Necropolis (15 page)

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?

A few days later Walter asked me a strange question: do you have a bank account? I looked at him in surprise and said, of course not, why would I want something like that? I have everything I need right here, and he said, go with Jessica and open an account, I'll give you instructions, don't contradict me, I want you to be paid for the work you've done on the book, which is really excellent; Estiven has already had something and I want you to have the same as him, it's only fair, don't refuse, I won't take no for an answer. I opened the account and Jessica put in two thousand dollars, but I said to her, I'll never touch that money, never, and she replied, do whatever you like, it's yours, I'm just following Walter's suggestions.

I sent the book to a publishing house with a financial proposition, and three months later we received the galley proofs, which Walter and Estiven and I read out loud in my cabin. There were 987 pages, to which I decided to add a very brief history of the Ministry and a basic chronology of Walter's life. Then came the question of the cover. My first suggestion, my friends, was a photograph of Walter during one of his services, showing him kneeling, bare-chested, and the congregation making the sign of the cross, but he said, no, José, I don't want the book to be about me, I'm only an emissary, I communicate with something that's already in the people, the nest where God resides; I know you mean well, but it can't be a photograph of me. Miss Jessica suggested a photograph of the Chapel of Mercy the Living God and, with all the crosses in the vault lit up and looking really beautiful, but again he said no, we mustn't ape the vanity of the church of Rome, and he opted for a photograph of a slum neighborhood with a group of black teenagers playing basketball, a Dodge Dart with flat tires, a drugstore on a corner, and three people sitting on the sidewalk in an expectant attitude; to one side of the picture a man in a sweater is talking to a woman who's been beaten up, and in spite of the fact that the man has his back to us and is wearing a hood we sense that he's somebody special and that he's giving solace to the woman, who's only just stopped crying and is starting to give a timid smile in spite of her bruised cheeks and the dried blood on her nose. Her expression is what the cover is all about, my friends, and finally we came to the last subject, which was how to distribute it among the parishioners, whether or not we should charge them, because obviously the Ministry was buying twenty thousand copies from the publisher, which was why they'd agreed to publish it immediately.

Again Miss Jessica gave her opinion, saying, we have to charge something to cover our costs; if we give it away people won't attach the same value to it, after all, they buy Bibles, don't they? In the end it was decided to give it away free to those members who contributed more than five hundred dollars a month, and we all agreed. To everyone else, it would sell for thirteen dollars, and I won't even tell you how much of a fuss it caused. The book had to be reprinted several times because we didn't have enough copies, and Walter was reborn. Excellent reviews appeared in the
Miami Herald
and other local newspapers, he gave long interviews on radio and TV, and we reached a hundred thousand copies, which was incredible; I was prouder than I'd ever been in my life, it was as if that object of a thousand pages was a child that other people appreciated and read, and that gained widespread recognition, but that I'd modestly helped to create.

Every joy has its danger, my friends, believe me, because after this resounding success those who were against us now took our good fortune personally and brought out the heavy artillery; I don't know what he'd been paid, but one of the black faggots who came to Walter's parties started spilling the beans, describing those parties to a newspaper, without skipping anything: the lines of coke, the poppers, the whiskey, and of course the sex, and the problem was that the boy was a minor.

Soon the detective showed up again, this time with a search warrant and six of his colleagues, but we were able to get out of things thanks to the Italian lawyers. A large check is a great help, a small check is a small help, so we settled for half, O.K.? The boy's mother withdrew her complaint and everybody went home happy, but the next month there were two more accusations, one of them with recordings and cell phone photographs where you could see everything. The family told the Sicilians they'd drop everything for two million dollars, but Walter wouldn't agree, going into one of his trances, which I'd once thought were mystical but now didn't know what the hell they were or where they came from, and saying, I'll protect everyone, there's nothing to fear. Three days later, the next accusations fell like a meteor shower. The parents of six boys asked for millions in compensation for the abuse to their minors, presenting sworn statements, photographs, and videos. There was nothing we could do about it and the scandal blew up in the press.

The police came to take Walter away. It was a massive operation, they closed the neighboring streets, a helicopter flew over the house, and of course there were TV crews outside to film the arrest live. Large numbers of police officers took shelter behind the wall and the one who seemed to be in charge took out a loud-hailer and said, Reverend Walter de la Salle, please come out with your hands up, along with everyone else in the house.

I was watching it all that from my cabin, thinking, what a ridiculous spectacle! it isn't as if we're murderers! I opened the door to go toward where the police were, but at that moment I heard a series of shots, and I cried out, don't shoot, they're coming out! Much to my surprise, dear friends, the shots were coming from the top of the tower and one of the police officers was writhing wounded on the asphalt.

I threw myself on the ground and closed my eyes, and my head turned into a swarm of questions, or rather dilemmas or aporias, shall I go to where Walter is, stand by his side and resist until they shoot us down? should I go out and try to negotiate with the police, act as a mediator? go back to my cabin until the commotion dies down? Another burst of shots distracted me, and in a second I saw destruction hovering over us. My vision had come back, my brothers, my listeners, the one I'd dreamed some time earlier: the image of a monk leading a group of hooded men through a destroyed city; rubble, dead bodies, twisted metal, ash in the air, tongues of fire.