Sunday, August 15, 2010

José “Pepe” Conteris

He let go of the back of the pew and allowed himself to fall backwards, sinking into the crooked floorboards. ‘see, God does renounce those who disbelieve!’ exclaimed the rector’s assistant. ‘nonsense’ bellowed a man sitting in the front pew. ‘the man’s obviously fainted… look at his eyes’. Winded (as he had just come up from the basement where he had been sent to retrieve the Host) the red-haired altar boy tripped and fell headlong into the pulpit, the Host flying every-which-where. Pointing his talon-like finger, stained yellow from years of smoking, the rector said ‘Now let us pray’. ‘what is the meaning of this?’ said the Witness striding up the centre aisle, Dritëro Vogel in tow. Dritëro, a man of squat-measure, his torso four-square to his shoulders, accompanied the Witness on his evangelical rounds, ensuring the sanctity of the Holy Word and mealy-mouthing anyone heathen enough to contest the inviolability of the Blessed Lamb. Slamming his fist against the altar, his ring-finger tolling, the Witness gathered in his overcoat and turned to face the congregation, Dritëro Vogel close on his heels. ‘yes a heathen, a wretch, but a lamb of God just the same’.

‘Non lasci uomo gettare la prima pietra, che lui lapidato egli stesso’ said an old man sitting in the back pew, his face a withered rotten apple. ‘Sim, e pode queda do céu no inferno’ said a second old man, his face a bashed in tomato. ‘y puede Cristo estar con usted’ said a woman with a pockmarked face. ‘puta de la concha’ whispered Lela, her fire-red bangs hiding her eyes. ‘may the Blessed Lamb be your friend’ said the rector, the stain on his robe taking on the appearance and shape of a goat. ‘in the name of God Almighty, amen’.

José “Pepe” Conteris, his mouth stuffed with boiled mutton, let out a sigh, his forehead crimped like windswept drapes. ‘Nonsense!’ bellowed £. Q. Beiträge, his mamma tugging at his shirtsleeve. ‘stop!’ I implored stop! implored Złolton ₤owther, his eyes boiled mutton gray. ‘Cristo estar con usted, do céu no inferno’’ said man with the bashed-in face. ‘for the love of God!’ yelled the Witness. ‘enough is enough!’

No comments:

About Me

My photo
"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

Blog Archive