Gypsy Barons (Piers)

Dear Piers,

° You may wonder why I was late for Mass yesterday. (You may wonder why I was there at all, but that just means you haven't been reading your coffee scum religiously these last few weeks.)

° It was Coz's fault. He's found proof that he's a gypsy, on his mother's side twice removed. And since I have always maintained that if he's a gypsy I'm a monkey's uncle, I had to do a little cosmetic backtracking, to cover what theologians would call my "wellnigh invincible ignorance."

° So we were sitting there at Corner Coffee during a lull, and he was drawing family trees in spilt sugar--and anyway, our common ancestress was back in the mid 1700's, so it's nothing to me--and as incontrovertible proof he suddenly removed his cap and ran his fingers through his amazingly frisky, crispy hair. And of course one thing led to another and before you could say jack rabbit--

° --jack rabbit, I had pulled one of the curtains off the rod. But that didn't work. So then I stripped the pillows of their cases. But that didn't work. And then came the napkins, the tablecloth, same story. Finally I took the scullery towel, spottily marbled with coffee tea milk and futile bleach, wrapped it firmly about his head, and eccolo! my cousin, the gypsy baron.

° Magari! He just looked like a pirate. So we duelled with the wooden stirring spoons and he killed me seven or eight times in a row, for I'd just seen Zatoichi, and therefore kept my eyes shut the whole time, while he'd just seen Hero, and was flying across the room like a broadband wireless Peter Pan.

° Bimeby a customer came in, I peeped at the clock, and "Ratsasses!" said I in devout tones, "no sortie for me."

° For I had intended to slip into a side aisle, hear your Communion improv and closing Duruflé, pee and drink weak coffee, watch choir rehearsal, hear your opening voluntary, draw a tarot deck on leaflets leftover from Matins, and return to Corner Coffee to scare the bejeebers out of the gullible: "O my pore chile, have you made your will yet?"

§

° I forgot to mention that Coz, after rereading my coffee scum--for I had seen only his Crocodile, my Bird, and your Pup; he saw a deeper omen, gl'insetti--had asked me how things had worked out at Assumption after last January's Are the Weaker Sex, Coloured Folks, and Pansyflowers Human? seminars. First I'd thought about it in months.

° Nor is any further proof of Coz's Romerishness necessary beyond this premonition. For scarcely had you returned to the instrument for the Elgar "Nimrod" (Enigma Variations), of which I heard about two measures, than the most wellmeaning of persons, albeit an alto, desired to celebrate my return with a complete rehash of the entire fiasco.

° And toward the end, about the time that she said, "Your heart is hurt," and I retorted, "No, sweetiedarling, my heart is militant," and she corrected me, "No, your heart is hurt," about that time I began to recall why I swore I'd never darken those doors again. Though if you have any personal doubt whether I'm more of a nature to have my feelings hurt or more of a nature to blow like Krakatoa, then I can give you a list of witnesses to the latter, and nary a soul who can prove the former.

° She, may be, could not hear me. But half the aisle were cutting their eyes back at us, so I'm pretty sure the fault didn't lie in the volume of my stage whisper.

° "Asscovering," "neurotic closeted mufmuf-wuf married with childrener," "utterly incapable," "Cameron Carpenter!"--that just about covers it, minus the "weak as dishwater" part. ((And what did my horoscope that evening say had happened to me that day? "Non è il caso di confidarti con chi vuole carpire la tua buona fede e potrebbe riuscirci." So there you are.))

° Bimeby I noticed that you had finished playing, and the Choir were thinking about forming processional, so I rearranged my ruffled feathers and awaited further musical developments.

° And when I had escaped, just after the Gospel--o that was a slick elision from Ecclesiasticus: who decided to omit "Arrogance is hateful to the LORD and to mortals, and injustice is outrageous to both"? One knows very well who! and why!--and verified through the arcade that you had done the same--my own true and upright genius boy!--who comes trotting through the cloister but--yes, that's who.

° Baron Scarpione, that's who. Though if he's a baron, I'm--o well . . . . That very same Scarpione who used the seminar for the slyest little piece of bashing--innocently and hurriedly seconded by poor hapless priestness--you've ever heard.

