supporters, this short story is probably not for you.
‘Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not.’
Theodor Seuss Geisel (Dr Seuss) 1904 - 1991
The man in the black suit was in a hurry. He asked for Paul’s passport and put it in his briefcase. He handed Paul a large envelope. Inside was a new travel document and a wad of banknotes.
‘It’s completely legal. Don’t forget though, if they really want to find out about you, they will. On the other hand, we’re hoping they won’t check. But you must be very careful. Not everyone is on our side.’
Paul paged through his new passport. Where they got his photo from he had no idea, but it looked fairly recent. On one of the pages was an ornate stamp : ‘Republic of Bangala. Permanent resident’s visa.’
‘Now listen carefully. When you get to the queue at immigration, you’ll be in for a long wait. There will be only one official on duty. So, just as you get to the counter, put all the money, and I do mean all of it, inside your passport.’
They shook hands. The man said, ‘Ite in pace.’
Paul was surprised. He had not been addressed in Latin for a long time.
‘And may you too have a long life,’ he replied.
The man in black was soon lost in the crowded concourse. Paul was on his own again.
The pilot spoke briefly to Paul just before takeoff. ‘There’s no air traffic control, so they won’t be expecting us until they hear the engine. But I’m not hanging around. I drop you—and take off again straight away. One never knows in Bangala.’
It was a hot day in the rainy season but with no sign of rain. Paul’s white knuckles gripped the metal armrests. He looked down at the thin ribbon of runway. The pilot manoeuvred the small aircraft into the approach for Bangala’s airport. In the distance he could just make out a large open-pit mining operation. On the horizon, a ring of blue mountains reached out of the jungle. Some of the higher peaks were white with snow. A slight change of course brought the capital into view. A handful higher buildings rising out of several square miles of shantytown. And the notorious haze of smoke that sat above the city whatever the season. The first sight of his new posting.
As they descended several military vehicles floated into view. Then the plane banked suddenly as it overshot the landing strip and turned to attempt another approach. Father Paul instinctively clutched at his favourite silver rosary in his pocket. He looked down again and saw that many bomb craters lined the edges of the runway. Ten years after the end of the civil war they had still not been repaired.
When the plane stopped, the pilot left the engine running. He lowered a flimsy ladder onto the runway. As Paul touched the ground, the metal frame disappeared back into the fuselage. Paul’s backpack landed at his feet. The door slammed and the aircraft did a U-turn. It paused for a moment before accelerating towards take off. It was soon a spec disappearing into the heat haze. Then it was gone, and Paul was alone in his new country.
It turned out to be exactly as the man he’d met in Rome had said. Crowds of sweating passengers were queuing in the corrugated iron customs and immigration shed. ‘There will be a long wait in the queue. There will be only one man at the immigration desk. It will take some time to get to him. Now listen carefully. This is exactly what you must do…’
The man dealing with passports looked bored—even when he took the money out of Paul’s passport. ‘OK, pass through.’
‘No stamp?’ asked Paul politely.
‘Go! Nothing more to do.’
Paul went into the grimy concourse. There were no signs to say what to do or where to go. And soldiers with guns were everywhere.
He was met by a young man in a white robe with tribal scars on his face. He had perfect white teeth when he smiled. But he was not smiling now.
‘Father Paul?’ he asked and then introduced himself. ‘I am Simon. We must go quickly. This is a bad place. There are many soldiers. Please come with me, and don’t look at anyone.’
They passed a group of armed men in uniform. Some were sitting on their haunches smoking and drinking. One of them called out. Simon ignored the shout, and, taking Paul by the elbow, led him towards the exit. But the sound of a rifle bolt being pulled back made Simon stop. They turned and looked at the group of soldiers surrounded by empty plastic beer cartons. The man who’d shouted got up and sauntered towards Simon and Paul. He spoke to Simon who answered in a language Paul didn’t understand. Suddenly the man hit Simon in the chest with his rifle butt. Simon collapsed and lay on the floor. Paul stepped forward and grabbed at the gun. This infuriated the man. He turned on Paul and shouted at his comrades for help.
