The Great Weaver From Kashmir (46 page)

“Look here!” he said when they set off. “Rome is exceptionally rich in history because it is built on seven hills; it is built on seven hills, and that's why it's called Rome. It was very wise of you to take a trip to Rome once you had decided to take a trip at all. Helen the Fair, who is famous from the Trojan War, was the daughter of the brothers Romulus and Remus, and they had two sons as an only child, named Paris. Now once after Paris the king's son paid Romulus and Remus a visit, Romulus and Remus pursued him, because he kidnapped Helen the Fair. And she was given this name because she was the most beautiful of women. A certain king named Achilles comes into the story, and he was descended from Paris and Helen on his father's side, since he had kidnapped the couple's daughter, and he put his ships to sea; history says nothing more of his journey.”

When the story reached this point they arrived at the gates of Saint Peter's Basilica. The man helped her dismount, tied the donkey to
one of the columns and opened the church doors. The church was packed with people; on one side stood countless little aristocratic women with tall silk hats, and on the other side big railway officers from Milan, chewing tobacco. But before the altar stood the holy apostle Peter, consecrating to the true faith young boys who had abandoned their sweethearts. Then the sweethearts were used as fill where new roads were being laid. “That's better!” said the poor woman. “Yes, no one can defeat them now,” said her guide, who had taken off his hat and scratched his head where the bullet had gone through.

The boys walked in a single-file line up to the altar, clad in ceremonial chasubles made of pieces of chintz, and the holy apostle Peter consecrated all of them to the true faith and gave each of them a map and compass. But one towered head and shoulders above the rest, with a mane like a lion and a glance like a flash of lightning, bright and limitless. She waited burning with impatience until he reached the front of the line, whence he walked solemnly up to the altar and knelt before the apostle Peter.

“I hereby permit myself to consecrate you to the true faith,” said the apostle, “and call upon you not to behave in any foolish or ridiculous way–”

But the woman saw that it was now or never if she were to put an end to this wickedness, so she sprang up from her seat and ran in through the church, stopped in front of the altar, thrust her fists at the apostle's face, and shouted:

“You have no right to take him from me, Peter; he is mine!

“Steinn, I call Heaven and Earth as witnesses that I and no one but I own you! Neither God nor men have the right to take you from me.”

“Filth!” said the aristocratic women.

“Who does she think she is?” said the men, and they jeered and spat.

Steinn Elliði saw that the crucial moment was at hand, and that no one who stands in debt to a human soul could become a saint. And he threw aside his chasuble quickly, took the woman by the arm and led her out of the church, but the entire congregation fussed and cursed, because they could all see that these were sinful folk, and the master of ceremonies had a hard time silencing their shouts. But when most of the clamor had dwindled the men came out onto the veranda and informed the people of the latest news:

“Doomsday tomorrow. Starts at eight o'clock sharp. The house will be opened at 7½. Admission one króna. Children under 16 not admitted.”

Nightfall in Rome.

A car stops outside the Salesian seminary on the Via Romagna and a woman steps out. She walks up broad and broken doorsteps and stops in the open entryway. There sits an old man in a cloak at a little table, clenching his sinewy hands around a rough-hewn rosary, reciting the Ave Maria. The light falls upon his wrinkled face and bare cheeks. He rocks forward and back and laughs from sheer old age.

She asked after Steinn Elliði, and for a good amount of time the
doorman understood nothing. Finally it came out that this ragamuffin of a doorman was a French lay brother.

“You mightn't mean the young man from Scandinavia who has been received by the fathers here as a guest?” he finally asked.

Yes, that was exactly whom she meant. She wished to be permitted to speak to him.

“He is not available at the moment, madame. He is training with the novices, and when the training is finished they sing the
completorium
in the chapel, and will not be finished until shortly before midnight. It would be more advisable for you to come tomorrow, madame; he will be available for conversation during the free time between one and two.”

She stared straight ahead for some time without knowing what to do. After contemplating for a moment she felt that it would be cowardly to return to the hotel the way things stood, and she addressed the brother again, more boldly than before.

