Sinning Across Spain

by Ailsa Piper

  The city appeared as if conjured.

  Córdoba. Ancient capital of the caliphate, city of arabesque and picturesque and the famous cathedral–mosque, the Mezquita.

  Delicious words.

  On the outskirts (never as inviting as the inskirts) two men stopped to chat. A lawyer and an engineer, they were inspecting the area for a developer.

  ‘We admire your prime minister’s policy on immigration,’ the lawyer told me.

  I remembered my sinner’s anger at that policy and her equally passionate support for refugees, but said nothing. These men had Romans, Moors and Celts in their history. African faces were prominent in all the towns I’d passed. I had no knowledge of Spain’s policies and was not going to initiate an argument about Australia’s detention centres with two gentlemen who insisted on placing my pack in their car and allowing me to ride up front to the Roman bridge spanning the river Guadalquivir. Another delicious word!

  As we parted they shook my hand, telling me that their kindness was nothing; everyone, even a pilgrim, needs a lawyer! I was glad that for once I’d paused before giving an opinion. I was in another place with different complexities based on other histories.

  I stepped out onto the bridge, ancient Rome under my feet. A stone angel greeted me mid-way across and on the other side the Mezquita waited.

  Behind were six days and 164 kilometres of walking through landscapes of tough wonder. Ahead lay another 1036 kilometres in an optimistic thirty-six days.

  But for now, there was a city of over three hundred thousand people, and a rest day with all its possibilities.

  11

  Córdoba

  Neroli, the scent of spring, drew me to the centre. Blossom dusted the tops of orange trees and petals lay thick between cobbles on streets that had been trodden by Arabs, Romans, Jews and gypsies.

  And now me. The Aussie influx.

  The window of Residencia Marisa’s room 109 with shower opened onto a souk-like lane. I inhaled spice as I peered down on bargains being sealed, and a candle-decked shrine to the Virgin on a wall of the Mezquita.

  I unpacked everything. I washed everything. I showered. Everything!

  By early evening, I was ready to wander, a tourist and not a pilgrim.

  I found a ciber and tried to gather thoughts for my home village.

  The Spanish have been kind, I typed. The road has been kind. Leonardo and Ricardo still call every day, yet we don’t even know each other’s surnames.

  A friend mailed back: Don’t ask. Angels don’t have surnames!

  Others reported pain.

  Sin-telling had become psychological warfare: a determination to locate the source of envy that threatened a friendship; a request for me to make a small aspiration on the wind from a sacred spot because acceptance of the past would not come; fear of having nothing to offer without lies or gossip; guilt at turning away from a homeless person who requested money for food …

  That sinner wrote that she had thought of me out on the road, and walked back for ten minutes to give, only to find the beggar had moved on. She felt she had become blunted by selfishness, unable to give unless there was a tax donation attached.

  I was not sure what to write in reply. I’m not a psychologist and had no advice, and presumably the mediaeval pilgrims on whom I was modelling myself had not had any contact with their sinner-employers. I could only report on my experience. I told how people walked with me if I looked lost or uncertain, across creeks and eroded tracks.

  ‘De nada,’ they said. It’s nothing.

  It was something.

  ‘You’re a pilgrim,’ they said. ‘It’s important work. Muy importante.’

  More kindness than I could report with a queue waiting to use the ciber.

  My elation was partly due to the thrill of arrival. Having reached Córdoba, I began to believe I might be up to the task.

  Then there was Córdoba itself.

  The bridge, the river, the winding streets of the Jewish quarter, horses clopping on cobbles, patios spilling geraniums, and that neroli … like an opiate.

  Herr Theologie appeared. His knee was troubling him, so he had ridden buses. He looked smaller without his pack and checked constantly for his wallet among the jostle of holidaymakers. He’d booked into another hotel, but felt he was paying too much, so decided to move to Residencia Marisa.

  ‘You always find a good place,’ he said.

