Now I Know (24 page)

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NIK
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S NOTEBOOK
:  

Notes on the crucifiction

On Good Friday 1983 three people were nailed to wooden crosses in Manila as their way of celebrating the Crucifiction.

Manio Castro, aged 31, and Bob Velez, aged 41, remained on their crosses for five minutes after the nails had been hammered through their hands.

Luciana Reyes, aged 24, was nailed to her cross for the eighth year running in Bulcana province. 10,000 pilgrims and tourists watched.

These events were reported, with pictures, to newspapers world-wide by the Philippine News Agency.

On Good Friday 1985 in the Manila suburb of Manaluyong Donald Rexford, aged 38, was crucified for the fifth year running with four-inch stainless steel nails driven through his palms. He was hoisted up for seven seconds, and turned round twice so that one thousand onlookers could view him. Rexford was celebrating his reunion with his American father. When asked how he felt he said: ‘It's okay. It's my way of giving thanks.' The event was reported, with pictures, world-wide by the Associated Press.

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NIK
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S LETTERS
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Dear Julie
: Just phoned the hospital. They let me talk to Simmo. She said you're on the mend, doing really well, surprising everybody. Hurray!
And
that you've been tape-recording letters to me. Terrific! Can't wait to get home to hear them.

She also told me the first of my letters had arrived and that she read it to you and that you laughed and said it made you feel better. Great! Helping you feel better makes me feel better.

This morning Kit read ‘Tick-Tock'. He said it was a poem. I said it wasn't. I don't know how to write poetry. Don't even read it much. He asked if he could use it during his meditation tomorrow. Said I should write some more.

I'd better explain, because you can't see it yet, that it can't be read like prose. You have to read it across as well as down. A bit like a crossword puzzle, Kit said. A Cluster isn't just vertical or horizontal. It's three-dimensional. And the phrases, the lines, are like mobile sculpture: they move around one another, making different patterns and shapes—different meanings but all linked. Or they would if I could write them really well. To write them really well, though, I'd have to make them into a hologram! Can you imagine, words weaving in and out of each other and criss-crossing, moving all the time, always combining and recombining to make new sentences, new meanings. Wouldn't that be great.

That's the way I think of the world. And not just the world but the entire universe. And, if I was forced to say what I think God is, then that is what I think he/she/it is: the whole convoluted, ever-changing, unthinkable cluster of Whatisthere.

We only ever know little bits of it.

But today I have to tell you about how I was a naughty boy.

Yesterday evening, Adam, the newly arrived novice, asked me to play tennis with him. I'm not sure I like him. He's a big lumpy bloke, twenty, with a loud confident voice. A rugger-playing type—thick arms, muscly chest, very thick hairy thighs that strain the seams of his shorts. Gross really. Apish but not very monkish. Plays tennis as if he's fighting the third world war.

I lost. Hardly even scored, in fact. Afterwards he said: Well, at least we had a bit of fun! And he patted my bum with his racquet. Have you noticed how sporty types are always patting each other's bums while making hearty remarks?

Let's take the long way back, he said. Don't want to go in till we have to, do we?

He was like a conscript in the army on a night out instead of a volunteer monk. As we were walking along, he asked me if I had any money on me. I had, so he said: Let's have a drink. And he took me into a pub near the park gate. He asked for a pint of beer. He downed his in one go like he hadn't drunk anything in months, banged his glass down, did a lot of lip-smacking and said: Any chance of another? So he had a second pint. Living it up! I have to confess, I did feel at the time a bit like a kid playing truant.

He drank his second pint more slowly and we started talking. I asked him why he joined. You can do a lot worse, he said.

I said: Sure, but being a monk isn't like being other things.

Right, he said. One of the things I like is that it's a bit special. And that it's a good laugh.

I said: A laugh?

Right, he said. (He says Right a lot.)

I said: What's funny about it?