“I am determined to wait for him,” she said. “If you do not dare to disturb him until he has completed these exercises, then I must ask you to show me to his room. I am a family member and have come here to Rome to discuss a very important family matter with him; this matter must not be delayed any further. Look at my passport, please, so that you can be sure of who I am.”

The old man examined her for several moments with the extraordinarily discriminating look of an experienced doorman, and laughed. Finally he admitted that “
Madame n'a pas l'air d'une intrigueuse
,”
¹³⁸
and after making several attempts finally got himself to his feet, then lit a lamp and bade her follow him. She followed him through a large waiting room decorated with statues of the blessed Don Bosco and
other saints, then through a broad hallway, until he opened a door and invited her to step in.

“If this young man were one of the novices,” said the brother, “then I would not be allowed to show visitors in to his room, especially at this time of day. But the young Scandinavian is staying here like any other guest at an inn; a friend of the superior, who is a monk in Switzerland, sent him here to spend a winter reflecting on his vocation. But since you are his cousin, come from a distant country on an urgent errand, then–”

He lit the gas, offered her a chair and left. The room was bleak, with a high ceiling and shuttered windows. On one wall hung a simple cross, and under it stood a prie-dieu of polished wood. On another wall was a portrait of the meal in Emmaus: three men sit eating beneath a tree, Christ in the middle, radiant: he looks toward Heaven, raises his right hand in blessing, and holds a loaf of bread in his left. On the table in front of him are a chalice and paten and a cluster of grapes. At the same moment that he blesses the bread the eyes of the disciples are opened and they recognize him; one extends his hands; the other clutches his hands over his heart. Wonder and adoration shine from both of their faces. A pockmarked moon glistens in the twilight sky behind them. At the foot of the portrait stand these words of Gregory the Great:

“
Deum quem in divinae scripturæ expositione non cognoverant, in panis fractione cognoscunt
.”
¹³⁹

In one corner stood a bookshelf with thick black books, in the middle of the room a desk covered with open books and notes written in Steinn Elliði's hand, all in Latin.

She looked through the half-open door into his bedroom, and was surprised to see a framed picture of a woman on the nightstand. She was immediately seized with the thought that the picture was of her, but it was not so; it was a completely different woman. It was a pauper woman from Judea, dark brown in the face after fetching water in the heat, sad eyes dark and dreamy, her mantle sewn with gold and silver seams as a sign of grace. The boy rested in her arms. Both of them had pancakes over their heads, the lady a large one, the boy a fritter. And beneath the picture was written this passage:

“Oh, dear mother Mary! You are the refuge of sinners. You never forsake me. Have mercy on me. If I have offended your son, then I repent with all my heart, and I am ready to lose my life a thousand times sooner than his grace. Oh, mother of mercy, have pity on me! I hear you named by all the hope and refuge of the sinner. Be also my hope and refuge. Help me for the sake of your beloved son Jesus Christ. Extend your hand to help a miserable, fallen wretch. Verily, my past is greatly stained with sins, and that is because I placed no faith in your help. Now I glorify Almighty God, who by his grace has granted me faith in you. Mother of God, be my mother!”

Time passes. She waits motionless in the chair before his desk, and stares either at the white-painted doors or at the unintelligible Latin in the open books. Twice or thrice the weak resounding of a bell is
heard from another wing of the house. Mass is rung out and rung in. At times robed beings make a rustling in the hallway. Finally a church bell is rung, and a faint resounding of monotone song comes from either down in the cellar or out in the garden. On the street all is quiet.

Finally deep-voiced bells are rung, first slowly, then little by little more briskly. Now all the day's holiness is rung to a close. There is a swishing of clothing from various directions outside the room. In the woman's breast something trembles. The door handle is turned with a brisk, determined movement. And the door opens.

Steinn Elliði is wearing a black full-length soutane, tight-fitting, with small closely set buttons; around his waist is a broad black silken sash, tied with a knot; at his neckline stands a white gleaming collar, buttoned in back. His hair has been cut down to the roots. She had never seen his head so bare. It was peculiarly long and slender, convex at the forehead and back. She had never before noticed that his face was so big, almost gigantic. His glance was cold and clear, like that of a man who has a goal but still has a long journey to make to reach it, his lips pursed. The frames of his glasses were of iron.

