The Forty-Fourth Night

 

I found it rather amusing when, during his weekly visit last Saturday, Nick asked me to tell him a story.

— I just dig the way you tell ’em, he said.

— All right, but what kind of story do you want to hear?

— A good one! he said, emphatically.

Very well. In the time when God hid Himself in the heavens, other gods rose to take His place. Among them—older than most, present at the very beginning—were Pontus and Gaia. These two joined and had two children, Phorcys and Ceto. These brother and sister loved one another and begot six daughters. First came the Three Old Ones, who possessed all the knowledge in the world. They had only a single eye and a single tooth, which they passed from hand to hand so they might see and eat. Then were born the Three Gorgons, their bodies covered in reptilian scales, living serpents for hair, boar’s tusks jutting from their mouths, and golden wings.

“Their appearance was so dreadful that mortals were turned to stone by sheer horror at the sight. No one who looked upon them survived.

“Of the three Gorgons, the elder two—Stheno and Euryale—were immortal, but the youngest, Medusa, bore the burden of time and would one day die.

“On the island of Seriphos grew a young man of beauty and unshakable resolve. His name was Perseus. Years before, he and his mother had been rescued from the sea by a fisherman named Dictys, brother to Polydectes, the king of the island.”

— And where did this Perseus and his mother come from? They just showed up in the sea?

— No, but telling that tale would take us too far from the main story. Yet I’ll give you this much: the young Perseus’s father was the great god Zeus.

“Polydectes, king of Seriphos, fell in love with Perseus’s mother. Perseus, however, deemed the king unworthy of marrying Danaë. So Polydectes devised a cunning plan to rid himself of the young man. For the second time in his life, a king wished Perseus dead.

“Knowing Perseus had no horse, Polydectes held a gathering to receive the fine steeds he intended to offer as dowry to a queen he sought to marry. Before the king and his whole court, Perseus spoke honestly: he had no horse to give, but asked the king to name any other gift, and he, Perseus, would bring it.

“Satisfied that his plan was unfolding perfectly, Polydectes replied with feigned sweetness: ‘I want the head of Medusa.’

“‘Then the king shall have it,’ said Perseus, worthy son of a god. And without looking back—lest he see his mother in tears or allow her to see him pale with fear—he turned his back on the court and left the palace.

“Outside, in a grove, he prayed to his father for aid—if not for him, Perseus, then at least for the sake of the woman who had found favor in Zeus’s eyes.

“The Father of the Gods then sent two of his divine children to help him: Hermes and Athena.

“Hermes gave his half-brother his own winged sandals, so that Perseus might soar through the sky as he did. He also gave him his sword, and the helm of Ares, which rendered its wearer invisible. Athena gave Perseus her polished bronze shield, that he might behold the Gorgons’ reflection without turning to stone, and she gave him a sack in which to store Medusa’s head, for even in death her deadly power endured.

“Lastly, she told Perseus where to find the Old Ones, who would tell him where to find the Gorgons. Should they refuse, she instructed him to seize the single eye they shared; the fear of blindness would force them to speak the truth.

“And so Perseus flew through the air until he found the Old Ones, who indeed refused to help him slay their sister. With a swift movement he snatched their eye, and then, in desperate tears, they told him to go to the island of Sarpedon, where the sisters dwelled.

“Perseus flew with astonishing speed to where the Gorgons lay. Donning the helm of Ares to become invisible, and using the polished shield as a mirror to guide him, he found the monsters asleep. Aiming at Medusa, he brought down the sword of the god his brother in a single fatal stroke. Her head rolled, and from her neck gushed a jet of black, venomous blood.

“Perseus did not know that Medusa had been pregnant by the god Poseidon, and from the wound in her neck were born their children: the winged horse Pegasus and the giant Chrysaor.

“Swiftly Perseus rose to the heavens and fled.

“The immortal Gorgons awoke and burst forth in frantic grief to punish the slayer of their sister—but in vain, for they saw no one.

