This excerpt from The Long Habit of Living is taken from Chapter XI. The main character, Owen, is walking with his fiance and his best friend, Sarah and Walter, and they encounter Father Banier (a priest who has been sent by the region's cardinal to investigate the activities of the resident village priest, Father Revenant).
Later we wandered back along the outskirts of a just
harvested field of lavender. It lay in
waiting to be plowed under. Acres of cut
plants lay snipped in perfect rows; we stood and looked over the field, as if
witnesses to an orderly mass execution.
When we found the road back up the hill toward Cadenet's climbing
streets, we were met by a meditative Father Banier, alone, wearing civilian
clothes, a baseball cap and sunglasses.
Looking up, he waved and, with a subdued interest, walked toward us, greeting
each of us in turn as sincerely as if we were the last people on earth.
"Don't
you think it feels like that here?" he
asked. "Like we’re the survivors of
a post-apocalytic world? I thought by
going outside the town, and taking a walk, I would encounter somebody.
But there's no one here."
Owen
complimented Banier and his Atlanta Braves cap; that with his fair complexion
and red hair he looked like he actually came from Georgia.
"And
the Braves are favored to win the pennant this year. I'm an American League man myself," said
Owen.
"It
was all I could find," said Banier, pointing up. "The sun..."
"Yes
the sun. You'll get used to it,"
said Owen, smiling at Sarah and me. It
was a strange turn of phrase for him to use at that time, in that place. Owen told him we were heading home and that
he was welcome to join us. Banier was
very grateful, since he had a few questions to ask Owen, relative to his
assignment of Father Revenant.
"This
is an unusual part of France," Banier said as he walked. "I'm from Grenoble and I've spent most
of my time in the north, Paris usually, or in Belgium, or even sometimes in
Nantes, which is in the west. This is
too Mediterranean for me. It's too
hot."
"I
kinda like it," said Owen.
"The heat’s like a ghost who won’t go away. Always around you, in front of you, behind
you. And as for people, in New York,
you're lucky if you can cross the street without getting hit by a bus or
falling into a manhole. Here, I'm lucky
if I find a car."
"And
at no extra cost in the rent?" he asked playfully.
Using a
guiding tactic that seemed almost instinctive to his profession, and a
suggestion of the highest confidence between counselor and client, Banier
steered Owen from us and toward the furthest end of the yard. There, as Owen related to Sarah and me later
during our supper, Banier began the interview.
He played with the rim of his cap.
"Has
it been difficult, adjusting yourself to France?" asked Banier.
"Except
for the language, no, not really," Owen smiled.
"I've
never been to the United States," said Banier. "The closest time was a visit to
Montreal. I have family in Quebec. And, oh, this is interesting," his
demeanor perked up. "I have an
uncle and aunt in Washington, D.C. My
uncle is a professor. His wife...I don't
know what she does. What does the wife
of a university professor do?"
"Plan
ways to leave her husband," suggested Owen. "I don't know. What university?"
"George
Washington," was the reply.
Owen
recognized the institution and spoke briefly about their basketball team,
"The Colonials," and the university's excellent proximity to the
avenues of power, both in geographical and human terms.
"Father
Revenant has spent time in North America," said Banier. "You know that, yes? Do you know a lot about Fr. Revenant?"
"I'm
not his biographer," Owen smiled.
"We've talked."
"He
thinks very highly of you," Banier said.
"He's
a good man," Owen replied.
"Is
he a good priest?"
"That's
hard to say," said Owen. "I'm
not a good Catholic."
"Why,
because you don't go to church?"
"No,"
replied Owen. "Because of a lot of
things."
"Perhaps
Father Revenant can help you along those lines," suggested Banier.
"He
hasn't overlooked me," said Owen.
"No,
of course not," returned the priest.
"But you know that I have talked to a number of people about him
since the reception in my honor at Monsieur Ebert's. Not a great report card, I'm sorry to
say. Of course, Decaux, the postmaster,
loves him and the butcher…"
"…Meroux."
"Yes,
Meroux. He liked him," said
Banier. "But I really wanted to
wait and hear from you. You are the one
whose point of view would be the most interesting."
"Why's
that?"
Banier
waited a few moments before answering.
Owen stepped back in his mind in order to observe who it was that was
addressing him. In a moment, it came to
him. This priest, this red-haired
Catholic priest was a product of connections.
