Petra's Ghost, page 22
Even from this distance he can make out the bright crimson whirlpool that is the Flamenco dancer’s spinning skirts, can feel the far-off beat of the music reverberate against the Plexiglas. It brings back memories of the Rioja festival, his dancing down the street with Ginny and the Big Heads. How stupid he must have looked, bumping and grinding like a Saturday Night Fever reject. He cringes thinking about it, walks on toward the older part of the city away from the celebrations.
He attends the cathedral in the main square, more by rote than by choice. The setting sun streams through all of the 125 magnificent stained-glass windows, but there is no warmth in it. Kneeling in a pew in the vast sanctuary, he tries to form a prayer in his mind but is distracted by the music that travels faintly through the thick stone walls — the sound of the festival nearing the medieval quarter. He knows the parade with its floats will not be allowed in. Vehicles of any kind are banned in this historic section of León, a collection of Gothic-style architecture built on Roman ruins, now a fashionable district of squares and narrow streets in which to see and be seen. Even at this time of year, stylish sophisticates spill out of the converted upscale restaurants and wine bars onto the quarter’s paved stone plazas, seated around tables draped in red-and-white checkered linen cloth. When he had walked through earlier, each crowded plaza seemed to open out endlessly onto the next, like a cascade of mirrors reflecting cosmopolitan chic that he wasn’t prepared for in his humble hiking gear. He had checked into a convent-run albergue next to a four-star hotel then walked over to the cathedral. A corporate-looking nun talking on her cellphone had taken enough time out from her conversation to give him directions. In the pew now, he clasps his hands together tighter, trying to concentrate as the priest mounts the steps to the altar. Head bowed, eyes closed, Daniel prepares to mouth the words he learned in childhood.
Lord have mercy.
Señor, ten misericordia.
Christ have mercy.
Cristo, ten misericordia.
The Spanish words bring back the night in the nunnery. He can see the woman in her blood-stained habit, feel the touch of her bent skeletal fingers on the back of his neck. How repulsed he’d been, even though he had later realized how much those hands resembled Petra’s, after the cancer had taken most of her flesh to stoke its cellular bonfire. He looks up at one of the windowpanes depicting Christ at Calvary, a weeping Mary Magdalene clinging to the base of the cross. On the bridge that night, when Ginny had kissed him, she’d been so vulnerable, her tears falling to bead on the front of his nylon jacket. Could she really have faked it all?
Daniel leaves the cathedral before completing the Mass. The parade threatens outside the thick walls of the quarter, the music and drumbeats pulsing at its gates. He turns his back on the revelry and hurries on, passing through busy plazas one after the other, his backpack slung across one shoulder like a heavy afterthought. Laughter and lightness float around him as he moves through the crowds who drink and eat in honour of saints.
He walks into the albergue and lies down on a bunk in a room that sleeps one hundred and fifty.
Never has he felt so alone.
Daniel continues on like this, by himself, one day blending into the next, a simple existence brought down to basic needs. He pushes his body to its limits, walking longer and longer distances. His muscles ache then harden. He uses physical punishment and the meditation of miles to keep his mind clear of more painful thoughts, swears off alcohol even though it might have helped him with that. He doesn’t see the woman. He doesn’t see Ginny. Even Petra remains at the bottom of his backpack untouched. His emotions have been dammed up with a barrier of will and obsession. Reaching Santiago is his only goal now. After that, he doesn’t know anymore.
His opinion of cities has not changed when days later he reaches Astorga. The glorified river town is not as big or as trendy as León but still tries to compete, like an ugly stepsister tarting herself up. Daniel walks through the morning market on his way to the museum, the smell of overripe produce and sickly sweet churros assaulting his nose. Discarded lettuce leaves and sticky wrappers are strewn along the walkway. He picks his way around the trash so as not to soil his hiking boots. Later, a city worker will come and sweep it all away. The propensity to litter seems to be directly correlated with the knowledge that somebody else will clean it up.