“Perseus flew on to Ethiopia, where the young princess Andromeda was about to be offered to the monster Cetus, as punishment for an offense her mother had given the Nereids.”

— And who’re those? Nick asked.

— They were the fifty daughters of Nereus and Doris, ancient sea gods from the dawn of all things.

— And this Cetus thing?

— A gigantic monster, created on the fifth day. As the Nereids were part of Poseidon’s court, the god sent Cetus to devour the princess, who had been chained to a seaside rock. In truth, there was more than one cetacean monster. Who knows how many remain?

“Perseus advanced on the beast and showed it Medusa’s head. The creature turned to stone and sank into the ocean. Then, still soaring on Hermes’s sandals, he freed Andromeda from the rock where she was bound.

“Her parents, Cepheus and Cassiopeia, resolved to marry their daughter to Perseus, much to the displeasure of young Phineus, who already had an arranged marriage with her.

“During the wedding feast, driven by jealousy, heartbreak, and far too much wine, Phineus started a fight with Perseus, who, without a second thought, drew from the sack the fatal head that claimed yet another victim.”

— And then? Why’d you stop? Nick asked.

— Because it’s late, and I am tired of speaking. If you wish, next week there will be more.

— Oh, man… really? Nick said, disheartened.

 

The Forty-Third Night

Last Saturday, after dinner, Nick and I stepped out onto the veranda, where we lay back on the deck chairs I keep there, and watched the stars. It was a moonless night, and we could see the Milky Way stretching across the sky like an embrace over the sea.

“In the States I knew the constellations way better,” Nick said. “Here they’re all different.”

“There are still a few you can see from the Northern Hemisphere.”

“Yeah? Like which ones?”

“For instance, Orion.”

“The Hunter?”

“That’s the one. Right there,” I said, pointing to the stars. “Those three form his belt.”

“I’m seein’ it!” my friend exclaimed. “So Scorpius is close by, right?”

“Yes. Let me see… There! Do you see that sinuous line of stars?”

“How did I never notice that?”

“The stars aren’t in the same position here, that’s all.”

“Sometimes that’s all it is, huh?”

“What do you mean, Nick?”

“Just… changing how you look at things. Seeing them from another angle, a different perspective. Kinda helps with life, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. I quite agree. A rigid thing breaks easily, while a flexible one withstands tremendous pressure. In life, we need that flexibility.”

“But why is it that—even knowin’ all that—people still hold on to things that hurt them? I catch myself doin’ it, in this fear of falling back into drugs. I keep thinkin’ some part of me still wants them, even knowing how bad they are.”

“Like those who suffer for being overweight but cling to the pleasure of food. I have my afflictions too. We all do. But you saw the problem from another side, and you changed your life.”

“Yeah… mostly ’cause I’m scared of goin’ back to the old one.”

“Because the old one gave you some pleasure, satisfied something in you. Then you realized that this pleasure, this satisfaction, was deadly poison. Evil is like that—it’s pleasant. It has to be, or we would never embrace it.”

“You speak of evil as if it were a being.”

“As an observer of life, it’s easy to see there is evil within us. As a Catholic, I understand it as the corruption caused by Adam’s sin—sin that began through the action of a being, the Devil. On one hand, we bear a corrupted nature; on the other, a wicked creature calls us toward that corruption.”

A fish leapt from the water, as though to have a better look at the stars.

“And where’s the solution in all that?”

“A nature corrupted by evil does not mean absolute evil. We are still essentially good, for we were created by Holy Goodness. Our origin lies in the act of a being infinitely greater and more powerful than the Devil. Fighting for the good is the way God, in His infinite Wisdom, chose to make us strong, and to grant us forgiveness for the evil we do.”

“A fight…” Nick said. “Yeah, that really describes what I feel. Every day—one more fight.”

Nick let out a long yawn and said, “Guess it’s time I head back to my little spot.”

Rising from the deck chair, he added, “D’you think I’ll win this fight?”

“You’re already winning.”

He smiled at me, then walked toward his red car.

