The Pilgrimage

  "Well, I have to be careful about what the neighbors will think," he said, laughing.

  The fireworks started up again, as musicians climbed to the bandstand and tuned their instruments. The festival was about to begin.

  I looked up at the sky. It was growing dark, and the stars were beginning to appear. Petrus went over to one of the waiters and brought back two plastic cups full of wine.

  "It is good luck to have a drink before the party begins," he said, handing me one of the cups. "Have some of this. It will help you forget about the popcorn man."

  "I wasn't even thinking about him anymore."

  "Well, you should. Because what happened with him is an example of mistaken behavior. We are always trying to convert people to a belief in our own explanation of the universe. We think that the more people there are who believe as we do, the more certain it will be that what we believe is the truth. But it doesn't work that way at all.

  "Look around. Here is a huge party about to begin. A commemoration. Many different things are being celebrated simultaneously: the father's hope that his daughter would marry, the daughter's wish for the same thing, the groom's dreams. That's good, because they believe in their dreams and want to demonstrate to everyone that they have achieved their goals. It is not a party that is being held to convince anyone of anything, so it's going to be a lot of fun. From what I can see, they are people who have fought the good fight of love."

  "But you are trying to convince me, Petrus, by guiding me along the Road to Santiago."

  He gave me a cold look.

  "I am only teaching you the RAM practices. But you will find your sword only if you discover that the Road and the truth and the life are in your heart."

  Petrus pointed to the sky, where the stars were now clearly visible.

  "There is no religion that is capable of bringing all of the stars together, because if this were to happen, the universe would become a gigantic, empty space and would lose its reason for existence. Every star--and every person--has their own space and their own special characteristics. There are green stars, yellow stars, blue stars, and white stars, and there are comets, meteors and meteorites, nebulas and rings. What appear from down here to be a huge number of bodies that are similar to each other are really a million different things, spread over a space that is beyond human comprehension."

  A rocket from the fireworks burst, and its light obscured the sky for a moment. A shower of brilliant green streamers fell to the ground.

  "Earlier, we only heard their noise because of the daylight. Now we can see their light," Petrus said. "That's the only change people can aspire to."

  The bride came out of the church, and people shouted and threw their handfuls of rice. She was a thin girl of about sixteen, and she held the arm of a boy in a tuxedo. The congregation appeared and began to move toward the square.

  "Look, there's the colonel.... Oh, look at the bride's dress. How beautiful," said some boys near us. The guests took their places at the tables, the waiters served the wine, and the band began to play. The popcorn vendor was surrounded by a mob of screaming boys who made their purchases and then scattered the empty bags on the ground. I imagined that for the townspeople of Logrono, at least that night, the rest of the world--with its threat of nuclear war, unemployment, and murders--did not exist. It was a festival night, the tables had been placed in the square for the people, and everyone felt important.

  A television crew came toward us, and Petrus averted his face. But the men passed us by, heading for one of the guests who sat near us. I recognized immediately who he was: Antonio, the man who had led the Spanish fans in their cheers at the World Cup in Mexico in 1986. When the interview was over, I went up to him and told him that I was a Brazilian; feigning anger, he complained about a goal of which Spain had been robbed in the opening round of the Cup.1

  But then he gave me a hug, and said that Brazil would soon once again have the best players in the world.

  "How do you manage to see the game when your back is always to the field and you are inciting the fans," I asked. It was something I had noticed over and over again during the television transmissions of the World Cup games.

  "That's what gives me satisfaction. Helping the fans believe in victory."

  And then, as if he too were a guide on the Road to Santiago, he said, "Fans who lack the faith can make a team lose a game it is already winning."

  Manolo was then grabbed by others who wanted to interview him, but I stood there thinking about what he had said. Even without ever having walked the Road to Santiago, he knew what it was to fight the good fight.

  I found Petrus hiding behind some trees, obviously uncomfortable with the presence of the television cameras. It was only after their lights had been turned off that he emerged from the trees and relaxed a bit. We asked for two more cups of wine, I fixed myself a plate of canapes, and Petrus found a table where we could sit with some of the guests.

  The newlyweds cut into a huge wedding cake. People cheered.

  "They must really love each other," I said.

  "Of course they do," said a dark-suited man sitting with us. "Have you ever heard of anyone marrying for any other reason?"

  I kept my answer to myself, remembering what Petrus had said about the popcorn vendor. But my guide didn't let it pass.

  "Which kind of love are you talking about: eros, philos, or agape?"

  The man looked at him blankly. Petrus got up, filled his cup, and asked me to walk with him.

  "There are three Greek words that mean love," he began. "Today, you are seeing a manifestation of eros, the feeling of love that exists between two people."

  The bride and groom were smiling for the photographers and accepting congratulations.

  "It appears that these two really do love each other," he said, looking at the couple. "And they believe that their love will grow. But shortly, they will be alone with each other, struggling to earn a living, build a house, and share their adventure. This is what ennobles love and dignifies it. He will do his time in the army. She is probably a good cook and will be an excellent housewife, because she has been trained since she was a child for that role. She will be good company for him, they'll have children, and they will feel that they are building something together. They'll be fighting the good fight. So even if they have problems, they will never be really unhappy.

