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!”

 

The Thirty-Seventh Night

 

Last Saturday was Rose’s final evening here on the island. This coming Tuesday, she boards a plane back to the United States.

I wanted that dinner at my home to be more than just a meal; I wanted it to be an immersive experience, a singular event—one of those rare moments one carries in memory. So I adorned every corner of the house with beautiful, unique objects I had kept in boxes from the days when I lived in a larger house, back in England. Each space became its own little world, and everything was unified by candlelight.

Myriad tiny flames flickered at varying heights, from floor to ceiling—candles of all sizes, shapes, and colors, some close to us, others far.

The dog and Georges seemed stirred by the flurry I’d thrown myself into.

When Nick and Rose arrived, they were truly surprised. It felt, they said, like walking into a different house—not the one they had come to know.

"Where’d all these vases and statues come from?" Nick asked.

"I had them stored away in boxes."

"You made all of these yourself?"

"One or two were bought, but yes—most are my own work."

"Nick told me you want to break into the U.S. art market," Rose said.

"Yes. That’s where I want to begin."

"And you asked my brother to be your agent?"

"If he wants to…"

"Nick would have to go back to America," Rose said, as though it were already decided.

"She wants me to go back with her," said Nick.

"That’s understandable," I said. "The family is finally together again, after so much heartache and so many years apart."

"I want my brother by my side," Rose said.

"I don’t know…" Nick replied, a note of unease in his voice.

"Well, I do know it’s time we sit down and try the appetizers I’ve prepared," I said, heading to the stove and returning with a tray of three small bowls of antipasti, toasted bread, and crackers.

Later, during dinner, Rose hesitated before asking me:

"Do you think my brother will ever be a good Catholic again?"

"Rose!" Nick exclaimed.

"We must always pray for a sound mind in a sound body," she replied firmly. "And that was said by a pagan!"

"I didn’t know you knew Juvenal," I said.

"Is that his name? I’d forgotten. But I’m wrong?"

"Not at all. You’re absolutely right."

"You know what I think about Nick?"

"No."

"I’m sure there are many people praying for him."

"Yes," she said.

"Then I remember what Saint Ambrose told Saint Monica: The child of so many tears cannot be lost."

"Yes," she said, comforted.

"I am right here, you know," said Nick, with a note of protest.

"I’m sure plenty of people are aware of that, Nick."

And as I looked at the two siblings, reunited after so many years, I thought to myself how good it is to be truly loved.

 

Is there nothing then for which men shall pray? If you ask my counsel, you will leave it to the gods themselves to provide what is good for us, and what will be serviceable for our state; for, in place of what is pleasing, they will give us what is best, Man is dearer to them than he is to himself. Impelled by strong and blind desire, we ask for wife and offspring; but the gods know of what sort the sons, of what sort the wife, will be. Nevertheless that you may have something to pray for, and be able to offer to the shrines entrails and presaging sausages from a white porker, you should pray for a sound mind in a sound body; for a stout heart that has no fear of death, and deems length of days the least of Nature's gifts; that can endure any kind of toil; that knows neither wrath or desire and thinks that the woes and hard labours of Hercules are better than the loves and the banquets and the down cushions of Sardanapalus. (Juvenal, Satire X - translated from Latin by George Gilbert Ramsay.)
 

The Thirty-Sixth Night

 

Well, the debris left behind by the storm had been cleared, and Nick’s sister had finally arrived. He told me that the news of the tempest greatly hastened her decision to come see her brother — to be with him before some giant wave might carry him away forever.

That thought made me profoundly happy for him.

He hadn’t visited me over the past week — he was on holiday — but we spoke often over the phone. He wanted his sister to meet me, but it seemed she was avoiding the encounter. To that, I told him:

“Listen: let your sister be by your side. All she wants is to kill the longing she’s carried for you. Your friends don’t matter to her right now. Perhaps they will someday, but not yet. And besides, perhaps there’s a faint echo in the back of her mind, a fear that I might be deeply loved by you, but in the end, just as hurtful as so many others in your past. Let her fill herself with you first — then, if she wishes, you can think about introducing us.”

He agreed my advice made sense and kept her close for the entire week. They wandered the island, cooked meals together, tended to each other’s wounds.

Then came a day, in her second week there, when he announced the long-awaited meeting between me and his sister.

I was nervous, yes. I wanted to make a good impression. The house was cleaned, tastefully decorated, and I planned a fine dinner menu for Saturday night.

The dog sat, one eye on me, the other on the visitor — ready for an attack.

And then I met a beautiful lady, her face unmistakably revealing kinship with Nick. She introduced herself with the polish of an English lady, a veneer that barely concealed an exuberant, joyful spirit — a lover of life’s brightness.

Nick has a remarkable debonair quality, though somewhat tempered by the scars he carries. Rose does not bear as many as he does.

As for me, I used every ounce of empathy I had: I acted as an English gentleman who sees no shame in a hearty laugh. I wanted her approval — for me, and for Nick. In my humble understanding, whatever good she saw in me would reflect upon her brother — as if to affirm his renewal, his freedom from old influences.

