Therapy

by David Lodge

  The Cathedral is a bit of a dog’s breakfast architecturally but, as we say in television, it works. The elaborately decorated façade is eighteenth-century baroque, with a grand staircase between the two towers and spires. Behind it is the portico of the earlier romanesque building, the Portico de la Gloria, carved by a mediaeval genius called Maestro Matteo. It depicts in amazing, often humorous, detail, some two hundred figures, including Jesus, Adam and Eve, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, twenty-four old codgers with musical instruments from the Book of Revelations, and a selection of the saved and the damned at the Last Judgement. St James has pride of place, sitting on top of a pillar just under the feet of Jesus. It’s the custom for visitors to the Cathedral to kneel at the foot of the pillar, and place their fingers in the hollow spaces, like the holes in a knuckleduster, that have been worn into the marble through centuries of homage. There was a long line of people, many of them local to judge by their clothes and complexions, waiting to perform this ritual. Clocking Maureen, with her staff and rucksack and sunfaded clothes, as a genuine pilgrim, the people at the front of the line fell back respectfully and gestured her forward. She blushed under her tan and shook her head. “Go on,” I urged her. “This is your big scene. Go for it.” So she stepped forward and fell onto her knees and, with one palm pressed against the pillar, fitted the fingers of the other hand into the holes, and prayed for a moment with her eyes closed.

  On the other side of the pillar, at the foot, Maestro Matteo has carved a bust of himself, and it’s the custom to knock your head against his to acquire something of his wisdom. This was more my kind of mumbo-jumbo, and I duly banged my forehead against the marble brow. I observed some confusion between the two rituals. Every now and again somebody would bang their head against the pillar under the statue of St James as they put their fingers in the holes, and then everybody in the line behind them would follow suit. I was tempted to try slapping my buttocks like a Bavarian folkdancer as I paid homage, just to see if it caught on, but I didn’t have the nerve.

  We joined another line of people taking their turn to embrace the statue of St James on the high altar. The holy end of the Cathedral is an over-the-top fantasy in marble and gold leaf and carved painted wood. St James Matamoros, dressed and mounted like a Renaissance cavalry officer, charges with sword drawn above the canopy, which is supported by four gigantic, trumpet-blowing angels. St James the Apostle, swathed in jewel-encrusted silver and gold plate, presides over the altar looking more like a pagan idol than a Christian saint, especially as, seen from the main body of the church, he seems to have grown an extra pair of arms. These belong to the people who, standing on a little platform behind the altar, embrace him and, if they are pilgrims, pray for those who helped them on their way – the traditional “hug for St James”. Beneath the altar is a crypt with the small silver coffin containing the remains of the saint – or not, as the case may be.

  “Wasn’t it wonderful?” Maureen said, as we came out of the Cathedral, into the bright sunlight of the square with its milling crowds. I agreed that it was; but I couldn’t help contrasting the pomp and circumstance of this shrine with the small, austerely furnished room in the Copenhagen Bymuseum, its half-dozen cabinets containing a few homely objects, books and pictures, and the modest monument in the Assistens Kirkegård. I wondered whether, if Kierkegaard had been a Catholic, they would have made him a saint by now, and built a basilica over his grave. He would make a good patron saint of neurotics.

  “Now we really ought to see about finding somewhere to stay,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Maureen said. “First I must get my compostela.” We were directed to a little office off a square at the back of the Cathedral. Outside, a group of bronzed, elated-looking young Germans in Lederhosen and boots were photographing each other, triumphantly waving their pieces of paper at the camera. Maureen lined up inside and submitted her creased, stained passport to a young priest in a black suit seated behind a desk. He admired the number of stamps she had collected, and shook her hand as he passed over her certificate.

  “Now can we see about a hotel?” I said, as we came out of the office.

  “Well, actually,” Maureen said, with a slightly embarrassed laugh, “I’ve reserved a room at the Reyes Catolicos. I did it before I left England.”

