Jubilate

by Michael Arditti

  ‘By that logic, the whole Church should commit suicide. A massacre that would put Jonestown in the shade.’

  ‘The thought had occurred to me.’

  ‘Now you’re being deliberately contrary.’

  ‘Me? I’m not the one who prays for the Resurrection of the Body: an absurdity at the best of times but positively perverse in Lourdes.’

  ‘By coming here, by bringing their sick, people are manifesting their faith in God’s mercy. At the same time, like Christ, they proclaim: “Not my will but Thine be done.”’

  ‘I wonder which impulse is the stronger.’

  ‘I can’t speak for anyone else, but I know that the reason I come here is to be one with the sacred, to be in a place with a unique energy born of a hundred and fifty years of devotion. As for miracles: do I believe in them? Yes. Do I expect them? No. In our materialistic world we’ve put so many barriers in the way. But don’t harden your heart. Remember that Christ healed people not just for their own sake but to be living witnesses to God’s grace.’

  ‘I feel sorry for the sick. As if all the pain and incapacity weren’t enough, they have so much symbolic weight to bear. First there was Father Humphrey telling them that their suffering is an inspiration to the rest of us. Now you’re saying that their cure would be a catalyst for conversion.’

  ‘The burden isn’t on them but on us. It’s what we choose to see … no, how we choose to look.’ We approach the Basilica steps on which a group of blind children is being coaxed to smile for the camera. Father Dave makes straight for us.

  ‘Sorry to cut in, but may I have a word, Father?’

  ‘Of course, Father. Excuse me,’ Father Paul says to me. ‘I’ve very much enjoyed the talk – and the challenge. I’m here all week, so should you ever feel like a second round … Meanwhile, I know you have an agenda but, if you keep an open mind, who knows what you may discover.’

  I accept the rebuke without demur and join the crew at the foot of the steps, while Louisa shoos everyone into place for the photograph. Catching sight of us hovering on the sidelines, she insists that ‘our honorary pilgrims join in’. Jamie is excused by virtue of filming, and Jewel, who declares herself ‘photo-phobic’, wriggles out of it by holding a superfluous microphone. So Sophie and I represent the guests, taking a far more focal position than I would have wished, the one advantage being that I find myself next to Patricia or, rather, next but one to Gillian, who is remonstrating gently with her husband.

  ‘Mr O’Shaughnessy, we’re honoured,’ Patricia says.

  ‘Vincent, please.’

  ‘Gillian, it’s Mr O’Shaughnessy … Vincent.’

  ‘Vincent, of course! I knew it was one of the minor saints.’ She smiles, as if to temper the insult.

  ‘Oh dear, it’s the same photographer who took us last year,’ Patricia says.

  ‘I’m told that a couple of families have it all sewn up,’ I reply. ‘Like everything else in this town, it’s a monopoly. You might even say a mafia.’

  ‘Not in Lourdes!’ Patricia says, with such horror that I instantly change tack.

  ‘What are the odds that he has some secret passion? He spends the morning on pictures of pilgrims, then in the afternoons it’s views of mountains or soft-focus shots of wild flowers.’

  ‘Or artistic nudes?’

  ‘Gillian!’ Patricia sounds as outraged as if she had been asked to pose.

  ‘Flowers of another kind,’ I say, heartened by the subversive note that has crept into the conversation.

  ‘I wish they’d hurry up,’ Gillian says. ‘Someone here wants to go to the loo.’

  ‘Not someone, me!’ Richard shouts, to widespread amusement.

  ‘Remember, darling,’ Patricia says, leaning across Gillian. ‘Think of the desert.’

  ‘My last group photo was at school,’ Sophie says to me. ‘Two of the hockey team sprinted round the back while the camera panned over the rest of us. They managed to get themselves on both ends.’

  ‘Don’t try that here, or they’ll hail a miracle!’

  ‘I heard that,’ Marjorie says, wagging her finger again.

  No sooner is everyone settled than Louisa, who has been studying the shot over the increasingly impatient photographer’s shoulder, insists on several of us moving around. I swap with Patricia for the sake of the ‘wee’ Scottish lady in the row behind, and find myself next to Gillian.

