11
I had to find a place where I could think, where I could escape from my new assistant’s domestic pride and her obsession with cleanliness. So I went to the library in Calle del Carmen, set in a nave of Gothic arches that had once housed a medieval hospice. I spent the rest of the day surrounded by volumes that smelled like a papal tomb, reading about mythology and the history of religions until my eyes were about to fall out onto the table and roll away along the library floor. After hours of reading without a break, I worked out that I had barely scratched a millionth of what I could find beneath the arches of that sanctuary of books, let alone everything else that had been written on the subject. I decided to return the following day and the day after that: I would spend at least a week filling the cauldron of my thoughts with pages and pages about gods, miracles and prophecies, saints and apparitions, revelations and mysteries—anything rather than think about Cristina, Don Pedro, and their life as a married couple.
…
As I had an obliging assistant at my disposal, I instructed her to find copies of catechisms and schoolbooks currently used for religious instruction and to write me a summary of each one. Isabella did not dispute my orders, but she frowned when I gave them.
“I want to know, in numbing detail, how children are taught the whole business, from Noah’s Ark to the Feeding of the Five Thousand,” I explained.
“Why?”
“Because that’s the way I am. I have a wide range of interests.”
“Are you doing research for a new version of ‘Away in a Manger’?”
“No. I’m planning a novel about the adventures of a second lieutenant nun. Just do as I say and don’t question me or I’ll send you back to your parents’ shop to sell quince jelly galore.”
“You’re a despot.”
“I’m glad to see we’re getting to know each other.”
“Does this have anything to do with the book you’re writing for that publisher, Corelli?”
“It might.”
“Well, I get the feeling it’s not a book that will have much commercial appeal.”
“And what would you know?”
“More than you think. And there’s no need to get so worked up, either. I’m only trying to help you. Or have you decided to stop being a professional writer and change into an elegant amateur?”
“For the moment I’m too busy being a nanny.”
“I wouldn’t bring up the question of who is the nanny here, because I’d win that debate hands down.”
“So what debate does Your Excellency fancy?”
“Commercial art versus stupid moral idiocies.”
“Dear Isabella, my little Vesuvia, in commercial art—and all art that is worthy of the name is commercial sooner or later—stupidity is almost always in the eye of the beholder.”
“Are you calling me stupid?”
“I’m calling you to order. Do as I say. And shush.”
I pointed to the door and Isabella rolled her eyes, mumbling some insult or other that I didn’t quite hear as she walked off down the passageway.
…
While Isabella went around schools and bookshops in search of textbooks and catechisms to summarize for me, I went back to the library in Calle del Carmen to further my theological education, an endeavor I undertook fueled by strong doses of coffee and stoicism. The first seven days of that strange creative process enlightened me only with more doubts. One of the few truths I discovered was that, although the vast majority of authors who felt a calling to write about the divine, the human, and the sacred must have been exceedingly learned and pious, as writers they were dreadful. For the long-suffering reader forced to skim their pages it was a real struggle not to fall into a coma induced by boredom with each new paragraph.
After surviving thousands of pages, I was beginning to get the impression that the hundreds of religious beliefs cataloged throughout the history of the printed letter were extraordinarily similar. I attributed this first impression to my ignorance or to a lack of adequate information, but I couldn’t rid myself of the idea that I’d been going through the story lines of dozens of crime novels in which the murderer turned out to be either one person or another but the mechanics of the plot were, in essence, always the same. Myths and legends, either about divinities or about the origins and history of peoples and races, began to look like the images of a jigsaw puzzle, slightly different from one another but always constructed with the same pieces, though not in identical configurations.
After two days I had already become friends with Eulalia, the head librarian, who picked out texts and volumes from the ocean of paper in her care and from time to time came to see me at my table in the corner to ask whether I needed anything else. She must have been around my age and had wit to spare, generally expressed as sharp, somewhat poisonous jibes.
“You’re reading a lot of hagiography, sir. Have you decided to become an altar boy now, at the threshold of maturity?”
“It’s only research.”
“Ah, that’s what they all say.”
The librarian’s clever jokes provided an invaluable balm that enabled me to survive those texts that seemed to be carved in stone and to press on with my pilgrimage. Whenever Eulalia had a free moment she would come over to my table and help me classify all that bilge—pages abounding with stories of fathers and sons, of pure, saintly mothers, betrayals and conversions, prophets and martyrs, envoys from heaven, babies born to save the universe, evil creatures horrifying to look at and usually taking the form of animals, ethereal beings with racially acceptable features who acted as agents of good, and heroes subjected to terrible tests to prove their destiny. Earthly existence was always perceived as a temporary rite of passage that urged one to a docile acceptance of one’s lot and the rules of the tribe, because the reward was always in the hereafter, a paradise brimming with all the things one had lacked in corporeal life.
