Life Embitters (41 page)

Tom didn’t budge. He was shocked, his feelings were in turmoil and he couldn’t think straight. We remained like that for a good while. Nevertheless, it was a deadlock that had to be resolved.

“Mr Tom, how about going for a whisky?”

I think that’s a good idea. However, I’ll only have a short … This afternoon I must roast a chicken for Mrs Hudson and I want it to be delicious. What’s more, I’ve got to buy mustard for the old dear because she’s run out.”

We went into the street and walked leisurely to The Golden Lion, the old coaching tavern that was a respectably anachronistic place. In the course of our stroll, I thought he visibly gesticulated much more normally, that the Irishman unbuttoned slightly. He said the way he had acted towards me was simply connected to his idea about people from the countries I came from. “I’d have acted exactly the same with an Italian,” he said. He had read about our country, had formed an idea about its inhabitants and behaved in accordance with that conception. In short, he had fallen victim to travel literature.

He went on to be even more precise, adding that he’d been intending to take French lessons – “French” was what he said – practically for free. To that end he had upped his levels of politeness, and heightened his florid gestures imitating what he’d read about us. He thought I was just as he’d imagined I ought to be after reading about our country.

This entirely true yet strange and laughable story, the source of which I couldn’t possibly have clarified, has come in handy more than once. It has helped me understand how easily one can become a second Mr Tom if you allow yourself to be distracted for only a single moment.

Mungo, in Yorkshire, is a dog’s name, but St Mungo is the official, patron saint of Catholics in the cold, miserable city of Glasgow. There are a fish and a ring on the city shield, objects closely related to one of the most extraordinary miracles performed by this venerable, but rather blurry saint, whose name is as cacophonic as it is full of local color.

Mungo doesn’t exist as a name in Spanish. In fact, it is a nickname given to the saint by his admirers in the vein of that same appealing, mysterious mechanism that leads us to call our dear friend Sr M … 
Ducky
, whenever we refer to him. His real name was Ketingern. Ketingern had his heyday back in the sixth century and was a pleasant, helpful fellow who was responsible for some highly worthwhile miracles. His great favorite was the resurrection
of birds that cruel children killed in those dark ages. In my opinion, resurrecting birds is as meritorious as whispering sweet nothings to them, which is what St Francis used to do. And this all goes to show that by the sixth century Anglo-Saxons were already as open as the Latin peoples, especially when miracles were involved. As we are talking about wonders, we should also say that St Mungo could set light to the frosty branches of Scottish firs without matches or flint-stones.

However, the high point in the life of this revered gentleman was the incident with the ring and the fish and the theological dispute it gave rise to many years after. The reader will find a retelling of the episode in the following lines. You will also find a short account of the great debate. I personally believe that these facts are in themselves noteworthy and of contemporary relevance. In the course of writing about them I have drawn on the most recent scientific advances and latest discoveries in this important area.

In that bygone era, Glasgow was the capital of a monarchy irrigated by the River Clyde that is still with us today. Little is known of the king, apart from his reputation as a great buffoon. They say he was tall and stout, with a long red beard, a pointy head, and a cheeky girlish voice. His preferred pastime was to call on friendly families, sheathed in iron from head to toe, and talk for hours on end about anything under the sun with respectable old ladies. That was why he entered history as a great loving, generous king and why artists usually portray him surrounded by antique virgins. The queen was addicted to spelling mistakes, and this ensured her an enviable place in the history of the creation of the venerable Gaelic language and brought her fame as a captivating forger of rich new expressions. Edinburgh University Library has in its keeping a copy of the collection of her love letters annotated by Sir Charles Lamb’s spicy, subtle hand. The queen was a frivolous, hedonistic individual endowed with all the traits of a genuine
pre-Renaissance figure. She romped with lots of people from a variety of social backgrounds, so much so that one anticipates when the day comes to write a history of the democratizing of blue blood her popular bed will be a mandatory point of reference.