  I’d traipsed around for an hour before locating it. The city was overflowing with tourists and rooms were scarce. Herr T told me there was an airline strike and all these people would not be able to go home.

  But it wasn’t a strike. Over dinner we learned a volcano was erupting in Iceland. Clouds of ash swirled above Europe and planes were grounded indefinitely. People battled to book trains and buses. One man had hired a cab to drive him all the way to Germany!

  We ate pisto, like a ratatouille, with crusty bread and olive oil. Between bites, Herr T remarked that, once, people might have thought they’d offended the gods in some way to cause the eruption—that the wrath of gods was feared, and so people were more mindful of their actions.

  ‘So … people were good because they were scared?’

  Herr T stopped refilling our glasses and exhaled.

  ‘No, of course. That is not what I said. But it is like a child. Respect, and yes, a little fear of the parent, can make a child choose to be good.’

  ‘But if we’re only being good because we’re afraid, or worse, because we want something from our parent, then that isn’t truly good, is it?’

  ‘No, but it is better than having no boundaries at all.’

  ‘But how do we know what’s good, Herr T? What if we haven’t been well educated by this parent? What if I just take your bread now because I want it? I mean, if I’ve never been told that’s stealing, where’s the offence?’

  ‘Ah, well, surely you can see that if you take the bread from me without my permission, I may go hungry. I may starve. That is not a good result. I may be sad, or angry. Surely you would see that this is not good. You will realise for yourself, it is bad what you have done.’

  ‘Not if I have three children who haven’t eaten for days. It’s easy for you and me to obey rules. We have homes and food and families. But if I had no roof over my head? If my children’s bellies were empty.’

  ‘You would do better to ask me for help for them.’

  The waiter cleared our table.

  ‘Do you think, then, that something is good because the gods say so?’

  Herr T smiled.

  ‘So you have read Plato down in Australia? Is an action good because God loves it or does God love it because it is good? Yes? It is a favourite question from my students. An excellent question. Fair.’

  ‘And what do you answer them?’

  ‘Of course, I don’t answer them. I encourage them to find their own answer.’

  ‘Then what is your own answer?’

  He shook his head. Smiled.

  ‘You are very persistent, Miss Pilgrim. It is like the way you walk. You go and go, when sometimes I think you should learn to slow down. To stop.’

  I may have had the good grace to blush.

  ‘It’s true. But it’s natural for me. I try to slow down, but it’s hard.’

  ‘Yes, to go against our nature is difficult. Surely that is the point of the struggle to be good. Sometimes it asks us to go against our desire. But you could be a little kinder to yourself, I think. Your sincerity, it is clear. Your effort is clear. And if I can see it, I am sure that God can too. And that he loves it.’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘I can’t. Of course. But I see you. I see what comes to you. I say it before: you always find a good place. We are told that we will know them by their fruits. I am sorry. I see I embarrass you.’

 
‘No, no, it’s just …’

  My face burned. Any moment he would see that his assessment was flawed.

  ‘I don’t say that you are a saint, dear girl! Only that I can see the fruits of your actions and I think you are good. Or your intentions are. God sees that. You need have no fear.’

  ‘I have no need of fear, Herr T, because I think that what I seek in any god is the possibility of my best self.’

  The thought surprised me. Sometimes it’s only in the give and take of conversation that I get to learn what I’ve been mulling over.

  Herr T placed his glass on the table. He raised his eyes and smiled.

  ‘Go on, Miss Pilgrim. I listen.’

  ‘Well, perhaps no God made us. But rather … we “made” God. An idea of something perfect. A way for us to … to … aspire to perfection.’ My words came in bursts, like crossing creeks on stepping stones. ‘I think that religion gives us forms and shapes. Traditions. Ritual. And some useful laws. But I think that the spirit—soul, if you prefer—is utterly unconnected to religion. I think it’s connected to …’

  My stepping stones petered out.

  ‘… aspiration?’ Herr T whispered, nodding his head.