On Thursday at midday, Eulalia came over to my table during one of her breaks and asked me whether, besides reading missals, I ate every now and then. So I asked her to lunch at nearby Casa Leopoldo, which had just opened to the public. While we enjoyed a delicious oxtail stew, she told me she’d been in the job for over two years and had spent two more years working on a novel that was proving difficult to finish. It was set in the library on Calle del Carmen and the plot was based on a series of mysterious crimes that took place there.
“I’d like to write something similar to those novels by Ignatius B. Samson,” she said. “Ever heard of them?”
“Vaguely,” I replied.
Eulalia couldn’t quite find a way forward with her writing so I suggested she give it all a slightly sinister tone and focus the story on a secret book possessed by a tormented spirit, with subplots full of the seemingly supernatural.
“That’s what Ignatius B. Samson would do, in your place,” I suggested.
“And what are you doing reading all about angels and devils? Don’t tell me you’re a repentant ex-seminarist.”
“I’m trying to find out what the origins of different religions and myths have in common,” I explained.
“What have you discovered so far?”
“Almost nothing. I don’t want to bore you with my lament.”
“You won’t bore me. Go on.”
“Well, what I’ve found most interesting so far is that, generally speaking, beliefs arise from an event or character that may or may not be authentic and rapidly evolve into social movements that are conditioned and shaped by the political, economic, and societal circumstances of the group that accepts them. Are you still awake?”
Eulalia nodded.
“A large part of the mythology that develops around each of these doctrines, from its liturgy to its rules and taboos, comes from the bureaucracy generated as they develop and not from the supposed supernatural act that originated them. Most of the simple, well-intentioned anecdotes are a mixture of common sense and folklore, and all the belligerent force they eventu
ally develop comes from a subsequent interpretation of those principles, or even their distortion, at the hands of bureaucrats. The administrative and hierarchic aspects seem to be crucial in the evolution of belief systems. The truth is first revealed to all men but very quickly individuals appear claiming sole authority and a duty to interpret, administer, and, if need be, alter this truth in the name of the common good. To this end they establish a powerful and potentially repressive organization. This phenomenon, which biology shows us is common to any social group, soon transforms the doctrine into a means of achieving control and political power. Divisions, wars, and breakups become inevitable. Sooner or later, the word becomes flesh and the flesh bleeds.”
I thought I was beginning to sound like Corelli and I sighed. Eulalia gave a hesitant smile.
“Is that what you’re looking for? Blood?”
“It’s the caning that leads to learning, not the other way round.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“I have a feeling you went to a convent school.”
“The Sisters of the Holy Infant Jesus. The black nuns. Eight years.”
“Is it true what they say, that girls from convent schools are the ones who harbor the darkest and most unmentionable desires?”
“I bet you’d love to find out.”
“You can put all the chips on ‘yes.’”
“What else have you learned in your crash course in theology?”
“Not much else. My initial conclusions have left an unpleasant aftertaste—it’s so banal and inconsequential. All this seemed more or less evident already without the need to swallow whole encyclopedias and treatises on where to tickle angels—perhaps because I’m unable to understand beyond my own prejudices or because there is nothing else to understand and the crux of the matter lies in simply believing or not believing, without stopping to wonder why. How’s my rhetoric? Are you still impressed?”
“It’s giving me goose pimples. A shame I didn’t meet you when I was a schoolgirl with dark desires.”
“You’re cruel, Eulalia.”
The librarian laughed heartily, looking me in the eye.
“Tell me, Ignatius B., who has broken your heart and left you so angry?”
“I see books aren’t the only things you read.”
We sat awhile longer at the table, watching the waiters coming and going across the dining room of Casa Leopoldo.
“Do you know the best thing about broken hearts?” the librarian asked.
I shook my head.
“They can only really break once. The rest is just scratches.”
“Put that in your book.”
I pointed to her engagement ring.
“I don’t know who the idiot is, but I hope he knows he’s the luckiest man in the world.”
Eulalia smiled a little sadly. We returned to the library and to our places: she went to her desk and I to my corner. I said good-bye to her the following day, when I decided that I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, read another line about revelations and eternal truths. On my way to the library I had bought her a white rose at one of the stalls on the Ramblas and I left it on her empty desk. I found her in one of the passages, sorting out some books.
“Are you abandoning me so soon?” she said when she saw me. “Who is going to flirt with me now?”
“Who isn’t?”
She came with me to the exit and shook my hand at the top of the flight of stairs that led to the courtyard of the old hospital. Halfway down I stopped and turned round. She was still there, watching me.
“Good luck, Ignatius B. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
12
While was having dinner with Isabella at the gallery table, I noticed my new assistant was casting me a sidelong glance.
“Don’t you like the soup? You haven’t touched it,” the girl ventured.
I looked at the plate I had allowed to grow cold, took a spoonful, and pretended I was tasting the most exquisite delicacy.
“Delicious,” I remarked.
“And you haven’t said a word since you returned from the library,” Isabella added.
“Any other complaints?”
Isabella looked away, upset. Although I had little appetite, I ate some of the cold soup so as to have an excuse for not speaking.
