end up in suffering they cannot explain.”
“I believe we all suffer in ways we can’t explain.”
Our whispered debate had drawn scowls from members of the congregation, and I asked Oméga, “Isn’t it rude to speak during the sermon?”
He made a dismissive gesture and said, “The style here is so histrionic. It annoys me. And the way they pray—flapping about like injured birds—they look as if they’re trying to wave God down as he drives past on the highway.”
The preacher had left the platform, and people were praying in hushed voices now, standing or sitting, or touching each other, clutching hands and rocking. The mass seemed to be ending in a sort of quiet time.
“You should tell the prophet that you are the girl’s uncle,” Oméga said. “That will keep things simple. You have come to bring her home to America and you would like to pay him to cast out her demons before you go. He can’t refuse that. And if you really want to play the part, have him lay hands on you too. I doubt you’ll regret it.”
Congregants were lining up to meet with their prophète—a term that I was beginning to think wasn’t so rare. He’d withdrawn behind a crimson tapestry guarded by a thin young woman in a silvery sparkling dress and matching head wrap. Each time she pulled back the heavy cloth to let in the faithful, I glimpsed a hallway of exposed concrete.
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