“If the Eternal Flame flickers get out fast”

          I am not quite sure whether it was Clem Dupigny or Father Charles of the Roseau Cathedral who spoke to me first.

I remember Clem explaining in his gentle diffident way that the rule governing the priests’ place at the altar during Catholic Mass had been changed by Rome. I am sure he thought I might not have ever been in the Cathedral, but he also knew that when Sister Alicia had asked me to help with the new Crèche, for infant day care, I put in the terrazzo floor for the church. Fair’s fair, our non-Catholic children were going to the Catholic school.

Clem was the Dupigny family Patriarch who owned two adjacent estates in the heights south of the capital. A lifelong bachelor, Clem was tall, with a rather large head. Roughly handsome, his face reflected integrity and character. He was fair, and clean shaven, with short, straight gray hair. He was perhaps fifty.

“Pete,” Clem said, “since Rome has made this rule change, our Masses at the Cathedral are to be conducted with the Bishop or the priest facing the people from the opposite side of the altar.”

I looked puzzled.

“Up to now they were to be in front of it, with their backs to the people,” Clem continued.

I was trying to figure why he was explaining this to me when he continued. “The committee wants you to design a new altar for the cathedral. The old one is a large block of marble which is not what we want now.”

Surprised, I said, “I don’t know anything about marble, Clem.”

“Oh, no, Pete. We want you to do it in wood; local wood.”

There was a long silence. My thoughts raced past a review of the difficulties I had experienced getting good wood for the building of our furniture, paneling, bar tops, steps, signs and even the old fashioned wooden locks we had put on each of the room doors at Island House.

“I bought all the seasoned wood I could find on the island,” I said. “I doubt that there is any more available. To season fresh cut lumber would take a year or more.”

“I have the wood,” Clem said. “Can you do it then? Will you do it?”

The artist’s ego was probably driving now.

“Well, ah, I don’t see why not, Clem. This is quite a compliment. Can I have a look at your wood?”

“Come up any time,” he said in that soft voice. He was smiling broadly.

“Okay, Clem I’ll pass by and probably just collect the wood next time I go to town with the truck.”  I turned to the priest. “Father? Can you give me the dimensions?”

“Don’t you want to see the old one?” he asked.

“That shouldn’t be necessary. Just tell me how high and any design limitations; anything that wouldn’t be permitted.” I had an unexplained diffidence to entering the cathedral.

He gave me the critical dimensions; exact height, approximate depth and length. The rest was up to me; a free hand.

Bassiene Emanuel, Bass, my in-house cabinetmaker. He is talented, without guile, and his word was his bond; qualities to be cherished anywhere. He was a stocky, dark, muscular man in his late thirties. His craftsmanship and wonderful feel for wood, especially local woods, were demonstrated everywhere at Island House.

After I drew the plans for the altar I decided to keep it to myself and produce the thing, as though it would be just what they wanted.

I put Bass on the project.

The altar top dimensions were to be about two and a half feet wide and eight feet long. The eight-foot length would be perpendicular to the isle down through the congregation. Every view except the plan view incorporated angles. The single leg or stand was four sided and diamond shaped flaring at the bottom; wide on the side reaches and not much fore and aft. This was so that it would not cause difficulty for the one conducting the mass as he stood or knelt before it. For extra support it flared as it reached up under the top, ending at angles like the underside of a shallow vee bottomed boat.

Because the entire piece was hollow, and woods in the tropics can do odd things when subjected to climatic variations I made certain that each part was well braced with ample cross pieces, like bulkheads in a boat and everything was perfectly fitted and glued. In addition to the problem of possible warping, the tropics has uncounted varieties of termites so each panel of the altar contained ample amounts of all of the dry insecticide powders available on the island. The surfaces of the whole piece were well sanded, rubbed, and finished and it was becoming a truly beautiful demonstration of what could be done with wood.

Father Charles came up to check every few days and though eager to have the project finished was always very pleasant. I was probably as happy as he was when I told him that he could send for it; my Chevy pickup truck was too small for safe carriage.

He came within the hour.

The next day I was in town having a drink with Margie and Allandale Winston at a little bar called Marjorie’s on the bayfront. Allandale was a handsome Dominican, French coffee brown, muscular, even featured, gentle and wise. He was a dear friend and always a joy to be with. Margie and I sought his company and advice almost on a daily basis. Allandale was of one of Dominica’s leading families and always seemed to know everything that went on in the country.

“Oh, oh, looks like trouble,” he said solemnly, addressing Father Charles, who came in the wide front door in an obvious hurry.

The priest’s brow was furrowed and he did, indeed, look as though something awful had happened.

“What is the trouble, Father?” I asked, concerned myself that something had happened to the altar.

“It’s warped,” Father Charles blurted. “The Altar is warped!” It was as though he was mentally wringing his hands.

“How can that be?” I said, astonished.

I am not sure, but I may have had a brief thought on how God punishes sinners. I was going back over the construction in my mind; all those hours, days, and weeks.

“Can you come?” Father Charles asked in a highly agitated voice.

“Yes, Father, certainly I can come, but I want to get Bassiene Emanuel to come with me.”

“Oh, please, come right away!”

“About an hour, Father. I’ll be there.”

Father Charles shrugged. It was obvious that he wanted me to come back to the Cathedral with him that instant.

He paused a moment, seemed to have resolved his inner conflict on my delay, turned slowly, and left.

“I just cannot figure this,” I said slowly after the priest left.

Allandale smiled and swirled his soft drink, rattling the ice around the glass before finishing it.

“Pete-ah,” he said, He often added that ‘ah’ to my name, not as a way of saying Peter, but he added, as Dominicans often did, broad a’s to lots of words when they said them slowly. He was hardly able to contain a laugh. “I want you to remember one thing when you go into the Cathedral.”

“What’s that?”

“Just keep your eye on the eternal flame, and if it starts to flicker, get out fast! A heathen like you might never make it though your first visit.” He was now laughing heartily.

I went into the Cathedral alone; Bass was unavailable. Inside I immediately identified the problem. Bass had not leveled the bottom of the center stand of the altar because he knew that the floor at the front of the Cathedral was composed of large slabs of imperfect stone, and that the Church Sextant would have to level and fit the altar to the selected place.

I told Father Charles and the sextant what was required and left the place, noting that the eternal flame was still burning.

Once given permission to alter the altar the Sexton did and all was, and is still, well.