He said: Everything. The way we go on, the things we do, the way other people—lay people like you—treat us. And the brothers, of course. They're the biggest laugh. Take Kit. He's a laugh just to look at.

So he had a good loud laugh to prove it.

I said: What about you? You're one of the brothers. Are you a good laugh?

Right, he said, ‘course I am.

I said: I don't know what's so funny.

He said: Grown men wandering around in floppy dresses with solemn faces and making a fuss about not talking to each other for hours on end. Doesn't that strike you as funny?

I said: But what about God?

Adam said: What about him?

I said: You do believe?

He laughed like I was some kind of idiot. Naturally, he said.

I said: I don't see what's natural about it.

Right, he said. (I thought: If he says Right once more, I'll throttle him!) Right, that's your problem, but it isn't mine. I've never had any problem about God. Always seemed obvious to me, ever since I was little. That he's there, I mean. Can't say I spend much time thinking about him.

I said: So what do you do during Meditation?

He said: Pray, of course.

I said: What about?

He said: Kit must have explained what monks do, he likes explaining what monks do. (I thought: I'll bet you and Kit don't get on.) I said he had.

Adam said: Well then, you'll know we divide our time between worship, study and work, right? All a monk's life is a kind of prayer. But during meditation I pray for people who need it, and about things going on in the world and stuff like that. Doing that is part of a monk's job. What we're here for. I don't mean just praying for what people need. I mean praying
for
them because they can't pray for themselves. Or won't more likely. I mean, we have people whose job is to generate electricity and people who grow food for us, and suchlike. Well, a monk's job is to generate prayers that help keep the human spirit alive. And the price of that sermon is another pint. The labourer is worthy of his hire.

And he patted my bum again with his racquet.

When he had his third pint, I said: You mean you believe your prayers make a sort of energy that keeps the entire human race going?

Sure, he said.

I said: And if all the praying stopped, we'd all go phutt?

Right, he said. Not straight off, of course. Not like us all being shot at the same second. But gradually, like slow poison. I mean, he said, it has to be obvious even to a non-believer that people aren't only bodies and minds. Well, a monk's job is to help keep the other part fit, right? And it's worth doing because most people don't bother. In a way I'm a sort of life saver. So I'm doing a job that's a bit special and is useful and I get plenty of fun out of it. Nobody can ask for more than that. Does that answer your question?

Before I could stop myself, I said: But what about girls? (I'd been dying to ask since I came here, but it isn't the sort of question I could ask Kit.)

Adam laughed extra hard and said: I thought you'd never ask! Look, he said, I can take them or leave them, right? Like God, no problem. Before I joined I had a few hot pashes, naturally. Who doesn't? And I've been a bit hot under the habit a few times since. But you're not really talking about girls, are you? You're really talking about sex. And when it comes down to basics, sex is nothing more than a steamy cuddle that ends in a mucky dribble. To be honest, I'd rather have a good game of tennis myself.

There didn't seem to be any answer to that and anyhow it was time we got back for Compline.

As we approached the house Adam said: You're not thinking of joining us, are you?

I said I wasn't.

He said: Just as well. You'd have a bad time.

I said: Why?

He said: Because you think too much. You'd get hung up on wanting to know the reason for doing everything instead of just getting on with it. You take yourself too seriously. You should relax and enjoy yourself more.

This got up my nose. I said: What do you know? You've only been a novice for a few months. You're not even a proper monk yet. You can't possibly know all about it.

Right, he said laughing and patting my bum again, but anyway, thanks for the game.

And we went inside. The bell was ringing for Silence.

I don't know why he annoyed me so much. Maybe he just wasn't what I thought a monk (even a trainee monk) should be like. Anyway, I couldn't concentrate at all during Compline and didn't stay in chapel afterwards.