He was an excellent example of good breeding and the possession of
relatives and social equals in the most strategic back rooms. Each family member had placed him- or herself
in the right hallway; had said the right things; had eaten the right foods; had
paid the right compliments.
Although
a career in the priesthood didn't necessarily bring with it financial or
marital success, it could bring further connections to the other members of the
family. Owen believed that Fr. Banier,
though he would never dream of hurting anyone or that he would never turn
toward cruelty as a personality buffer, nevertheless belonged to the "network;"
as if he were an Oxford man or a floating Brahmin in cosmopolitan society. He would move swiftly and pleasantly through
cities and situations thanks to the network.
His dignified yet compassionate stance put Owen off somewhat, since he
had never enjoyed the consequential vibrations emitted by a life without
anxiety. I on the other hand found the
red-haired priest interesting.
"I'll
tell you why I wanted to hear from you," Banier said. "You are his friend. You are a Catholic although not a good one. And you are an American. I thought your perspective might add a
freshness to the interviews with the locals." Owen remained silent. "When I spoke to Monsieur Ebert, he
talked more about you than about Fr. Revenant.
You have mutual interests. Monsieur
Ebert of course enjoyed speaking in philosophical tomes. He is after all a writer. But that's beside the point. It was you I wanted to reference. It was your opinion of Fr. Revenant's habits
that I wanted to hear, ever since you and your friend kept such an eye on him
at the reception. And I'm glad that you
did. I've been given only the best words
about you and your friends. Your presence
in Cadenet has been a much talked about subject. As you know, you are well-regarded among the
members of the chess Club. That in
itself can recommend you to the Chamber of Deputies," he laughed. "Maybe you
can have an influence on Fr. Revenant?
Maybe you can help him along those
lines?!"
They
both listened as birds in the trees above them became noisy and appeared to be
fighting. Banier returned to the
business at hand.
"I
also have a conscience," he said. "And I have to answer to a
Cardinal. I'm a good priest, and I can't
lie about what I've seen here."
Banier
jumped off the wall and faced Owen.
"I
don't know if you'll remember me in the years to come," he said. "But if you do, and you think of the
reception and my time here in Cadenet, please don't remember me for the wrong
reasons."
He
shook Owen's hand.
"Fr.
Banier," began Owen. "There's
nothing you, the Cardinal, nor the Pope need to worry about when it comes to
Cadenet."
"I
hope you're right," Banier said.
"Goodbye."
After
supper, while I cleared the table, I asked Owen how he felt during that
conversation.
"To
tell you the truth, Walt, I didn't know what the hell was going on. Who was giving the answers and who was asking
the questions? I don't know." He looked at Sarah. "Am I wearing a collar or what?"
"It
is some world out there, eh!" exclaimed Monsieur Meroux, later, dealing
cards around a table. "You're not
getting paid to wear a priest's collar, Owen.
So forget about it."
In a
back room at night, behind the closed-up shop of the butcher, there were
sitting Meroux, Owen, Mr. Benoit, Ebert and Sgt. Félix Genargues at a table
ready to play poker. Money lay in piles
before them as Ebert smoked his double cigarettes.
Meroux clasped an unlit cigar between his
teeth. Félix chewed gum and Mr. Benoit
feasted on chocolate covered raisins.
Owen's vices weren't on the table: he counted the number of seconds
Ebert held the smoke in his lungs; he counted how many times Félix looked at
his watch before he continued stacking his coins; he watched Meroux become
acquainted with the cards; he counted Benoit's raisins and how after each toss
into his mouth Benoit would count the bowl to see how many he had left. Glasses of amber beer stood in front of each
of them. It was homemade beer from
Gerard's restaurant.
The
first hand was an easy one. Each player
expected Meroux to win since he was the dealer and because he enjoyed a
reputation of good luck in cards, meats, and the ladies of the town.
"You
know," Meroux said, "choosing the right piece of meat is like making
love. If you practice and pay attention,
you automatically focus on the pleasure of others. It can bring you years of pleasure in
return. Owen! You are a lucky man. Sarah is very particular about her market. To me she comes. She knows what she likes. She knows what is good, no?"
Owen
agreed and thanked him, remembering what Sarah had said of Meroux earlier.
"That
says something about her."
"What
does that say?" asked Benoit.
"I
won't say it here," replied Meroux.
"It is Monsieur Owen's privacy we are discussing. How's the beer?" he asked them.
Owen
and the others concurred it was an excellent batch.