  ‘Would you rather stay with your mother-in-law?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh Gillian doesn’t care about that,’ Patricia says, to a corroborative silence.

  ‘But perhaps she won’t want to be photographed beside such a dangerous sceptic?’

  ‘You flatter yourself.’

  ‘I’d rather flatter you,’ I say quietly.

  ‘You’d have your work cut out this morning. I’m hot and headachy. Richard was over-excited last night and fractious this morning. What’s more, I hate having my picture taken.’

  ‘I can’t believe that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No one as beautiful as you can object to keeping a record.’

  ‘Don’t be idiotic.’

  ‘I’m perfectly serious.’

  ‘Is that what you mean by flattery?’

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I, Patricia? Your daughter-in-law’s a very beautiful woman.’

  ‘Well …’ She sounds taken aback. ‘I’ve never been able to fault her in the looks department. She doesn’t always make the best of herself. But then who does these days?’

  ‘So she shouldn’t dislike being photographed?’

  ‘What’s the point?’ Gillian asks, almost angrily. ‘Are Richard and I going to pore over the albums in our twilight years? Sorry, but we’re there already. And we don’t have any children to take an interest. Just something else to be tossed on the bonfire when we die.’

  ‘Really Gillian,’ Patricia says, ‘there’s no call to be morbid! You still might like a souvenir.’

  ‘I’ll have plenty.’ She taps her forehead. ‘In here.’

  ‘It’s easy to forget. I know.’

  ‘Then you forget for a reason. Everything happens for a reason. It must!’

  Several heads turn in our direction, as I weigh up whether it is my place to reply.

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ Richard says, responding instinctively to her tone.

  ‘I think we’re there,’ Louisa says, slipping into place on the front row. ‘So long as no one grows in the next two minutes, Matt Hedley!’

  ‘I can’t always picture my mother,’ Gillian says, ‘and she only died five years ago.’

  ‘So sad,’ Patricia hisses in my ear.

  ‘At times her face is as clear as any of these, and at others I seem to be seeing her at the end of a long corridor – no, a warehouse piled with stuff. How can a photograph begin to make up for that?’

  ‘Now everyone please stand still like mouses. Imagine it is your ‘God Save The Queen’. And say Camembert.’ However lame, the joke has the desired effect.

  ‘Camembert!’ Nigel shouts thirty seconds later, replicating the effect for the second shot.

  With an hour before we are due at the Grotto, Father Dave proposes that we visit the basilicas or relax by the river.

  ‘I need to go to the toilet,’ Richard says, as the group breaks up.

  ‘Lavatory.’ Patricia corrects him.

  ‘I’ll have to take him back to the Acceuil,’ Gillian says.

  ‘There are toilets over there,’ I say, flouting Patricia and pointing to the colonnade.

  ‘I don’t like him going in on his own.’

  ‘No problem. I can take him.’

  She looks at me as warily, as if he were six years old. I am struck by such a painful memory that I have to stop myself running out of the Domain. ‘Thank you,’ she says, freeing me from both suspicion and the grip of the past. ‘That would be kind.’

  ‘Then, if you’re feeling strong, we can all climb to the old basilica.’

  ‘Count me
out,’ Patricia says. ‘I’ve seen it several times. I’m not as young as I was.’

  ‘Slander!’

  ‘More flattery?’ Gillian asks.

  ‘I’m happy to sit here and people watch.’

  ‘I’m bursting!’

  ‘Come on then, mate!’ I turn to Gillian. ‘Is there anything I should know? Will he need any help?’

  ‘Only in remembering to wash his hands,’ she says, with a faint smile. ‘Don’t look so worried.’

  I lead Richard across the square. Ignoring his bladder, he seizes on every diversion, from a complacent pigeon to a young boy playing hopscotch with his grandfather’s crutches. ‘If we don’t get a move on,’ I say, ‘we won’t have time to go up to the church.’

  ‘So what? Churches are boring.’

  ‘Not always,’ I say, determined to fulfil my loco-parental role. ‘Do you go often?’