One summer’s afternoon, the king took a stroll along the banks of the Clyde, his courtesans and scribes trailed some distance behind, he fanned himself with the brass crown he wore for everyday use. His head was full of what two old biddies had told him that very morning about an original way of playing poker that had just been discovered by erudite friars in a Breton monastery. All of a sudden he saw the body of a breast-plated man, stretched out some twenty feet away quite close to the water’s edge. He tiptoed silently over and saw – as he had anticipated – the prostrate form of one of the bravest generals of his troops. Scottish generals at the time often took a nap on the banks of the country’s rivers in the summer. The famous historian Gregorovius reports that contemporary German generals had the same habit, which is an estimable comparative discovery. So, then, the warrior was fast asleep and his hoarse breathing made the metal box he was wearing tinkle. He had removed his chain-mail gloves and placed them by his side on the green sod. The king gazed at him a while, pleased that such a fine man was his general. However, in a flash he was struggling to choke down a cry of horror and rage. He undoubtedly had good reason to be horrified! The king had noticed that the general was wearing one of his queen’s rings. As a matter of fact, it was the one he’d given her before they were married. The benign king had heard gossip about his wife’s frivolous ways but had never raised an eyebrow. He’d put it down to distillers speculating with an eye to pushing up the price of whisky. Nevertheless, the discovery was a brutal blow.
How the hell
, he wondered,
did this ring of the queen end up on the finger of a brigadier general?
It turned into a distressing obsession. The king,
as we’ve said, was being cuckolded on all sides, but his question remained unanswered in his mind. Nonetheless, he decided to act immediately. He tried to remove the ring from the general’s finger as gently as he could. The operation was a great success: he put the ring in his pocket and continued his walk, highly excited, but managing not to show it. A taste for a refined form of vengeance had replaced the primitive, unbecoming rage in his heart. Forty yards upstream he threw the ring into the river. After doing that, he decided to go back to the palace. The queen was waiting for him.

“My dear queen,” he said sweetly the minute he arrived, “I feel rather chilly and could do with getting into a sweat. Come and lie with me. I beg you.”

Though she’d just walked away from a loving tryst with a noble who lived round the corner, the queen had no choice but to obey and follow him. In those days people rarely stripped off, and, consequently, everything was more functional than it is today. However, that isn’t the real issue; as historians of antiquity and the Middle Ages point out, the real issue was that the wives of absolute monarchs had only limited powers. And if we mention that it’s not because we want to ensure that people feel sympathy for these ladies but simply to affirm what was a fact. On that day, moreover, she had to give him a thousand caresses and repeatedly touch and tweak his red beard, which is what the king most liked. The monarch acted his part very cleverly and beseeched her, almost cloyingly, to show him all the rings and jewels he had given her. More dead than alive, the queen was able to show him the lot except for one: the ring the king had thrown into the river.

“I lent the missing ring,” she said in a quivering voice, “to my first lady-in-waiting. It’s her son’s wedding tomorrow, and I wanted to give her a token of my friendship by contributing with this small detail to make that proper occasion even more solemn. As soon as the celebrations are over, you will see the ring untouched.”

The king grinned benignly and listened to her explanation and then excused her of any further duties. When he was by himself, he uttered in that whimpering voice of his a sentence that was to become renowned: “Beheading the queen will be a piece of cake.”

As soon as the queen reached her chambers, she had a prolonged fainting fit. When she came to, she was clear about one thing: only a miracle could save her. The fame of Ketingern or Mungo as a miracle maker had reached as far as the chambers of the Royal Palace. However, the prolific nature of his wondrous deeds meant the aristocracy paid them little attention. More attuned to real, penetrating acts than the stuff of dreams, the queen’s character predisposed her against the holy male. She didn’t doubt his powers but felt he wasn’t sufficiently skilful to come to her rescue. “How can one compare,” exclaimed the tearful queen, “resurrecting little birds and setting fire to wet branches to the difficulties of my present plight?” She summoned him, even though she harbored no great expectations.