  ‘Yes, exactly. Aspiration to goodness. We yearn to realise our full potential, so we invented the idea of perfection so we could aim for it.’

  Herr T said he believed that not only was there a God, but that he was all-knowing. That God knew, when he created man, that everything, yes, even wars and disasters, would happen. Psalm 139: All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. It was not easy or fashionable to believe it, but believe we must, if we are to live in God’s love.

  ‘If goodness is loved by God,’ I said, ‘He or She has a funny way of showing it. Bad things happen to good people all the time.’

  My thoughts went to my brother. The discussion was getting personal for me.

  ‘My dear, you cannot know the workings of the divine or of people’s hearts.’

  ‘No. But I also can’t reconcile abuse and wars with love. Your God is like a parent who decides to conceive a child, knowing it will be raped or tortured. How do you love such a parent?’

  We wrangled further, over flan. Then coffee. He remained patient and steadfast, but we weren’t going to resolve those questions over dinner.

  Herr T said that he loved to be out in the world, being challenged. He spoke of his surprise that people on the camino liked him. I told him the surprise for me was that I liked myself, and that I was enough for myself, for days on end.

  ‘Yes, I also feel that,’ he said, but I wondered if he did. I wondered why he had taken the bus into Córdoba, rather than have his rest day in Castro del Río. Admittedly it was a pueblo and had little entertainment, but my experience of the smallest places was that they could offer deep peace and rich exchange. More so than cities.

  I told Herr T about a meeting I’d had on the Camino Francés.

  At the end of a long hot day’s walking, I had arrived in El Ganso, a pueblo my guidebook called ‘hauntingly crumbling’. It was dozing, and yes, perhaps a touch melancholy, with its Cowboy Bar at the entrance decorated in saddles and cowskins.

  El ganso means ‘wild goose’. I didn’t chase any.

  I wandered out of the albergue as the sun flirted with the horizon. A lone dog barked and a bird fluttered among the beams of an abandoned adobe building behind me. To my left was the handful of houses that made up the town. To my right was the road out. Opposite was a narrow dirt lane between two tumbledown buildings, and walking towards me up that lane was a man with broad, open features. His eyes were surrounded by deep lines. He leaned on a walking stick and waved with his free hand.

  ‘Buenas tardes, peregrina,’ he called, his face creasing into a grin. That smile was my introduction to Domingo. We stood in the main street, talking about the weather, how far I’d walked and where I was from.

  Australia got a good response.

  He held out his free arm and suggested a little walk—un camino pequeño.

  We set off at Domingo pace, stopping to sniff the wind, to look and listen.

  He gave me the grand tour of El Ganso, where he had spent his entire life. We saw the houses of his brothers and sisters; a big two-storey house, not so nice as the low ones; the vacant land, just waiting for a nice lady from Australia to buy it and build a new home; the abandoned houses, falling into disrepair and back into the ground; the edible rosehips; and the scratching chooks with their scrawny chicks.

  Stories everywhere. The house where he was born. The families who went away. The home that waits for his son. The flowers he planted for his sister. The figs, so good, so good …

  Then he took me to his house and ushered me inside. He showed me his kitchen, and the kettle his wife favoured; their bedroom and bathroom, both modern and cool; the guest room—for next visit? Then his shed, with its tools and folding garden furniture. His backyard, where he picked for me white roses tinged with softest pink, and two perfect pears. He had sons in Seattle and Madrid, he told me. They made a lot of money but they didn’t come home much.

  The whole tour took maybe an hour. Details, affection, the wonder of his almost-abandoned town …

  ‘Te gusta mi pueblo?’ You like my town?

  I did. I still do.

  As the sun set, he walked me back along the empty main street to the albergue, where he left me with a stiff bow and a sweep of his free arm, saying, ‘Esta es mi pueblo.’

  This is my town.

  I watched him walk away, the scent of pears and roses wafting in the warm air as the church steeple turned orange. All around his retreating figure, the stones of the houses glowed. His home was radiant, radiating. I saw how full it was of loves and losses, and how much richer I was for him having stepped into my life to tell me of them.

