Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (top 50 books to read .TXT) 📕

Angeles during the Depression. No, the Klan in Los Angeles had its sights on Mexicans, Jews, and Catholics, all arriving in large numbers (though the Mexicans had been there first). When the Klan said white, it meant Protestant, Anglo-Saxon white. The Klan was behind the brochures sent out by cities like Glendale. Unwritten covenants were being established, and if the law kept racial and religious codes from being officially imposed, there were other ways. Unofficial ethnic enclaves were being established (no one dared call them ghettos) across the city. New residents had to pass interviews. It was no accident that Fred W. Gilmore was in real estate. Real estate agents know how to enforce covenants. If Willie had asked his brother about it, Eddie would have said, “What’s the problem? People have the right to live with their own, don’t they?”

He walked to the window and stood looking out over the panorama that brought him so much inspiration, over the city he loved more than any other, the only city he had ever loved. Could he ever repay Eddie for bringing him here? His eyes followed the mountains to the crest, the blessed green San Gabriels, his gaze slowly coming back down to the foothills and the mission, Mission San Gabriel, founded by the Franciscans, the fourth of the string of missions founded as the friars came up from Mexico.

“Protestant white values, Anglo-Saxon values,” the Klansmen said. Los Angeles was the last Anglo-Saxon city in America, the last pure city. Was there a sermon in there somewhere?

Butwho in Los Angeles was Anglo-Saxon? Who was pure? Yes, they’d taken him for Anglo-Saxon—how could they not with a name like Mull, taken from that windswept island off the coast of Scotland? The reality was that he was Anglo-Saxon mixed with German and Spanish and yes, Mexican, blood, the very people the Klan sought to drive from the city. Nothing pure about any of that. Grandpa Otto Herzog married Abuela Isabel who was the daughter of Adm. Jose Maria Cullel of Barcelona and Doña Isabel de los Santos, born in Mexico, of Spanish Catholic parents. Willie and Eddie never talked about it, but they were part Hispanic—the dark eyes, the slightly olive skin, the wavy dark hair, the knowledge of the Spanish language.

His eyes crawled over the mountains seeking inspiration. For once he thought not of Saint Augustine, but of Saint Gabriel, the angel who appeared to Christ at Gethsemane, who comforted Him, offered Him succor before He was taken, helped Him see that this earthly life was but a prelude to eternal heaven. Saint Gabriel, who gave his name to the mountains and to the city, Los Angeles, city of the angels. He turned to look at his painting of Christ at Gethsemane, not the original Hofmann, he’d not yet been able to pry it away from the Riverside Church, but he kept trying. Such a beautiful story! Yes, there was a sermon in that, a sermon about sacrifice and courage and fate—yes, fate, predestination above all. He never forgot his Presbyterian training.

The Klansmen had hit on something, something about preserving what the rest of the country had lost with their sordid ghettos and tenements. Congress had banned Asians a few years before and maybe Mexicans should be next. Why not? They were Catholics who never set foot in the temple. If there was a Mexican Soldier, Willie had never met him. And what of the Jews? Chandler at the Times had been railing against Jewish influence for years, especially in Hollywood. And Negroes? No, not many had come yet, but who could foresee the future? Maybe the Klan was right: Maybe the Times was right. Maybe it was time to stand up for the city before it was too late. Los Angeles must not become another New York, another Chicago.

Beautiful sight, the San Gabriels, beautiful pure city, God’s creation. He always let his ideas simmer. He closed his eyes, letting thoughts swirl, curious to see what would come. How long did he stand there? Five minutes, ten, maybe longer, but the only thought that came to him was Angie. He tried to push her away and concentrate on the message, but she would not go. The angel Gabriel had brought to mind his own angel, Angie l’Amoureux. Was that not the translation of her name—the angel of love? He felt a stirring in his loins. Everything else was wiped away. He could not work. He had to see her.

In middle age, the Rev. Willie Mull had discovered sexual ecstasy. It happens. “Renounce, renounce,” he read in Saint Augustine. “Let it be done.” But If it was to be now, Lord, he asked, why did you send Angie to me? It could hardly be coincidence. And should not a beautiful woman be admired? And cannot admiration lead to passion and love. And marriage. Yes, marriage. Is that not the point of earthly beauty? Can we not see a beautiful woman as we hear beautiful music or admire beautiful mountains, letting their purity and perfection lift our spirits, inspire our soul, resuscitate us, rejuvenate us? What would life be without beauty?

He went to the chapel, fell to his knees and prayed to Jesus: I could have entered any shop that day, he said. She was a lonely girl, I a lonely man. My body was stuffed up, bloated, deadening my work. You sent me to Angie, and with her I found catharsis. My sermons move people like never before. In her arms, I was reborn and passed the feeling of rejuvenation on to the Soldiers, who love her as I do. If not divine will, what is it that brings hundreds down the aisles each week to be healed and reborn as I have been; that brings contributions that enrich the church in the name of Jesus Christ? Sister Angie lit up my body and soul, and I transferred that light to my flock.

“Love her, love her!” You said.

And I did.

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