Fast Faith

"Christian" in fact. (Free?... he had asked when he twigged.) Having noticed the veg. meal the man had his hopes raised a second. Lenten Fast in his own case, for the full forty days what was more; every year the same. Helmet cut in spiky salt and pepper. Shirts never tees; shoes never sandals. Large watch-face and single gold band. Was there an occasional stud in the ear?... Cousin Milan the other night at Vivo City was fasting through Lent too, three days up until then and see how far he could take it. After the bryani, three veg. and dahl, Milan jumped up to get himself another plate, white rice this time and three again. Through the day he had not eaten, nor even supper the night before, part of Milan’s shot-gun attempt to deal with diabetes. At the moment what was working for Milan was  something he had discovered online that was bringing his blood sugar count down to 6 - 6.5. An egg either boiled or steeped in apple cider vinegar so many minutes, morning and night. That practice however was a break of the Lenten Fast. Seeking absolution for his circumstances, Milan had asked his wife back home to pray at their altar to St. Vasil, explaining the reason for the failing. Either a prayer at their altar in the house, or else a visit to the Saint's shrine out in the hills above Niksic. Aboard ship there were regular prayers before his icon of the Saint that always traveled with him. Some months prior on an earlier visit to Singapore Milan had answered a question on religion, saying all sailors believed in god. In years past Milan and his branch of the family had been stout Communists, those of the kind that had maintained some of the old traditions…. A couple of weeks before the dapper Tamil, a trusted employee manning the register at Har Yassin Fridays, had again approached the table to chat. During the course of that conversation the man had wanted to show an interesting book he had come upon. The title seemed to escape him, it was on his phone was it? One moment, one moment…. An author of some description: conversation to suit, something up his alley. A literary chap was a challenge. Meeting the Tamil on the street, in Little India once and somewhere else again, the man had bowled up close and almost rapped on the lapel of your imaginary suit offering, Hello, remember me don’t you? Chest puffed and head raised back…. Couldn't find what he was after. There were the usual photographs and videos on the phone. Wading through. Flick-flick-flick. Unwilling to give up. Ah! Here it was, yes. Yes. Got it. Turning the phone out in order to show a handsome book sitting on a table, hardback carrying its title in bold caps that covered almost the entire cover. What was that? Everything That Men Know About Women? 36 point Courier if this author knew anything. Read this one?... Know it do you?... All in confusion…. This was a volume from his own library? a recommendation offered? opening gambit for conversation on a pet subject?... Ah. Ah. Well, perhaps no. Not this particular item. Not exactly, but.... the field was—. Fellow disallowed further. (An author needed to have some acquaintance with famous tomes, presumably world famous best sellers. Case in point looked likely. Had this one been sighted on the shelves in the bookshops among the Dales, Deepaks, Sri Gurus, the commentaries on the bible, the Koran, the Buddhist holy scriptures, the Vedas, the biz strategies, art, music and architecture compendiums for the condominiums in one handy volume? It was some market in Singapore….) Smiling Tamil had one over you here. This was one text you might not know at all, not the faintest clue. Gap in the knowledge and don’t pretend otherwise. Smirking. Man bending to show you more.... Hang on. Look here…. This was not a photograph in fact. This was a movie, a video the chap had taken a liking to from promo material? Phantom hand on screen had lifted the volume from the polished mahogany and the thick matte pages were begun to be flicked. Oh! Dear me. What?... Empty pages. One blank after another. There was nothing there, not a line nor single word.... A good hundred and more scant voids. There! Ha!... What did men know about women after all? This chap did not know, nor profess he knew, to be sure. Pleading complete ignorance. Man was indeed on the point of giving up altogether on the whole pursuit, —hands thrown into the air. What do women want I don't know!... Hopeless. Sad state of affairs. Some lovely had made mincemeat outta the poor sorry sod. There could be no front maintained Chap had striven his hardest; still not good enough…. Meanwhile the fast, prayers and Sunday services. The cathedral in the city centre had recently re-opened after a multi-million dollar renovation, approved in Rome presumably. Loving restoration performed by a large foreign work-crew. The last two and more years proceeding. A recent photograph in the newspaper had shown an item of garden sculpture that had been introduced into the grounds featuring a homeless figure covered by a blanket on a European garden bench in darkened bronze. A week ago it had been sighted on a pass toward a gallery further along. Ah yes, there it was. And in fact adjacent stood many other figures too, a long row along the garden bed, produced in the same artist’s workshop. Petite wing-stretched angels landed from the clouds, flocking together. The host faced the newly restored place of worship alongside the wayfarer, guarding the Misfortunate more or less. Strange decision of the newspaper photographer. Had the picture editor decided some kind of cropping?