Finally, my turn at the counter arrived, with a young woman whose face was entirely covered except for her eyes, which watchedme through a narrow opening in her black veil, like someone peering through a keyhole. It was the first time I’d tried to communicate with a fully veiled person, and it unsettled me, like when, in the monastery, I’d had to confess my sins to someone hidden behind the confessional’s grille. It felt the same, here, in front of this employee with her inscrutable face: Pleading with her felt a bit like praying to an invisible god.
“I need a connecting flight to Barcelona or Damascus. For today, please.”
“There are no flights to Barcelona or Damascus today.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Then put me on the first flight out to Istanbul.”
“There are no flights to Istanbul.”
“Listen, miss, please, sell me a flight to anywhere.”
“There are no flights anywhere.”
How could I advocate for myself against those almond-shaped eyes that gazed at me through their slit with such indifference? I insisted, begged, demanded, but the veiled goddess of the counter was unmoved.
“How can that be, miss, or ma’am, what about all those airplanes I see out there on the runway?”
“They’re not passenger flights. They’re military.”
And so the issue died. The young woman at the counter seemed to deem the exchange finished, and took refuge behind her impenetrable veil, like when the curtain falls to end a show.
“Next, please,” she said, turning toward someone as desperate as me, leaving me a castaway of the air.
My heart sank, all the way to my feet. I couldn’t enter, nor could I leave; I was trapped in the middle of a chaotic disaster. I left the counter, bruised by my defeat, blaming it all on the Queen of Sheba.
“I knew I shouldn’t have gotten involved with you,” I muttered at her, “because, with you, one never knows.”
Prayer to the Blue Saint
The Middle Ages resonate with the beating of eight extraordinary hearts: Richard the Lionheart, of England; Frederick Barbarossa, heart of the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation; Salah ad-Din, heart of the Islamic world; Genghis Khan, heart of the Mongol Empire; Francis of Assisi, heart of hearts; Dante Alighieri, heart of the Italian language; Marco Polo, heart of silk. And Thomas Aquinas, heart of two waters, the blend of reason and faith.
In the shadow of these eight luminaries, a young man fulfills a modest role. I like to think that I’m him. I, Bos Mutas, in my medieval preexistence, or something like that. I imagine that I was born in that time, as an eager young man of fair intelligence, though shy and pale like the inflorescence of the black carob trees along the slopes of Lazio, my birthplace, where in this dream of myself, early on I hear a call from the heights.
Let’s say that in this previous incarnation I become a friar and theology student in the Dominican order. And the thing I most long for in life comes true: I’m chosen from among many candidates to become the disciple, confidant, scribe, and secretary of Thomas Aquinas, who grows fond of me and blesses me with his friendship and trust.
One of my tasks as the young apprentice and assistant is to accompany my master on trips, caring for his needs attentively and seeing to his nourishment, because when it comes to daily matters, Thomas acts like a child, and out of neglect or forgetfulness can go without eating for four or even five days in a row. Later, to make up for it, he gorges on the delicacies sent to the monastery by his beloved sister, Countess Teodora, who spoils him with his favorite foods: ox tongue marinated in truffle and cooked with leeks and spicy Saracen sauce, or crabmeat and scrambled eggs fried in olive oil, or steamed mussels simmered with white wine, onions, ginger, a pinch of saffron, and a tablespoon of cream. Because of course Thomas can’t stomach the monastery’s bland rations; his spirit of sacrifice doesn’t extend to that point, let’s say his class vices—for he is, when it comes down to it, an aristocrat—sharpen when offered succulent dishes like the ones he sampled as a child in his family’s palace. So, temporarily forgetting his vow of temperance, and at risk of suffering a swollen belly or the sudden shits, Thomas enjoys these culinary refinements that stir memories of his early years. Given his noble birth, he grew up in luxury. His father, the Count of Aquinas, cousin to the emperor, is the owner and lord of the castle of Roccasecca, which looms proudly over Lazio on a high crag, challenging the power of other wealthy families and even of the very emperor, with whom the Aquinases have frequent skirmishes and ongoing tension.
From a young age, Thomas abandoned the ways of pride and opulence, opting instead for a humble life of poverty among the pious friars. He joined the order of the Domini Canis, or Dogs of God, despite threats from his family, who’d dreamed of him overseeing the inherited fortune and roaring like a lion from the hilltop, rather than embracing poverty and settling for a life among idiots like some scruffy stray. Thomas Aquinas renounced all worldly goods and fleeting glories, except for those steamed mussels in white wine and that truffled, spiced tongue.