  The Hostal de los Reyes Catolicos is a magnificent Renaissance building which flanks the Plaza del Obradoiro on the left-hand side as you face the Cathedral. Originally the refugio to end all refugios, founded by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella for the reception and care of pilgrims, it’s now a five-star parador, one of the grandest hotels in Spain or indeed anywhere else.

  “Fantastic! Why didn’t you tell me?” I exclaimed.

  “Well, there’s a little problem. It’s just the one room, and I booked it in the name of Mr and Mrs Harrington. I thought Bede might fly over and join me. But he was so mean about the pilgrimage that I never told him.”

  “Well then,” I said, “I’ll just have to impersonate Bede. It won’t be the first time.”

  “You don’t mind sharing then?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “I asked for twin beds, anyway,” said Maureen. “Bede prefers them.”

  “Pity,” I said, and enjoyed her blushes.

  As we approached the hotel a gleaming limousine pattered over the cobbles to pick up a smartly dressed elderly couple standing outside the entrance. The liveried, white-gloved doorman pocketed a tip, shut the car door and waved the driver on. He eyed us disapprovingly.

  “My compostela entitles me to a free meal here,” Maureen murmured. “But I’m told they give you rather nasty food and make you eat it in a grotty little room off the kitchens.”

  The doorkeeper evidently thought that this must be our reason for approaching the hotel, for he said something rather dismissive in Spanish and gestured us towards the back of the building. It was an understandable presumption, I suppose, given our somewhat scruffy appearance, but we took some satisfaction in putting him in his place. “We have a reservation,” said Maureen, sweeping regally past the man, and pushing through the swing doors. A porter ran after us into the lobby. I gave him the rucksack to hold, while I went up to the reception desk. “Mr and Mrs Harrington,” I said boldly. The clerk was suavely courteous. Funnily enough, he looked rather like Bede, tall, stooped and scholarly, with white hair and thick glasses. He checked his computer, and gave me a registration card to fill in. Maureen had booked for three nights, and paid a substantial deposit.

  “How could you be sure you would get here, at exactly the right time?” I marvelled, as we followed the porter, who was trying with some difficulty to carry our rucksack as if it were a suitcase, to the room.

  “I had faith,” she said simply.

  The Hostal is laid out in four exquisite quadrangles, with cloisters, fllowerbeds and fountains, each dedicated to one of the evangelists. Our room was off Matthew. It was large and luxurious, the single beds the size of small doubles. Samantha would have loved it. There were sixteen fluffy white towels of different sizes in the marble-lined bathroom, and no nonsense about getting a red card if you wanted them changed. Maureen cooed with delight at the array of taps, nozzles, adjustable mirrors and built-in hair dryer, and announced her intention of taking a bath and washing her hair immediately. At the bottom of her rucksack, folded flat as a parachute inside a plastic bag, was a clean cotton dress which she had been saving for this moment. She gave it to the hotel’s housekeeper to be ironed, and I took a cab back to Labacolla to pick up my car, which contained a linen suit I hadn’t previously worn on the trip.

  So we didn’t disgrace the hotel’s elegant dining-room that evening. The food was amazingly expensive, but very good. Afterwards we went out into the square and squeezed into the vast crowd waiting to watch the fireworks. This is easily the most popular event of the fiiesta. Spaniards love noise, and with this display they seemed determined to make up for their exclusion from World War Two. The climactic setp
iece resembled an air raid on the Cathedral, with the whole structure apparently on fire, statues and stonework silhouetted against the flames, and cannonades of rockets exploding deafeningly overhead. I couldn’t see what it had to do with St James, but the crowd loved it. There was a huge collective sigh as the vast stage faded to black, and a burst of cheering and clapping when the street-lights came on. The crowd began to disperse. We went back to the Reyes Catolicos. The doorman greeted us with a smile.

  “Goodnight Señor, Señora,” he said, as he held open the door.

