Off the Road

by Hitt, Jack

  For this honor, Manier continues, “my companions gave me, as their king, a nosegay,” for which Manier bought his companions “several bottles of wine to fete them in recognition of my little bouquet.”

  In the Middle Ages, this race to the top of the hill was taken so seriously that the victors incorporated their new titles into their real names. Several scholars of the road allege that the commonness of the names King, König, Leroy, and Rex date from this practice.

  The monk Domenico Laffi arrived here in 1670 and wrote: “Upon seeing Santiago so abruptly, we fell to our knees and began singing a Te Deurn, but after two or three verses we could not sing even a word because of all the crying.”

  The architecture of this hill has waxed and waned through the millennium. In the twelfth century, Santiago’s archbishop Gelmirez built a small chapel, which disappeared long ago. In 1495 Herman Künig encountered a beautiful cross of stone and a cairn of cobblestones. An anonymous fifteenth-century Englishman saw four columns of stone and reported in verse that the tradition of arrival granted the “king” a hundred days of indulgence:

  By a chapell shalt thou go

  Upon a hull hit stondez on hee

  Wher Sent Jamez ferst shalt thou see

  A Mount Joie mony stonez there ate

  And four pilerez of ston ofgret astate

  A hundred daiez of pardon there may thou have.

  On the top of Mount Joy today there is a small gazebo, built a century ago as a pilgrim rest stop. But the open breeziness of the structure was filled in with white concrete several years ago when the pope spoke on this hill, security reasons. In fact, an entire forest that once grew here was shaved off, cut bald, to accommodate the enormous crowds. Huge water tanks were installed to hose down the fainting masses. These rusting tanks and a plaque authenticating the pope’s visit are all that remain of that day.

  Whatever powerful emotions a pilgrim struggles to summon at Mount Joy are muted as he tries to negotiate his way to the city. Tradition again reports that pilgrims would run down the hill and into the city. But surrounding modern Santiago is a beltway of interstates, and the city planners left pilgrims out of the design. We bunch up at the edge of the four lanes complicated by exit ramps, medians, and cloverleafs. We scan left and right, right and left, waiting for the buzzing traffic to open a small window of opportunity.

  “There, now! Here it is!”

  “No, wait!”

  When a brief break does appear, a crowd of frightened pilgrims lumbers across the highway, their packs chunking from side to side, hollering words and phrases in all the languages of the world, none of them translations of the ancient cries “Ultreya” or “Santiago.”

  Closer to the center of town, the medieval precincts of Santiago appear, and history once again embraces the pilgrim. The labyrinthine confusion of these ancient streets breaks up the groups of pilgrims until we are—either by accident or choice— alone. The arcaded medieval streets still bear their ancient names —Las Platerías, the street of the silversmiths; La Azabachería, the street of the jet merchants, the artisans who carved ebony souvenirs centuries ago. The restaurateurs and the pedestrians point and smile in the right direction. Down one street and then another until the city opens onto a magnificent square dominated by the cathedral.

  I have seen a hundred town plazas in Spain. There isn’t a city or a village that is without one. They come in all sizes, from the simplest bricked square with a bent leaking pipe for a fountain to the gorgeous park and cafes of Pamplona. They all seem a rehearsal for Santiago. In an essay entitled “Watching the Rain in Galicia,” Gabriel García Márquez wrote: “I had always believed, and continue to believe, really, that there is no more beautiful square in the world than the one in Siena. The only place that made me doubt its authority as the most beautiful square is the one in Santiago de Compostela. Its poise and its youthful air prohibit you from even thinking about its venerable age; instead, it looks as if it had been built the day before by someone who had lost their sense of time.”

  Saint James’s feast day is Spain’s greatest holiday. People from all over the country make the trip to see pilgrims by day and the extensive fireworks by night. Tomorrow, King Juan Carlos’s son, Felipe, the prince of Asturias, will make an address in the cathedral. The plaza is filled with milling crowds, children with balloons, trinket salesmen, visitors from all over. After so much work getting here, a pilgrim can’t help but fancy that it is all being done for his benefit. There are whispers among the crowd. I am being pointed out and gawked at.

