by Bev Jafek
AT MONSERRAT’S HOUSE, another evening of many women’s group meetings was drawing to a close. A spontaneous informal conversation about Spanish Catholicism had sprung up between the women who had stayed behind to enjoy the last of the evening together. A member of the university professor’s group had decided to turn the conversation into a more formal discussion by addressing a general question to all: “Is Catholicism, as James Joyce once described history, a nightmare from which we have not yet awakened?”
Pilar, the gypsy girl from the writer’s group, found the question pompous and deflated it promptly. “No, it is a hangover from which I have not yet recovered.” The group laughed and became casual again.
Another of the university professors said, “I’d say that it is a sticky monster with glue all over its body, an alien blob we should have killed and buried in Africa eons ago when we left.”
One of the artists offered the images she might use in a painting. “It’s a ribbon, a hairbrush, an arrow, a hand mirror floating down the street, but the woman herself has disappeared.” This confused several women. They realized that it probably referred to the Church’s refusal to give women the power and participation of men, yet some found it too abstract; others, too concrete. They agreed, however, that it was artistic.
The oldest woman in the room, one of the members of the seniors group, then spoke. Everyone knew she had participated in the anarchist resistance to the fascists and been imprisoned as a young girl during the Spanish Civil War. “It is my mother’s prayers at dawn after nights of butchery in the streets during that evil war. She died in the prison where I survived. Those prayers were the last words I heard from her. It is the only time I have ever been moved by Catholicism, and the prayers were unanswered.”
The group was very moved and no one spoke; the discussion might have ended there. But, some of the youngest women still wanted to speak. After a few respectful minutes of silence, Libre, the gypsy who was Pilar’s lover, said, “I think it’s the fat ass on all the popes, trying to sit on every woman in Spain. Who can remember a single one who didn’t have a fat ass?” Most of the group laughed, though Libre only glowered. She was a truculent, overweight presence who rarely spoke in the groups. Her mohawk hairdo was tinted blue that day, which meant that she was in a relatively good mood.
“I think of John Paul on the day Zapatero legalized gay marriage,” said one of the college student’s group members. “He pompously said that ‘the living root of Christianity’ was ‘being ripped out,’ The only living roots that ever fell out in his time were the hairs on the top of his head.” The group laughed.
“Zapatero wasn’t even taking a political risk,” another college student observed. “I’ve read that two-thirds of Spaniards already supported gay marriage, and ninety percent described themselves as Catholic. That’s how loosely defined Spanish Catholicism is.”
“But let’s go back to metaphors,” said a woman from the media professionals group. “That’s how this started, with Joyce’s nightmare. How about a dog’s whimper in the night or a frog’s flamenco croak by day?”
Everyone laughed and one of the writers asked, “Hey, whatever happened to the opium of the people?”
“No way,” another writer said. “The papacy ate it all. There’s no more left for the people!”
“What people? Not Spaniards,” said one of the professors amidst general laughter. “They can’t even get anyone to become a priest now in Spain. The only ones I see look like desiccated old monkeys, hobbling along with a walker, drool running down their chins.”
“And those are the good ones,” said another writer. “They’re too old to be pedophiles.”
Pilar, with a broad smile said, “You are delightfully raw, my lovely ladies. I love this place. I feel like I’m back with the gypsies.”
“Why not go back to your gypsies, Pilar?” asked a journalist. “Why stay here with us?”
Pilar knew that she was only being teased. “You ladies are cleaner. You smell better, too. But please, please stay raw, my wonderful ladies, because that’s the way I love you.”
A few whistles and claps followed this as well as an exclamation, “for love, for love!”
One of the writers spotted a journalist she knew and saw an opportunity to be outrageous. “The truest statement about a Catholic is that she/he is screwed up sexually. But we all know that. I, personally, would add constipation as well. Catholics are inherently constipated.”
The journalist to whom this was directed promptly said, “Oh, they’re plugged up, alright. I don’t think the priests have had a good shit since the Inquisition in the 1600s.”