  We took turns to use the bathroom. When I came out, Maureen was already in bed. I stooped to give her a goodnight kiss. She put her arms round my neck and drew me down beside her. “What a day,” she said.

  ‘’It’s a pity sex isn’t allowed on pilgrimages,” I said.

  “I’m not on a pilgrimage any more,” she said. “I’ve arrived.”

  We made love in the missionary position. I came – no problem. No problem with the knee, either. “I’ll never knock St James again,” I said, afterwards.

  “What d’you mean?” Maureen murmured drowsily. She seemed to have had a good time too.

  “Never mind.” I said.

  When I woke next morning, Maureen wasn’t there. She had left a note to say that she’d gone to the Cathedral early, to bag a seat for the great High Mass of St James; but she came back while I was having breakfast to say the church was already crammed full, so we watched the mass on television instead. It’s a state occasion, broadcast live on the national network. I don’t think Maureen missed much by not being there. Most of the congregation looked stupefied by the heat and the tedium of waiting. The high point of the service is the swinging of the botafumeiro, a gigantic censer, about the size of a sputnik, which is swung high into the roof of the cathedral, trailing clouds of holy smoke, by a team of six burly men pulling on an elaborate tackle of ropes and pulleys. If it ever broke loose at this mass it could wipe out the Spanish Royal Family and a large number of the country’s cardinals and bishops.

  We took a stroll round the old town, had lunch, and retired to our room for a siesta. We made love before we napped, and again that night. Maureen was as eager as me. “It’s like giving up sweets for Lent,” she said. “When Easter comes, you make a bit of a pig of yourself.”

  In her case Lent had lasted for five years, ever since her mastectomy. She said Bede hadn’t been able to adjust to it. “He didn’t mean to be unkind. He was wonderfully supportive when the tumour was diagnosed, and while I was in hospital, but when I came home I made the mistake of showing him the scar. I’ll never forget the expression on his face. He couldn’t get the image out of his head, I’m afraid. I tried keeping my prosthetic bra on in bed, but it made no difference. About six months afterwards he suggested we changed our double bed for two singles. He pretended it was because he needed a special mattress for his back, but I knew he meant that our sexual life was over.”

  “But that’s terrible!” I said. “Why don’t you leave him and marry me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.

  “I’m perfectly serious,” I said. And I was.

  That conversation took place on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Atlantic ocean. It was our third evening since arriving in Santiago, and our last together in Spain. The next day Maureen was flying back to London, with a ticket purchased months ago; after seeing her off at the airport I would drive the Richmobile to Santander to catch the ferry to England.

  We had driven out of Santiago that afternoon, after a particularly passionate siesta, in search of a little peace and quiet – even Maureen had had enough of the crowds and clamour of the streets by now. We found ourselves on a road signposted to Finisterre and just kept going. I must have heard the name a thousand times on the radio in shipping forecasts and gale warnings without knowing that it was in Spain or twigging that it means “end of the world” in Latin. It was a long way – further than it looked on the map. The rolling wooded hills of the country around Santiago gave way to a more rugged, heath-like terrain of windblown grass broken by great slabs of grey rock and the occasional stubborn, slanting tree. As we approached the tip of the peninsula the land seemed to tilt upwards like a ramp, beyond which we could see nothing but sky. You really felt as if you were coming to the end of the world; the end of something, anyway. We parked the car beside a lighthouse, followed a path round to the other side of the building, and there was the ocean spread out beneath us, calm and blue, shading almost imperceptibly into the sky at the hazy horizon. We sat down on a warm, flat rock, amid coarse grass and wildflowers, and watched the sun, like a huge communion wafer behind a thin veil of cloud, slowly decline towards the wrinkled surface of the sea.

  “No,” said Maureen, “I couldn’t leave poor old Bede. What would he do without me? He’d crack up completely.”

  “But you have a right to happiness,” I said. “Not to mention me.”

  “You’ll be alright, Tubby,” she smiled.

  “I like your confidence. I’m a notorious neurotic.”