  ‘Every single week. She won’t leave me at home, even on a Sunday when I can’t come to any harm.’

  ‘She must like your company.’

  ‘It’s because she’s frightened. A few years ago I had an accident. I very nearly died.’

  ‘That’s scary.’

  ‘It was for her. I was unconscious for six whole weeks. I’m fine now, as fit as a fiddle – which is a stupid word – but she worries it’ll happen again, at any moment. So it’s best to do what she says.’

  ‘That sounds sensible.’

  ‘I used to be her boss, now she’s mine.’

  ‘Really,’ I say distractedly.

  ‘Don’t you think that’s funny?’

  ‘Funny and sad.’

  ‘You should laugh. People always laugh when I say that. “I used to be her boss, now she’s mine.”’

  I take him into a lavatory whose gleaming white tiles match its sanitised smell. As we walk in, a young man helps an older man out of a stall, and I realise that we are in the one place where such a pairing provokes no comment. I stand to the side, striving to look nonchalant, while Richard uses the urinal. Then, following instructions, I lead him to the basin. His reluctance to accompany me seems to be based on something far deeper than the minor inconvenience of washing.

  ‘My hands are dry. Feel. If they were dirty, they’d be wet.’

  ‘They’ll still harbour germs.’

  ‘Germs! Everything’s always germs. “Don’t do that, Richard, it’s full of germs.” At school they said we’re only here because of germs. If there weren’t any germs, we’d die.’

  ‘I’ll wash mine too. Then if we die, we die together.’

  He giggles and gives in, but his obduracy affords me a glimpse into the perpetual power struggle between husband and wife, which resumes as soon as we rejoin Gillian. ‘You should wear your sunglasses, Richard,’ she says, and he dutifully reaches into his pocket.

  ‘Cool shades,’ I say, as he puts them on.

  ‘I chose them myself,’ he replies, honour satisfied.

  ‘So shall we go to the Rosary Basilica first?’ Gillian asks.

  ‘You’re the boss,’ I say.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ Richard says.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Gillian replies, looking perplexed.

  We climb back up the steps on which a group of Swiss pilgrims is the latest to be photographed, their pink legs in lemon shorts like the squares of a Battenberg cake, and enter the Rosary Basilica. Gaudy mosaics of the life of the Virgin glimmer from shallow side-chapels, while the Lady herself, surrounded by greetings-card cherubs, presides in gilded glory in the chancel. I walk round with Gillian, while Richard trails behind, intent on not treading on the paving cracks. As Gillian examines the mosaics, I sound a note of dissent.

  ‘Michelangelo, thou shouldst be living at this hour!’

  ‘I take it you don’t approve.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly.’

  ‘Pity. I find them moving.’

  ‘Have you ever been to Ravenna?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Now those are mosaics! Christian too, of course, but there’s something in them – an intensity; a precision; a power: I can’t define it – that touches even an arch-heretic like me. That’s what great art does.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s a place for great art and also for something … I don’t know, a bit more basic? I’m sure it says something terrible about my taste, but I find these deeply poignant. Not the work of great masters, but the expression of a faith that isn’t embarrassed by simple emotions. Look at the soldier over there, scratching his head in bemusement at the risen Christ.’

  ‘I’m the one who’s bemused. It’s like a plate from a children’s bible.’

  ‘Perhaps it moves me because it’s a link to my childhood? Or perhaps the same things that moved me then move me now? We’ll have to agree to differ or, rather, to diverge. You take the high art road and I take the low.’

  Her carefully chosen barb hits the mark. I decide that my best defence is flippancy. ‘Well, for now, both roads are leading to the Upper Basilica, so let’s see if we can find some common ground.’ We emerge into the open and walk towards a steep flight of steps.

  ‘Race you to the top?’ Richard says.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Gillian replies.

  ‘It’s exercise.’ He runs up the first few steps.

  ‘Don’t go too fast.’ He redoubles his efforts. ‘Now he’ll be all hot and bothered.’

  ‘At least it gives me a chance for some time alone with you.’

  ‘Why would you want that?’

  ‘I ask myself the same question.’