"It's
as close as I'll get to Gerard's place.
Buying his beer," said Meroux.
"Meroux,"
said Owen.
"Yes?"
"Why
don't you ever go there? Or even to the Mauvais Marin?"
"Oh,
non, non, jamais in restaurants. I never
eat in restaurants," Meroux said lecturing and playing his hand. He won.
"I
can't bear the thought of a stranger overcooking my meat. The sensitivity of most chefs today is a
sin."
He
patted his gut several times. His
smooth, dark Arab skin and brilliant eyes were offset by the light-colored
clothing he wore. To me, he often looked
like an onyx suspended in a chamois cloth.
"Makes
me sick," Meroux continued.
"You should come to my house, Owen.
Come by at the end of summer. I
have a delicious fox to cook for you and the beautiful Sarah. You are familiar with Camus?"
"Yes,"
replied Owen, dealing the cards and wondering how that fit into the
conversation. "I like him very
much."
"Ah! Good," said Meroux. "Camus, Algeria, and I, same town. Same loss of innocence," he squeezed
Owen's upper arm and smiled. "You
know, Camus liked a good fox stew. But
his favorite dish was couscous."
"Simple
tastes for a complex man," mused Ebert.
"A
saint," blurted Meroux. "He
would've been invited to Fr. Revenant's soiree."
"Oh,"
remarked Ebert.
"A
common man," grunted Meroux.
"I am too common, no?"
"What're
you trying to say, Meroux?" asked Owen.
"His
feelings are hurt," said Benoit.
"We
had an impression to make," said Ebert.
"On
a priest?" Meroux exclaimed.
"I
had to be selective," Ebert insisted.
"I had to make a good showing, a Who's Who."
"And
am I a disgrace? Am I a man who could
not be trusted?" asked Meroux.
"I give you your meat!"
"We
drew lots," said Ebert, staring at his cards, avoiding the butcher's eyes.
"And
I wasn't in it, eh?"
"I'll
make it up to you," said Ebert, throwing in a coin.
"A
couple bottles of Irish whisky," pronounced Meroux.
"Done,"
said Ebert.
"You
heard about Decaux?" Félix asked the group, breaking free of Ebert and
Meroux.
"He's
got his transfer!" Benoit said with anticipation.
"No,
no, I mean about his wife," said Félix.
"What
about her?" asked Ebert, throwing down his cards.
Benoit
and Félix folded. Owen and Meroux raised
each other twice with Meroux winning the hand.
"She's
trying to get rid of him," said Félix.
"Who?"
asked Benoit.
"Decaux's
wife! Who else," replied Félix,
exasperated. "She uses the salt
routine from Haiti. Sprinkles it down
after he leaves the house, then sweeps the floor after him. He's not supposed to come back."
"Why?"
asked Owen.
"She
blames him for their children's problems," said Félix.
"I
love to take Georges's money," Meroux said. "And it's no surprise to take yours,
Owen."
"You
don't know him," said Benoit.
"He's
un rat de bibliothèque, no? A bookworm," replied Meroux. "Just like Georges. What does he know about poker?"
That
was the last hand Meroux would win.
Perhaps Owen did read a lot, but he played poker like he played chess;
unannounced, unprepossessing, quietly, roguishly. He'd perfected his card playing skills with
repetitious determination while he was growing up with Sylvester and spending
time with his grandfather, an ardent poker player himself. It wasn't that Owen won so much, it was that
he won so unsuspectingly.
"No
one to blame at Decaux's except the kids themselves," said Meroux, looking
at his cards, discarding, and realigning his newly drawn ones. "A rotten bunch they are. Merde. These cards are a pity."
"Want
to hear the latest?" asked Félix, tossing his cards.
"More
horrors?" Ebert said.
"Decaux's
daughter," continued the policeman.
"She left her husband. A
three-time loser if you ask me. The
husband. First wife dies in a crash
outside Carpentras. Squashed like a bug
between a van and a truck. Messy. She left him with a little girl to take care
of. The second wife--is that Owen who is
winning the pot?"
"It
would appear as much," said Ebert.
"--The
second wife beats the little girl daily.
So they divorce. Enter Decaux's
kid. She's sitting one night playing
cards with Baou. He's her friend from
way back, you know. They grew up
together, yes?" Félix placed his
two index fingers together and tapped them against each other twice. "They're playing chess. You have played Baou yet, Owen? No? Oh
well, at her feet is her Labrador bitch and a litter of six puppies, sucking on
those teats like there's no tomorrow.