Kit followed me out, waved me into the visitors' room, and gave me a right going over, very coldly polite, for playing tennis with Adam and going to the pub. First off, because, being in Retreat, I should have asked Kit for permission, and then because Adam, being a novice, ought to have asked permission as well but hadn't, and then making it worse by going drinking. Kit made it sound like we had both been very naughty boys and that it was all my fault.

I said I didn't see what all the fuss was about.

Kit said: Didn't you agree to go into Retreat? I'm simply pointing out that you've broken your own agreement. Not a crime, but a neglect of a willingly accepted responsibility. As for Adam, he knows well enough that the hardest part of a monk's life is his vow of obedience. This evening he kicked over the traces and it's my job to help him back into harness. You said you wanted to share our life. This is part of it.

I said I didn't see that any harm had been done.

Kit said he didn't want to argue tonight, but would talk about it tomorrow.

I went to my cell feeling pretty cheesed, had a bath, which calmed me down a bit, and lay on my bed thinking about you.

How do I think of you? As someone I want to be with. As someone as young as me, but ‘older', if that makes sense. As someone I like to look at, not just because you're good to look at, but because just looking at you makes me smile and feel happier. As someone who I want to know all about and yet who seems more and more secret the more I get to know her. As someone who knows her mind and who I envy for that. As someone who is strong in herself without seeming to need anyone else to help her. As someone who makes me think and
unsettles
me in a way that makes me feel more alive.

I'd better stop before this list gets too long.

Anyway, it's almost midnight and I'm ready for bed. Tomorrow is the last day of my Retreat.

Love,
Nik
.

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At seven o'clock prompt, Tom was back at the optician's.

‘Any luck, sir?' he asked as he was led inside.

The optician was flushed. ‘The owner of these glasses was crucified, did you say?'

‘It's possible. We aren't sure yet.'

With a touch of melodrama, the optician placed a piece of paper on the desk between them. On it was a name. Nicholas Christopher Frome.

‘Mean anything to you?'

Tom thought. ‘Rings a bell but I don't know why.'

‘The car bombing a few weeks ago?'

Tom looked at him.

‘“Pilgrim lovers victims of terror bomb”?'

‘Christ!' Tom said.

The optician smiled. ‘Glad those old records came in useful after all.'

‘You're sure, sir?'

‘Most of my patients are as old as I am. I get very few youngsters these days. No trendy frames and no young staff. I remember him. He came to me because I treated his grandfather. Nice boy. Mild myopia. Slight astigmatism in the left eye. I've written his address on the other side.'

Tom's first instinct was to race off. But the optician said: ‘Bit of a facer, eh? If he is the chap you're looking for, the press will have a field day.'

The optician was right. Which made Tom think again. One false step now, and goodbye plain clothes.

‘Could I use your phone, sir?'

‘Help yourself.'

Tom dialled the station. The super was still in his office but not at all pleased to be held up.

‘I've an official dinner in half an hour, Tom. This had better be good.'

‘I think I've traced the crucified man, sir.'

‘Why bother me with what you think? I want certainties.'

‘There could be bad publicity. I thought I should check.'

‘Who is he?'

‘Name of Frome. The boy involved in the car bombing a few weeks ago.'

‘Jesus!'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Who else knows?'

‘Only the optician who helped us trace him. I'm with him now.'

‘Right. Listen carefully. Have you any other leads?'

‘Might have, sir, in about half an hour.'

‘Splendid. Follow that up. We'll check on your info from this end. You've done well. Now, give me the boy's address and then put your optician on so I can gag him. If this gets out, all hell will break loose.'

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NIK
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S LETTERS
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Dear Julie
: I'm back home. Old Vic fetched me last night. There's a lot to tell. In future I'll send tapes so you can listen instead of someone having to read my letters to you. But I've just discovered that my Walkman is on the blink and I can't get it fixed till tomorrow, so I'll send this as a stop-gap. The last Epistle of Nik the Spy in a Foreign Land. At least I can use my wp again, which is a relief. All that writing made my hand ache and took ages.