An officer, also with ethnic facial scars, came out of an office. He was in a smart uniform and held a short swagger stick. He hit the soldier across the face, causing bright pink weals on his ebony cheeks. They all backed off immediately.
Paul helped Simon to his feet.
‘Very pleased to see you,’ Paul said to the officer, attempting to make light of a difficult situation. ‘Thank you very much for interceding.’
The man stared at them. ‘Why don’t you just get out of here before you both get hurt?’ He walked off, glaring at the young soldiers and gesticulating at them with his cane.
When the independence movement was gaining momentum most of the country’s political leaders had used an anti-missionary theme. They said that the missionaries had taken their land in exchange for a book. This worked well in the capital’s slums, but the rural farmers were too busy eking out a living from the soil to listen. They remained loyal to a religious way of life that the new nationalists referred to as ‘an old fashioned faith in imperialism.’ But post-independence, when many settlers had left, the mission was tolerated by the authorities. Some said this was because money flowed into certain pockets from overseas.
The remote mission station and school had changed little since its founding in colonial days. From the day he arrived, Paul applied himself to his new situation. He took to his teaching role like a duck to water.
He was a very good teacher, always willing to help his peers—and he more than put himself out for the pupils. He had a natural rapport with young people, in this case boys, because there were no girls at the school. He knew his subjects well, spoke fluent French and Spanish and had studied European and colonial history. He went to great lengths to ensure that the mission school boys liked his lessons.
One boy, Naftali, the son of a minor tribal elder, caught his eye. He was a bright kid. Very bright. He spoke good English, with an interesting accent, and he was handsome, self confident and amusing. He could be the class jester whenever he wanted to. He asked probing questions in class and was never slow to spark a debate on testy matters. Paul liked him a lot.
‘How is it that our Bangala dedication to animism is not considered in the same light as European religions?’ asked Naftali. ‘Despite the fact that it’s been looked at and studied from all angles by anthropologists and scholars for generations. But they invariably conclude that our tribal beliefs are primitive and pagan. At best it’s considered a cult—at worst it’s dismissed as native mumbo jumbo. But surely it’s just as removed from scientific reality as anyone who believes in a man who can walk on water—or the prospect of living in the sky when you’re dead.’
Paul realised he was on difficult ground on many occasions. But he did his best to formulate convincing answers. And he kept on trying. In the end, he found this uphill battle to be gratifying and stimulating despite the deep-seated doubt and anxiety it sometimes provoked. He’d not thought about religion so much since he’d taken orders.
Sometimes the questions were even more outrageous. Especially that one occasion when Naftali brought the house down. Paul was never able to work out whether the boy was being deliberately provocativeor simply playing the clown.
‘Please explain to us, Father Paul, how the Church, through its priests and acolytes, can prognosticate on matters that, in theory anyway, none of them should know anything about? For example, Father, why are we taught that something that every boy does—including all of us here—and which is so much fun, is considered to be such an evil act? Why is this simple pleasure condemned as a mortal sin?’
Paul smiled bleakly, trying to formulate an answer.
But Naftali got in first with another question. It was like a runaway train, and, although Paul saw it coming, there was no way it was going to be stopped. Naftali saw to that.
‘So, forgive me for being intrusive, Father Paul, but what we’d all like to know is: how often do you yourself masturbate?’
It was obvious from the start that Naftali was extremely precocious. He was good at all subjects, and his mind was quick, alert and receptive. He grasped new ideas and he was open to new concepts. So of course the time came when it was obvious that he would benefit from extra instruction.
Paul wrestled with the situation for a long time before making up his mind. But how to couch it? How to make the offer?
Finally he decided.
‘Naftali, you’re a very bright boy. Here’s a key to the front door of the building. Feel free to use it any time at all. Just come to my quarters and knock. I am always available if you feel the need to talk. Face to face. On any subject you might wish to discuss.’ After all, Paul told himself, this was solely in the spirit of developing a young person’s mind.
