Africa, Adieu

A Short Story by Frank Moan, SJ

He seemed to falter as he reached for the knob. Then the handle steadied him; he paused, pressed his shoulder against the door and went in. From habit he stood motionless for the space of 10 seconds; his eyes adjusted themselves from the glare of the outside sun to the shadowed, speckled interior. Then he cast his glance up along the southern transept until it reached the tapestry on the wall, just left of the altar table, across the far wall, past the tabernacle inlaid in the stucco. He paused only momentarily; on other days he would have been morose seeing the lifeless vigil lamp, but now gave it only a cursory, split-second delay, then let his eyes move to the empty pedestal where had stood the Virgin’s statue, gift of the royal family. Back along the northern wall where inlaid bricks of red, blue, yellow and green shone bright under the morning’s sun. His eyes went below from kneeler to kneeler, from confessional cloth to confessional cloth, not even attempting to peer into the darknesses where he had so often sat. In all, he spent three, well, maybe four, minutes. Turning, he left through the door, still ajar, pulled it behind him and moved to his left, toward the labs.

That morning, as he dressed, he determined that he would remain at peace. No rancor was to ruffle him, he said to himself. Go we must; therefore “go” must be God’s will. His will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Amen. So peace it was to be at any price, even when, at Mass that morning, the rector prayed at the prayer of the faithful “for the president of the Republic, that God may give him wisdom, justice, health and length of days.” Poor Pierre, he thought, he can never suppress that edge to his voice that betrays his sarcasm. Nor did his voice betray any chagrin as he added his “Lord, hear our prayer,” to Jean-Louis’ declaration that “we wish to remember all those benefactors living and dead, here and at home, who contributed so generously to this extraordinary school.”

There was little conversation. Each was shackled by his own thoughts of all he had to do that day. Each had mounted a defense against the bridled emotions of leave-taking. Each played his role in this ritual meal, which was more exacting than that of the previous liturgy. None raised his voice for “More coffee, Gamba.” None failed to drop a morsel for the cats; none seemed to hear Fortunato’s daily clatter of cup against saucer as his two hands, trembling with Parkinson’s, brought the pair to his lips. As he left, placing his soiled dishes, knife and spoon on the trolley, he let his hand delay a moment on top of Gamba’s. No words breeched the moment; no eyes were lifted in either face. The action was enough. Off he went to take his final tour.