  “Look! It’s a pilgrim!” The children stare, and I see myself for the first time as they do—a dirty ragged man with untrimmed beard, a pack and stick. Taking up the central location of the plaza is the long sought after cathedral. Its two outrageously Baroque towers are garish and loud, fooling the pilgrim into thinking that a similar cacophony awaits him within.

  But the Baroque frontispiece was built in the eighteenth century to protect the precious twelfth-century stonework that once faced the natural elements. Just inside the doorway is the tympanum of the Romanesque church—called the Portico of Glory— mortared with the sweat of pilgrims from Triacastela. A set of five columns supports three symmetrical arches. Scholars bicker endlessly about this sculpture. Is it the most beautiful example of Romanesque architecture in the world? Or does that superlative belong to Chartres or Puy? Or is it transitional Gothic? Well, you decide, pal, and be prepared to die thereby.

  Arrayed across the top of the central tympanum are the traditional twenty-four musicians of the Apocalypse. They form a human halo around the Romanesque figures below. The men are about to strike up the final song proclaiming the end of the world. Two of them toward the middle are fingering a hurdy-gurdy. These sculptures are the work of a twelfth-century genius named Master Mateo. The precision of the pieces is so accurate that when modern musicologists studying the hurdy-gurdy tried to construct a replica of the forgotten instrument, they climbed a ladder to the top of this tympanum and used the amazing detail of this stone replica as a guide.

  On the center column, shouldering the weight between the musicians and man, is a life-size statue of Saint James himself. He seems well dressed for a Romanesque sculpture. The folds in his cloak are remarkably smooth. His face wears a slight smile (maybe even mischievous). His left hand rests on a staff that looks like an old man’s cane. For the first time that I have seen on the road, he is seated. But his toes point down and his knees are bent. He looks as if he is either about to sit after an exhaustive trip or possibly to stand in honor of my arrival.

  At this central column, a few tourists and several standard-issue, babushka-wearing, multisocked, thick-black-dress, wooden-shoed Little Old Spanish Widows have gathered. A guide is explaining the stories of the Portico of Glory and the traditions. There are many, but the one with which I am presently struggling commands that the pilgrim approach the statue of James on his knees. How embarrassing. I had long ago vanquished tradition, so I decide I will simply pause silently, with WASPy self-restraint.

  In the Middle Ages this small space where I stand was one of the most sought after pieces of real estate in the world. For as many as five centuries it would have been impossible to get near the Portico without a fight. And there usually were. Hundreds of people camped out beneath the statue of James. Women gave birth here. Pilgrims cooked meals in steaming vats. Fires blazed. Every night was an orgy of quarrels and fights. According to the letters of one Saint Bluze, there were so many pilgrims of so many nationalities crowded in here that stabbings and murder were commonplace in the church. After a while, the functions of the cathedral broke down because the authorities routinely had to contend with the elaborate ceremony of reconsecration. In 1207 Pope Innocent III wrote a quick blessing exclusive to Santiago. A mixture of wine, ashes, and holy water scattered briefly would now do the job.

  It was at this place that the Spanish philosopher Miguel de Unamuno wrote, “Before this Portico, one must pray in one way or an
other: one cannot make literature.” And it was here that the Cid, St. Francis, van Eyck, kings and queens, and millions and millions of fellow pilgrims collapsed in gratitude.

  Heavy is the hand of history.

  Down I go. The tourists step back in a murmur. The guide goes silent, out of respect, as a way is cleared for me to the column. Emotions overwhelm me. Tears squeeze from my shut eyes and run down the dust on my cheeks. A widow weeps with me. The whispers I hear flatter me. Whatever they may be saying, I hear them talking of me, as a true pilgrim—a dirty, ugly, filthy, smelly pilgrim. It’s a queer kind of celebrity. Yet every pilgrim wants some sense of confirmation from without. This small group has witnessed my arrival and were momentarily moved by it. But it’s not as pure as that.