In almost every shop window is a notice about the missing woman, Beatrice McConaughey, seeking information about her disappearance in both Spanish and English. Her given name seems so pedantic for a young woman caught up in such extraordinary circumstances, Daniel thinks. He is quite sure they had a Jersey cow named Beatrice on the farm when he was growing up — although, they rarely named the animals. His father hadn’t wanted anyone to get attached.
There is no photo with the posters that he notices, just a short physical description — five feet, seven inches tall, long brown hair, medium build, a small tattoo of a bar of music on her inner forearm. The description is as mundane as the name although the music tattoo is a surprise. As he reads a poster glued to a cement lamppost, Daniel wonders what melody the missing woman chose and why she picked such a tender place for it. It must have hurt like hell.
He also wonders where Ginny is. The posters warn women not to walk alone on the next few stages of the Camino. There have been reports of assaults, even a failed abduction, as Mark, the rotten Englishman, had said. It makes Daniel angry to think that women have to worry about this kind of brutal bullshit on a pilgrimage. Or ever. But like most men who care about such things, he doesn’t know what to do with his outrage. He pushes his anger as well as his fear for Ginny aside, shoves his hands in his pockets, and walks away toward the tall black iron gates of the Museo de Catedral. There, he pays over three euros to a fleshy-faced man reading a newspaper behind the front desk and pushes in through the turnstile.
His eyes need time to adjust to the gloom. The museum has no central lighting, only wall- or ceiling-mounted lamps that bend to illuminate each painting and sculpture. Daniel counts no fewer than a dozen likenesses of la virgen con niño as he walks down the narrow entrance hallway. The last one shows a blond, rouge-cheeked version of Mary holding a sprightly curly-haired Jesus. Too Hollywood for Daniel’s taste. It is hard to take the mother of the Messiah seriously when she is depicted as a Disney princess.
The next section is dedicated to all brand of beast and malignant spirits, a favourite muse of European art of the Middle Ages — the Spanish being no exception. He takes a picture with his phone of one painting of a man and woman standing naked, holding hands in what appears to be hell. The artist has rendered long-toothed fiends and lascivious monsters where their genitals should be. He’ll send the photo to Angela when he next finds some Wi-Fi. She’ll appreciate the carnival madness of a pubic purgatory.
In the next room, he stops in front of another painting, but doesn’t take a photo. It is Mary Magdalene in one of her Playboy poses, reclined on her side with evil-looking cherubs dancing around her. Or maybe they just seem evil to Daniel. He’s had a distrust of angels from a young age, ever since his brother told him the devil used to be one.
“He drove seven demons out of her, Christ did.” The voice booms from the cavernous shadows of the gallery.
Daniel starts and turns around. Mark leans on a wall at the opening of a murky passageway. He walks up to the painting and runs his thick fingers along the surface of the brush strokes, following the curves of Mary Magdalene’s hip.
“You have to wonder where they went once he got rid of ’em,” he says, turning his face to Daniel, his filthy hand still feeling up the saint. “Or maybe you know already, don’t you, Danny boy.”
The Englishman may be broader than Daniel, but he’s older and not as quick. Before either of them realizes what is happening, Daniel has thrown Mark against the wall next to a bust of Pope Callixtus III. The Englishman’s backpack cushions some of the blow. Daniel hopes there is something hard packed inside of it that is gouging him in the spine.
“Are you following me?” he demands, more to justify his reaction than due to any real suspicion. All his pent-up anger — over the loss of his wife, the tawdry street vendors, Ginny’s deceit — is being channelled, and now further fueled by his disgust for this pervert.
“Now, why the hell would I be following you?” The Englishman doesn’t move, even though Daniel has the front of his fleece grabbed in his fist. He holds Daniel’s furious gaze, waiting for him to back off, which he eventually does. After Daniel releases his grip and steps away, the big man remains where he is, reclining against the wall with a smirk.
“You have to be more relaxed if you’re going to make it to Santiago, boy.”
“I’ll be making it to Santiago just fine. Thanks,” Daniel tells him.