  "However, this story that I am telling you could go a very different way. He might begin to feel that he's not free enough to express all of the eros, all of the love that he has for other women. She might begin to feel that she gave up a brilliant career in order to be with her husband. So instead of creating something together, each could begin to feel robbed of a means of expressing love. Eros, the spirit that unites them, would begin to reveal only its negative side. And what God had provided to humans as their noblest sentiment would become a source of hatred and destructiveness."

  I looked around me. Eros was present in many of the relationships there. The Water Exercise had awakened the language of my heart, and I was seeing people in a different way. Maybe it was the days of solitude on the road, or maybe it was the RAM practices, but I could feel the presence of good eros and evil eros, just as Petrus had described.

  "It's strange," Petrus said, sensing the same thing. "Whether it's good or evil, the face of eros is never the same for any two people. Just like the stars I was talking about half an hour ago. And no one can escape eros. Everyone needs its presence, despite the fact that many times, eros makes us feel apart from the world, trapped in our solitude."

  The band began to play a waltz. The guests went to a small cement section in front of the bandstand and started to dance. The alcohol was making itself felt, and people were perspiring more and smiling more. I noticed a girl dressed in blue who looked as if she had waited for this wedding just to have the chance to dance the waltz--she wanted to dance with someone who would embrace her in the way she had dreamed of since adolescence. She was watching a well-dres
sed boy, who wore a white suit and stood among his friends. They were all talking and had not noticed that the waltz had begun. Nor did they see that a few yards away, a girl in a blue dress looked longingly at one of them.

  I thought about small towns and marriage to the boy one has dreamed of since childhood.

  The girl in blue saw that I was watching her and tried to conceal herself among her girlfriends. As she did, the boy searched for her with his eyes. When he saw that she was there with her friends, he went back to his conversation with his own group.

  I pointed out the two of them to Petrus. He watched the game of glances for a while and then went back to his cup of wine.

  "They act as if it were shameful to make any show of love," was all he said.

  A girl near us was staring at Petrus and me. She must have been half our age. Petrus held up his cup of wine and made a toast in her direction. The girl laughed in embarrassment and pointed toward her parents, as if to explain why she did not come closer.

  "That's the beautiful side of love," Petrus said. "The love that dares, the love for two older strangers who have come from nowhere and will be gone tomorrow--gone into a world where she would like to travel, too."

  I could hear in his voice that the wine was having an effect on him.

  "Today, we will talk of love!" said my guide, a bit loudly. "Let us speak of true love, which grows and grows, and makes the world go round, and makes people wise!"

  A well-dressed woman near us seemed not to be paying any attention at all to the party. She went from table to table, straightening the cups, the china, and the silverware.

  "See that woman there?" asked Petrus. "The one who's straightening things up? Well, as I said, eros has many faces, and that's another of them. That's frustrated love, with its own kind of unhappiness. She is going to kiss the bride and groom, but inside she'll be saying that a knot has been tied around them. She's trying to neaten up the world because she herself is in complete disorder. And there"--he pointed toward another couple, the wife wearing excessive makeup and an elaborate coiffure--"is eros accepted. Social love, without a vestige of passion. She has accepted her role and has severed any connection with the world or with the good fight."

  "You're being very bitter, Petrus. Isn't there anyone here who can be saved?"

  "Of course there is. The girl who was watching us, the adolescents that are dancing--they know only about good eros. If they don't allow themselves to be influenced by the hypocrisy of the love that dominated the past generation, the world will certainly be a different place."

  He pointed to an elderly couple sitting at one of the tables.

  "And those two, also. They haven't let themselves be infected by hypocrisy like the others. They look like working people. Hunger and need have required them to work together. They learned the practices you are learning without ever having heard of RAM. They find the power of love in the work they do. It's there that eros shows its most beautiful face, because it's united with that of philos."

  "What is philos?"

  "Philos is love in the form of friendship. It's what I feel toward you and others. When the flame of eros stops burning, it is philos that keeps a couple together."

  "And agape?"

  "Today's not the day to talk about agape. Agape is in both eros and philos--but that's just a phrase. Let's enjoy the rest of the party without talking about the love that consumes." And Petrus poured some more wine into his plastic cup.

  The happiness around us was contagious. Petrus was getting drunk, and at first I was a little surprised. But I remembered what he had said one afternoon: that the RAM practices made sense only if they could be performed by the common people.

  That night, Petrus seemed to be a person like any other. He was companionable and friendly, patting people on the back and talking to anyone who paid him any attention. A little later, he was so drunk that I had to help him back to the hotel.

  On the way, I took stock of my situation. Here I was, guiding my guide. I realized that at no time during the entire journey had Petrus made any effort to appear wiser, holier, or in any way better than I. All he had done was to transmit to me his experience with the RAM practices. Beyond that, he had made a point of showing that he was just like anyone else--that he experienced eros, philos, and agape.