So that’s how it started.Those regular visits from Naftali. Sometimes at night. And sometimes quite late.
They came to get him well after dark. A group of men in shabby clothes with sullen faces. It was obvious that they’d been drinking. Bloodshot eyes and slurred speech. He recognised them all. Two uncles and four cousins. Each one carried a panga. His father’s brothers did not speak to him. Nor did the younger men. They refused even to look at him. His father said he must go with them. To prepare for an initiation ceremony. A right of passage that all boys went through. Men’s business.
His mother was crying, but she made no attempt to interfere.
Although he knew it was a lie, he knew the importance of being seen to obey his father. So he went with them. From the dark night into the darker forest. Naftali knew it was more than a circumcision ritual that they had in mind.
Paul and Simon both heard the vehicle drive into the courtyard. A car door slammed but the engine was kept running. Paul looked at his face in the mirror and went on shaving. He felt a sharp pain in his stomach. But he showed no outward sign of it.
The boy put down the old enamel jug of water he was holding and went to the window. He looked out and then quickly stepped away from the opening.
‘Well, who is it?’ asked Paul, trying to sound more casual than he felt.
‘C’est une jeep, mon pere. It’s the army. There are three soldiers. One is at the front door. He is speaking to Father Xavier. We must be careful, Father. They have been drinking.’
‘Don’t worry, my boy. It’s probably a routine visit. Perhaps Father Xavier will give them some wine and send them on their way. Now, more hot water please. I must finish my face.’
There was a soft knock at the door. And a brief conversation in the local dialect. Paul did not understand what was being said. But he understood the wide-eyed look on the Simon’s face when he turned to Paul and said, ‘I will pack some things for you Father. You must go with them.’
In the courtyard, Paul tried to insist on traveling in the seat next to the driver, but a young soldier slapped him across the face with an open hand. He pointed to the back of the jeep. Paul felt the blood in his mouth, but he turned the other cheek and climbed into the vehicle. He sat on the floor. Two soldiers got in with him. One of them drew a finger across his throat and laughed. Paul did not think it was funny.
When Paul was pushed into Major Kimani’s office, a saying his mother had used flashed into mind: ‘Black as your hat.’ That’s what she would have said in those days when that kind of metaphor was tolerated. And that’s what Kimani was, but with a mind as sharp as a razor. As Paul was about to find out.
‘Stop! Leave him alone,’ he shouted at his men. And, to Paul, ‘My apologies, Father. But I’m sure you’ve heard that old colonial expression, “You can take an African out of the jungle, but you can’t take the jungle out of the African.” Well, although it’s a racial slur, I know why the original settlers thought along those lines. And my people continue to exasperate even me.
Although his mouth was badly swollen, Paul relaxed somewhat in the Major’s presence. He did not know why he’d been brought in, but he knew he’d have to be on his toes when answering any questions. But he felt reasonably confident that he’d be able to work his way out of it. Because he’d been through this before. The situation had not been quite the same, but very similar. In Ireland. Picked up and interrogated by the Garda Siochana. And then exonerated and apologised to in a sudden change of heart. After something had modified attitudes. And after which he was quickly moved on—to another posting.
Kimani spoke to the soldiers for a while in dialect. He never raised his voice, but it was obvious he was livid with them. Then Paul heard a word that he recognised. An English word. It sent a chill down his spine. They were talking about a “laptop”. His laptop.
Then, obviously for Paul’s benefit, the major switched to English as he bundled the soldiers out of the door. ‘Now get out. Go and do your jobs. Properly. Go and find his computer. I know you’ve got it hidden somewhere. Even though you don’t know how to use it. So just get it back here.’
An hour went by. They talked about all kinds of things. The politics of post-colonialism. How global warming and overpopulation were major burdens Africa would have to come to terms with. The influence of various United Nations institutions and the role of NGO’s. Magical or supernatural powers amongst the local tribespeople.