“Why are you so sad? Is it because of that woman?”
I went on stirring my spoon around in the soup. Isabella didn’t take her eyes off me.
“Her name is Cristina,” I said eventually. “And I’m not sad. I’m pleased for her because she’s married my best friend and she’s going to be very happy.”
“And I’m the Queen of Sheba.”
“You’re a busybody. That’s what you are.”
“I prefer you like this, when you’re in a foul mood, because you tell the truth.”
“Then let’s see how you like this: clear off to your room and leave me in peace, for Christ’s sake!”
She tried to smile, but by the time I stretched out my hand to her, her eyes had filled with tears. She took my plate and hers and fled to the kitchen. I heard the plates falling into the sink and then, a few moments later, the door of her bedroom slamming shut. I savored the glass of red wine left on the table, an exquisite vintage from Isabella’s parents’ shop. After a while I went along to her bedroom door and knocked gently. She didn’t reply, but I could hear her crying. I tried to open the door, but the girl had locked herself in.
I went up to the study, which after Isabella’s visit smelled of fresh flowers and looked like the cabin of a luxury cruiser. She had tidied up all the books, dusted and left everything shiny and unrecognizable. The old Underwood looked like a piece of sculpture and the letters on the keys were clearly visible again. A neat pile of paper, containing summaries of religious textbooks and catechisms, lay on the desk next to the day’s mail. A couple of cigars on a saucer emitted a delicious scent: Macanudos, one of the Caribbean delicacies supplied to Isabella’s father on the quiet by a contact in the state tobacco industry. I took one of them and lit it. It had an intense flavor that seemed to embody all the aromas and poisons a man could wish for in order to die in peace.
I sat at the desk and went through the day’s letters, ignoring them all except one: ocher parchment embellished with the writing I would have recognized anywhere. The missive from my new publisher and patron, Andreas Corelli, summoned me to meet him on Sunday, midafternoon, at the top of the main tower of the new cable railway that had been launched to coincide with the International Exhibition.
…
The tower of San Sebastián stood one hundred meters high amid a jumble of cables and steel that induced vertigo if one merely looked at them. The cable railway crossed the docks from that first tower to a huge central structure reminiscent of the Eiffel Tower that served as the junction. From there the cable cars departed, suspended in midair, for the second part of the journey up to Montjuïc, where the heart of the exhibition was located. This technological marvel promised views of the city that until then had been the preserve only of airships, birds with a large wingspan, and hailstones. From my point of view, men and seagulls were not supposed to share the same air space and as soon as I set foot in the lift that went up the tower I felt my stomach shrink to the size of a marble. The journey up seemed endless, the jolting of that brass capsule an exercise in pure nausea.
I found Corelli gazing through one of the large windows that looked out over the docks, his eyes lost among watercolors of sails and masts as they slid across the water. He wore a white silk suit and was toying with a sugar lump, which he proceeded to swallow with an animal voracity. I cleared my throat and the boss turned round, smiling with pleasure.
“A marvelous view, don’t you think?”
I nodded tentatively.
“You don’t like heights?”
“I like to keep my feet on the ground as much as possible,” I replied, maintaining a prudent distance from the window.
“I’ve gone ahead
and bought return tickets,” he informed me.
“What a kind thought.”
I followed him to the footbridge from which one stepped into the cars that departed from the tower and traveled, suspended a sickening height above the ground, for what looked like a horribly long time.
“How did you spend the week, Martín?”
“Reading.”
He glanced at me briefly.
“By your bored expression I suspect it was not Alexandre Dumas.”
“A collection of dandruffy academics and their leaden prose.”
“Ah, intellectuals. And you wanted me to sign one up. Why is it that the less one has to say the more one says it in the most pompous and pedantic way possible?” Corelli asked. “Is it to fool the world or just to fool themselves?”
“Probably both.”
The boss handed me the tickets and signaled to me to go first. I showed the tickets to the person holding the cable car door open and entered unenthusiastically. I decided to stand in the center, as far as possible from the windows. Corelli smiled like an excited child.
“Perhaps part of your problem is that you’ve been reading the commentators and not the people they were commenting on. A common mistake but fatal when you’re trying to learn something,” Corelli observed.
The doors closed and a sudden jerk sent us into orbit. I held on to a metal pole and took a deep breath.
“I sense that scholars and theoreticians are no heroes of yours,” I said.
“I have no heroes, my friend, still less those who cover themselves or one another in glory. Theory is the practice of the impotent. I suggest that you put aside the encyclopedists’ accounts and go straight to the sources. Tell me, have you read the Bible?”
I hesitated for a moment. The cable car lurched on into the void. I looked at the floor.
“Fragments here and there, I suppose,” I mumbled.
“You suppose. Like almost everyone. A serious mistake. Everyone should read the Bible. And reread it. Believers or nonbelievers, it doesn’t matter. I read it at least once a year. It’s my favorite book.”