As they were about to leave, Rose said to me:

“I’m glad my brother found you.”

“And I’m glad to have found you,” I replied. “I was quite anxious about this meeting.”

“It wouldn’t have happened without your help. Nick told me how much you helped him reconnect with his family. Thank you so much for that.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for. Family is the most important thing, isn’t it?”

“It is, isn’t it, my dear little brother?” she said, embracing him with her arms and a wide smile.

Nick answered with a smile full of joy. Then she turned to me again:

“I was afraid to meet you too, you know? But not anymore — I’m convinced you’re the best thing that could have happened to my brother. More than a gentleman, you’re a man of honour. My brother needs and deserves that kind of company.”

“He helps me too, you know,” I replied.

And we laughed together.

Outside, the moon cast its light over a silvery sea.

 

The Thirty-Fifth Night.

 

They say that “after the storm comes the calm,” but here on the island, what comes after the storm… is work.

And that, in itself, is a good thing. Everyone affected, everyone involved in the repairs—differences are set aside, even among racists—and yes, they exist here too, as they do anywhere. Every paradise has its serpent.

We clear the land of leaves, branches, fallen trees; patch up roofs, sometimes rebuild entire homes. If someone has lost their belongings, if they’re left without food, if they’re injured—well, I know almost everyone who lives nearby, and before tending to my own needs, I made sure to help my neighbors, knowing they’re poorer and more vulnerable than I.

When the storm passed, there were fish scattered across my yard, carried inland by the waves and the surging tide.

Nick, tired of calling me every hour to check if I was still alive, pulled off some crazy maneuver to reach my home, and we ended up spending nearly the whole week together.

Nick has the advantage over me of living in an urban center, in a comfortable two-bedroom apartment. But to get to me, he had to drive as far as the road would allow—part of it had collapsed into the sea. Leaving his car somewhere inland, he hiked through the jungle to bypass the destroyed section, and once he could, called an Uber to take him the rest of the way.

Well, we spent a couple of days helping the neighborhood.

It’s always heartbreaking to see poverty met with the misery of disaster.

Nick was more rational than I was—must be something about our backgrounds: me, Latino; him, Anglo. I wanted to offer more than just material help. I wanted to give emotional support to those living in the houses—talk, listen, console. Nick, on the other hand, preferred to leap from one roof to another, from one wall to the next.

“Guess I’m just scared of getting involved,” he told me. “Afraid of being taken advantage of. You help too much, and then someone you helped ends up treating you like crap.”

“Those are all real risks,” I replied. “Perfectly understandable. But there’s something in me that compels me to go beyond the material.”

“Yeah, it’s that motto of yours, right? You’re loyal to it. My motto’s more like—lift someone up, give ’em a pat on the back, and peace out forever.”

“So your dog’s living with you now?”

“Yeah. The storm took his little house straight into the ocean, I think. The annoying part is, he insists on sleeping with me at night, and I hate that. But he’s getting used to the little spot I made for him.”

“Didn’t lose any chickens?”

“Not a single one,” I replied. “Their coop’s just as solid as my house. They were a bit dazed by the wind and rain, and the forced confinement, but they made it.”

“Man, I was seriously worried about you!” said Nick. “All alone, right by the ocean!”

“I survived several riots in the prisons where I worked. No way a noisy gust of wind was gonna scare me.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a tough guy, I get it!” said Nick, laughing. “But one day a gust might blow a little harder and take you away!”

“Sure,” I said, laughing too. “Like in the story of the Little Ant.”

“The what now?”

“The little ant who, one day, got her tiny foot stuck in the snow. She couldn’t pull it free, so she looked up at the sun and pleaded:

‘O Sun, you who are so strong—can you melt the snow that holds my foot?’

And the Sun replied: ‘Yes, little one, I am strong—but stronger than I is the Cloud that covers me.’

So the little ant turned to the Cloud:

‘O Cloud, you who are strong enough to cover the Sun who melts the snow—please free my foot!’

And the Cloud replied: ‘I am strong, yes—but stronger than I is the Wind who carries me.’

So the ant cried to the Wind:

‘O Wind, stronger than the Cloud who covers the Sun who melts the snow—please, have pity on me!’

The Wind answered: ‘I am strong, little ant—but stronger than I is the Wall that stops me!’

So she turned to the Wall:

‘O Wall, mightier than the Wind who carries the Cloud that covers the Sun who melts the snow—free my foot, please!’

And the Wall replied: ‘Yes, I am strong—but stronger than I is Man, who can tear me down.’

To Man, the little ant cried: ‘O Man, who tears down the Wall that blocks the Wind who carries the Cloud that covers the Sun who melts the snow—please, have mercy and help me!’

But Man said: ‘I am strong, little ant—but stronger than I is Death, who takes me.’

And the little ant, desperate, whispered: ‘O Death, mightiest of all—who takes Man who tears down the Wall that blocks the Wind that carries the Cloud that covers the Sun that melts the snow—please, have pity and free me!’

And Death… killed the little ant.”

“Dude! That’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard!” exclaimed Nick.