Eventually, there was a knock at the door, and a soldier came in with Paul’s laptop. Even at that stage, he felt reasonably confident. ‘Nothing to panic about, it’s very secure,’ he told himself.
Major Kimani picked up the phone, and a few minutes later a man who was not in uniform entered the office. He spoke to the major, but took no notice of Paul.
‘This is Philemon,’ Kimani told Paul, ‘Our very own black hacker. He’s rather uncommunicative as you can see, but he’s a whiz with computers. An expert with software. Even protected software. As you will see, I believe. And very soon, I hope.’
The major spoke to Philemon in dialect, but Paul recognised one word that startled him. The acid in his stomach started churning again. They were talking about “Photos.”
Philemon went to work on the laptop. Then he pointed out something to Kimani who wrote down a few notes. He started scrolling about on Paul’s computer. Although Paul could not see the screen, he knew that the major was searching through his files.
The major switched off the laptop.
He got up and walked around to Paul. He stood over him and leaned very close. ‘Well, now that I’ve looked at some of your pictures, I’ll show you a few of mine.’
He handed Paul a folder. Inside were five glossy colour prints. They were all of Naftali. He was naked. Obviously dead. And covered in blood. With dozens of gaping panga wounds all over his beautiful body.
The old mission panel van stopped outside a large colonial-era mansion surrounded by high walls. Some men in Bangalese army uniforms sat outside a metal security door. Paul said hello to them. He knew they understood, but they ignored him. He pressed the intercom and the gate was opened by two soldiers in battle dress. They saw immediately that Paul was in a highly distressed state. They said ‘Good morning’ politely, as Paul stepped over a barrier into the embassy grounds. One of them escorted Paul to the Ambassador’s office where he was received by Sir Richard Campbell and his assistant.
‘I am so sorry to trouble you, Sir Richard, but I need to phone those one hundred and ten acres in Rome.’ He smiled thinly, hoping that this attempt at humour would somehow break the ice. ‘And I need a secure line. Well, I know it’s not a line any more, but what I mean is your satellite phone. As per our arrangement.’
‘Certainly Father, I know the deal we’ve struck. We’re at your disposal. And we’re happy to honour our country’s agreement with yours.’ The Ambassador thought about what he’d said. ‘Well, I know it’s not really your country you’re phoning, I suppose…but, well, you know what I mean, I’m sure.’
Paul was led to an empty office. He telephoned the unlisted number. He was sweating profusely. The man who answered asked him a question. ‘Quo vadis?’
Paul searched through the dark labyrinth of his mind for the code he’d been given so long ago. Eventually he remembered and dredged up the answer. A phrase he’d been told to commit to memory. When he’d first had dealings with these people. He gave the required response. ‘Ad vitam aeternam.’
He was immediately put through to Gregory. He told Paul to calm down. They’d arrange something he said. He told Paul not to talk to anyone about anything. Not even at the embassy. And definately not at the school.
After Paul had made his call, he felt much better. Then he left, thanking the Ambassador profusely.
‘Everything in order?’ Sir Nigel asked. ‘Nothing we can help with? At the school I mean.’
‘Thank you Sir Nigel, that’s very kind of you. I think I’ve got it sorted now. The person I phoned was very helpful, and he knows what to do.’
During the whole exchange, the Ambassador’s assistant had said nothing.
When Paul was gone, the Ambassador asked,‘Why so glum, Lionel? Something on your mind?’
‘No sir. Well, yes, I suppose so sir.’
‘Well, what is it? Cough up now. We’re both in this together.’
‘I’m sorry sir, but it makes me sick. We know what he’s arranging. So why do we allow it? This kind of thing sends the wrong message to everyone. About what we stand for.’
‘Now, now, Lionel. I can see that you’re passionate about it. And distressed perhaps. But ours not to reason why.’
‘Yes sir, and into the valley of death rode all those who thought that.’
