Coffee and Sugar - C. Sean McGee (mystery books to read .TXT) 📗

of the weekly fixture on their farm since before Joao was accidented and even dating back to when The Bishop himself was just a boy.

Everything the family knew about life, they learned from this television show. Through it the children learned to speak, picking up useful and; unfortunately, sometimes quite unsavoury phrases but in general, the language was very acceptable. Overall the show helped them to gain a clearer perspective on the troubles facing their country’s culture and for themselves too, to have real idols of which to aspire.

Theirs was the only television around for longer than the lineage from donkey to horse. So after every service, the farmers would sit in awe, watching the small static television and living the extension of their desires through their favourite heroes and villains; imagining the sweet poison that is life in the city.

The idea of the city alone was gargantuan and terrifying but at the same time, wickedly wanting. As they watched, the women dressed their imaginations in the riches they saw, having the same silken fabrics slide over their skin like they conceived, charity over the poor; feeling lighter than air upon their moist skin and invented firm breasts as they were weighed only by the pith of their elegance as their necks shone with strings of pearls and their slender fingers sparkled with diamonds and gold as the noble poor; black men dressed in tailored suits, waited upon them hand and foot, calling them Madam, opening their doors, fetching their bags, sparkling their champagne and brushing off their condescending, benighted, racial tirades that they costumed as educated, titular empathy.

The men on the other hand imagined themselves younger, taller, of more generous proportion, strikingly featured with striking chiselled faces and hands that were tough enough to fight a bear, yet delicate enough to rock a crying baby to sleep; the type of man who could fire a gun in one hand whilst writing a poem in the other.

This was the city man, the man they imagined themselves being; riding in their sports cars, signing contracts, lifting weights unnecessarily not because they had to, but because they could and of course sexing everybody; their secretaries, their cleaners, their children’s nannies, their personal trainers, their venereal disease clinicians and their marriage counsellors. They were men of power, influence and potent libido and every day was a grand adventure where devilish good looks and roguish charm were all you needed to be rich, successful and happy.

Every now and then you could see one of the old farmers imagining himself in his animal prime, escorting his beautiful modelled wife; or children’s nanny, through the city streets in his European convertible, the warm summer, evening breeze flowing like a raging rapid through his long, luscious, wavy hair as every light he passed was green, winding his way; like a seamstress with her needle and thread, in and out of heavy traffic like some mechanical ballet with everyone looking in his direction and every whisper, said about him in envy with everyone wishing they could be just as he was before being awoken from his own wishing by a rudely nudge and twisting his neck to see his elephantine, leathered wife with her neck red raw from the constant caressing of her imaginary necklace with her long dirt laden nails and moaning like an old tractor that won’t shift out of neutral.

After ‘The Carriage of My Heart’ the farmers would all shake hands, bid gentle polite kisses to the cheeks of the women and make their way by torchlight back along the long dusted track in which they came to settle upon their own lands and put to bed, their rejuvenation and joy.

When they left, the Bishop liked to call the whole family into the barn and together send thirty minutes to one hour watching some midnight television; that being ‘The 13th Apostle of The World Church of Jesus Christ’s Eternal Heavenly Glory’.

Even Joao; who would normally be resigned to experiencing family togetherness through a peep hole, was welcomed to it on the rickety wooden benches and watched The Thirteenth Apostle as he preached in front of thousands of devout Christians, all herded into one massive auditorium; ten thousand people, body to body, perspiring their struggle onto one another, all standing with their arms raised to the throne of god and praising the name Jesus Christ.

The Bishop watched The 13th Apostle attentively, studying how he used the light of god like a sword to cut through the fear that imprisoned the people.

He was a big man. In fact, the cameramen had to be positioned down the street just so they could fit his enormous hands and his head in one frame and his voice, it boomed of the weight of heavenly goodness; a tremor of divinity that rippled in one’s belly and kept one’s feet sure on the earth while their spirit and mind ascended into the heavens to be whispered sweet nurtures by god almighty. His hands were so large that the microphone looked like a broken match and when he called the old crippled women to the stage, they too looked infinitesimal when wrapped up in his arms; their faces pressed tight against his sweaty, yellow shirt that peeled off their skin like a bandage when they lifted their heads to look up at his giant flaring nostrils with The 13th Apostle, retelling their struggle and heartache in his words; with one hand pressed against the back of the old lady’s head, baptising her face once again into the river of sweat that pooled on his chest.

“That should be you” Mother would say, looking to The Bishop.

His children would then all join in the commotion feeding the benevolent respect for their father, praising his reverence and wishing a world stage upon his voice.

The Bishop would listen to their words and inflate his self-belief in hearing the echo of his own assumptions and on this night in question; some time in the past, Joao spoke and for the first time, was apparently heard.