  ‘How about because some men are never happy unless they’re flirting? Half the women on the pilgrimage are old enough to be your mother. Half are young enough to be your daughter. And the rest are nuns. Which leaves me.’

  ‘Don’t belittle yourself.’

  ‘I’m not. You’re doing that for me.’

  ‘Since when does telling you I enjoy your company count as belittlement?’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’m doing you a disservice, but it’s not going to break your heart … kill you. You and I come from different worlds. You have your reason for being here; I have mine.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘A miracle.’ She stands still and stares at me defiantly, forcing the family behind us to an abrupt halt.

  ‘So you believe in miracles?’

  ‘Of course, since I believe in God.’

  ‘A “let’s cure Aunt Lily’s cancer in Lourdes today and let’s send a tsunami to Thailand tomorrow” God, I presume?’

  ‘A God whose ways are far beyond human comprehension.’

  ‘Just as well.’ Sensing that she is losing patience, I soften my tone. ‘In which case, if you don’t mind my asking, why haven’t you come here before? Your mother-in-law’s been I don’t know how many times and Richard fell ill – when was it? – twelve years ago?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s hard to act on your convictions. Other peoples’ suspicion: other peoples’ doubts get in the way. But I won’t let that happen here.’ Her vehemence is both a rebuke and a warning. ‘I’ve finally come to a place where, for 150 years, miracles have been recorded and, even if … even if I’m disappointed, I pray with all my heart that I’ll win back that purity – that integrity – of belief, from which nothing anyone says or does can shake me. Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘It answers me.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  We reach the top, where Richard is waiting impatiently for the ‘lazybones’, and gaze across the burnished gold dome of the Rosary Basilica into the teeming square.

  ‘So many people,’ I say. ‘Think how many visitors swarm here every year. Five or six million, all with their own hopes and prayers.’ I refrain from adding chequebooks. ‘Yet how many miracles have there been in total? Sixty something?’

  ‘Sixty-seven,’ a sonorous voice interjects. With his stomach concealed by the parapet, I have failed to identify the priest behind Richard as Father Humphrey.
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  ‘I’m obliged to you, Father!’

  ‘The last was in 2005. In order to defend itself against its critics, the Church has set up a rigorous authentication procedure. In the first place, it defines miracle very strictly as “a cure that is beyond scientific explanation”.’

  ‘But science is changing all the time.’

  ‘Which is why the process is so rigorous. What’s more, in Lourdes a miracle has to be “inexplicable, instantaneous and permanent”. And it’s ruled out if there’s been any previous medical treatment.’

  ‘Like what? Dialysis? Chemo? Or just aspirin?’

  ‘I imagine something in between,’ he replies smoothly, ‘but, mercifully, I’m not the one to judge. Nor is any other priest or bishop or even the Holy Father. There are twelve doctors: independent experts. Perhaps you should raise the matter with them?’

  ‘The film only lasts fifty minutes.’

  ‘And for that you’re willing to jeopardise your immortal soul?’ His audacity astounds me. ‘The problem with such a rigorous process,’ he adds, ‘is that it leaves no room for the thousands – literally thousands – of people who’ve had medical treatment that’s failed and then have come here and been cured, in their own mind, miraculously. So to incorporate them, the authorities have created a second category of “authentic cure by grace”.’

  ‘Just how many thousands are there?’

  ‘Around seven.’

  ‘Well, even if you take that larger figure, you have to admit that the odds aren’t too great.’

  ‘The odds are immaterial when you’re dealing with the Almighty. But I’m keeping you. During her thirteenth apparition, the Lady said to Bernadette: “Go tell the priest to build a chapel and let the people come here in procession.” As you’ll see, it’s a very special chapel.’

  Taking our leave of Father Humphrey, we enter the Crypt, the first of the three churches to be built on the site. We walk down a long passage lined with ancient gratitude into a white vaulted chapel dominated by a statue of the Madonna and Child framed by a golden nimbus. At the altar, a Vietnamese priest is saying mass for a group of his fellow countrymen.

  ‘So what do you think?’ I ask Richard, as Gillian slips off into a small side-chapel.