"Who do you mean, Brother Francis?"
"The swallows."
I wanted to laugh, but right away I reflected that all of us have nothing but outer ears and eyes, whereas Francis had inner eyes and ears in addition. When the birds sang, we heard only the melody; he heard the melody and also the words.
We knelt under the pine trees, said our prayers, and resumed our journey.
My heart was frisking like a newborn kid. For years I had longed to visit the Holy City, to make my pilgrimage to the tombs of the Apostles, to stand on the base of one of the columns of Saint Peter's and see the thrice-holy countenance of God's representative on earth. I had heard that no one could view it without lifting his hand to his eyes to shield them from the dazzling radiance.
At last we were coming near. The closer we came, the more clearly we heard the strong lowing of the Eternal City: it was like a cow giving birth, or like a wild beast racked by hunger. From time to time human voices flew into the air, trumpets blared, bells rang. Noble lords in armor and rich ladies mounted on black and white horses kept passing along the great street. Clouds of dust rose up; the heat was oppressive; the air reeked with the filth of horses, oxen, and men.
"We are entering the home of the Apostle Peter," Francis said to me. "Whatever you see and hear now has a secret meaning--so beware! Did you notice the noble ladies who passed us on their black and white horses? The vices and virtues promenade here in the same way: like great, noble ladies."
"Vices too, Brother Francis!" I exclaimed. "Here, in the home of the Apostle Peter?"
Francis laughed. "How simple and naive you are, Brother Leo! How inexperienced! And how very much I like you! Where else do you expect the vices to be found? Here, of course, in the Holy City! This is where Satan is in danger and so this is where he concentrates all his troops. Cross yourself and enter. We're here!"
We turned into a wide street. Unaccustomed as we were to the sounds of a great city, we were deafened by the shouts, rumbles, barking, neighing. Merchants were hawking their wares at the top of their lungs; bishops passed us inside silk- lined litters, their escort running in front to clear the way. Prostitutes walked by, and the whole street smelled of musk and jasmine. . . . "These are the vices," I kept murmuring, and I lowered my gaze.
Suddenly both Francis and I cried out. A strange procession had appeared at the end of the road. In front came five or six heralds dressed in black and blowing long bronze trumpets. They stopped their horses every so often and a crier, mounted on a camel, thundered: "Christians, Christians, the Holy Sepulcher is passing! Gaze upon it, gaze upon it with shame! How long shall it be trampled and soiled by the Infidels? To arms, brothers, in Christ's name! Let us all join together to deliver the Holy Sepulcher!" Then he would be silent, and the trumpets would sound again. Behind, advancing very slowly, came four oxen yoked to an oxcart, and upon the oxcart was a replica of the Holy Sepulcher, fashioned from wood, iron, and multicolored strips of cloth. This was crowned by a wooden horse with a hideous Saracen astride it, holding a standard--a half-moon on a green background--which he waved in the air, while the horse, its tail uplifted, defecated upon the sacred tomb. Following in back came a band of women dressed in weeds of mourning. They had let down their hair, and were beating their breasts and lamenting.
The pageant went by, turned a corner, and disappeared. It did not disappear from our eyes, however, but went by, went by, and seemed to have no end. Our tears flowed, the city grew indistinct, and we saw nothing now except the desecrated Holy Sepulcher: except our desecrated souls.
"We still have much work to do, Brother Leo," Francis said, wiping away his tears. "Life is short. Will we have time? What do you think, my brother?"
"There, you see, our earthly life does have some value," I replied. "So why desert it?"
Francis did not answer. He was thinking, and I rejoiced that I had made him reflect on this. You see, I loved life, that tiny blade of grass, and I did not want to release my grip.
It was growing dark. We were ready to drop, and as we went along the narrow streets, we stopped every moment to search for a place to sleep. A tiny, barefooted old man with a small, white, wedge-shaped beard had been following us for some time. Finally he came up to us.
"Excuse me," he said. "You appear to be strangers here, and poor, as I am myself. Like Christ, you have nowhere to lay your heads. Come with me."
"God has sent you," said Francis. "We shall go where you lead us."
We proceeded through filthy alleyways where the poor teemed like ants. Naked children were rolling in the mud, women doing laundry or cooking in the middle of the street, men squatting, throwing dice. Our guide went in the lead, walking hurriedly, and we followed in silence behind him.
Suddenly Francis leaned over to my ear.
"Who could he be?" he whispered. "Perhaps he's Christ, and he has taken pity on us."
"He might also be Satan," I answered. "We'd better be careful."
Our destination was a half-crumbling inn with a spacious courtyard and a well in the center. Looming black on all sides were dilapidated chambers, doorless, like caves.
The old man stopped, looked around, and took us into one of the rooms. He lit the lamp.
"You can spend the night safely here, brothers. This is a wicked city, and dangerous at night. God took pity on you."
"Who are you, my brother?" asked Francis, looking carefully at the old man.
