Mr. N thought it strange at first that it wasn’t Jesus himself who was found everywhere in those neighborhoods. It was true that the shrines there weren’t totally lacking in some bare crosses, absent the body of the Messiah, and that a single large crucifix could be found at the intersection of one main street. There was also a gigantic cross hanging by rope over a more modern street that appeared to have been built in the sixties, when the population was still expanding and the use of concrete likewise. That street led to a huge marble statue, and when Mr. N asked about it, he was told it commemorated the Armenian genocide. On top of this was the incense that burned in front of so many shops and establishments, lit by those seeking to earn their daily bread or to ward off the putrid odors that ruined the calm of the morning. Perhaps the people of those districts just wanted a certain consolation. They needed a shoulder to cry upon, a hand to take theirs, someone promising signs and wonders that gave them hope for a kinder tomorrow. And who better to turn to than a local saint who spoke their own language, or else a compassionate mother who stood ready to comfort them?

Mr. N came to feel, with some embarrassment, that he might as well be a tourist here. He was a stranger visiting a country in which he hadn’t set foot for a long time, though it was the country where he was born, along with his father, his father’s father, and his grandfather’s grandfather. It was as though, for the first time in his life, he were going down to the cellar, down where the servants lived, raised their children, grew old, and died in silence, unseen by their masters. For here was where the laborers lived, our farmers, our trash collectors, our servants, our craftsmen, our oppressed; our drivers, cooks, shoemakers, tinsmiths, tailors … Here, and in places like it, lived the Lord’s flock, like cattle yoked to millstones, grinding away their days, their dreams, and every ounce of energy. They go around in circles like pack animals so that we might eat flour made into a paste by their sweat—we, the masters, whom the Lord has chosen and made into his officers, his helpers, the nobles of his retinue, his chosen few.

The awful smell that Mr. N believed he had left behind was coming now from ahead, so Mr. N changed direction again to seek relief from the rancid air, heading down small side streets that more often than not were dead ends. A woman deeply camouflaged under several veils appeared alongside several fake blondes. Some of the blondes tended toward a neon yellow, while others were in a state of ruin after their roots had reclaimed their original color and advanced like an army under a black flag. On some corners, Mr. N even saw the reddish tinge of an orange dye struggling through thick, curly hair gathered in tight braids, twisted like snakes, or flowing free over the dark skin of exposed breasts, bellies, and thighs as the women wandered, nowhere in particular, hoping to strike the catch of the day.