He stopped in the doorway and looked at her, then shut the door.

“Well now,” he said, without showing any emotion. “You here.”

“Yes, Steinn, I have come!” she said, and she stood up, went over to him, and extended her hand. “Bless you, Steinn!”

But instead of greeting her he took one step backward.

“God help you, woman! What do you want here?”

“Dear Steinn, my beloved Steinn; weren't you certain that I would come when I was free, as I promised? Steinn, I've traveled night and day.”

“How dare you come here by night like a thief! Try to imagine how discourteous this is toward the masters of this house! Get out of here, quickly!”

But she came to him, laid her hands on his shoulders, her face against his breast, and spoke as if she wanted to whisper to his heart:

“Steinn, I have come to you because I can do nothing else. I cannot live except with you. Have pity on me! Do with me anything that you will; anything except reject me. God does not want you to reject me after all that I have endured for your sake ever since I was a child. And God does not want you to be here. He cannot want that. God wants you to be happy. God does not want you to waste your life in a foolish battle with your soul. Steinn, allow me to free you from the claws of these soulless, merciless men who keep you in this prison. Steinn, follow me out into life where happiness awaits us.”

She slipped her naked hands beneath the sash around his waist.

“At least do not let me leave without this. God cannot wish for you to drive me away like a harlot out into eternal darkness. No God could be so vicious.”

He freed himself from her arms, grabbed his face in his hands, and stumbled across the room like a drunken man, until he kneeled down on the prie-dieu beneath the cross.

“My God, my soul desires no peace until it rests in you; it was created for nothing other than you; eradicate, my God, all that I call my own; for everything that is not yours comes from the Evil One.
Humble me, Lord, humble me; let me never forget that I am the most sinful of all sinners and the weakest of the weak; let me neither hunger nor thirst for anything but your grace, and give me the humility of the saints who have drowned their sins in your wounds. Send me out into the street to beg for alms. Let me drink the water used to cleanse the sores of lepers, so that I might learn to break the blade off the spear of my arrogance. Holy Mother of God, you who bear the Creator of the universe in your arms, be also my mother and whisper to me words of wisdom as you did to your child of old. Holy maiden, protect the one who flees to you in need; pray for the one who calls upon you in despair, pray for me. My God, if you call me into your wilderness, I shall set out tonight, because I know that if you call me, you have also prepared for me a little cave in the mountains where I shall be allowed to await the final dawn facing your cross. Place upon my shoulders the heaviest cross that I can carry, my God, because I deserve it, and do not deny me your grace, because without your grace I am lost for life. Condescend to look down on me, Lord, and have mercy on me, because behold, I am destitute and alone.”

He raised his hands and his face toward the Crucified One and remained in this position for a long time. Finally he stood up and looked in amazement at the woman.

“Poor child!” he said, and his face was so radiant that she had never seen anything more beautiful in her life. “Man is an illusion. Go and seek God your Creator because all is illusion except for him.”

The night sky is heavy with bitterly cold, raw weather.

She wanders in the darkness throughout the streets of the holy city of Rome, dead tired like a drunken harlot, sits down on a doorstep or on a bench in a public garden and lets her head sink down, drifts off in a delirious dizziness and disquietude, starts with a chill and feels a feverish weakness pass through her limbs, hastens away again. It did not cross her mind once to try to find her way back to her hotel. All roads meant nothing to her. She had come to Rome, where all roads led; now no road was right any longer, no road wrong. The world is like a night in Rome. The streets crisscross, and who knows where they lead? Some folk are sleeping; some are awake; some are being born, others are dying. And the life of man is an attempt to arm oneself for war against the eternal horror that laughs behind the day. If the illusion is swept away and a man sees himself, it goes the same for him as for the fool: he discovers that comfort is found neither in Heaven nor on Earth, and then he dies. And Rome is a particularly famous city because it is built on seven hills, and through the center of the city the Tiber River rolls along with the history of mankind in its brown waves. It is a meaningless satire, sprinkled with Spiritualism, like something written by Arthur Conan Doyle; it has no beginning and no end, like a dance of death in a graveyard.