The Pilgrimage (2 page)

A parade of masked people accompanied by a band all of them dressed in red, green, and
white, the colors of the French Basque region filled the main street of
Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. It was Sunday. I had spent the last two days driving, and now I
was enjoying the festiv- ities. But it was time for my meeting with Mme Lourdes. Forcing
my way through the crowd by car, I heard some shouted insults in French, but I finally
made it through to the fortified sector that constituted the oldest part of the city,
where Mme Lourdes lived. Even this high in the Pyrenees, it was hot during the day, and I
was soaked with perspiration as I got out of the car.

I knocked at the gate. I knocked again, but there was no response. A third time, and still
nothing happened. I felt confused and worried. My wife had said that I had to arrive there
exactly on that day, but no one answered when I called out. I thought that perhaps Mme
Lourdes had gone out to watch the parade, but it was also possi- ble that I had arrived
too late and that she had decided not to meet with me. My journey along the Road to
Santiago seemed to have ended even before it had begun.

Suddenly, the gate opened, and a child jumped through it. I was startled, and in halting
French I asked for Mme Lourdes. The child smiled at me and pointed toward the house. It
was only then that I saw my mis- take: the gate led onto an immense courtyard, around
which were situated medieval houses with balconies. The gate had been open, and I hadnt
even thought to try its handle.

I ran across the courtyard and up to the house that the child had indicated. Inside, an
elderly, obese woman yelled something in Basque at a small boy with sad, brown eyes. I
waited for a few moments, giving the argument a chance to end; it finally did, with the
poor boy being sent to the kitchen under a hail of insults from the old woman. It was only
then that she turned to me and, without even asking what it was that I wanted, led me
with delicate gestures and slight shoves to the second floor of the small house. This
floor consisted of just one room: a small, crowded office filled with books, objects,
statues of San Tiago, and memorabilia from the Road. She took a book from its shelf and
sat down behind the only table in the room, leaving me standing.

You must be another pilgrim to Santiago, she said, without preamble. I need to enter your
name in the reg- ister of those who walk the Road.

I gave her my name, and she wanted to know if I had brought the Scallops. She was
referring to the shells adopted as a symbol by pilgrims to the tomb of the

apostle; they served as a means of identification for the pilgrims when they met.*

Before leaving for Spain, I had made a pilgrimage to a place in Brazil called Aparecida do
Norte. There, I had purchased an image of Our Lady of the Visitation, mounted on three
scallop shells. I took it from my knapsack and offered it to Mme Lourdes.

Pretty but not very practical, she said, handing it back to me. It could break during your
pilgrimage.

Its not going to break. And I am going to leave it at the tomb of the apostle.

Mme Lourdes appeared not to have much time for me. She gave me a small card that would
help me to get lodging at the monasteries along the Road, stamped it with the seal of
Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to indicate that I had started the pilgrimage there, and said that
I could leave with Gods blessing.

But where is my guide? I asked.

What guide? she answered, a bit surprised but also with a gleam in her eye.

I realized that I had forgotten something very impor- tant. In my eagerness to arrive and
be attended to, I had neglected to say the Ancient Word a kind of password that
identifies those who belong to the orders of the Tradition. I immediately corrected my
mistake and said

* The Road to Santiago has made only one mark on French cul- ture, and that has been on
that countrys national pride, gastron- omy, through the name Coquilles Saint-Jacques.

the word to her. In response, Mme Lourdes quickly snatched from my hands the card she had
given me a few moments earlier.

You wont be needing this, she said, as she moved a pile of old newspapers that were
sitting on top of a card- board box. Your road and your stopping places will depend on
decisions made by your guide.

Mme Lourdes took a hat and a cape from the box. They seemed to be very old but well
preserved. She asked me to stand in the middle of the room, and she began silently to
pray. Then she placed the cape on my shoulders and the hat on my head. I could see that
scallop shells had been sewn onto both the hat and the shoulders of the cape. Without
interrupting her prayers, the old woman seized a shepherds crook from the corner of the
room and made me take it in my right hand. A small water gourd hung from the crook. There
I stood: dressed in Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt that read I LOVE NY, cov- ered by the
medieval garb of the pilgrims to Compostela.

