town is built
of the same yellow stone, so that the squat yellow houses rise up from the
yellow bricked streets like baked goods. The air makes a rasping noise, as if
it were scratching the hot stones. I see a Spanish widow, dressed in the
familiar black weeds, disappear around a corner. I dash to catch her, but with
the weight of my pack I turn to stare down an empty cul-de-sac. A dog occupying
the only smudge of shade beneath a stone bench snarls territorially when I
pass.
I grow paranoid in these
conditions. I sense that people are hiding behind their heavy wooden shades,
peeping at me through the cracks. A German tour bus—strange to see—idles along
one street, belching waves of heat. I gesture, but the driver motions me to
move on. From behind the tinted glass windows, a bright red Teutonic face
stares at me as she pulls herself into a coat. The Mercedes air-conditioning
must be too chilly.
At last I come upon a group
of kids, Torres del Rio’s version of the Wild Bunch. One boy is scarred
menacingly on his cheek. The girls are dressed sluttily, an attempt at heavy
metal rebellion. They sulkily direct me to the bar.
It is closed, of course. My
fingers drag on the glass door because the air-conditioning within has caused
lovely droplets of condensation to form on the door. I press the side of my
face to the glass. I shout for the owner. But in the scorched stillness and
stony acoustics of Torres del Rio, my ample voice is useless.
One of the miracles
chronicled in the old books speaks of five eleventh-century knights who swore
to accompany each other on the road. When one named Noriberto fell ill, a testy
debate ended with three of the knights walking on. Felix, the fourth knight,
stayed behind to care for the sick knight. After Noriberto had rested, he got
up to walk. Moments later Saint James appeared from the sky on horseback, swept
up the two noble pilgrims, and flew them to Santiago.
This story may sound like
harmless myth, a quaint hallucination from the collective mind of desperately
tired people. But in the unforgiving sun of the road, impossibility segues
easily into improbability, melts into uncanniness, and then registers as quite
likely. The pilgrim goes over the details of the story just one more time.
Exactly what was it Felix and Noriberto did to get a lift?
On foot, a pilgrim finds
that his mind can get so blurred by the stroke-inducing sunshine that in his
reverie he almost believes that he can control these coincidences. Wish hard
enough, and that horse will gallop right up. On several occasions I have eaten
all the food in my pack, opened it, and found that my stash has reappeared.
Empty bottles of water have filled themselves. Money has appeared when I had
none. On precisely those occasions when I was out of hard currency and hungry,
strangers have offered me meals without prompting. I could go on.
Standing outside the cold
door to the closed bar, I fish through my pockets, looking for money. I intend
to wait for the bar to open. Among my coins I feel a piece of paper. On it is
written, “Torres del Río. Casa Santa Bárbara.” A few days ago, somebody—a
pilgrim, a bartender, a monk, I honestly cannot remember—wrote down the address
of this residence because the owner offers help to pilgrims. A few more days in
this heat and I would be swearing that the piece of paper just appeared there.
Saint James.
The Wild Bunch directs me to
a street on the edge of town. Casa Santa Bárbara is a stunning mansion, a wide
boxy symmetry of two-story windows. I’ve struck it rich. A set of hedges frames
an impressive entrance of twin doors. Every inch of the yellow stone is
blanketed in luxuriously green ivy. Above the doors is a colorful tile
depicting Santa Bárbara, the patroness of military artillery. On the ground is
a curled wrought-iron boot scrape. I use it and then knock.
The door opens swiftly to
frame the extravagant figure of Ramón Sostres. “I am El Ramón,” he says. Elis hands and
of the same yellow stone, so that the squat yellow houses rise up from the
yellow bricked streets like baked goods. The air makes a rasping noise, as if
it were scratching the hot stones. I see a Spanish widow, dressed in the
familiar black weeds, disappear around a corner. I dash to catch her, but with
the weight of my pack I turn to stare down an empty cul-de-sac. A dog occupying
the only smudge of shade beneath a stone bench snarls territorially when I
pass.
I grow paranoid in these
conditions. I sense that people are hiding behind their heavy wooden shades,
peeping at me through the cracks. A German tour bus—strange to see—idles along
one street, belching waves of heat. I gesture, but the driver motions me to
move on. From behind the tinted glass windows, a bright red Teutonic face
stares at me as she pulls herself into a coat. The Mercedes air-conditioning
must be too chilly.
At last I come upon a group
of kids, Torres del Rio’s version of the Wild Bunch. One boy is scarred
menacingly on his cheek. The girls are dressed sluttily, an attempt at heavy
metal rebellion. They sulkily direct me to the bar.
It is closed, of course. My
fingers drag on the glass door because the air-conditioning within has caused
lovely droplets of condensation to form on the door. I press the side of my
face to the glass. I shout for the owner. But in the scorched stillness and
stony acoustics of Torres del Rio, my ample voice is useless.
One of the miracles
chronicled in the old books speaks of five eleventh-century knights who swore
to accompany each other on the road. When one named Noriberto fell ill, a testy
debate ended with three of the knights walking on. Felix, the fourth knight,
stayed behind to care for the sick knight. After Noriberto had rested, he got
up to walk. Moments later Saint James appeared from the sky on horseback, swept
up the two noble pilgrims, and flew them to Santiago.
This story may sound like
harmless myth, a quaint hallucination from the collective mind of desperately
tired people. But in the unforgiving sun of the road, impossibility segues
easily into improbability, melts into uncanniness, and then registers as quite
likely. The pilgrim goes over the details of the story just one more time.
Exactly what was it Felix and Noriberto did to get a lift?
On foot, a pilgrim finds
that his mind can get so blurred by the stroke-inducing sunshine that in his
reverie he almost believes that he can control these coincidences. Wish hard
enough, and that horse will gallop right up. On several occasions I have eaten
all the food in my pack, opened it, and found that my stash has reappeared.
Empty bottles of water have filled themselves. Money has appeared when I had
none. On precisely those occasions when I was out of hard currency and hungry,
strangers have offered me meals without prompting. I could go on.
Standing outside the cold
door to the closed bar, I fish through my pockets, looking for money. I intend
to wait for the bar to open. Among my coins I feel a piece of paper. On it is
written, “Torres del Río. Casa Santa Bárbara.” A few days ago, somebody—a
pilgrim, a bartender, a monk, I honestly cannot remember—wrote down the address
of this residence because the owner offers help to pilgrims. A few more days in
this heat and I would be swearing that the piece of paper just appeared there.
Saint James.
The Wild Bunch directs me to
a street on the edge of town. Casa Santa Bárbara is a stunning mansion, a wide
boxy symmetry of two-story windows. I’ve struck it rich. A set of hedges frames
an impressive entrance of twin doors. Every inch of the yellow stone is
blanketed in luxuriously green ivy. Above the doors is a colorful tile
depicting Santa Bárbara, the patroness of military artillery. On the ground is
a curled wrought-iron boot scrape. I use it and then knock.
The door opens swiftly to
frame the extravagant figure of Ramón Sostres. “I am El Ramón,” he says. Elis hands and
Similar Books