° So here he comes out of Bouvier Hall, and here comes Bastien round the corner of the Church. Bastien in black silk, no blonder blondness can there be without recourse to peroxide.

° "Ciao, Blondello," says I, "just look who it is." And I directed a glance toward the Baron. Without, of course, making eye contact, I always simply don't see him, avoids the rudeness of cutting him downright. Bastien, however, simply glared at him. Bastien, si sa, non ha paura di niente, nor, as in this case, di nessuno.

° "Blondello, how silky your silk is today," says I, and I test the arms, shoulders, and finally the upper front of the shirt to be sure it's all the same texture. Bastien didn't remit his challengeglare to the Baron for an instant.

° "Blondello, how fresh from the shower you are," says I, and I bent to his left neck, his right neck, his hair, his--and truly, his skin bore the perfume of recent hot water and scentless soap and peachlike blondness.

° Bastien broke out in a great "Ga!" I quickly saw his point.

° For Baron Scarpione, so engrossed in the spectacle of one dog sniffing another, had tripped on a loose brick in the courtyard, and was lying sprawled across the camellias, broke several branches, but they grow fast. Won't bloom this winter though.

° Must not laugh must not laugh must not laugh. Leave the laughing to God, for the Providential Irony is all His'n.

° Indeed we--well it was Bastien, it would've been awkward for me to "see" the Baron after all the notseeing--"we" ran to Scarpione's assistance, ascertained that the bone was clear through the flesh, phoned E-911, and alerted the Church attorney, for there will certainly be a negligence suit.

° Well okay, it was just a sprained ankle, hardly even that.

° But he'll probably sue all the same.

° The brick, after all, was loose.

§§§§§

° I knew a woman once, prima donna assoluta of an Anabaptist Choir; much as she appreciated her pastor in all other ways, she always left the loft and sat in the vestibule during his sermons--because of that sect's revulsion against womankind. This protest went on for years, until its aim was forgotten.

° A year before he was murdered, Martin Luther King gave a seminal speech at Riverside Church--this was back when there used to be a progressive wing of JudaeoChristianIslamism--in favour of Peace. Or, as some thought, against War. For he considered it supremely ironic that America was sending such multitudes of Poor Persons of Colour to Viet Nam to kill as many Poor Persons of Colour there as possible. And all to fill the Pocketbooks of Paleface Poobahs. He died before it could be proved how utterly he had failed in awakening a love of Peace in his fellow citizens, or, indeed, in his fellow human beings anywhere in the world.

° And think of Gandhi himself, think of Kashmir, think of burntout mosques, burntout temples. Utter failure.

° Think of Harry Potter, think that if Hermione'd called in sick, not just the Hippogryph and the Pumpkin, but Sirius and Harry to boot would've croaked.

° St. Peter Pettigrew, patron of all lost causes.

§

° Why are we all such sheep?

° Because there's safety in numbers, even in minority numbers.

° Why are we all such conformists?

° Because that's how we prove we're sheep.

° Why are our shepherds so hidebound and visionless?

° It's all the fault of the Big Bad Wolf.

° For we sheep select our shepherds out of our fear of the Wolf, whether there is one or not.

° Small wonder that our pasturage is so neglected . . . .

° And anyway, the pasturage we can find for ourselves.

° I browse Nathan, who grounds me.

° I browse Coz, who, all unselfconscious, dwells inside the Dance.

° I browse you, Piers, who focus my blurs.

° Every sheep knows its own food.

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Coda e Cadenza

Scrive Davide, Re d'Israele (Ps. CXI, viib):

Ab auditione mala non timebit.

Propone Piers:

Pédale Bourdon 32; Récit--Otez Hautbois et Gambe, mettez Voix humaine et Tremblant.

Giac risponde di sì.

Scrive Innocenzo III, Pontefice Supremo:

O Jesu, Mariae Fili.

Propone Piers:

Non mai udirete questo detto a voi!

Giac risponde di sì.

Piers riconosciuto, Piers conosciuto a fondo, Amen.

° The rhythm of the Dance restored, the mischief managed, the ears tenderly nibbled, Giac.