Santiago Gamboa - Necropolis

I soon came to one of the greatest dilemmas: the title. I thought and thought for several days until it came to me: Encounters with Amazingly Normal People , and so I put it on the draft. As was to be expected, Walter approved it, and I continued with the process. Later I had to deal with the question of what I call “hot and cold writing,” in other words, the way you perceive the writing as you’re doing it and the way you see it after being away from it for a few hours, when the words get cold and you can look calmly at what you did, and think about the distance between that result and the impression you had as you were doing it in the heat of the moment. It’s like the casting of the metal in the making of bells, as you see in the film Andrei Rublev , by old Tarkovsky: the tone and appearance of a cast when you put the molten steel in the mold is very different than its final form, when it’s cooled down, and the same goes for words: when they’re a flow of lava descending from the cerebral cortex to the fingers they have an shiny appearance that blinds and flatters, but their true face is the one they acquire hours later, when the smoke clears and you can see them by the light of day; they’re never as radiant as they were before, and you dither and feel lost and go back to the beginning, you stand back and redo it or give it all up and are left with the empty space that’s the silence of writing and which, as in music, has its own value, that’s the way it is, my brothers, but anyway, let’s carry on with the story.

Walter started having highs and lows again, sometimes he was euphoric and then he’d plunge into a deep depression and wouldn’t come down from his tower for three or four days. Those were the years that biographies dismiss in a couple of lines, but as you know, life happens every day and we can’t always be on the crest of the wave, until we come to that chapter in which lives rush through a gorge that quickly leads to the void, sometimes to death and very rarely to happiness, in fact almost never.

Oh, my friends, my dear friends, maybe we need a little fresh air here, so let’s remember the story of that man who made himself wings with feathers stuck on with wax and started to fly, higher each time, and having seen the world so much from above cherished the fantasy of dominating it, because from up there it looked like something he could hold in his hands, a loose stone, a bottle top, and he dreamed of reaching the gods, he continued rising and rising, friends, and when he got to the top of the sky his wings went all to hell, the wax melted and down he plummeted, free fall without a net. Let this serve as an introduction to what follows, in metaphorical terms, even though the beginning of the end for the Ministry of Mercy was an unexpected visit, a man in suit and tie who came to the gate and asked, does the Reverend Walter de la Salle live here?

Jefferson looked him up and down curiously and said, meetings with parishioners are over for the day, and he turned away, but the guy stopped him and said, wait, that’s not why I’m here, come closer, and took out a shiny police badge, I’d like you to tell me your name, seeing as we’re here; Jefferson turned pale and said, my name’s Jefferson, I haven’t done anything. The officer adopted a forceful tone and said, cool it, nigger, I’m not saying you’ve done anything, I was only asking for your name, O.K.? and he said again, Jefferson Lafayette, I work here; O.K., Jefferson, we’re doing fine, the next thing I’m going to ask is even simpler, open the fucking door and call Reverend Walter right now! you think you can do that, nigger? Jefferson let him through and ran to the house.

The detective had come for information. They’d arrested a minor with six thousand dollars in bills buying crack on Meridien Island and when they questioned him he’d mentioned the Ministry. Then he’d retracted his statement and his parents were adamant that the boy was being rehabilitated thanks to the Ministry, but the whole thing sounded fishy. In the course of his investigation, the detective had heard a rumor that Walter hired minors for private parties. There was no actual accusation, but he wanted to take a look around and see if he could figure out how these rumors had started.

Tall stories, detective, said Walter on receiving him, you can’t imagine the number of people who envy my success; more than one jealous pastor would love to see my Ministry in ruins, but they won’t, detective, because the work we do doesn’t belong to me but to all the people who believe in it, and nobody will ever able to bring it down, do you understand me?

Absolutely, said the detective, that’s what I’m trying to avoid with this visit, I’ve seen your TV show and I’ll tell you something, my wife believes you’re the son of God, and she really believes it, is it true? I mean, are you really the son of God? Walter looked straight at him and replied: I’m a son of the God of those who believe in me, officer, will that do? No, replied the man, unfortunately not, I’d like to see your property, may I? it isn’t an inspection, only a visit. Go ahead, said Walter, we don’t have anything to hide.

They went to the communal rooms and the refectory, the kitchen and the garage. Then they came to my cabin and when he saw me the detective asked, is this one of your apostles? Nobody laughed at the joke and I showed him my papers. He took them to the window to look at them in the light and said: former inmate of Moundsville, eh? you’re certainly living in style now. . He looked through the bookshelves, grabbed The Odyssey and said, very good book, yes sir, which of you has read it? He flipped through the pages, as if shuffling cards, and put it back in its place. He was looking for something, that was obvious. Returning to the garden, he looked up and said, what’s in that tower?

Jessica, alerted by Jefferson, had already cleaned the place.

My God, reverend, what luxury, he said when he saw the white leather couches, the LCD screen, the Jacuzzi with the piped music, the paintings with 3-D images of Christ. I didn’t know sons of God lived such a. . He stopped to think of a word, but it didn’t come, so he said, do your followers know you live like this? Walter looked at him and said, do you think there’s something reprehensible or inappropriate about that? No, reverend, not in the eyes of the law, but I seem to remember Jesus saying something about the rich and the kingdom of the Lord, I don’t remember exactly, I’ll have to ask my wife.

You’ve surprised me, said the detective, as they went back down to the garden, to be honest, your wealth raises a lot of questions in my mind. They walked along the paved path to the street and Walter said, when I feel I need to know what those questions are I’ll call you, but for now give my very best regards to your wife. I don’t think you’re really interested in my questions, replied the detective, but if I were you I’d get a lawyer, I’d hate my wife to miss her favorite show, if you get my meaning, my visit is over, the Miami police department thanks you for your cooperation; then he left without shaking anyone’s hand.

That’s how things were, my friends, and of course I thought, shit, the hurricane is heading straight for the living room of our house, no doubt about it. The next night, when Walter came to my cabin, I said, what about that thing with the detective? but he dismissed it, it’s nothing, José, accusations by the envious, it’s that son of a bitch Malik McPercy of the Church of Juliana the Redeemer, because nobody goes to his prayer meetings, or the people at Crisostom Abogalene just around the corner, whose hall is always empty, and I said, that’s as may be, but you have to be careful about what you do, Walter, they have us in their sights and we mustn’t give them ammunition; but he said, if something happens I’ll know how to defend the Ministry and everyone, don’t worry, how’s our book going?