But, one of the college students promptly deflated this. “You are factually incorrect. The Inquisition did not end in Spain until 1813, and that says everything about how enlightened Catholic Spain is.” The writer and journalist looked very annoyed to have their game destroyed by a mere student.
“Now, there are all those parishes without priests,” said one of the seniors.
“And now I’ve read that the Archbishop of Pamplona says that Catholics are persecuted in Spain,” said one of the professors. “What a turn-about!”
“Not enough for me,” yelled a college student. “Throw them all under the bulls in Pamplona!”
“No ladies, ladies!” Pilar said. “We must liberate all the bulls. We have agreed to that. Alex even put it on our web site.”
The group was smiling, though quiet and thoughtful again for a moment, except for two very young women, college students, who had been lying on the floor, laughing uncontrollably for some time. “But then, the Church still has all that property,” said a journalist, “and those kids educated at their schools. Don’t they still control half the country’s radio networks, too?”
“And a considerable influence on the Spanish language,” said a literary critic who was one of the professors. “It’s still full of religious ideas and terms. Remember that headline when the first test-tube baby was born? I do. It was, ‘Born Without Original Sin.’”
This was greeted by laughter and applause as well as a woman yelling, “Give a hand to the little baby!”
Pilar, however, was indignant. “That doesn’t happen here. Not our words! We’re not taken in by any of it.”
“But, there they are on your tax form,” said a senior. “You fill in a box to fund the Church’s budget.”
“No, it doesn’t matter if you ‘x’ the box or not,” said a college student. “The government makes up the difference.”
“No one supports its stance on contraception,” said a journalist, “and not just in this house, everywhere in Spain!”
“And, no one trusts it,” said a media professional. “The only noise Spaniards distrust more comes from the television.”
“There was that awful mess with Opus Dei,” said a college student. “Aznar gave those whackos four of his cabinet appointments, and their leader was canonized in his term of office, when we all know they’re nothing but a bunch of elitist, misogynist, sado-masochistic Nazis.”
“The Church has always supported Opus Dei,” said a professor. “Under Franco, they were the most exclusive men’s club, and even half of all university professors in Spain were in Opus Dei.”
“Isn’t all this just too sweet a way of discussing those nuts?” said a writer. “After all, these are the good men who wear an iron band on one thigh with nasty little triangles to pierce their skin, and then they top it off by flagellating their buttocks with special glamorous little whips. How sane is that?”
This was greeted by laughter and jeers. The discussion was nearing its end.
“A brilliant Spanish woman wrote a novel about a woman who underwent psychotherapy with a psychiatrist from Opus Dei,” said the professor who had originally posed the question to the group. “She was cured by falling in love with the Virgin Mary.” This was followed by more laughter and applause. The professor had finally discerned the general mood, but the evening was over. The group broke up
into brief smaller conversations and many women saying good night.
Ruth and Monserrat were standing in the stairway. They had heard most of the discussion. “It is a wonderful atmosphere here. They feel free to say anything,” Ruth said. “You’ve done something great.”
“I’m just providing space,” Monserrat said. “They are the wonders.”
Their thoughts quickly returned to one another. “Then do something wonderful for me,” Ruth said.
“Only you will have all of me,” Monserrat said and touched Ruth’s cheek. They hurried upstairs and were quick to wash and ready themselves, like young lovers.
ALEX AND SYLVIE were walking along the Ramblas to the ocean, intending to walk barefoot in the sea before going back to the hotel. The thoroughfare was full of so many people enjoying late night entertainment and the balmy breeze of the Mediterranean that it seemed to be the evening of a holiday. They walked holding hands like all the other lovers, and this was part of their own unique holiday, never to be forgotten as the first day and night they became lovers. The constant sense of joy and wonder made all the other revelers seem to swim past them like waves of color and noise of which they were barely aware; they truly looked only at one another. As they approached the sea, Alex stopped at the Columbus monument to look at the distinctively proud lion sculptures encircling it. She was struck by the animal nobility of their faces and manes. That’s so like Ruth, Sylvie thought, to look at the beasts and forget Columbus. I should do a painting of each of them naked and riding a lion bareback, brandishing the sword of St. George. She smiled at the thought of the dismay each would feel in seeing such a painting.
