The Rebel Angels

" 'Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation' (and what a crew they are – nobody but Mamusia on the bride's side of the chapel, except Clement Hollier, who looked about as well pleased as I felt, and on the groom's side a considerable group of people who could have been relatives, though some were probably board members and business associates) 'to joyn together this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony.' " Which I did, marvelling, not for the first time, how short the marriage service is, and how easy and inevitable the answers are, compared with the tedious rigmarole involved in a divorce. And at the end, in duty bound, I implored God to fill Maria and Arthur with spiritual benediction and grace, so that they might so live together in this life that in the world to come they might have life everlasting. I don't think I have ever spoken those words with a stronger sense of ambiguity.

It was a morning wedding – the orthodox Arthur again – and afterwards there was a reception, or party, or whatever you like to call it, in one of the rooms Spook sometimes makes available for such affairs, a room of oaken academic solemnity. It was here that Mamusia held court, and was gracious in what she appeared to think an Old World Viennese style towards Arthur's business friends, who all seemed to be called Mr. Mumble and Ms Clackety-Clack. Maria had set aside her veil for a kerchief tied in the married woman's style. Yerko was rather drunk and extremely communicative.

"You saw the necklace, Priest Simon?" he said. "What you think it worth, eh? You'll never guess, so I'll tell you." Warmly and boozily he whispered an astounding sum into my ear. "I make it myself; took me a week working hours and hours every day. Now, this is the big thing; all that gold except the chains, which I made out of some personal gold left by her father, Tadeusz, was Maria's purchase price! You know – what Arthur paid me, as her uncle, to marry her. Sounds funny, you say, but it is the Gypsy way and because Arthur is rich and a gadjo, he has to pay plenty. My sister and me, we are people of wealth, too, but an old custom is an old custom. That's why we give it back, in the necklace. You saw those big pieces? A full ounce of gold, every one. Guess what they were; come on, guess. – Kruger-rands, that's what they are. Pure gold and Maria has them for her own if anything goes wrong. Because these gadji, their money is all paper anyways and could go phtttt any day. What do you think of that for generosity, eh? What do you say to a family that gives back all of the purchase price?"

I could only say that it seemed extremely open-handed. Hollier was listening; he said nothing and looked sour. But Yerko was not finished with me.

"Tell me, Priest Simon, what kind church is this? I know you are a good priest – real priest, very strong in power – but I look everywhere and what do I see? Bebby Jesus? Nowhere! Not a picture, not a figure. Lots of old saints behind the altar, but not Bebby Jesus or his Mother. Doesn't this church know who Bebby Jesus is?"

"Bebby Jesus is everywhere in our chapel, Yerko, don't doubt it for a moment."

"I didn't see him. I like to see, then I believe." And Yerko padded off to get himself some more champagne, which he drank in gulps.

"There you are," said I to Hollier. "I think I agree with Yerko; we ought to make the evidences of faith more obvious in our churches. We've refined faith almost out of existence."

"Nonsense," said Hollier. "You don't think anything of the sort. That sort of thing leads directly to plaster statuary of the most degraded kind. I'm hating all this, Sim. I loathe this self-conscious ethnicity – purchase price, and bare feet. In a few minutes we'll all be dancing around shouting and spilling wine."

"I thought that was just your thing," I said, "the Wild Mind at work. Whoop-de-doo and unbuttoned carousing."

"Not when it's done simply for show. It's like those rain-dances Indians are coaxed to do for visiting politicians."

He still looked unwell from his collapse, so I didn't contradict him. But he felt what I was thinking.

"Sorry," he said. "I have to toast the bride, and making speeches always puts me in a bad state."

He needn't have worried; the Mumbles and the Clackety-Clacks were real Canadian Wasps and unlikely to take off their shoes, or sing. Powell, the actor, was master of ceremonies, and in a few minutes he called for silence, so that Hollier might speak – which he did, with what I thought a degree of solemnity too severe for a wedding, though I was grateful for what he said.