beneath the pencil lines that were meant to obliterate it. Smiling, he prepared to toss it in the wastepaper basket but hesitated and slipped it into the drawer instead.
The leaflet was amateurish, he knew, but Hal felt its call. He took it out and studied it again. Was this a message? The burden . Did this refer to his quest for connection to Paulina? Acknowledge your evil. The Voice had intoned those very words over and over. And here it was in black and white on a leaflet for the Church of the Divine Conflagration. Hal’s eyes took on a feverish light as he sought to confirm what he wanted to believe.
Apart from the words on the leaflet, there was the man who had given it to him. Along with the strange courtesy and distinguished bearing, Hal sensed a quiet force. Perhaps knowledge. Even if their meeting were a coincidence, Hal was compelled to follow it up. His intellectual scepticism was counterbalanced by his very real need to believe in something beyond the material world that, without Paulina, was simply insufficient.
While to me, the Church of the Divine Conflagration was a joke, I have to admit that there was something about that large black man—his eyes, his voice, I don’t know. But I can see why my grandfather was intrigued.
Hal found the leaflet in his hand again the next night. He read the details more carefully. So the church was behind Safouris’ shop. He knew it well. He took his suits there to be dry-cleaned and had exchanged pleasantries with the Greek couple who ran the business. The shop was divided in two by means of a red line painted on the floor. This line continued over the counter and up the back wall and Spiros and his wife defended their separate territories with military fervour. As a dry-cleaning customer, Hal had to stand on the right side of the line. Should he stray a little, Spiros would look up from under dark brows and clear his throat.
‘Would you mind stepping this way, Mr Rodriguez,’ Helena would sigh. ‘My husband is a pig, you understand.’ And she would flash a triumphant smile across the line. One successful battle in a long campaign.
When Hal arrived on Sunday morning, he hoped to see Spiros and Helena, but the shop was shut. He stood uncertainly on the footpath and was relieved to see the man who had given him the leaflet striding down the street.
‘Is this the church?’ Hal asked.
The man stopped in surprise.
‘Indeed it is, Sir.’ He held out his hand. ‘I am Pastor Moses B. Washbourne, formerly Sergeant Moses B. Washbourne, of the Armed Forces of the United States of America.’
Hal’s hands were large, but they were entirely lost in the mighty grip of Moses B. Washbourne. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Pastor—Sergeant.’
‘Only Pastor when church is in session. Rest of the time people call me Godown Moses or just Godown.’ He began to sing in a fine baritone Go down Moses, way down in Egypt land . . . The singing stopped abruptly. ‘That’s how I got my name.’ He shuffled his feet and managed to look both shifty and repentant. ‘Well, to be honest,’ he sighed, ‘I was a bad man with the women before I returned to the Lord and my army buddies gave me that name, but it means somethin’ different now.’ All the while he was fiddling with the padlock on a side gate as Hal stood by, silent and bemused.
‘This way.’ Godown Moses led his flock of one down a narrow path to a large backyard, where a fibro-cement shed stood under the shelter of two large flowering gums. He stepped in, switched on a light and motioned for Hal to enter.
The dimly lit interior of the shed was dominated by a large wooden cross. In front of this was a lectern supporting an open book. There were several chairs facing the cross and the side walls were lined with neatly labelled cartons. ½ inch cable , Hal read. Duct tape, switches (mixed), coat hangers, ledgers 1952–58 . . .
Godown busied himself at the lectern and took a stole from one of his ample
The leaflet was amateurish, he knew, but Hal felt its call. He took it out and studied it again. Was this a message? The burden . Did this refer to his quest for connection to Paulina? Acknowledge your evil. The Voice had intoned those very words over and over. And here it was in black and white on a leaflet for the Church of the Divine Conflagration. Hal’s eyes took on a feverish light as he sought to confirm what he wanted to believe.
Apart from the words on the leaflet, there was the man who had given it to him. Along with the strange courtesy and distinguished bearing, Hal sensed a quiet force. Perhaps knowledge. Even if their meeting were a coincidence, Hal was compelled to follow it up. His intellectual scepticism was counterbalanced by his very real need to believe in something beyond the material world that, without Paulina, was simply insufficient.
While to me, the Church of the Divine Conflagration was a joke, I have to admit that there was something about that large black man—his eyes, his voice, I don’t know. But I can see why my grandfather was intrigued.
Hal found the leaflet in his hand again the next night. He read the details more carefully. So the church was behind Safouris’ shop. He knew it well. He took his suits there to be dry-cleaned and had exchanged pleasantries with the Greek couple who ran the business. The shop was divided in two by means of a red line painted on the floor. This line continued over the counter and up the back wall and Spiros and his wife defended their separate territories with military fervour. As a dry-cleaning customer, Hal had to stand on the right side of the line. Should he stray a little, Spiros would look up from under dark brows and clear his throat.
‘Would you mind stepping this way, Mr Rodriguez,’ Helena would sigh. ‘My husband is a pig, you understand.’ And she would flash a triumphant smile across the line. One successful battle in a long campaign.
When Hal arrived on Sunday morning, he hoped to see Spiros and Helena, but the shop was shut. He stood uncertainly on the footpath and was relieved to see the man who had given him the leaflet striding down the street.
‘Is this the church?’ Hal asked.
The man stopped in surprise.
‘Indeed it is, Sir.’ He held out his hand. ‘I am Pastor Moses B. Washbourne, formerly Sergeant Moses B. Washbourne, of the Armed Forces of the United States of America.’
Hal’s hands were large, but they were entirely lost in the mighty grip of Moses B. Washbourne. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Pastor—Sergeant.’
‘Only Pastor when church is in session. Rest of the time people call me Godown Moses or just Godown.’ He began to sing in a fine baritone Go down Moses, way down in Egypt land . . . The singing stopped abruptly. ‘That’s how I got my name.’ He shuffled his feet and managed to look both shifty and repentant. ‘Well, to be honest,’ he sighed, ‘I was a bad man with the women before I returned to the Lord and my army buddies gave me that name, but it means somethin’ different now.’ All the while he was fiddling with the padlock on a side gate as Hal stood by, silent and bemused.
‘This way.’ Godown Moses led his flock of one down a narrow path to a large backyard, where a fibro-cement shed stood under the shelter of two large flowering gums. He stepped in, switched on a light and motioned for Hal to enter.
The dimly lit interior of the shed was dominated by a large wooden cross. In front of this was a lectern supporting an open book. There were several chairs facing the cross and the side walls were lined with neatly labelled cartons. ½ inch cable , Hal read. Duct tape, switches (mixed), coat hangers, ledgers 1952–58 . . .
Godown busied himself at the lectern and took a stole from one of his ample
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