“Not everyone does,” Mark says, moving into the light. He makes sure to keep the bust of the pope between them. “Where’s your little friend?”
“Ginny?” Daniel says, staring the bastard down.
“Yes,” Mark says, brushing his fingers against the stone head of the long-dead pope. His fat rings make a scraping sound. “Ginny.”
“I don’t suppose I know,” Daniel tells him and then adds, “As far away from you as she can manage, no doubt.”
The Englishman smiles widely, a shit-eating grin that hints toward worse appetites. His teeth are small and perfect, like a child’s. “You heard about our little misunderstanding.”
“I heard you acted the maggot.”
“Some girls just can’t take a joke.”
“I’m not after seeing anyone laughing.”
The two men stand still for a moment, as if sizing each other up for another physical altercation, but the moment passes like a hot meseta breeze. Daniel shakes his head and goes to move past the Englishman toward the exit. He’s had enough art appreciation for the day. His hand is on the bar of the heavy fire door when he stops and asks the question, looking down but not back.
“What did you mean when you said she had walked the Camino before?”
The Englishman is silent for so long, Daniel thinks he won’t answer, but eventually he pipes up, unable to miss an opportunity to pontificate.
“Everyone here has walked the Camino before, mate.”
Mark comes up close behind him. Daniel can smell the stale beer and sweat that clings to him, along with the faint aroma of sick.
“The real Camino is life, Danny boy. Or death, depending on how you look at it.”
“Fuck you,” Daniel says, just before he kicks open the door and walks out, squinting into the bright sunshine.
Mark’s voice booms across the plaza, dispersing a flock of worried pearl-grey pigeons into the air. “You’ve walked this road before, Daniel,” he calls after him. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Daniel stops and waits a moment before turning around. By then the heavy metal door is closed. The Englishman is gone.
The next day Daniel mounts the path to Monte Irago, leaving the flat bowl of the Meseta behind him. Most people would have stopped at Rabanal overnight to rest for the steep ascent, but he keeps going, a destination in mind. He stands now in front of it, La Cruz de Ferro, the Iron Cross of the Camino. It sits atop a rough wooden pole rising twenty feet in the air, set on a towering mound completely covered in stones. This is not the highest point on the road to Santiago, but close, and a place of long-standing tradition. Pilgrims place a stone at the base of the cross to represent something they have left behind as part of their time on the Way — pride, greed, the usual vices. It’s a similar practice to the small cairns of intentions Daniel has passed on the Camino from the beginning that so distressed him with their likeness to roadside tributes to the dead. This cairn is almost two stories high and bothers him less so. It is too large to mark just one accident. The magnitude of it is more in keeping with his own mistakes.
No one knows for sure about the origins of the Cruz de Ferro. Although it might have provided a beacon for pilgrims over the centuries to help find their way through the snowbound mountains. There is no snow here yet, but Daniel can look across to Monte Teleno in the southwest and see laced peaks of white. Other speculators believe the mound may have served as an altar to the Roman god Mercury, the patron god of travellers as well as luck, trickery, and thieves. More Christianity superimposed, Daniel thinks, like Roberto the Spaniard had said. Despite its possible pagan roots, Daniel crosses himself as he stands at the foot of the monument of rock and pebble. He has a stone in his hand he brought from his backyard in New Jersey. He had picked it quickly from beneath a favourite tree before he left, not considering carefully the size. It had weighed like a brick in his backpack. More than once he thought of ditching it before now. When he drops it on the mound with all the others, he knows that it doesn’t really symbolize much of anything — except perhaps his need to unload.
No one is here to see him place his intention on the pile. Most will have found a bed by now, after visiting the shrine in the morning. He had planned it this way, having gotten used to the steady company of his own solitude. He hadn’t wanted the intrusion of others while he contemplated the cross that moved so many. Or perhaps he was afraid someone might spot him not being moved at all. The sun has dropped enough to backlight the simple iron crucifix when he hears a familiar voice.
“Daniel from New Jersey!” The Dutchman calls out to him from the veranda of a small chapel on a rise overlooking the shrine. Daniel had explored it earlier and found the door locked.