Gregory had told Paul on the phone that the man in the black suit would meet him at airport again. ‘Get there as soon as possible. Travel first class,’ he’d said.
‘Seeing is believing,’ Paul thought as he disembarked and passed through immigration into the congested terminal. But the man found him easily and handed over an envelope. No trouble at all, it seemed. ‘Seek and ye shall find,’ Paul remembered. It was another of his mother’s favourites.
The taxi owner-driver couldn’t believe his luck. He’d never had a fare like this before. The distance was considerable, but there was no problem when he asked his passenger for the money in advance.
Paul allowed his body to succumb to jet lag during the long drive. He dozed hrough a tedious industrial area, past several small, spread out towns with unpronounceable names.Then on to the Route du Nord, the start of the five hour long gravel journey through the forest and up into the mountains. The taxi eventually stopped at a huddle if isolated buildings. A very remote place indeed.
He walked towards the main building past the faded sign on the wall that proclaimed:
“ST. JOSEPH OF CUPERTINO PRIVATE SCHOOL.
For Boys with Special Needs”
As he’d been briefed, the head of the school, Father James, was there to meet him. He took Paul on a quick orientation tour.
‘Please don't hesitate to ask if you need anything, Father Paul. Remember, it’s my job to make you welcome. You have nothing to worry about here. We're a very closed community. And isolation brings with it certain benefits. Which I’m sure you’re aware of. Let's just say it's nothing like where you were before. Not a bit. We've been here a long time, and we’ve made every effort to establish very good relations with the various authorities. It's a well developed partnership if you like. Right from the earliest days, we got things off on the right footing. And we’ve been at pains to keep it that way. We're all in this together, if you like. A symbiotic relationship as the scientists would say.’ He smiled at what he though was an amusing metaphor.
Father James beckoned to a handsome boy in his late teens.
‘Oh, Martin, come over here for a moment, will you?’ He turned to Paul and added, ‘I’d like to introduce you to this young lad. He’s been assigned to help you. To show you around, that sort of thing.’
Paul shook hands with Martin who flashed back a disarming smile. He appeared to take little notice of what Father James was saying about him. The priest put his hand on Martin’s shoulder and shook it slightly.
‘Martin is, how do I put it? Well, he’s very slightly challenged. Handicapped, as we used to say. Almost normal, I suppose. But he comes from a desperate family. And he’s much better off here. Where we can look after him and give him all the attention he needs.’
Paul picked up his rucksack and handed it to the boy. ‘Perhaps you can help me with this to start off with please Martin. I’ve been carrying it around for a long, long time, it seems.So it’s your first chore.’
Martin smiled at Paul. ‘Of course Father, I’m at your disposal.’
Paul's spirits rose. He felt exhilarated.
Father James smiled at Paul.‘I know you know that we do our best here at St Joseph’s, Father Paul. For the boys I mean. I’m very positive that you’ll like it and I know you’ll fit in. We have a fine bunch of fine kids to take care of. You’re going to like them Father. And I know you understand that it’s our duty—our calling if you like—to give these boys what they need most. Discipline, understanding—and love.’
***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ray Johnstone is an artist, art teacher and writer. He and his wife Lynne live in a restored 12th century house in a small medieval village in southwest France where they offer live-in art holidays and walking holidays on the St Jacques route to Compostela. He spends his days painting, teaching art, writing and playing petanque with the locals.
LINKS
For more information on art holidays, please go to:
Walking holidays:
Ray’s paintings at Saatchi online:
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ray Johnstone is an artist, art teacher and writer. He and his wife Lynne live in a restored 12th century house in a small medieval village in southwest France.
Ray and Lynne specialise in live-in art holidays, and walking holidays, especially on the St Jacques route to Compostela.
LINKS
For more information on art holidays, please go to:
Walking holidays:
Ray’s paintings at Saatchi online:
Bad Faith
Revised version 2017
Published by Ray Johnstone, Mézin, France, 2017
Copyright © 2017 Ray Johnstone
ray@johnstonesinfrance.com
