My father had a mental breakdown. According to the other priests, he had been particularly devout. Father Daniel suggested that my father must have found it exceptionally difficult to have broken his vows. He was insistent that he had never initiated sexual contact. His lofty ecclesiastical ambitions were ruined. He was forced out of the priesthood and returned to Ireland with his unwanted son. However, because of strong connections to the Archbishop’s Palace, my father was hired as a financial adviser and was warned to keep me as removed from him as possible, so as not to raise questions or provoke a scandal. They assumed, as the baby grew, as I grew, that I would develop physical signs of my black roots, that my hair might curl or my nose might flare, but I confounded their expectations by maintaining my Caucasian appearance. Most of those who knew of my existence were told I was an orphaned nephew, but my father subsequently met and married Judith within a few years and abandoned me to St Finian’s.
If Father Daniel was right, if it was all true, I am a freak of nature. My eyes are dark brown and my pigmentation is a little more sallow than the average Irishman, but in every respect I am a white European. I chose not to believe it.
I told nobody, and when Father Daniel died a year later, I let the ridiculous story die with him. It made no difference to me now, and there was nothing I could do about the past. Who knows what went on in Africa? A little bit of private research revealed that my father had been in Northern Rhodesia at the time, and there was a village called Lakumu, but that was as far as I was prepared to go. It didn’t matter.
The truth is that I deserved a better father. I found one in France, but, alas, he was not mine.
17. Véronique
I cannot remember how it was that we ended up taking Irish students that year. I knew little of Ireland, apart from their whiskey and some of their music. A cousin of a friend organized it, I think. I recall being sceptical as to how college-educated people could adapt to heavy manual labour, but they tried their best, I will say that for them, with varying degrees of success. We also agreed at that time to take on some South Africans who were keen to learn about the Bordeaux wines of our region, and we were to train them in viticulture and pay a small fee in exchange for their labour. Naturally, not all of my white workers were happy about working alongside the black boys, but my father, who was still a hero to our community, led by example. Without having to say anything, we were subtly reminded by him of the dire consequences of racial intolerance.
I was later ashamed that I did not make more enquiries into exactly who was going to come and how they would work. I had received a letter from a man in Stellenbosch who asked if he could send his son along with seven other labourers to learn about our grapes, so I was prepared for eight men to stay for two months. But then we got seven black boys, some very young, and one Afrikaner man named Joost, who was the only one who spoke French. It turned out that Joost was to inherit some land in the Western Cape and his father had decreed that he must plant it as a vineyard, but Joost did not want to do any actual work so he brought these seven poor men to France to learn how to do the work for him. He refused to let them stay in the lodgings arranged for everybody else and had them billeted in a barn in the village. He also did not pay them the fee they had earned and instead paid them with wine that we dispensed freely. I did not work this out right away. It was the other labourers who told me what was going on. They were uncomfortable with it, and when I saw for myself the cuts and bruises on some of the men, I was finally convinced that the stories of Joost’s brutality were true and ordered him to leave. There was nothing I could do for those boys, who were little more than slaves. They had no education and no French, and we would not have work enough to keep them on beyond that summer. Papa and I sought them out the night before they left while Joost got drunk in the village. We gave them some money and food, and although they seemed terrified, one boy stepped forward to shake my hand and thank us. The other boys seemed stunned at his audacity.
By then, technically speaking, I oversaw everything to do with the estate, the chateau, the orchard, the olive grove and the winery, with terrific support from our friends and neighbours, but on a practical level I had appointed local managers Max and Constantine to run each division, friends and neighbours that we trusted. It amuses me now when I think about it, to realize that we were operating not unlike a kibbutz, or a commune in the English sense of the word, although I insisted that the family eat separately in the house each evening while the workers ate outdoors. I was adamant that the workers would not stay in the house overnight. Everything else was shared. I actively encouraged Papa to let me take control, and I think he passed over the reins with relief and slipped into a graceful retirement. He did, however, insist on taking Jean-Luc’s education in hand. Jean-Luc was to start school in the autumn and his papi was determined that Jean-Luc would have a head start.
The role that I relished more than any was feeding the workers and I appointed myself as head of the kitchens, a task probably more menial than Papa would have liked for me, but it was the job that I wanted and the one in which I excelled. After the war, when we were left without servants, Tante Cécile had rolled up her sleeves and learned how to feed us good and nutritious food, and I learned my craft from her. She taught me all the basics of good rustic cuisine, and I prepared simple and wholesome meals for all our workers, relying as I did on my neighbours Max and Constantine to keep order in the fields and orchards.
Oliver and Laura were the first of the Irish workers who came to my attention. They were a very beautiful couple. Somebody ought to have painted them. He was astonishingly good-looking for an Irishman. Instead of the pale blotchy complexion of the others, his skin was smooth and his eyes full-lashed and shining. His girlfriend, Laura, was also dark-haired and clear-skinned, and very petite. I had many of the local girls working in the fields, but I wondered if this girl might be too delicate for such work.
Oliver spoke French well and translated for the others, and Papa quickly began to rely on him as the spokesperson for the group. Since the time of his incarceration, Papa had developed a tremor in his right hand and his handwriting had suffered. He asked Oliver for help with some paperwork. Oliver took an interest in Jean-Luc too, and before long the three boys had bonded completely, regardless of the barriers of age, language and experience. Papa requested that Oliver be assigned as his assistant, and I, never having refused Papa anything before, conceded as usual. The relationship between them was extremely close, extraordinarily quickly. It was as if Papa and Jean-Luc had found the one they had long been searching for. I thought then that I had been wrong to deny my son a father, that Papa would have enjoyed having a man around the house, so while I was not altogether happy about this sudden friendship, I tolerated it for Papa’s sake. I did not know why Oliver had formed such a close bond with them. Presumably, he had a father of his own, but I admit to a little jealousy at having to share mine.