Aquinas pays me no mind; just the opposite, he gets closer to her, drawn like a fly to honey.
“Those horns of hers aren’t of the devil, my dear disciple, enough with the superstitions. Little horns on her forehead demonstrate that she possesses a mystical, dual, visionary nature. It’s been said by Jerome of Stridon, referring to the prophet Moses,cornuta esset facies sua,his face was horned, which meant he was blessed with light or clairvoyance. And she too is crowned by horns! It’s a sign of transformation and extraordinary powers.”
“What kind of powers, Master?”
“The power to blend two realms into one: animal and human, feminine and masculine, celestial and of the earth.”
I find this loathsome, and now I’m truly scandalized, suspecting all of this is very serious, and even more serious is the glow in the master’s face of one who’s gone astray. I stare at Thomas and don’t recognize him, I think it would be best to get him far from this place as soon as possible. But Thomas Aquinas doesn’t move. He stands in front of the stained glass for a long time, bathed head to toe in the ambiguous light that bursts through that window, pouring day into the sacred room’s night.
“A light suspended in the womb of darkness...” Thomas babbles.
I’m getting more and more nervous. What’s happening is alarming. Why is Thomas still there, ecstatic and paralyzed? What could be going through his mind, why all this effort to understand what this woman supposedly wants to tell him? My master explains to me that, thanks to the varying effects of sun and clouds from outside the church, the glass woman comes to life and moves, her frown softens, her expression sweetens, and wind seems to stir her clothes.
“But no, Master! She’s not moving, it’s just a still image.” I’m doing my best to make him see reason.
“It’s not an image, son, it’s an apparition.”
“Aren’t they the same thing, image and apparition? Do you feel all right, Master? Shouldn’t we go find something to eat in a nearby tavern, or a shady spot under a tree where you can lie down and rest a bit? Perhaps your breakfast was too light and you need to recover your strengths.”
But Thomas doesn’t respond, doesn’t even seem to notice my presence. It’s as if I didn’t exist, as if Thomas no longer knew me, why does he seem so distant, he who until today has always been so thoughtful and warm? I don’t recognize the great, wise Aquinas in this deranged, stubborn man standing before me. Where could my master be, who was always calm and polite, large-hearted andof generous if somewhat distracted mind? Where could his lamb’s meekness and natural patience, qualities of an exquisitely educated man, have gone? Why is he startled by my touch? And what’s caused this change in his expression, as if he were watching something I can’t see? It’s as if he had sight and I were blind, as if he flew through heights I cannot reach. Foreboding floods my mind and I’m filled with terror, a sudden sense of abandonment.
Time has passed. It’s getting late. The miracle of colored light has faded and the Blue Woman has lost her halo.
“I warned you, Master. Didn’t I say all this was no more than a trick? You see? The stained glass woman is disappearing.”
“She’s not disappearing, son, don’t be obtuse. She’s not disappearing, she’s just surrendering to the night. Taking refuge in night.”
“Well, I’d say darkness swallowed her.”
“There’s no such thing as darkness,caro ragazzo.What seems like darkness shimmers with a special kind of light.Even in the deepest shadow, we can seek, and perhaps find, a hidden light.2 Can’t you see the name this woman bears on the ribbon across her chest? Her name is Aurora Consurgens! It says so right there! You, doubting young man, are one of those who need to see to believe, and soon you’ll see, we’ll both be witnesses. She’ll be reborn tomorrow at dawn, because she is Aurora Rising!”
“Aurora Rising? Didn’t you say she was called Regina Sabae?”
“You don’t understand, or don’t want to. Apparitions are timid creatures that frighten easily and don’t confess their true names. This one is called Regina Sabae, yes, but at other times she’s called Shulamite, Sheba, or Balkis. When she wants, she’s also called Aurora. Apparitions are like that, intangible. They hide under various names, toy with you, play hide-and-seek, now you see it and now you don’t, they slide from visible to invisible, they’re tricksters above all.”
We sleep in the elements, under a warm sky, and at dawn my master and I begin our return on mules along hot summer roads. Although we travel side by side, for the first time there’s distancebetween us. Thomas seems more and more engrossed in that other reality that calls to him and that his fingertips can almost touch. He sings jovially, you might think his voice would be booming and operatic given his size, but no:Thou hast doves’ eyes, thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, comely as Jerusalem, terrible as an army with banners...In a clear, nostalgic voice, in a Neapolitan timbre, Thomas intones a blue melody, fresh as water in May.
I grow more and more worried and unsettled, I’m watching my master from the corner of my eye, I already sense what’s about to unfold from this moment forward.
Because something has changed, something extremely subtle but infinitely dangerous that has to do with women, sensory passion, pagan figures, breasts like gazelles, suspicious lights, and mistaken visions. Something strange has burst through, an incubus perhaps, or the germ of an impurity, something that holds the master’s mind under its spell. Or could it be lust, stealthy and malicious, that invades Thomas without him knowing, like thieves breaking into houses by night?
“I don’t believe in the kindness of that light he says he sees,” I murmur, out of my master’s earshot. “Thomas believes it’s divine, but to me it’s sinister. I’m afraid that light comes from a foul, unmentionable place, and brings with it an evil, corrupt intention...”
I mumble my fears to the beat of my mule’s steps; could my master’s wisdom or saintliness be starting to deteriorate?
“I’m not wise, dear boy, I’m just attentive and curious,” Thomas Aquinas replies, reading my thoughts. “Nor am I a saint. I’m barely a good man.”
They’re Calling Me? Me?
End of daydream.
I’m here again, back in the present. The hallucination is over. I’ve left Thomas there in his medieval times and I’m in the country of Yemen, in the Sanaa airport, I, Bos Mutas, unable to enter or leave, stuck in the middle of an anonymous crowd that throngs and struggles not to die of heat, hunger, war, disease. I’ve got to get out of here. It occurs to me that I ended up here by chance, as a fluke, that I’m foreign to these people without a future. There has to be someone here who can let me pass, someone who’ll affirm my rights, beg my forgiveness, say to me, Go on, Mr. Bos Mutas, there’s been some confusion. Someone who can bear my problem in mind, lend me a hand...
Or not? It seems not. None of that is going to happen. Nobody’s coming to rescue me. I see my own case getting so lost that even in the thick of my despair, it makes me laugh. If my mother were alive, oh, how she’d singI told you so: I told you, my son, didn’t I warn you not to get into any trouble? I warned you this trip wouldn’t lead anywhere, every time you get that urge to take to the wind, it’s better to stay still.... It’s even funny, now, to remember how my mother would advise me to do the exact opposite of what she herself had done in life.
I bite the bullet and roam the airport, from one official to another, making claims, begging, without anyone responding or understanding. I try to get money at an ATM, only to learn that here my card is just a piece of plastic. Passport, cell phone, credit cards, our precious and essential possessions: They’re worthless now. I try several times to call abroad and ask for help, to the point that that Powerful Lion finally takes pity on me and lends me his purple cell phone without charge. Even then, no dice.
I give up, exhausted, and since all the chairs are taken, I sit on the floor. In these cramped rooms, people cling to hope. A kind of witch’s grapevine carries rumors about possible flights about to embark, and the airlines themselves stir things up with unintelligible announcements over loudspeakers that lead to stampedes. Everyone runs to the counters, aiming to arrive first, just in case they’re boarding and a miracle comes true.
