The Pilgrimage

Dozens of workers, perspiring in their black suits, were putting the finishing touches on the tables that had been placed all over the square. National television crews were filming the preparations. We went down a narrow street that led to the church of the Royal Santiago parish, where the ceremony was about to begin.

Flocking to the church were great numbers of well-dressed people. The women's makeup was running in the heat, and their children, dressed in white, were irritable. Some fireworks were exploding overhead as a long black limousine stopped at the main gate. It was the groom arriving. There was no room for Petrus and me in the church, so we decided to go back to the square.

Petrus wanted to scout around, but I sat down on one of the benches, waiting for the ceremony to end and the banquet to begin. Nearby, a popcorn vendor, hoping for a windfall profit, awaited the crowd from the church.

"Are you one of the invited guests?" he asked me.

"No," I answered. "We are pilgrims on our way to Compostela."

"There's a train that goes there straight from Madrid, and if you leave on a Friday, you get your hotel free."

"Yes, but we are doing a pilgrimage."

The vendor looked at me and said respectfully, "Pilgrimages are made by saints."

I decided not to get into that discussion. He said that his daughter had already been married but was now separated from her husband.

"In Franco's time, th

ere was more respect," he said. "Nowadays, no one cares about the family."

Despite my being in a strange country, where it is never advisable to talk politics, I could not let this pass without a response. I said that Franco had been a dictator and that nothing during his time could have been better than now.

The vendor's face turned red.

"Who do you think you are, talking like that?"

"I know this country's history. I know the war the people fought for their freedom. I have read about the crimes of the Franco forces during the Spanish civil war."

"Well, I fought in that war. I was there when my family's blood was spilled. Whatever stories you have read don't interest me; what I'm concerned about is what happens to my family. I fought against Franco, but when he won the war, life was better for me. I'm not a beggar, and I have my little popcorn stand. It wasn't this socialist government we have now that helped me. I'm worse off now than I was before."

I remembered what Petrus had said about people being content with very little. I decided not to press my point of view, and I moved to another bench.

When Petrus came back, I told him about my exchange with the popcorn vendor.

"Conversation is useful," he said, "when people want to convince themselves that what they are saying is right. I am a member of the Italian Communist Party. But I didn't know about this fascist side of you."

"What do you mean, fascist side?" I asked him angrily.

"Well, you helped the popcorn man to convince himself that Franco was good. Maybe he never knew why. Now he knows."

"Well, I'm just as surprised to learn that the ICP believes in the gifts of the Holy Ghost."

"Well, I have to be careful about what the neighbors will think," he said, laughing.

The fireworks started up again, as musicians climbed to the bandstand and tuned their instruments. The festival was about to begin.

I looked up at the sky. It was growing dark, and the stars were beginning to appear. Petrus went over to one of the waiters and brought back two plastic cups full of wine.

"It is good luck to have a drink before the party begins," he said, handing me one of the cups. "Have some of this. It will help you forget about the popcorn man."

"I wasn't even thinking about him anymore."

"Well, you should. Because what happened with him is an example of mistaken behavior. We are always trying to convert people to a belief in our own explanation of the universe. We think that the more people there are who believe as we do, the more certain it will be that what we believe is the truth. But it doesn't work that way at all.

"Look around. Here is a huge party about to begin. A commemoration. Many different things are being celebrated simultaneously: the father's hope that his daughter would marry, the daughter's wish for the same thing, the groom's dreams. That's good, because they believe in their dreams and want to demonstrate to everyone that they have achieved their goals. It is not a party that is being held to convince anyone of anything, so it's going to be a lot of fun. From what I can see, they are people who have fought the good fight of love."

"But you are trying to convince me, Petrus, by guiding me along the Road to Santiago."