 

 

The Forty-Second Night

 

This Saturday, Nick walked into my home carrying a bouquet of flowers.

“Uh—these are for you,” he said, a little awkwardly.

“Thank you, but… why? It’s not my birthday,” I replied, taking the flowers and appreciating them.

“I think I was kinda rude to you—and to your late friend—last week.”

“You weren’t. There was a sincere, honest concern for me behind everything you said. I was shocked by that truth, which I had hoped to bury so deep inside myself that no one would ever see it. You really gave me something to think about.”

He cast a brief glance at the portrait on the wall.

“You know I took a real dislike to him, right?”

“A dead man you never even met…”

“A ghost that’s still haunting you.”

“You do know how to be direct, don’t you?”

“You Brazilians are way too soft.”

“Okay,” I said, placing the flowers in a vase.

“Look,” Nick said, conciliatory now, “I think you’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever met, and you’ve got this totally warped view of yourself because of the things that guy told you. Because of him, you pulled away from the world and hid in religion.”

He paused to catch his breath and went on:

“I know I’ve got no right to step into your private life, and I don’t doubt the sincerity of your faith. But it honestly hurts to see how crushed you still are by that experience.”

Another pause, and then he spoke again:

“I promise I won’t bring this up anymore. I’d just… I’d really like to prove that guy was wrong about you.”

I didn’t want to continue that conversation; it disturbed me far too much. I told myself Nick had no chance. Lowering my guard would only leave me open to more unwanted—and inevitable—blows.

I was honestly surprised by how easily he’d managed to reach so deep into my soul. I clearly wasn’t the master of disguises I fancied myself to be, and he was not as naïve as he seemed, despite his youthful temperament.

Still, I resolved to be as honest as possible. Beyond the accumulated poison of years, what did I truly feel? What could be an honest answer on my part?

I embraced him—tight, strong, and as truthfully as I could—kissed him on the cheek and said:

“You are the greatest gift God has given me in this life. I don’t know if it’s possible to purge the ghost of the departed from within me, but perhaps we can at least restrain his influence.”

“I’m not asking for anything more,” he said, wearing that beautiful smile of his.

 

 

The Forty-First Night

 

Last Saturday, Nick walked cheerfully into my house and said,

“Hey, you know what? My nephews have been reaching out to me!”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” I replied with a happy smile.

“I’ve got a family again—and I owe that to you!”

“Nonsense! I merely helped you with a decision that was yours, and yours alone. You wanted to reach out to your sister, even if that wish wasn’t quite clear in your mind. My role was simply to bring some light to what was still shadowed up here,” I said, tapping my temple. “The hard work was all yours.”

“I’ve got a family again,” he repeated, serious now, taking me by the shoulders. “And I owe that to you. I wish I could repay you somehow—but I have no idea how!”

I held his arms and said, just as seriously, “Your joy is payment enough, Nick. I don’t need anything more.”

He hugged me tight and said, “Man, I’ve never met anyone like you.”

I returned his affection and smiled. “Few people have—and there are some who thank the Almighty for that.”

“How’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m no better than anyone, Nick. The person I loved most in this world swore I was a selfish monster who respected no one. And who knows? Maybe he was right. Perhaps that’s why I never invested in long relationships.”

He looked at me, still serious.

“You don’t want me to like you?”

“I just don’t want you to idealize me. I want what’s good for you, and I could kill or die to make sure you have it—but that doesn’t make me good.”

“You just wanna be a good Catholic.”

“Any goodness in me isn’t my own doing.”

“That person you’re talking about—that’s the guy in the photograph, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“He hurt you bad. I think he killed something inside you.”

“It’s over. Poor thing’s been dead for years.”

Nick sat down at the table, something dense and heavy passing through his mind.

“What is it?” I asked with a smile.

“I spent all the eighties and part of the nineties smoking, snorting, and mostly shooting up every kind of crap I could find—while selling myself to all sorts of men. When I survived that overdose, I also survived AIDS. How? What kind of miracle was that? I survived two deaths.”