“Rob!” He walks up the hill and goes to shake his friend’s hand, but the tall man grabs him in a bear hug instead. Rob wears the burnished copper heart on the lapel of his jacket and Daniel can feel it press, strangely warm, against his cheek as they embrace.
“It has been a long time, Daniel,” Rob says as he releases him. “Are you enjoying your Camino?”
“I suppose so,” says Daniel. “I’m pleased to see the back of the Meseta, though.” He glances at the Dutchman’s sincere friendly face. “It’s good to see you, Rob.”
“It is good to see you, too,” Rob replies. He gestures with his hand, and both men sit down on the edge of the small veranda. Together they look out over the ridge in silence for a few moments. A couple of wild horses chase each other in a meadow below, a pinto and a white stallion. Daniel hopes they don’t cull them here for the meat, as they do the ones in the Pyrenees.
“Did you leave something at the cross, Daniel?” the Dutchman asks. The distant sound of the horses’ hoofbeats drums up from below.
“Yes and no,” Daniel responds. “Did you?”
“Not yet,” Rob tells him. “First, I had to read my letter.”
Only then does Daniel notice that Rob holds multiple pages of foolscap in his hands, lined, like the kind they’d used back in school. Each page is covered with careful blue-inked script, both sides, front and back.
“Looks like that might take a man awhile to get through.”
The Dutchman smiles. “Not so long. I have read it many times.” He gently folds the pages in his hands but doesn’t put them away. “This is from my wife,” he tells him. “She gave it to me before I left on the Camino but told me that I must not read it until I am here.”
“At the Iron Cross?” Daniel asks.
“Yes,” Rob says. “It was her wish that I read it in this special place. She would be happy to know I have done so.” Rob gazes off into the distance as the horses disappear into a valley to the west.
“She must be after missing you,” Daniel says, thinking of his own losses. Petra had not left him a letter. She had told him she wouldn’t. Said she found the practice morbid. He had still searched for one, though, after she was gone, turning their home upside down in the process. If she did change her mind and write one, he never found it.
“She does miss me, and I am missing her, too. But this is the way it must be. Like the Dutch song, Laat me, do you know it?”
“Sorry, not familiar.”
“A song of love and friendships that must be left behind,” Rob says, closing his eyes as if to savour the music playing in his head. “The full title has a French word in it.” He opens his eyes again, looks thoughtfully at Daniel. “You understand this word, vivre?”
“I do,” Daniel says. “It means life, doesn’t it?”
“It does. Laat me, vivre. Let me live. It is a sad song, but beautiful. Missing others is like this, don’t you think, Daniel?”
Daniel nods but doesn’t want to go where the Dutchman is leading. There is missing, and there is guilt, and when they are mixed together the beauty withers. Daniel’s guilt weighs on him more heavily than the rock he’d brought from New Jersey.
“Sure, it won’t be long now,” he says, steering the conversation elsewhere. “Santiago is less than a hundred and fifty miles. You’ll be seeing your wife by Sunday week.”
The Dutchman sighs. “I will not, Daniel.” The wind picks up, fluttering the pages he holds in his hand. “I will not be going home to the Netherlands.”
“Why?” Daniel asks, thinking now there must have been more in the letter than Rob’s letting on.
“Not for the same reasons you cannot go home,” Rob says, even though Daniel cannot remember telling him about how his family was waiting for him on the farm.
“Ginny did not lie to you, Daniel. Not as you believe.” The statement hangs between them, suspended in the air.
“I’m not following you,” Daniel says, becoming wary.
Instead of answering, the Dutchman stands up, walks down the hillside to the Iron Cross. Daniel goes after him.
“I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
When he catches up to Rob, he sees that he has rolled up the letter in his fist. He hikes up on the rocky ground of pilgrim intentions and places the scroll in between two larger stones at the foot of the cross, tucking it deeply in a crevice so that the mountain breezes won’t have a chance to blow it away. Then he returns to stand beside Daniel.
