The Madonna of Notre Dame by Alexis Ragougneau, Katherine Gregor Page A

carved chest on which the priest was already sitting. They remained there for a moment, in the relative silence of this corridor, which was disturbed by Mourad’s repetitive sighs and the sound of the plastic stirrer at the bottom of his cup. Father Kern began to stuff his pipe.
    “You don’t look too well, Mourad. Something not right?”
    “Not right, Father, not right at all.”
    “What’s going on? Tell me.”
    “An injustice, Father, that’s what’s going on. An injustice like I’ve never known in my whole life.”
    “You’ve just come from the presbytery, haven’t you?”
    “That’s right, Father.”
    “Did you go and see the rector?”
    “That’s right, Father. A little earlier, I got a call on my walkie-talkie, ‘Mourad, the rector wants to see you.’ You know, Father, we don’t get summoned up there often.”
    “I know.”
    “So I go up to the presbytery as fast as I can, knock, and walk into the rector’s office. You’ll never guess what he wanted to talk to me about.”
    Father Kern took the time to light his pipe before replying. Heavy, fragrant curls of smoke rose above his head. “It was about your rounds last Sunday night, wasn’t it?”
    The guard sat up straight on the chest. “Good grief, does everybody here know?! Everybody in the world seems to know that I didn’t do my rounds after closing! Everybody except me!”
    “I believe you, Mourad.”
    “Because I’m telling you, Father: I did do my rounds. The aisle, the chapels, the ambulatory, the sacristy, the kitchens, the basements, the changing rooms ...”
    “I believe you.”
    “Then why doesn’t the rector believe me?”
    “I don’t know, Mourad, I don’t know. I guess the police have given him another story. I guess in their eyes it’s the only possible explanation for the tragedy on Sunday night.”
    “You see, Father, that’s the problem. Between a Frenchman and an Arab, it’ll always be the Frenchman they’ll believe. Automatically, without even thinking.”
    “What you say applies to the whole country. What did the rector say to you?”
    “That once this has all settled down, as he said, there’ll be a disciplinary meeting. What does that mean, Father?”
    “It means that you’ll have to explain yourself, Mourad.”
    “What’s there for me to explain? How can I prove whether or not I did my rounds?”
    “Let me tell you something: when the time comes, if you’re called by the disciplinary committee, you’ll have the right to have someone with you. If you like, that someone can be me.”
    Mourad looked at him askance. “That’s very nice of you, Father. Is that your ‘I defend Arabs and thieves, I defend the murderers in Poissy’ side? Is that your ‘good Christian, good boy’ side? Thank you very much, Father, but let me tell you something:this isn’t Poissy and I’m neither a murderer nor a thief. With all due respect, you can keep your pity. And If I say I did my job properly, then it’s true. And I shouldn’t need to have a priest next to me to make people believe it.”
    He drained his coffee in one gulp and walked away toward the inside of the cathedral, turning up the volume of the radio he wore at his belt, right next to his jangling key chain.
    Father Kern got up with difficulty from the chest he was sitting on. He was already feeling pain in his lower limbs. Forgetting about the pay phone and the deputy magistrate for a moment, he went through the external door, down the stone steps and walked in the direction of the rector’s residence. He immediately saw him, leaning against the dark wall of his presbytery. Father de Bracy also noticed Father Kern, and started walking toward him. The two priests met at the door of Saint-Étienne.
    “Have you come out for air, Monsignor?”
    “It’s so hot up there in the presbytery. It’s unbearable. Remind me which tobacco you smoke, François.”
    “Peterson, Monsignor. A Virginia-based blend. You don’t smoke, do you?”
    “No, I