The Holy City Read Online Free PDF Page B

what I meant by the ‘new Jerusalem’.
    Then I became aware of her hooded, sceptical eyes. But by now I didn’t care. I was prepared to let her think whatever she wanted. To me, all that mattered now was the truth. And I knew the truth. Which was — that all I’d wanted was the opportunity to be admitted through those portals. In order to be bathed in the light of Marcus Otoyo’s singular faith. To be touched by his fervour and his unique passion. That was all. I yearned to do that.
    What I hadn’t told Pandit was that around the time when I’d met Marcus first, I had actually begun to do a lot of reading myself, unintimidated by considerations of whether I might be qualified to do so or not — having, in fact, terminated my schooling some years previously. At exactly the same age Marcus was now — seventeen. And had gradually become fascinated by the manner in which certain authors could describe their secret inner worlds, analyse the depths of the most elusive and complex feelings.
    Once, quite by chance, I had happened to overhear Marcus reading from one of his schoolbooks to a friend:
    â€”
My soul is cast down. I feel disquieted — so helplessly alone.
    I had never experienced anything quite like it and its subsequent effect on me was enormous. As a direct result of it I found myself seeing him, in a sort of late-night reverie, after I’d returned from Bernie’s public house — Marcus ascending into heaven, black as ebony and wrapped in a winding sheet white as snow, with an expression of beatific rapture on his face. And had awakened, trembling, with warm tears welling up in my eyes. How could someone harbour such depth of emotion? How was it possible to experience it and remain alive?
    â€” Why did you do such a terrible thing in the church? Do you think, Christopher, maybe you can tell me?
    Thankfully now, there was something more appealing about her tone.
    â€” If only he had accepted the book, Meera, that’s all. If only he’d taken it — accepted it as a token. Instead of —
    â€” Instead of … ? she quizzed hesitantly.
    â€” Instead of insulting me, little nigger bastard!
    One thing I regret is that in the course of my conversations during those sessions with Meera Pandit I had ever bothered mentioning Lulu, had even so much as opened my mouth about the Glasgow singer. For it soon became plain as day that the poor psychotherapist, she hadn’t the faintest idea who she was. But the fact of the matter is, the only reason that I had introduced Lulu at all into the conversation was because it had happened to be one of her songs which had been playing on a transistor that day outside the library when I’d unexpectedly encountered Marcus Otoyo, combing his curls as he stood in the library doorway.
    â€” Who is this Lulu? Why do you talk about her? asked Pandit.
    â€” Oh would you ever shut up! I found myself snapping — my patience, finally, at an end.
    The red-haired baby-faced Scottish singer Lulu had been one of the brightest stars of that particular year. There would have been no one more popular in Cullymore at that time. Except, perhaps, the Beatles — or the Rolling Stones. It had been the most wonderful year in Ireland, I remember. With a great sense of optimism now evident across the land, new houses and factories springing up everywhere. As for myself, I was making very good money indeed, selling my produce directly now to the new supermarkets, in particular the Five Star. But then spending it, I have to say, almost asquickly as it came in, on records and big meals in the hotel, as well as attending weekend dances in the Mayflower Ballroom, now unashamedly the dapper dandy in my crushed-blue-velvet pants and frilly pink nylon shirt. The music in the Mayflower had stirred the town from its protracted slumber. The bands that played there arrived in colourful vans, hauling out guitars as they swaggered in