Nick paused, searching for his words, then went on:

“You didn’t survive yours. He died—and you went on living with him still whispering in your head, filling it with junk way worse than what I used to shoot up.”

His words struck me like a slap in the face.

Nick looked at me, serious, his gaze steady and firm.

As I stood there in shock, searching for something to say, he got up and said,

“That food smells way too good to keep waiting. Sit down—I’m serving tonight!”

 

 

The Fortieth Night

 

At our weekly meeting last Saturday, Nick came to me with a question ready the moment he stepped through the door, stamping his feet at the threshold to rid them of the rain outside.

— You said something last Saturday that’s been stuck in my head ever since: what did you mean when you said “Art exists so that we may know the Truth”? I asked you what the Truth is, and you said the Truth is Jesus. The truth, for me, is not Jesus — and millions think as I do. How can you claim that with such certainty?

There was a sincere unease in Nick’s voice.

— Well, I said. Those are two different statements: first, I said that Art exists to bring us closer to the Truth, whatever that may be. That holds true even for those who do not believe. Aristotle, a pagan, reached God without the Bible. Then — I believe that this Truth has a name, a face, and a voice, and His name is Jesus. It is not a logical deduction; it is a revelation. Philosophy opens the door; faith crosses it. Are you with me so far, Nick?

— Yes.

— Very well. From all I have read, it seems to me there are four paths by which we may come to know the Truth: Religion, Philosophy, Art, and Science. These four arise from our relationship with the sensible world; through our senses we order it, and from it we set out toward what is beyond sense — from the material to the spiritual. Philosophy leads us to the existence of a First Mover, a First Cause, but it is Religion that seeks to give that Cause a face, to establish a relationship with it. Each human group offers its own answer, for the First Cause, by definition, is inaccessible to man. From Philosophy was born Science — like a child who wished to measure the world with rulers and scales. Art, though, stayed at home: it took the clay of the sensible world and shaped it into symbols arranged in a painting, a symphony, a poem that tells us more than a thousand treatises ever could.

Seated at the table, Nick was absorbed yet attentive.

— But we’ll never know everything, will we?

— Never — not ever! I replied with emphasis. That talk about knowledge accumulating generation after generation until one day there will be no mysteries left for man — pure nonsense. Yet anyone who seeks the Truth knows that it exists. One may not see it whole, but one sees a part of it, and that part is real. But what if the Truth that we cannot reach in its entirety comes to us — and reaches us entirely?

— That’s where Jesus comes in?

— Of all who proclaimed truths, Jesus alone is God incarnate, possessing the omniscient knowledge that belongs only to God. Whoever hears His voice walks in truth. He will not be omniscient, but he will have taken giant strides compared to one who rejects Him, for he will be able to give his life an order others would deem impossible.

I took a deep breath and went on:

— This is a very complex matter, Nick — but a verifiable one. I have summed up in a few words millennia of study and millions of written pages. Surely I’ve given rise to still more questions in your mind, but just now it is imperative that we end this lesson and turn to the lovely dinner I have prepared for us!

— Let’s do that — the aroma is truly divine!

 

“As Sombras da Vida” by Maurício de Sousa.

 

The Thirty-Ninth Night

 

It was a warm night in the eternal summer of the tropical island where I live with Nick and some nine hundred other souls.

We were playing a game of backgammon after dinner when Nick asked me:

“Hey, when you’re making your art, do you ever do nudes?”

I tried to suppress a laugh, thinking of the strange questions Nick so often throws at me out of nowhere.

“I don’t know how to do nudes. When I was young, before my conversion, I did a lot of pornography, with naked people—but actual nudes? Not really.”

“Wait—being nude is different from being naked?”

“In art, there’s a subtle distinction. It’s the same kind of difference that exists between eroticism and pornography.”

“So... a nude is more artistic?”

“A nude is an invitation to contemplate the beauty of the body—just as the erotic is a beautiful suggestion of the sexual act, or sexual stimuli. But ever since my conversion, I’ve been abandoning any representation of sex—which is very hard for me. I have a strong libido.”