The old woman approached me and stopped only a foot away. Then, in a kind of trance,
placing the palms of her hands on my head, she said, May the apostle San Tiago be with
you, and may he show you the only thing that you need to discover; may you walk neither
too slowly nor too fast but always according to the laws and the requirements of the Road;
may you obey the one who is your guide, even though he may issue an order that is
homicidal, blasphemous, or senseless. You must swear total obedience to your guide.

I so swore.

The Spirit of the ancient pilgrims of the Tradition must be with you during your journey.
The hat will pro- tect you from the sun and from evil thoughts; the cape will protect you
from the rain and from evil words; the gourd will protect you from enemies and from evil
deeds. May the blessing of God, of San Tiago, and of the Virgin Mary be with you through
all of your nights and days. Amen.

Having said this, she returned to her normal manner; hurriedly and with a bit of
irritation, she took back the articles of clothing, placed them in the box, and returned
the crook with the gourd to the corner of the room; then, after teaching me the password,
she asked me to leave, since my guide was waiting for me two kilometers outside of
Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port.

He hates band music, she said. But even two kilo- meters away he must have been able to
hear it; the Pyrenees are an excellent echo chamber.

Before I left, I asked what I should do with the car, and she said I should leave the keys
with her; someone would come to pick it up. Then, without another word, she descended the
stairs and went to the kitchen to inflict more torment on the boy with the sad eyes. I
opened the trunk of the car, took out my small blue knapsack with my sleeping bag tied to
it, and placed the image of Our Lady of the Visitation in its most pro- tected corner. I
put the knapsack on my back and went back to give the keys to Mme Lourdes.

Leave Pied-de-Port by following this street to the city gates at the end of the wall, she
told me. And when you get to Santiago de Compostela, say a Hail Mary for me. I have walked
the Road so many times that now I content myself with reading in other pilgrims eyes the
excitement that I still feel; I just cant put it into practice anymore because of my age.
Tell that to San Tiago. And tell him also that any time now I will join him, follow- ing a
different road thats more direct and less exhaust- ing.

I left the small city, passing through the wall at the Spanish Gate. In the past, the city
had been on the pre- ferred route for the Roman invaders, and through that gate had also
passed the armies of Charlemagne and Napoleon. I walked along, hearing the band music in
the distance, and suddenly, in the ruins of a village not far from the city, I was
overwhelmed by emotion, and my eyes filled with tears; there in the ruins, the full impact
of the fact that I was walking the Strange Road to Santiago finally hit me.

The view of the Pyrenees surrounding the valley, lit by the morning sun and intensified by
the sound of the music, gave me the sensation that I was returning to something primitive,
something that had been forgot- ten by most other human beings, something that I was
unable to identify. But it was a strange and powerful feeling, and I decided to quicken my
pace and arrive as soon as possible at the place where Mme Lourdes had said my guide would
be waiting for me. Without stop-

ping, I took off my shirt and put it in my knapsack. The straps cut into my bare shoulders
a bit, but at least my old sneakers were broken in enough that they caused me no
discomfort. After almost forty minutes, at a curve in the road that circled around a
gigantic rock, I came upon an old abandoned well. There, sitting on the ground, was a man
of about fifty; he had black hair and the look of a gypsy, and he was searching for
something in his knapsack.

Hola, I said in Spanish, with the same timidity that I show whenever I meet someone new.
You must be waiting for me. My name is Paulo.

The man interrupted his search through the knap- sack and looked me up and down. His gaze
was cold, and he seemed not at all surprised by my arrival. I also had the vague
impression that I knew him.

Yes, I was waiting for you, but I didnt know that I was going to meet you so soon. What do
you want?