"You'll find two stools and a jug of water here," the other continued. "Right now I'm going to get you some bread and olives, and then we can talk. You seem to be poor God- fearing men; I too am poor and God-fearing. In other words, we have much to talk about. I'll be back in a moment." He vanished into the darkness of the yard. I looked at Francis. "I don't like that old fellow," I said. "There's some hidden motive behind his kindness."
"Judging from the look of his eyes, he seems trustworthy," said Francis. "Let's place our confidence in the man, Brother Leo."
Two mats had been unrolled on the floor. The glitter of several stars entered through a lofty skylight whose dividers formed a cross. It was completely dark now outside.
The old man returned with our bread and olives. He had also brought two pomegranates.
"Brothers," he said, "where I come from we have a saying: 'Few possessions and lots of love!' Welcome!"
We crossed ourselves and started to eat. Our host knelt in a corner and watched us. As soon as we had finished and given thanks to God, Francis began to speak, not giving the old man a chance to question him.
"We are two poor friars," he said. "We have other brothers as well, and we spend our lives glorifying God and begging. We do not want to own anything, and we've come here to the Holy City to ask the vicar of Jesus Christ to grant us a great privilege: the privilege of absolute Poverty. . . . Now you know everything. We've made our confession. Your turn next!"
The tiny old man coughed. For some time he remained quiet, fingering his beard. Finally he opened his mouth to speak. "You have confided in me; I shall confide in you. God is my witness that I shall tell you the whole truth. I am from Provence and am one of the sect of true Christians, the Cathari--you must have heard of us. You love poverty, and so do we. But above all we love purity, chastity, cleanness, which is why we're called the Cathari. We hate pleasure, woman, everything material. We won't sit on a stool that a woman has sat on; we won't eat bread that a woman has kneaded. We don't get married, don't have children; and we don't eat meat, because a male and a female united to produce it. We don't drink wine, don't spill blood, don't kill, don't go to fight in wars. We have no use for the world: it is dishonest, a liar, fornicator, a trap set by the devil. Is it possible that God created it? No, the world is not God's work, it is the work of Satan. God created only the spiritual world; Satan created the material world into which our souls have fallen, and where they are now being drowned. To be saved, therefore, we must flee this world. How? Through the good offices of the Archangel of Salvation--Death."
&n
bsp; The contours of the old man's face were sparkling; the air around his head vibrated with radiant heat. Francis had hidden his face behind his palms.
"What is Death?" continued the old man, swept away with emotion. "What is Death? The angelic gatekeeper! He opens the door, and we enter the life everlasting."
Francis lifted his head. For a moment his face grew dark, as though the wing of Death had passed over him. "Forgive me, old man, but it seems to me that you scorn the world far too much. The world is an arena where we have come to wrestle in order to turn our flesh into spirit. Only after all the flesh has become spirit is the world no longer necessary for us. Let Death come then, not before. We must entreat God to give us enough time to obliterate the flesh."
"Only Death can do that," the old man objected stubbornly.
"If so, what worth does man have?" asked Francis. "We must do it, not Death."
Getting up, he unhooked the lamp from the wall and brought it close to the old man's face.
"Who are you?" he asked in an anguished voice. "Your words are seductive, dangerous. This is the way the Tempter speaks. I am going to leave."
He turned and nodded to me. "Get up, Brother Leo, we're going!"
I did not budge. Where could we have gone? Besides, I was too sleepy to move. "Running away doesn't seem to me a very manly way to act, Brother Francis," I said. "Why not stay? You have no reason to be afraid of him. Let him describe the road he has chosen to lead him to God. There are many roads."
Francis was standing in the doorway looking out into the night. The whir of the city had subsided; the stars hung over the earth, quivering. Within the ruins of the inn, an owl sighed gently.
Francis returned to his mat and sat down, leaning his back against the wall. "Yes, there are many roads," he murmured, "many roads . . ." Then he was silent.
The old man got up. "My words have entered your ears," he said. "Now, like it or not, they will travel inside you, slowly but surely, until they reach your hearts. I've had my say, I've sown my seed, and now the rest is up to God!"
Having declared this, he vanished into the darkness of the courtyard.
We remained alone. We blew out the lamp and sat in silence for a considerable time. I closed my eyes to go to sleep, but then Francis said to me in a voice that was tranquil, gentle, sad: "Brother Leo, I have confidence in your heart. Speak!"
"Don't listen to the old Tempter," I replied. "The earth is good. I, for one, would like to harness my body to a turtle so that my earthly passage could last as long as possible. Why? Because I like the earth! Forgive me, Lord: heaven is fine, as fine as one could wish, but oh, the scent of the almond tree in springtime!"
"Get thee behind me, Satan!" exclaimed Francis, shifting his position. "Tonight my soul has fallen between two temptations. Go to sleep!"
I could have asked for nothing better. I closed my eyes and dropped off immediately. When I woke in the morning I saw Francis kneeling on the threshold, listening in ecstasy to the awakening world.