She's going to sell them come market day next month. So the husband comes in, watches them play,
and out of the blue tosses a dead mouse onto the table, next to the captured
pieces. He says, Here, this is for
you. Sell it at the market."
Benoit,
Owen, and Ebert all groaned with disgust as Meroux slid the next pile of coins
toward Owen. (The strangest thing of
all, Owen told me later, was that although they said nothing, the men were
getting madder and madder as he began to win pot after pot of money, once
Meroux had made the fatal "bookworm" remark.)
"Baou
gets up," continued Félix, "the table nearly falls over. He says, ‘What the hell are you doing, you
dirty fuck?’ And the husband, he laughs. He laughs.
Now, you know Baou, he doesn't take shit from anyone. He pushes the husband. He wants to fight him. But the husband walks away. Baou pushes him again. No dice.
He's not going to fight a cop.
Next day, the kid comes crying to Decaux. 'The dirty bastard! The cocksucker! I'll kill
him! I'll kill him!' You see, after she went to work, the husband
came home for lunch and took the pups out back, filled a tub with water, and
drowned them all. Baou and I arrested
him yesterday."
"Disgusting,"
said Ebert.
"A
strange world out there," said Meroux.
"I'm
never leaving Cadenet," pronounced Benoit.
"Fuck everyone. I'm staying
put."
"Why
did he do it?" Owen asked.
"Why?"
repeated Félix. "He hates Decaux's
daughter because she loves him and pities him.
He hates Baou. He hates his life. That's the worst part. When a man hates his life, he's a dangerous
man."
“An
honest man, nevertheless,” said Ebert.
"Félix
will have to arrest you, Owen," said
Meroux, "if you keep winning."
"This
is going to be embarrassing," said Félix.
"I'll have to face my wife with empty pockets."
"I
lost more than half my money," said Ebert.
"You are a surprise,
Owen."
"And
myself," added the wobbly Benoit.
"I could give you my raisins if you like."
The
French had come to play cards that night, Ebert had explained later on, with
the preordination that Owen would be easy to beat. He was an American in France. They believed Americans were
predictable. Never subtle: They were classless players from the former
colonies. When Owen began to strip them
of their money, he did so without ego, without fanfare. His raises were never loud and exacting, yet
he managed, through skillful playing, to have taken all of their money by the
time most of the beer had run out. At
the night's end, their opinions of Americans, especially those of Owen, were
dramatically changed. They gave
themselves over to Owen's successes in the chess Club as a matter of
intellectual brilliance. But that same
brilliance, they were sure, couldn't possibly transfer over to playing poker. Poker, they believed, was a game of
guts. Owen's guts, they now understood,
were tough. They stood up, toasted the
victor with the last of their beer, and allowed Meroux to serve them some of
the sliced shoulder of roast pork, stuffed with herbs and wrapped in cabbage,
and which had been simmering all day in white wine.
"I
don't understand something, Meroux," said Owen.
"Speak
away," the butcher replied as he prepared dishes for all of his friends.
"You're
cooking pork?"
"Surprised,
yes?" said Meroux, and he placed a dish in front of Benoit who had in turn
handed Félix's plate to Meroux.
"Cooking but not eating. I
am a Catholic years ago."
"Here
we go again with the story," moaned Félix, his plate in front of him. He handed Ebert's to Meroux and began to eat.
"It's
not a bad story," said Ebert, "as stories go."
"It's
never ending," said the policeman, looking at his watch.
"Are
you on duty?" Owen asked him.
"Naturally,"
replied Félix.
"It
borders on the maudlin, true," admitted Ebert. "But…."
"Thank
you, Georges. Well, for the sake of
Monsieur Owen, I will say that it all began in '61. We were fighting for independence from
France. You know the history, Owen. We were under the rule of France for over a
hundred years; enough was enough. A
hundred-thousand Muslims died; ten-thousand French; and we were the
barbarians. There were outrages
committed by both sides. Terrorist
bombings. Tortures. You read Camus, so you know the debate. I don't have to tell you about his problems
with the Left."