“You should go there, to the city” Joao said, and as he did, none so much as looked in his direction or acknowledge his speaking as much as they took it upon themselves to extend his meaning and harvest a seed that had been planted a long time ago and was budding now, into a fruitful reality.

“You will go to the city; for your family, for Jesus and to save the world. He needs your help, The 13th Apostle, he does. The devil is getting stronger, his reign more torrential. The war, the drugs, the sex” said Joao’s mother.

“And the Catholics” yelled one of his brothers.

“He’s right; there are more of them every day. And it’s because of that singing priest. We have to stop them” she said.

“And the Jews” said one brother.

“And the Arabs” said another.

“What? God, no, that’s horrible, no, just the Catholics. Now who wants some corn ice-cream?” she asked.

The Bishop was pensive, imaging himself on the grand stage orating to hundreds of thousands of devout Christians, receiving awards and acclaim for his sermons and then out of nowhere, taking a bullet in the stomach as a lone Catholic gunman invaded the church shooting wildly.

The Bishop burst through the pack of panicked parishioners to jump headstrong into the gunmen, wrestling him to the floor and wrenching his pistol from his hands, sliding it across the auditorium as he struggled and writhed, eventually securing the assassin in a wrist lock and holding him until the police arrived with the parishioners all cheering and chanting his name as he looked down to see a thin stream of red, trickle from a hole in his stomach, down onto his bended knee and onto the floor where he then collapsed upon both knees, gripping his wounded belly and then under the adoration of the world, he closed his eyes and died a hero and a martyr for Jesus Christ.

“I’ll need a hand. One of the boys” The Bishop said.

“You can take Joao” Mother said.

“Why would I bring a donkey to a horse race?” he asked annoyed.

“I need the strong boys here to work the land. You need someone to get your things, arrange your church, and help you prepare your sermon, yes?” she asked.

“Well, yes but...”

“Perfect. The donkey can carry your things while you race. Joao, pack your bag you’re going to the city” she said pointing her bulbous stubby finger.

The Bishop lowered his head into his straining right hand and shook negatingly while Joao jumped up from the rickety old bench and ran gleamingly past his brothers and sisters who sat disbelievingly with mouths agape; the evening flies buzzing around their tongues that swilled like a shooing tail on a horse’s arse.

Joao burst out the doors of the barn and danced around in the midnight black jumping from one leg to another and swinging his arms like a windmill; happiness burgeoning at his centre as for the first time in his life he felt important, useful and seen.

He ran about in the darkness humming in his mind the song about the rich man, jumping up and down from one foot to the next, stamping each one firmly into the dry dusted earth until his right leg slipped on a thick slimy patch of cow dung and over he went; his swinging hands grabbing; in desperate fall, a mesh gate that swung open with his rapid descent making a calamitous clanging sound as he crashed to the floor smacking his face hard against the earth, cutting just above his lip and the family’s hens and roosters all barged out of the open cage and disappeared into the night.

“Really? You couldn’t have at least given me one of the girls?” said The Bishop.

“You’re taking Joao” she said before waving her gorilla like hands to the other children to fan them away like a bad smell.

“What are waiting for?” she said, “get out there and find those chickens.”

The children all got up from where they sat and whispered to one another as they moved out of the barn in pairs, off into the endless night where under dim torch light, they fixed their eyes to the play of shadows and raced after each chicken in their midnight parody running this way and that, tripping over one another as they dived onto the shifting light like a confused actor trying to find his mark.

They cursed silently and muttered to themselves their hatred for Joao as they pardoned their sleep to amend the outcome of his poorly equated existence.

“Joao is no good to me here. You’ll find a use for him. You have to be careful, we don’t know what the city is gonna throw at you. There’s all that sex and drugs and fast cars and rock n roll music. You keep him away from all of that and keep him away from those city girls. They’re all sluts and whores” Mother said.

“Do you really think I can do it?” asked The Bishop.

“If ‘The Carriage of my Heart’ has told me anything, it’s that anything is possible especially with the love of Christ in your heart. This has to work, if it doesn’t, the farm will collapse. If you come back without money you better not come back at all. Understand? We need money. Jesus believes in you” she said.

“And you?”

“I believe in Jesus.”

“Ok, I’ll do it. I’ll go to the city; I’ll spread my word to the world. I’ll save our farm. But what am I supposed to do with Joao?”

“Figure something out. Just get him off my farm before he destroys anything else. You’ll leave before dawn.”

“I’ll make you proud. I’ll be a famous preacher. I’m gonna be rich and I’ll send money back every month, understand? We won’t ever have to worry soon. And I’ll find a use for Joao, I’ll keep him busy.”

“Do what you want with him just no whores” Mother yelled in closing, leaving the barn and stomping her way into the house and then into bed.

CHAPTER TWO

There were no farewells or well-wishing on the morning of the journey south; only Joao and The Bishop in the darkness loading up the old Beetle while Mother; in the distance,