TE22 Potpourri

Michèle Rakotoson

Lalana

despair and despondence, they picture a heaven where they will be happy, they obey a God the Father who guides their lives, and they’ve devised religious rituals in which they feel good, worthy, like their ancestors. Rivo walks toward the church and stands, half-naked, swaying in the empty entrance. The hymn stops abruptly, yielding to profound silence. Naivo suppresses the urge to scream at Rivo to stop, don’t go in the church, be careful. He’s gotten a bad feeling from that silence. But Rivo stays there, standing in the entrance, motionless, tense. Slowly, Naivo moves toward him, is about to touch his shoulder, when he freezes. The church is jam-packed, there isn’t a free seat left, except for a pew before the altar hung in white. There is that white spot, and the eyes turned toward them. There are also the shadows, shadows where faces are more guessed at than seen. And the hundred eyes, peering, shocked, and some of them angry. Naivo feels the pressure, practically physical. The eyes concentrate on them, stare at them without a word, cursing Rivo, surely, half- naked and skinny Rivo, sick and not crazy Rivo, standing there, desecrating the house of their God. They want to crush him, want him to disappear, to be destroyed. And the weight of those hundred eyes is on his whole body, heavy on his chest, suffocating, freezing every muscle, paralyzing, leaving a gulf deep within him that hurts. They’ll kill him. The thought is fleeting. He’s trying to give Rivo’s arm a gentle tug, move him back, when the harmonium sounds again. Over its slow, solemn pulsing, the pastor and deacons enter. All dressed in crisp, immaculate white, a sharp contrast to the tattered followers. They enter separately, men on one side, women on

the other, mule slippers on their feet, cords tied about their waists. A slight murmur runs through the worshippers when the pastor enters and they quickly lower their heads to hold them bowed, submissive, humble. Those processing in hold their heads high, the pastor with both hands holding the cup containing the consecrated host, then the deacons go to sit along the sides of the altar, frozen as well, not looking at the followers who are crystallized in their devotion, mute, wholly absorbed in contemplation, fully whelmed with the respect and underlying fear of their pastor, and terrified of the host and the signs of a vengeful God which are about to be laid out before them. The harmonium falls still and silence once again clutches the church. Not a breathof air, not awhisper. Nothing. All is frozen. The pastor lets several minutes pass before raising his hands to bless the throng of worshippers and inviting his companions to kneel before the altar. “Today, on this day which we dedicate to God, I say that we shall repent.” His voice resonates, extremely clear. A sigh runs through the room. “And we shall ask forgiveness of the Lord our God for all our sins, both past and yet to come.”

Naivo senses that the attention has shifted onto Rivo, even

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