  “You seem very sane to me.”

  “That’s because of being with you again.”

  “It’s been wonderful,” she said. “But it’s like the whole pilgrimage, a kind of kink in time, when the ordinary rules of life don’t apply. When I go home, I’ll be married to Bede again.”

  “A loveless marriage!”

  “Sexless, perhaps, but not loveless,” she said. “And I did marry him, after all, for better or for worse.”

  “Haven’t you ever thought of leaving him?”

  “No, never. It’s the way I was brought up, I suppose. Divorce just wasn’t thinkable for Catholics. I know that it’s caused a lot of misery for a lot of people, but it’s worked for me. It simplifies things.”

  “One less decision to make.”

  “Exactly.”

  We were quiet for a while. Maureen plucked and chewed a stalk of grass. “Have you thought of trying to get back together with your wife?” she said.

  “There’s no point. Her mind is made up.”

  I had of course told Maureen all about the break-up with Sally, in the course of our conversations over the past few weeks, and she had listened with a keen and sympathetic interest, but without making any judgements.

  “When did you last see her?” Maureen asked. I worked it out: it was about three months. “You may have changed in that time, more than you know,” Maureen said. “You told me yourself you were a little bit off your head in the spring.” I admitted that that was true. “And Sally may have changed too,” Maureen went on. “She may be waiting for an approach by you.”

  “That hasn’t been the tenor of her lawyer’s letters,” I said.

  “You can’t go by them,” Maureen said. “Lawyers are paid to bluster.”

  “True,” I conceded. I recalled Sally’s rather surprising phone call, just before I left London. If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to be off, I might have interpreted her tone as conciliatory.

  We sat and talked until the sun set, and then we had supper at a restaurant on the beach that looked as if it had been built out of driftwood, where we chose our fish from a sea-water tank and they grilled it for us over charcoal. Nothing we had tasted at the Reyes Catolicos could touch it. We drove home in the dark, and somewhere in the middle of the heathland I stopped the car and doused the lights and we got out to look at the stars. There was not an artificial light for miles, and hardly any pollution in the atmosphere. The Milky Way stretched across the sky from east to west like a pale, glimmering canopy of light. I had never seen it so clearly. “Gosh!” Maureen exhaled. “How wonderful. I suppose it looked like this everywhere in the olden days.”

  “The ancient Greeks thought it was the way to heaven,” I said.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Some scholars think that there was a sort of pilgrimage here long before Christianity: people following the Milky Way as far as they could go.”

  “Goodness, h
ow do you know all these things, Tubby?”

  “I look them up. It’s a habit.”

  We got back into the car and I drove back fast to Santiago, saying little, concentrating on the road unwinding in my headlights. Back in the Reyes Catolicos, we fell asleep quickly in each other’s arms, too tired, or too sad, to make love.

  I had plenty of time on the ferry to ponder Maureen’s advice, and by the time we docked in Portsmouth I had determined to give it a shot. I phoned Sally just to check that she would be in, and drove straight to Hollywell without stopping. The crunch of my tyres on the gravel of the drive brought Sally to the front door. She offered me her cheek to kiss. “You look well,” she said.

  “I’ve been in Spain,” I said. “Walking.”

  “Walking! What about the knee?”

  “It seems to be better, at last,” I said.

  “Wonderful. Come in and tell me all about it. I’ll make a cup of tea.”

  It felt good to be home – I still thought of it as home. I looked round the kitchen with pride and pleasure in its sleek lines and smart colour scheme. Sally looked in good shape too. She was wearing a red linen dress with a long slit skirt that showed an occasional flash of tanned leg as she moved about the kitchen. “You’re looking well yourself,” I said.

  “Thank you, I am. Have you come to pick up some of your things?”

  “No,” I said, my throat suddenly dry. I coughed and cleared it. “I’ve come to have a talk, actually. I’ve been thinking, Sal, perhaps we should have a go at getting back together. What d’you say?”