  As I inch my way toward the column, there is the unexpected thrill of victory—an athlete’s high, the Olympic buzz of coming across the finish line, hands up, breaking the tape, the body suddenly limp with accomplishment. That part of me wants to jump up, stuff my fist in the air, and scream, “I made it. I did it.” And then look into the crowd to find the face of the one person who believed in me all along and see him clench his fist and shake it in congratulation. Obviously this part of me will star in the TV movie version of the walk, Santiago: Walk with Me, Talk with Me (based on a true story).

  Even here, minutes away from completing my pilgrimage, an air of fraudulence lingers. I had expected a purity, a clarifying wind of revelation. Instead the tourists unsheathe their cameras and illuminate my already soiled epiphany with the strobe of flashes. This clenched face and furrowed brow now bowing before the statue of James—is this mine, a performance, or both?

  The pilgrim wants confirmation, and I know there will be other opportunities to get it. The cathedral is practically a gauntlet of confirmation.

  On the other side of James’s column is a self-portrait in stone of Master Mateo called Santo dos Croques, literally “the head-banging saint.” Tradition holds that visitors bang their head against Master Mateo’s to receive his wisdom. This custom is especially popular among students at the University of Santiago on exam night. It is not technically part of a pilgrim’s obligation. But I am not one to turn down a little wisdom. I gently bang my head.

  Afterward the pilgrim walks to the high altar at the other end of the church. Situated above the table is another statue of Saint James, this one gilded, his cloak encrusted with jewels, and bathed in amber light. A small doorway on the side points the pilgrim to a narrow passageway behind the statue where the pilgrim may hug Saint James in thanks. In the Middle Ages the pilgrim customarily put his broad-brimmed hat on Santiago’s head before embracing him. Cosme de Medici visited here during the pilgrimage’s heyday and noted that from the front, the statue changed its headgear so often that Saint James seemed to be trying on new hats day and night. My shell clangs loudly against the gold as I give him a hug, promised to so many on the road, un abrazo por el apóstol.

  The exiting staircase reveals an arrow that points to another chamber down below. As narrow as the last, the passageway opens onto a small, low-ceilinged room. Behind protective bars lies a small silver coffin, large enough to hold the body of a child. Within it are the bones of Saint James.

  There are several other pilgrims here, and we stare awkwardly. All these traditions have accrued over the centuries, each of them attempting to give to the pilgrim a sense of accomplishment.

  The bones of Saint James were long the source of the pilgrim’s popularity, but the story associated with them ran its course. Belief in the bones petered out in the nineteenth century, and the authorities didn’t know exactly where the bones were anymore. So the church authorized an archaeological dig beneath the church’s flat stone floor.

  Initially the work did not go well. In order to accommodate the church’s activities during the day, the excavations took place by torchlight at night. Digging beneath the floor stones in the location where Saint James’s bones were said to lie, the workers were teased by findings of bricks and masonry from the appropriate eras, but nothing else. Eventually the dig progressed to a space beneath the apse. One of the workers, Juan Nastallo, was digging late in the evening of January 28, 1879. In a deposition he reports: “I prayed to the Virgin of Sorrows that the body of the apostle appear. At that exact moment, Canon Labin [the head archaeologist] arrived.... I removed the two bricks with the trowel and there appeared various bones contained within a box which exuded an odor that I have never smelled before. I immediately lost my sight for a half hour and I nearly fainted when, with the help of my companions, I was carried out of the hole. I remember well the sanctity of the oath I had sworn, and I declare by all and confirm the commotion that I experienced and the most gratifying odor I perceived. I know too that Canon Labin, who had suffered a serious migraine headache, was cured at that precise moment. I, instead, on account of the commotion, suffered my ailments for eight or ten days.”

  The church brought in other scientists to confirm their authenticity. The bones were anatomically assembled and surprisingly there were enough for three skeletons, not one. This was interpreted to mean that Saint James was buried with the remains of his two original disciples. But which bones belonged to James?

  As it happened, a church in Pistoya had long claimed to have a small piece of Saint James’s skull—the mastoid process, to be precise. Could it be? One of the three skulls in the find was missing a chunk. When the two parts were finally united, they fit, according to the church, like two parts of a puzzle.