“But why though?”

“To avoid breaking the sixth and ninth commandments. I’ve been trying to follow more closely the principles of medieval art. The Middle Ages mark the height of Christendom, and in its art, you find neither nude people nor naked ones—or rather, yes, but only at the margins.”

I paused briefly and went on:

“Sometimes I dare to sketch a nude—and in those moments, I try to draw from the Greeks, the masters of the nude. But the result never pleases me.”

“Why not?”

“The Greeks are too rigid—and above all, without emotion. Greek statues neither laugh nor cry. They are impassive. It was Catholicism that introduced the representation of emotion into the human body. Christian joy had to be shown. But tell me, dear Nicholas—where did this curiosity come from?”

“Last week, you left a statue out in the open...”

“Ah! Yes, I remember. One of the naked ones.”

“Not a nude?”

“Not a nude. The naturalism of the pose and the modeling shows a man who is naked. A beautiful, naked body made to stir desire—not to invite contemplation of beauty.”

Nick closed his eyes to revisit the statue and said:

“Yeah... I think I get what you mean.”

“I just gave shape to my own desire.”

“I think I get it, yeah. But—is that bad? I mean, you’re an artist. You’ve gotta express yourself, right?”

“Reducing art to the expression of my own subjectivity is exactly what I don’t want. Art is a way of coming to know the Truth—not someone’s inner mood.”

“But what is the Truth?”

I smiled at my own Pilate and said:

“Truth is Jesus, because He is God, the cause of all things. My subjectivity will show in how I present Him—but never as the subject itself.”

Nick looked at me with the eyes of someone who’s seeking something deep.

 

37 “You are a king, then!” said Pilate.
Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. In fact, the reason I was born and came into the world is to testify to the truth. Everyone on the side of truth listens to me.”
               38 “What is truth?” retorted Pilate.  (John 18:37-38)

The Thirty-Eighth Night

Rose had left us and was very comfortable in her home, surrounded by children and grandchildren.

Nick seemed happier after the reunion with his sister, and he was very talkative that night, jumping from one topic to another, mixing subjects about himself, me, and Rose, hardly giving me a moment to catch my breath!

At one point, he said:

“Do you know what really made Rose trust you?”

“No idea”, I replied.

“Remember when you showed her the house and opened the door to your room?”

“Yes.”

“Well, right there, she noticed that your bed didn't have a mattress. That spoke more to her than anything I could have said or you could have done. I had never noticed that your bed didn't have a mattress!”

“She was kind to me. Well, the bed doesn't have a mattress, as is usual, but it has a mattress pad which, though not very noticeable, is there in any case.”

“She never told me why that was so significant to her.”

“Nor will I!”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes! But that shows that Rose has sharp eyes and a good understanding of what she sees.  You never noticed that detail, did you?”

“No! That was the second time I'd been near your room.”

“Well, women do tend to pay more attention to details than us men. Rose is truly special. Just like her brother.”

“Do you and she really pray for me?”

I nodded in agreement and added: “Who knows, your recovery might have been the result of her prayers? You know, intercessory prayers are always complicated. I pray to God, He answers me and calls you, but the final response is always yours. Some people, when called, refuse to answer and persist in evil until they end up in Hell and never get out again.”

“I took too long to listen to that call.”

“That's very common. It happened to me, and to many saints as well. Can I clear the table?”

“Sure, and I'll do your dishes!”

After a pause, he continued:

“It’s good to be loved, isn't it?”

“There’s no greater joy! That's why I always ask God to allow me to die in His Grace. I want to love and be loved by Love itself! All this joy you're feeling could fade the moment you stub your toe on a stone. In Heaven, this joy will be far greater and will never, never fade!”

“Do you really believe that?”

“It’s my deepest, most rooted hope. To live in God’s eternity, in the fullness of love. Of course, I want that for myself and for others. I’m Catholic, not an idiot!”