Free The Tomorrow-Tamer by Margaret Laurence Page B

Lemon?”
    I did not know whether he hoped to sell a painting, or whether the whole thing was one of his elaborate farces. I don’t believe he knew, either.
    Brother Lemon’s expression stiffened. “Are you a Christian, Mr. Danso?”
    Immediately, Danso’s demeanour altered. His muscular grace was transformed into the seeming self-effacement of a spiritual grace. Even the vivid viper markings of his mammy-cloth shirt appeared to fade into something quiet as mouse fur or monk’s robe.
    â€œOf course,” he said with dignity. “I am several times a Christian. I have been baptised into the Methodist, Baptist and Roman Catholic churches, and one or two others whose names I forget.”
    He laughed at Brother Lemon’s rigid face.
    â€œEasy, man–I didn’t mean it. I am only once a Christian–that’s better, eh? Even then, I may be the wrong kind. So many, and each says his is the only one. The Akan church was simpler.”
    â€œBeg pardon?”
    â€œThe Akan church–African.” Danso snapped his fingers. “Didn’t you know we had a very fine religion here before ever a whiteman came?”
    â€œIdolatry, paganism,” Brother Lemon said. “I don’t call that a religion.”
    Danso had asked for it, admittedly, but now he was no longer able to hold around himself the cloak of usual mockery.
    â€œYou are thinking of fetish,” he said curtly. “But that is not all. There is plenty more. Invisible, intangible–real proper gods. If we’d been left alone, our gods would have grown, as yours did, into One. It was happening already–we needed only a prophet. But now our prophet will never come. Sad, eh?”
    And he laughed. I could see he was furious at himself for having spoken. Danso was a chameleon who felt it was self-betrayal to show his own hues. He told me once he sympathized with the old African belief that it was dangerous to tell a stranger all your name, as it gave him power over you.
    Brother Lemon pumped the bellows of his preacher voice.
    â€œPaganism in any form is an abomination! I’m surprised at you, a Christian, defending it. In the words of Jeremiah–‘Pour out thy fury upon the heathen!’”
    â€œYou pour it out, man,” Danso said with studied languor. “You got lots to spare.”
    He began leafing through the Bible that was Brother Lemon’s invariable companion, and suddenly he leapt to his feet.
    â€œHere you are!” he cried. “For a painting. The throne of heaven, with all the elders in white, and the many-eyed beasts saying ‘Holy, Holy’–what about it?”
    He was perfectly serious. One might logically assume that he had given up any thought of a religious picture, but not so. The apocalyptic vision had caught his imagination, and, he frowned in concentration, as though he were already planning the arrangement of figures and the colours he would use.
    Brother Lemon looked flustered. Then he snickered. I was unprepared, and the ugly little sound startled me.
    â€œYou?” he said. “To paint the throne of heaven?”
    Danso snapped the book shut. His face was volcanic rock, hard and dark, seeming to bear the marks of the violence that formed it. Then he picked up his pictures and walked out of the house.
    â€œWell, I must say there was no need for him to go and fly off the handle like that,” Brother Lemon said indignantly. “What’s wrong with him, anyway?”
    He was not being facetious. He really didn’t know.
    â€œMr. Lemon,” I asked at last, “don’t you ever–not even for an instant–have any doubts?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, doubts?” His eyes were genuinely puzzled.
    â€œDon’t you ever wonder if salvation is–well–yours to dole out?”
    â€œNo,” he replied slowly. “I don’t have any doubts about my religion, Mr. Kettridge. Why, without