  I took my fruits and flowers to adorn my table at the Cowboy Bar. Cowboys were a disappearing breed and I wondered about the future of those pueblos. Would they survive the rush of the young to the cities and beyond?

  ‘Perhaps they will,’ Herr Theologie said, ‘if you and this Domingo keep telling his story.’

  I laughed. For a time I’d left Córdoba and Herr T, and indulged in the memory of that other road, and of Domingo’s gifts, given not to get a result but simply because he was kind. Like Lucia. They weren’t buying eternal brownie points. It was natural impulse, not fear of a vengeful deity.

  As I walked the twisted alleys back to Residencia Marisa, singing partygoers overtook me. The waiter had said the girls of Córdoba were the most beautiful in Spain and I saw nothing to make me disagree as they swished past, certain of their attractions. Children raced to hide around corners, and parents linked arms with their parents, the generations at play.

  My last thoughts, before sleep, were of other pilgrims, in other places …

  An American peregrina, hiking a trail called Wilderness of Rock in the Santa Catalina Mountains. She’d emailed she was walking in solidarity with me. I imagined her legs and heart pumping in clear desert air.

  My husband, planning a road trip to see the newly flooded inland rivers of our drought-afflicted land.

  My compañero, who had sent words to carry me:

  courage, ailsa,

  you do not walk alone

  i will

  walk with you

  and sing your spirit home

  Next morning I rose early to attend Mass at the Mezquita, a Catholic cathedral inside a Muslim mosque, built on Visigoth foundations, around the corner from an ancient synagogue. Misty rain was falling and I stepped with care across the cobbled courtyard’s slick of squashed blossom.

  On entering, a forest of ochre and white striped columns greeted me. There were no icons or adornments. It was a mysterious, lofty space, inviting contemplation—a place to drop you to your knees in
wonder.

  The Mezquita began its life around 600ad as a church dedicated to St Vincent. Then, after the Islamic conquest, work began in 785ad to re-fashion it as a mosque. For several hundred years, Córdoba was one of the most enlightened cities in Europe, with the Mezquita at its heart. Now, at the heart of the Mezquita lies a Catholic cathedral. It was inserted in 1523 after the Christian reconquest.

  I took my place in a pew near the front; carved mahogany choir stalls to my left. A tiny, white-haired woman sat beside me and shivered, pulling her cashmere cardigan closer. We whispered greetings. From Australia. Madre de Dios! A pilgrim. Verdad? Yes, truly.

  Others filed in, perhaps twenty. Then came the priests, twelve of them, some in purple robes, some in red and gold, and the smiling central celebrant wearing embroidered grape leaves. Twelve for twenty, arrayed around a gilded altar. They sang the mass, including the much-needed prayers for il Papa. My body remembered all the ritual movements, and my new friend squeezed my hand as she trilled responses in a wobbly falsetto.

  When Mass was done, she gestured for me to bend down.

  ‘Me alegra,’ she said, kissing my cheeks. You lift me up.

  I thought of Domingo.

  Those ancients. Ancianos. They struggled up hills to recite the rosary, walked through rain to polish candlesticks and arrange flowers, and battled rheumatic pain to bestow kindness. What made them keep the faith?

  I craved their belief. I longed to feel that reverence, to feel devotion and awe, and to have a relationship with the source of that awe. But it can’t be manufactured. Wishing will not make it so. Is envy a sin, I wondered, if what you envy is faith?

  It felt mean to envy my diminutive friend. I watched her totter into her day, and wondered if that meanness was what my sinner experienced when she thought of me. I also tried to imagine, as I’d done many times, what my mother would have been like had she grown old. I couldn’t see Sue as a grandmother either. Forever young …

  The Mezquita opened to tourists. Cameras flashed and tour guides brandished flags. Silence was dispelled. I left, grateful I’d had an opportunity to experience the place for the purpose it was intended.