I was a little disconcerted by his question and answered that it was I whom he was to
guide along the Milky Way in search of my sword.

Thats not necessary, said the man. If you want me to, I can find it for you. But you have
to decide right now whether you want me to.

This conversation with the stranger seemed increas- ingly weird to me. But since I had
sworn complete obedience, I tried to respond. If he could find my sword for me, it would
save an enormous amount of time, and I could return immediately to my friends

and my business in Brazil; they were always on my mind. This could also be a trick, but
there was no harm in giving him an answer.

As I was about to say yes, I heard a voice behind me say, in heavily accented Spanish, You
dont have to climb a mountain to find out whether or not its high.

It was the password! I turned and saw a man of about forty, in khaki Bermudas and a white,
sweaty T- shirt, staring at the gypsy. He was gray-haired, and his skin was darkened by
the sun. In my haste, I had forgot- ten the most elementary rules of self-protection and
had thrown myself body and soul into the arms of the first stranger I had met.

The ship is safest when its in port, but thats not what ships were built for, I said, as
the correct response. Meanwhile, the man looked directly at the gypsy and the gypsy stared
at the man. Both confronted each other, with no sign of fear or challenge, for some time.
Then the gypsy left the knapsack on the ground, smiled disdainfully, and walked off in the
direction of Saint- Jean-Pied-de-Port.

My name is Petrus,* said the new arrival as soon as the gypsy had disappeared behind the
huge stone that I had circled a few minutes earlier. Next time, be more cautious.

* Actually, Petrus told me his real name. I have changed it in order to protect his
privacy, but this is one of the few times that names have been changed in this book.

I heard a sympathetic tone in his voice, it was differ- ent from the tone of the gypsy and
of Mme Lourdes. He lifted the knapsack from the ground, and I noticed that it had the
scallop shell on its back. He produced a bottle of wine, took a swallow, and offered it to
me. After I had taken a drink, I asked him who the gypsy was.

This is a frontier route often used by smugglers and terrorist refugees from the Spanish
Basque country, said Petrus. The police hardly ever come near here.

But youre not answering me. You two looked at each other like old acquaintances. And I had
the feeling that I knew him, too. Thats why I was so much at ease.

Petrus smiled and said that we should move along. I picked up my things, and we began to
walk in silence. From Petruss smile I knew that he was thinking the same thing I was.

We had met with a devil.

We walked along without talking for a while, and I could see that Mme Lourdes had been
right; from almost three kilometers away, we could still hear the sound of the band. I
wanted to ask some questions of Petrus about his life, his work, and what had brought him
here. I knew, though, that we still had seven hun- dred kilometers to cover together and
that the appropri- ate moment would come for having all my questions answered. But I could
not get the gypsy out of my mind, and finally I broke the silence.

Petrus, I think that the gypsy was the devil.

Yes, he was the devil. When he confirmed this, I felt a mixture of terror and relief. But
he isnt the devil that you know from the Tradition.

In the Tradition, the devil is a spirit that is neither good nor evil; he is considered to
be the guardian of most of the secrets that are accessible to human beings and to have
strength and power over material things. Since he is a fallen angel, he is identified with
the human race, and he is always ready to make deals and exchange favors. I asked what was
the difference between the gypsy and the devil of the Tradition.

We are going to meet others along the Road, he smiled. You will see for yourself. But just
to give you an idea, try to remember your entire conversation with the gypsy.

I reviewed the two phrases I had heard from him. He had said that he was waiting for me
and had affirmed that he would seek out the sword for me.

Then Petrus said that those two phrases fit perfectly well in the mouth of a thief who had
been surprised in the act of robbing a knapsack: they were aimed at gain- ing time and at
winning favor while he quickly figured out a means of escape. On the other hand, the two
phrases could mean exactly what they said.

Which is right?

Both are true. That poor thief, while he defended himself, picked out of the air the very
words that needed to be said to you. He thought that he was being intelligent, but he was
really acting as the instrument of