At the first hour of the day, after matins and lauds, I—his extremelydevoted assistant and disciple—must have everything ready for the grueling day of writing that awaits us. I start my work by preparing the quadratio, cutting parchment with ruler and stylus to then polish its surface and create lines on the pages, marking the distance between lines carefully beforehand with tiny, finely punctured holes. Once the parchments are prepared, I sit down before a slanted desk and arrange the pens, scraper, and two horn-made inkwells, one with black ink for general matters and the other with red ink for highlighting what’s most important. When all of that’s ready, I take a deep breath, stretch my muscles, and with goodwill and an open spirit devote myself to recording my master’s each and every wise word for posterity.
Thomas Aquinas dictates on his feet, pacing the room in big strides. He’s so tall and wide that the village tailor has to custom-make his habit, as none of the clothing at the monastery is large enough. And yet, heavy as he is, the colossal Thomas never manages to stay still; he can’t rest because of his excessive energies and the hot wellspring of ideas in his mind. He keeps a sustained, rhythmic stream of thought, and once he starts dictating, he doesn’t stop. His noble origins taught him to work out of passion, rather than from the need to earn daily bread from the sweat of your brow. Maybe that’s why he can do triple as much as the next man without flagging or losing interest in the task, just the opposite: Thomas philosophizes to the beat of his own exuberant joy. He won’t go to sleep at night until he’s written and revised at least twelve or thirteen pages, each of them a whole Carolingian foot long. At the height of inspiration, he can dictate up to four different texts to me at the same time, displaying superhuman mental powers. I follow where he takes me and he gives me no pauses in which to catch my breath or put the pen down so I can stretch my cramping fingers. It doesn’t matter, I let it go, I pay no attention to those discomforts, I bear them stoically and fulfill my master’s demands without question, and he is pleased to see that I’m tireless and up to the task.
Things get harder during his frequent walks through the countryside, which he so enjoys. The Colli Albani, the volcanically formed hills of our native lands, seem to ignite Thomas with the glow of an ancient inner fire, making his crystalline intelligence boil over with philosophy.
During these dictations out in nature, my job is to record it all without the necessary parchment or instruments on hand. Therefore, I have to memorize his erudite statements and endless tirades. If some fragment slips by me, I allow myself the freedom to substitute it later, replacing what was lost with my best understanding. Day after day, month after month, I happily fulfill my required role as scribe, always grateful for the privilege of being the first to hear truths directly from the great wise man’s mouth. You could even say there’s never been a more devoted, assiduous disciple than me, as long as you also pointed out that I do suffer from a defect, just one, but a serious one. A highly unpleasant defect, having to do with my vice of abusing my position to add to the dictation, without consulting with my master, certain observations or explanations that spring from my own brain. I suppose Thomas doesn’t notice, or, at least, that he doesn’t mind.
He knows how to make the world revolve peacefully around him. His presence radiates a calm that drapes around me, and there’s no hint of distrust or difference between my master and me; we’re connected, both deeply engaged like one single blended person in the gargantuan task of building, stone by stone, the dogmatic intellectual edifice of the Church.
The first glint of strangeness between my master and me takes place on a trip we take together to the city of Strasbourg. During this visit, for the first time, I sense the flutter of an obsession starting to nest in Thomas’s mind, perhaps at first as mere curiosity, but getting stronger as he starts feeding it in secret, like someone keeping a rabbit under his bed who brings it small scraps of lettuce and carrots. I’m slow to catch on, clumsy disciple that I am, and unfortunately Idon’t have the clarity or mental agility to tune in to the enthusiasm that starts to spread through Thomas’s mind like morning light.
When we arrive in Strasbourg, we head to the church of our order, not knowing a surprise lurks there that will take our breath away. We’re used to sacred places being dark and smoky, like ancient caves where you can hardly see a thing, barely guided by the dim light of votive candles. And suddenly, in Strasbourg, my master and I find ourselves in the middle of a black space run through by a sweet stream of light, as if a piece of Heaven had burst into the room.
We’d never seen anything like it; you have to remember that humanity still has centuries to go before building the lavish stained glass windows of Paris’s Sainte-Chapelle, or the golden ones of Barcelona’s Sagrada Família. In our far-off thirteenth century, Thomas and I are stunned before the flecks of light that float joyfully in those shadows, and we turn this way and that, eyes wide, arms outstretched, gawking like children in the presence of a miracle.