“Secretary, bring me that good man!” ordered the queen majestically. “Bring him to me via the back door. If you bring him straight away, I’ll give you one of your favorite presents.”

The secretary she had addressed was over seventy years old, but had preserved an enviable spontaneity of feeling and loyalty towards the royal family. He rushed off to seek Mungo out. He visited every church in the city but didn’t find him. Then he began to run around the monasteries, and this being such an onerous task that requires lots of courage, he entered a tavern for a second to take some refreshment. Imagine his surprise when he saw Mungo deep in that den, holding a dram, by a table strewn with bottles and glasses. The holy man was surrounded by a ruddy-faced, impoverished crowd that was in turn woeful and jolly. The secretary had no time to reflect on the futility of human aspirations or finish his drink. He summoned Mungo over to tell him what it was all about.

“Yes, sir!” said the saint merrily. “In my view, this is such a trivial matter it would be better to send a disciple of mine who started not long ago and is broken in …”

“You’re completely mistaken!” replied the secretary solemnly. “The queen wants to speak to you personally, and you cannot opt out.”

The holy person went through the back door with a degree of relish. He made what was an excellent bow in the presence of the queen because he felt so excited. The queen ordered everyone to leave and was thus alone with the venerable fellow. Weeping and simpering, half fainting, half serene, alternating pledges of penitence with allusions to her regrettable affair, she fully confessed the actions of her life. Then she asked the saint to help her to save it.

“If I have understood you aright,” said the venerable fellow, “it’s what we poor people call adultery when we’re calling a spade a spade. The Church teaches us that adultery is a mortal sin. I have given you confession, and that’s never a bad thing. Before God, you are completely forgiven. But before humanity can one say the same? You are asking me to be an accomplice to your situation by throwing human justice off course with an unheard of intervention. This would be an undeniably monstrous step to take, from a theological point of view. When you married, you promised to remain faithful to your husband. Why did you break your pledge? You now want a supernatural act to restore a faithfulness you’ve not upheld … Madam, theology is implacable. It’s a risky proposal.”

“I broke my pledge because the king is …”

“That goes without saying!” said the saint, burying his face in his hands. “But what difference does that make? You are a married woman and the law demands that you repress your passions and abide by the demands of human decency. Your situation is very serious. I would like to help but this
is a very delicate matter. My heart and patriotic spirit are with you, but some things
are
sacred. The only thing that can save us all, my queen, is for hearts to melt and the impulse for forgiveness to be genuine.”

“Holy man! What does the Church want at this moment in time?”

“The Church wants your soul to be saved together with the greatness and prosperity of Scotland.”

“That’s right: exactly what I want too.”

They went their separate ways.

Early next morning this curious character walked along the banks of the Clyde, looking deeply worried. He stared into the water and his senses were so concentrated he seemed to be going mad. He made strange shapes with his hands and scraps of prayer hung on his lips. Then he stopped dead and saw a large bubble appear in mid-stream. When the bubble popped, he saw the gills of a salmon stick out in the very same place. St Mungo immediately nodded to it to swim over, and smiled, probably hoping to win the fish’s trust. The fish began to swim to the mud of the bank, head out of water, eyes alert, and came gently to rest by the feet of the saint. It was a handsome salmon that weighed more than sixteen pounds. The holy man grasped the fish as if it were a babe in diapers and cradled it in his arms. If we’d been in that place at that time with a smattering of Gaelic, we’d have understood this peculiar exchange: “Salmon, we’re suffering from a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Are you willing to help me save our bacon?”

“I’m ready to do whatever is called for!”

“Go then, search out the ring, salmon, and enter the annals of history.”

“I’m more interested in fulfilling the designs of Providence than entering the annals of history.”

“Your sacrifice will be much appreciated, for you will have reinforced the nexus of cause and effect.”

“I agree that nothing should be fractured. We found things as they are and should leave them as such.”

“Indeed. We should do whatever we can to preserve the happiness of mankind …”