Then the great black, foamy arm of the Mediterranean seized them and they began to walk faster to get away from the crowds. As the surf met their feet, they stopped, kissing and holding one another for a long time. “Come with me to Ibiza,” Alex said. “I know beautiful deserted beaches where we can swim naked, and I can made love to you in the surf.”
“I will come,” Sylvie said. “But, I’ll make love with you anywhere. Let’s make love now in the surf, here in Barcelona.” Her smile had the glint of a challenge and she drew Alex on to the darker and more isolated parts of the beach. Alex was thrilled, shocked, fascinated, overjoyed and overwhelmed at the thought of making love with the woman she adored in what was definitely a public place in a densely populated city, yet she could not resist anything that Sylvie found erotic.
“Goddess, lead on!” she said with a broad smile of delight. Just what Ruth would have said, Sylvie thought.
They finally came to a completely dark and solitary stretch of beach and Alex grabbed Sylvie aggressively, kissing and caressing her. “Here,” she said, simply. They lay down on the sand, and cold water flowed over them as Alex discovered that Sylvie was not wearing underwear. She almost barked in laughter, realizing that Sylvie had intended an outdoor sexual encounter all along. Then, they began to make love as the surf returned again and again, half-drenching them both. The cold, the wildness and thrill of the thing made them laugh as their passion grew, and the result was a kind of delirium while the ritual of love was performed again and again, even in cold, black water and pure darkness.
After an hour or so, their laughter won out and they rose, brushing the sand from their bodies and clothes; then they walked back to the city lights, still wet and laughing. That is the sexiest surf I will ever know, Alex thought. Nothing like this will happen again, but what an experience! Approaching the street again, Alex put her arm around Sylvie and they held one another more intimately as they walked. It seemed as though there was nothing they could not do.
“Now I must go to the Picasso Museum for more love,” Sylvie said with her look of mischief and something else. “I am a tourist of Barcelona, after all.” They laughed uproariously.
“It can’t possibly be open,” Alex said.
“Perfect. I so enjoy what we do when we’re alone.” They continued to laugh at the absurd wildness of this and went to the Ribera section of the city. When they arrived at the Picasso Museum, they found it empty but well lit over many parts of the edifice. They entered a dark underpass and found a small open courtyard lit only by the moon. There were dark corners, however, and Alex drew Sylvie into one of them. They were still laughing.
“I think the only comfortable way of doing this is sitting up,” Alex said. They sat on the cobblestones and Alex arranged Sylvie’s legs around her waist and back and placed her own legs in a circular position around Sylvie. Sylvie unzipped Alex’s jeans as Alex raised her dress, and they began to touch one another in the rhythm they had always known. They kissed passionately and pressed together. Mouth on mouth, they began to climax together soon. After a long period of pleasure, Alex said, “Lie down and put your arms behind your head. I just have to do this.” She made love to Sylvie orally while massaging her breasts.
Again, they stopped when they were overwhelmed by the fear of being discovered and by laughter. “You are such a wonderful tour guide,” Sylvie said, and they laughed.
“How terrible that we can’t go into the museum and see Picasso’s paintings,” Alex said.
“Oh, I have no intention of ever seeing his artwork in Barcelona. I just wanted some very good sex here.” They laughed uproariously again.
“What kind of artist are you?”
“The real thing,” Sylvie said. “I intend to see much more in the world than he did. The women I paint will not be crying all the time. I just wanted his famous museum to give me some great orgasms, and you’ve done that so well, my love.” They could hardly stop laughing.
“This is the wildest thing I’ve ever done,” Alex said. “I am absolutely crazy about you! You can get me to do anything. What shall we do now, goddess?”
