The church pews were made at the Grindsted Ribe Woodshop outside the canton of Woerden Zuid, a small fishing village just outside the five-mile fence. Every Sunday the Migrateurs’ Obrist arrived for Mass in a horse-drawn carriage with a surrey on top. Stepping from the carriage, the noontime sun scorching the top of his powdered wig, the great Migrateurs’ Obrist stood facing the doors of the church, the driver feeding salt to the glistening horses, the littlest dogman crouching behind a tangle of bluebells and marigolds tittering.
Today’s Mass was on the sins of the sinners, to be followed by a luncheon and the ladies’ auxiliary rummage sale. Don José y Umbral, a close acquaintance of the great Migrateurs’ Obrist, was also an acquaintance of Dejesus, who was well acquainted with the Witness, whom he openly despised, who would have nothing to do with Mass, today or any other day. The man in the hat, though not acquainted with the great Migrateurs’ Obrist or Don José y Umbral, had a fair to middling acquaintance with Dejesus and the Witness, whom he found showy and small-minded. The shamble leg man was acquainted with those people with whom it was absolutely necessary to acquaint oneself with, finding most people spiteful and too unpardonable for his liking. The high squealing of a whore’s trumpet filled the pious churchly air with despoliation, desecrating the very ground the congregated laid toe and heel upon.
‘…have you a smoke…?’ inquired a man wearing a blue calfskin hat. ‘…not on me…’ answered a man in a hurry to avoid anyone who might inquire anything of him. Mr. Qolzaño stood watching from a fair distance, his feet quibbling the dirt beneath his shoes. He watched the two men, the one inquiring the other evading inquisition, wondering if there was room in the church for another sinner. All of a sudden the congregated made haste for the church doors, the bells chiming the annunciation of the Mass. The great Migrateurs’ Obrist, arm outstretch, led the way, his coachman trailing behind him like a lame dog. Behind him, feet caviling, Mr. Qolzaño beat a path for Migrateurs’ Obrist’s carriage, a whippet of dust quibbling in his wake.
Today’s Mass was on the sins of the sinners, to be followed by a luncheon and the ladies’ auxiliary rummage sale. Don José y Umbral, a close acquaintance of the great Migrateurs’ Obrist, was also an acquaintance of Dejesus, who was well acquainted with the Witness, whom he openly despised, who would have nothing to do with Mass, today or any other day. The man in the hat, though not acquainted with the great Migrateurs’ Obrist or Don José y Umbral, had a fair to middling acquaintance with Dejesus and the Witness, whom he found showy and small-minded. The shamble leg man was acquainted with those people with whom it was absolutely necessary to acquaint oneself with, finding most people spiteful and too unpardonable for his liking. The high squealing of a whore’s trumpet filled the pious churchly air with despoliation, desecrating the very ground the congregated laid toe and heel upon.
‘…have you a smoke…?’ inquired a man wearing a blue calfskin hat. ‘…not on me…’ answered a man in a hurry to avoid anyone who might inquire anything of him. Mr. Qolzaño stood watching from a fair distance, his feet quibbling the dirt beneath his shoes. He watched the two men, the one inquiring the other evading inquisition, wondering if there was room in the church for another sinner. All of a sudden the congregated made haste for the church doors, the bells chiming the annunciation of the Mass. The great Migrateurs’ Obrist, arm outstretch, led the way, his coachman trailing behind him like a lame dog. Behind him, feet caviling, Mr. Qolzaño beat a path for Migrateurs’ Obrist’s carriage, a whippet of dust quibbling in his wake.
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