  This realization made me feel stronger. Petrus was just another pilgrim on the Road to Santiago.

  Enthusiasm

  "THOUGH I SPEAK WITH THE TONGUES OF MEN AND OF angels...and though I have the gift of prophecy...and have all faith so that I could remove mountains...and have not love, I am nothing."

  Petrus was once again quoting from Saint Paul. My guide felt that the apostle Paul was the major occult interpreter of Christ's message. We were fishing that afternoon after having walked for the whole morning. No fish had yet perished on the hook, but Petrus didn't care about that at all. According to him, fishing was basically a symbol of the human being's relationship with the world: we know why we are fishing, and we will catch something if we stay with it, but whether we do or not depends on God's help.

  "It's a good idea always to do something relaxing prior to making an important decision in your life," he said. "The Zen monks listen to the rocks growing. I prefer fishing."

  But at that time of day, because of the heat, even the fat, lazy fish on the bottom ignored the hook. Whether the bait was up or down, the result was the same. I decided to give it up and take a walk through the nearby woods. I went as far as an old, abandoned cemetery close to the river--it had a gate that was totally disproportionate to the size of the burial ground--and then came back to where Petrus was fishing. I asked about the cemetery.

  "The gate was part of an ancient hospital for pilgrims," he said. "But the hospital was abandoned, and later, someone had the idea of using the facade and building the cemetery."

  "Which has also been abandoned."

  "That's right. The things of this life don't last very long."

  I said that he had been nasty the night before in his judgments of the people at the party, and he was surprised at me. He said that what we had talked about was no more or less than we had ourselves experienced in our personal lives. All of us seek eros, and then when eros wants to turn itself into philos, we think that love is worthless. We don't see that it is philos that leads us to the highest form of love, agape.

  "Tell me more about agape," I said.

  Petrus answered that agape cannot really be discussed; it has to be lived. That afternoon, if possible, he wanted to show me one of the faces of agape. But in order for this to happen, the universe, as in the business of fishing, would have to collaborate so that everything went well.

  "The messenger helps you, but there is one thing that is beyond the messenger's control, beyond his desires, and beyond you, as well."

  "What is that?"

  "The divine spark. What we call luck."

  When the sun had begun to set, we resumed our walking. The Jacobean route passed through some vineyards and fields that were completely deserted at that time of day. We crossed the main road--also deserted--and started again through the woods. In the distance, I could see the Saint Lorenzo peak, the highest point in the kingdom of Castile. I had changed a great deal since I had met Petrus for the first time near Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. Brazil and the business deals that I had been worried about had practically vanished from my mind. The only important thing for me now was my objective. I discussed it every night with Astrain, who was becoming clearer and clearer for me. I was able to see him, seated at my side, any time I tried. I learned that he had a nervous tic in his right eye and that he had the habit of smiling disdainfully every time I repeated something as evidence that I had understood what he was saying. A few weeks earlier--during the first days of the pilgrimage--I had been afraid that I would never complete it. When we had passed through Roncesvalles, I had been very disillusioned about everything to do with the journey. I had wanted to get to Santiago immediately, recover my sword, an
d get back to fighting what Petrus called the good fight.1 But right now, with my connection to civilization severed, what was most important was the sun on my head and the possibility that I might experience agape.

  We went down the bank of an arroyo, crossed the dry bed, and had to struggle to climb up the other side. An impressive river must have flowed there once, washing away the bottom in its search for the depths and secrets of the earth. Now the riverbed was so dry that it could be crossed on foot. But the river's major accomplishment, the valley it had created, was still there, and it took a major effort to climb out of it. "Nothing in this life endures," Petrus had said a few hours before.

  "Petrus, have you ever been in love?"

  The question was a spontaneous one, and I was surprised at my courage. Up until then, I had known only the bare outline of my guide's private life.

  "I have known a lot of women, if that is what you mean. And I have really loved each of them. But I experienced agape only with two."

  I told him that I had been in love many times but had been worried about whether I could ever become serious with anyone. If I had continued that way, it would have led to a solitary old age, and I had been very fearful of this.

  "I don't think you look to love as a means to a comfortable retirement."

  It was almost nine o'clock before it began to get dark. The vineyards were behind us, and we were walking through an arid landscape. I looked around and could see in the distance a small hermitage in the rocks, similar to many others we had passed on our pilgrimage. We walked on for a while, and then, detouring from the yellow markers, we approached the small building.

  When we were close enough, Petrus called out a name that I didn't understand, and he stopped to listen for an answer. We heard nothing. Petrus called again, but no one answered.

  "Let's go, anyway," he said. And we moved forward.

  The hermitage consisted of just four whitewashed walls. The door was open--or rather, there really was no door, just a small entry panel, half a meter high, which hung precariously by one hinge. Within, there was a stone fireplace and some basins stacked on the floor. Two of them were filled with wheat and potatoes.