Funhouse. Sergio Kokis

best seats, and the women shout insults at one another. Our job is to clear a path with our candelabras and confront the hungry stares, showing neither tears nor fatigue. Bezerril hisses at us that the smoke is too thick, but it’s too late to stop it. To get the censer fired up, I opened all the ventilation holes to the maximum, and now the thing is red hot and burning smoke pours out, clearing the crowd around me. If I start swinging it back and forth things will get worse. The chains are too hot to handle. The beadle dashes over to help and I shrink into the shadows. The crowd shifts and takes a deep breath, and now Bezerril wades into the ritual with his customary aplomb. I crouch in a corner, halfasleep. My brother turns slowly on his toes, like a top. I have to use all my devices to keep my head up and survive until the sermon.

      When the moment comes, the congregation sits down to listen to the Canon’s deep, mellifluous voice. He loves to talk and say the same thing over and over again, dragging out the pauses to put as many people as possible to sleep and give the beadle lots of time for the collection. The Portuguese are generous, and from high atop his pulpit Bezerril looks down and nods in approval at the most substantial donors without losing the thread of his argument. The beadle’s black bag grows heavy at the end of its long handle. His progress determines the length of the sermon. The faithful track the little bag with their eyes as if to weigh each contribution, admiring the gestures of the merchants. The collection proceeds with viscous slowness, to the contentment of the spectators.

      Then we launch into the second half of the mass with the choir singing at the top of its voice and the rustling of gowns getting ready to kneel. Now comes the serious stuff, the ringing of the bell we must not forget, then silence. Bezerril fumbles around inside the tabernacle, pulls out the big Host and blesses the chalice. He mutters the elevation, making sure he pours out just the right amount of wine and takes Communion with broad movements of his lips and cheeks, just like people drinking cachaça in the bars as they nibble on grilled sardines. He savours the Host with closed eyes, then purses his lips as he swallows it.