EVEN NOW after so many years, I grow dizzy when I think of the Holy City. I can still see Francis seated on a low stool in the pope's antechamber waiting to be allowed to go in. From morning till night we waited, both of us together: one day, two days, three. We were barefooted, tired, hungry. Cardinals in brilliant robes paraded in and out, as did great noble ladies; while Francis, seated on his humble stool, prayed and waited.
"We'd find it easier to see Christ Himself," I said to him disgustedly on the third day.
"The pope's countenance stands high above us, far far away," he replied. "We have been climbing for three days; tomorrow we shall face him. I know because I had a dream. Patience, Brother Leo!"
And true enough, on the fourth day the young priest who served as doorkeeper nodded to us, and the huge portals opened. Francis crossed himself, but then hesitated a moment, his knees sagging.
"Courage, Brother Francis," I said to him softly. "Don't forget that Christ is sending you. Stop shaking." "I'm not shaking, Brother Leo," he murmured, and he strode resolutely across the threshold.
We entered a long narrow chamber decorated everywhere in gold, with Christ's Passion painted on the walls, and statues of the twelve Apostles on either side. At the far end, seated on a high throne, a bulky old man was meditating, his head resting on his palm, his eyes closed. Apparently he had failed to hear us enter, because he did not move. I remained near the door while Francis went forward with trembling steps, approached the throne, knelt, and lowered his forehead to the floor.
For a long moment there was silence. We could hear the old man's heavy, fitful breaths--breaths which sounded just like sighs. Was he sleeping, praying, or observing us furtively with eyes that were only half-closed? I felt he was like a dangerous beast simulating sleep and ready to pounce upon us at any minute.
"Holy Father . . ."--Francis' voice was low, controlled, supplicating--"Holy Father . . ."
The pope raised his head slowly, then looked down and saw Francis. His nostrils were quivering.
"What a stench!" he exclaimed, his eyebrows vibrating with anger. "What are those rags, those bare feet! Who do you think you are?"
Francis replied with his face still against the floor: "I am a humble servant of God from Assisi, Holy Father." "What pigsty did you come from? I suppose you think you're duplicating the aroma of Paradise--is that it? Couldn't you have washed and dressed yourself for your appearance before me? All right, what do you want?"
In the course of so many sleepless nights, Francis had memorized what he was going to say to the pope. He had pieced together the entire speech with extreme skill, giving it a beginning, a middle, and an end in order to prevent the pope from thinking he did not know what he was about. But now that he found himself before God's shadow, his mind failed him. He opened his mouth two or three times but was unable to utter human speech. Instead, he bleated like a lamb.
The pope frowned. "Can't you talk? Tell me what you want."
"I have come to fall at your feet, Holy Father, and to request a favor of you."
"What favor?"
"A privilege."
"You--a privilege? What privilege?"
"The privilege of absolute Poverty, Holy Father."
"You ask a good deal!"
"We are several friars who wish to marry Poverty. I have come to ask you to bless our marriage, Holy Father, and to grant us permission to preach."
"To preach what?"
"Perfect Poverty, perfect Obedience, perfect Love." "We have no need of you, seeing that we preach all those things ourselves. Go, if you'll be so kind!"
Francis lifted his eyes from the floor and jumped to his feet. "Forgive me, Holy Father," he said, his voice steady now, "but I'm not going. God commanded me to make this journey to speak with you--and I have come. I beg you to hear me out. We are poor and illiterate; when we walk through the streets dressed in our rags we are battered with stones and lemon peels. People fly out of their homes and workshops to jeer at us. That--praise the Lord--is how our journey has begun. On this earth, doesn't every great Hope always start in the same way? All our trust is in our poverty, our ignorance, and in our hearts, which have caught fire. Before I left to come here and find you, Holy Father, I had drawn up clearly in my mind exactly what I intended to lay before you to make you say yes and affix your seal. But now I've forgotten everything. I look at you, and behind you I see Christ Crucified, and behind Christ Crucified, the Resurrection of our Lord, and behind the Resurrection of our Lord, the resurrection as well of the entire forsaken, totally forsaken world. What joy I see before me, Holy Father! How could it fail to bewilder a man's mind? It has bewildered mine; I am all confused, I don't know where to begin or what is the beginning, what the middle, what the end. Everything is the same now; everything is a sigh, Holy Father, a dance, a great cry that is hopeless and yet full of every hope. Oh, if you could only allow me to sing, Holy Father--then I would be able to convey what I wish to ask of you!"
I watched Francis from my
corner and trembled as I heard his words. His feet began to shift impatiently, agitatedly, darting out one step to the right, one step to the left, sometimes slowly, sometimes hastily, like those of skilled dancers who establish their rhythm prior to throwing themselves heart and soul into the sacred intoxication of the dance. Without a doubt, the spirit of God was twirling him around. He would begin clapping his hands at any moment and dancing, whereupon the pope would have us both thrown out.
And in truth, while this thought was passing through my mind, Francis lifted his hands. "You mustn't take this in the wrong spirit, Holy Father," he said. "I simply have a great desire to let out a piercing shout, clap my hands, and begin to dance. God is blowing all around me above, below, to the right, to the left--and spinning me about like a dry leaf."