“How about coming with me to the Gothic Quarter? When we were there before, you could hardly think about anything but my body. Shouldn’t we go back and be tourists in a way that gives you more satisfaction?”
They got up and ran into the street, laughing and holding hands. When they reached the Gothic Quarter, they found it well lit by lanterns and full of other revelers enjoying the late night hours. They looked for dark corners and passages and in doing so passed a building Sylvie noted as the Generalitat. “Isn’t this where the city government meets?” Sylvie asked.
“Yes it is, and the historical rulers from the Catalan centuries met here, the Council of 100.”
“That’s terribly sexy!”
They laughed. “But it’s well-lit, too, and probably guarded.”
“Not in back, I bet,” Sylvie said. Their eyes flashed as they walked to the back of the building, which had no lighting, only a barren wall and an exit door. “Haven’t you ever had a fantasy about making love to a woman against a wall?”
Alex laughed. “Of course, and if I hadn’t, I would certainly have one now.” She pressed Sylvie against the wall and raised her dress while Sylvie opened Alex’s jeans in the dark. Mouth on mouth, they began to touch one another and press together, moving in sync. They made little sound as they began to feel very excited, welded together, and then felt close to orgasm.
Two guards passed them, which they failed to notice until one of them spoke. “What a man!” he said. “He just gives it to her up against a wall.”
The other guard laughed. “Yeah, what a man! That’s a beautiful girl, too. Let’s leave him to his business. He sure knows how to get a woman to do what he wants!”
When the guards turned a corner, Alex and Sylvie burst out laughing, re-arranged their clothing and ran off. They couldn’t stop laughing and running. That’s how I’ll remember it, laughing and running and crazy with love, Alex thought.
When they slowed down and began walking again, Sylvie said, “Well, you’re quite a man, my love.”
“It was your muy macho idea, remember?”
“So we’re both tough guys. Well, once again, it was delirious fun.”
“Oh, I’ll give it to you against a wall anytime.” They laughed
and laughed as time seemed to slow down. They kissed against walls many times, and then ran again, holding hands. We’re completely drunk on love, Alex thought.
When they walked along the dark, cramped streets again, the crowds and lanterns seemed even more oppressive and unwanted. Yet the freedom of darkness enclosed them. They came to an overpass beyond which there was nothing but black night. “Let’s see what’s there,” Alex said. They found a small courtyard and another bridge lit only by the moon; it was almost completely in shadow.
“Crazy, crazy love! I’m out of my mind, so let’s do it here,” Alex said. She quickly pulled off Sylvie’s dress and her own clothes, which she arranged in a surface for them to lie on. Then they lay down and began to make love passionately, as though they had never known anything else. Their love was seemingly endless again, with all the rituals and stratagems they had learned about one another’s bodies. They were too excited to feel uncomfortable.
Finally, the painting came to Sylvie. I’ve been waiting for you, my love, she thought. She saw two completely intertwined women’s bodies united in passion. Their lines were rough, simplified and slightly abstract so that they nearly formed a sphere together. Sculptures of animals on buildings she had seen in the afternoon flashed into the painting. She saw their huge, round eyes and open mouths of passion, wildness, ferocity—lions, dragons, horses, gargoyles. Their bodies were caught in fabulous poses—leaping, dancing, running, rearing up—their hair and fur in moving coils. They were the reverse of the humans—static and lifeless. Toward the sphere of love, these Gothic animals reached with their jagged paws and muzzles, their eyes gleaming black midnight.
Now the painting lives in a lapis darkness with swirling clouds, she thought. The bodies of the women are the purest and most intense red of sexual heat. The animals are the colors of the night—black, blue, purple, green. In all, the size and intensity of the eyes strike first in a knife of black fire. There is passion in all they see and feel. A brilliantly burning truth redraws itself from a religious cliché about God’s all-seeing eye. That is the art, the complete truth, of this day and night, this love, this woman, Sylvie thought as she lost consciousness.