Meroux
was referring to Camus' unequivocal denunciation of terrorism. Camus--Owen told me years ago while we were
still in college--an Algerian-born Frenchman, argued against both the Left and
the Right political activists who would support terrorism in the name of justice. He refused to accept the maxim that one's
brother was to be sacrificed rather than one's principles. Meroux claimed him for his own, as did
Félix's family. They (Félix's family)
didn't take up arms against the Algerian fighters nor did they support them
against the French government. But
Meroux felt, as did Camus, that it didn't mean principles were without meaning.
"The
French," explained the butcher, "came to the point of despising their
political opponents so, that they would welcome a foreign dictator instead of
accepting defeat by any enemy in their own house. I think that is how they came to their
demise. You see, Owen, I was a part of
that cruelty. My comrades and I
destroyed a little place outside of Biskra.
It was supposed to be a French army intelligence post. It wasn't.
They were all civilians. We
killed most of them. They had nothing to
do with the war, the poor saps. Whole
families were burned alive in their houses.
Just shot up and burned out. It
was a mess. Your country thought My Lai
was a disaster."
He shook his head
and at last lit his half-cigar.
"Americans were such innocents.
We left and drove south to Tozeur and Touggourt. When I came back to that town, assigned to a
reconnaissance unit, I realized what had been done. These were French people. They were Algerians. They were my brothers, Owen, I murdered my
brothers. I hid my face in shame. I ran behind a wall and prayed on my knees to
the souls of their ancestors for forgiveness.
I was wrong. My countrymen were
wrong. The French were wrong. We were all madmen. But these poor people were dead. How was I going to accept all that
killing? How much more was I going to
allow happen?
"One
of the families we killed was the Genargues, Félix's family. He was hiding in a well, terrified. He was only 15 years old and had watched his
people being massacred. I saw the same
thing done to Arabs. They slaughtered
us; we slaughtered them. One night, he
slipped into camp, got hold of a gun, and began shooting everything in
sight. Before he could be gunned down, I
found him and knocked him to the ground.
My men wanted to kill him but I wouldn't have it. He was a boy.
He survived. He deserved that
much from us, don't you think? He was
half-crazy come to think of it. I sent
him with a safe conduct to Oran. But
before I did, I looked into his eyes. I
listened to his voice. Here was Algerian
killing Algerian. I was Arab, he was
French. But we were still brothers,
no? We lived together, one country! So I asked him, 'What can I do, Félix? What should I do?'
"He
stared long and hard at me, because I knew he hated me. He said I believed Allah had the power to
forgive, no? And I wanted the
forgiveness of men. If I wanted that
forgiveness, right now, and especially from him, then I should be prepared to
confess to men and accept whatever came from their absolution. My family were fellahin,
villagers from Oran, and were westernized for decades. I knew what I was getting myself into. I couldn't turn back. How could I?
So I accepted the sacraments and here I am. Only my wife and son are Muslim."
"You
the only one carrying the burden?" asked Owen.
"I
gave the order to destroy the village," said Meroux.
Except
for Owen, everyone in that back room knew the story by heart. Its conclusion still left them silent with
reverence. Meroux had killed innocent
people for his principles; his brother had killed other brothers; the cost of
that decision would be the surrender of his faith.
During
the ride to back Ebert's house and then on to la Fontaine, Félix explained to
Owen that Cadenet might be tiny in comparison to his beloved Manhattan, but it
was not without its drama. Meroux, after
establishing his first charcuterie in Marseille, paid for Félix's travel and
vocational training, enabling him to become a respected agent de police. Their friendship moved with them as they both
eventually settled in the Vaucluse.
In
front of la Fontaine, Félix sat with Owen for a moment before letting him out
of the police car. He unwrapped another
stick of gum and chewed.
"Many
men," began Félix, "use violence to support their moral
reflexes."
"Are
you asking me if I'd go along with that?" Owen said.
"A policeman entering into morality is
dangerous," said Félix.
"You
seem to think everything's dangerous," smiled Owen.
"Comes
with the territory." Félix stretched his arms forward and then reclined
against the head rest. “You have used
violence to settle your morality, Monsieur Owen?”
“Somebody’s
been talking to you.”
“No,
no, you are here, you are sick, when you could be sick in your own country.”
Owen
looked at him without answering.
"I
don't believe in beating one's breast everyday.
You know, mea culpa, mea culpa.
This country has been filled with guilt, and guilt isn't going to erase
the damages or the mistakes. Make amends
is what I say. Clean it up. I say look at it in relation to the future,
not the past. That's what Meroux
thought, too. That's why I'm here. It's a good lesson, no?"