  The news of this discovery provoked celebrations in Spain. Even Rome, so belligerently disinterested in Santiago’s legitimacy in recent centuries, was excited. Science, the ancient enemy of faith, had confounded itself, and confirmed the beliefs of the ages. On November 1, 1884, Pope Leo XIII issued a formal declaration, filled with unambiguous glee. “Thus,” it reads, “the doubts that these bones existed have vanished.”

  But the gloating was short-lived. In 1900 a church historian, Monsignor Louis Duchesne, wrote The Ancient History of the Christian Church. He has little to say about Saint James. He mentions the bones and then asks: “Why was that identification made? We have not the slightest idea. But ecclesiastical authority supported it, and we must in kindness suppose with good evidence—at least in its own opinion.”

  As I stand looking at the small coffin containing the bones, in wander a few other pilgrims. Then two nuns follow. The only conversation is an exchange between the two sisters. One says that the carvings on the ancient silver coffin are quite lovely. The other agrees and adds that the coffin is also remarkably shiny.

  Rick grabs my arm to remind me that there is some paperwork we need to complete. At a side door on the outside of the church, the pilgrims are ordered to line up to receive a diploma. This is the final confirmation that the church grants. The pilgrim signs his name to the rolls, presents his stamped passport as proof, and is given what is called a compostellana, a grand parchment written in Latin.

  Apparently, handing out compostellanas is, among clerical duties, just a notch above cleaning the chapterhouse with a toothbrush. By the time I reach the front of the line, a young, handsome priest invites me to sit in a chair. He asks a series of questions as enervatedly as a bureaucrat in the unemployment office.

  “Name?”

  “Hitt.”

  “Eeet?”

  I spell it for him.

  “Full name.”

  John Thomas Leonard Hitt.

  “Very long.” He is troubled. Maybe my full name won’t fit.

  “What was your motive for walking the road?”

  He doesn’t bother to look at me until I answer.

  “To discover my motive.”

  “That is not an appropriate answer.” He turns his papers around so that I can see that the three correct responses are religious, cultural, or historical. I don’t remember which one I checked.

  Later that afternoon we pilgrims file by the appropriate window to pick up our diplomas. Mine is made out
to Joannem Thoman Leonardum Hitt, and I carefully stow it in a safe corner of my backpack. And that is the last the church has to deal with us, or we with it. If we look for confirmation of our act, it won’t be here, in history or tradition or art. We’ll have to improvise.

  Outside, the conversation turns to celebrations, party dates, and gossip. In the streets, we pilgrims—even those who never once met on the road—know who we are. We stand out in the densest crowd. Our shoulders are broad, our waists are small. I have taken to glancing at a man’s belt. Is there a new notch cut into it?

  Our haggard look and Li’l Abner build is a confirmation of our status.

  On the first night, the gang of Flemish pilgrims and their fellow villagers gather at the Sostel Hotel. Many others, even pilgrims I never met, wander in. The party spills into the streets, and there is glorious news all around. I hear the final chapter of the Willie saga. Somewhere past Mellid, a horrific fight broke out. Each filmmaker stoned the other’s caravan, smashing windows and splitting the aluminum siding. Even the kindly priest, says Claudy, lost his temper and told them both to “fuck off.” The priest smiles; he’s happy to be on our side.

  From time to time I see Willie’s caravan, dented and listing, prowling the side streets of Santiago, an uninvited guest.

  For three days the parties rage. Stories are told and retold until they feel comfortable enough to tell to strangers. The only common aspect of these confirming tales is that none of them takes place here in Santiago. They all occur somewhere back up the road when the days were hard and the nights were spent in solitary wonder or orgiastic drunkenness. But in the next day or two, the celebrations thin out. In the streets the pilgrims grow fewer, and eventually those of us remaining realize that some have left, never to be seen again. One languid afternoon, I bump into Rick on a side street. He is walking with his wife, who had recently arrived to take him home. His wife is a colossal and merry woman, a Venus of Willen, all curves and luxuriant body fat.