Felix
didn’t look forward to the dinner party. It wasn’t that he was shy (far from
it). It wasn’t even that he doubted his abilities in Spanish (he did). It was
more the fact that all six invited were Laura’s fellow graduate students and
professors from the university and here he felt a bit at a loss. A lot at a
loss.“What am I going to talk to them about?” he said.
“Oh Felix,” said Laura as she planted a kiss on his
ginger beard (did she see the grey hairs appearing?)“No-one expects you to talk
“medieval”. What would Miranda say? ‘Be Yourself!”
When they started he had known Kieran for many years
and he had seen their love grow (almost eclipsed by his own) in the last 100 or
so kilometres. Now Miranda was about to give birth at any time and despite the
remission of Kieran’s leukaemia, he knew that they must sometimes think of
their time together as somewhat borrowed. He reminded himself of that now.
“You’re right. That old Felix charm. I’m sure it’s in
there somewhere.”
But the look on her face told him that both were
really wondering at this point.
“Well, whatever,” Laura said vaguely. “Good food to be
had though!”
That at least increased Felix’s spirits considerably.
* * *
“The thing is,” said Peter
Callaghan, after the main fish course had beenenjoyed by all, “that despite all
the hype about the Camino, Compostelas and stuff, that none of it has any basis
in history. In fact, prior to the 7th
century, anyone who was anyone claimed that if James
preached here at all, he had virtually no converts and anyway he went back to
Jerusalem where he was beheaded and his body thrown outside the city walls. End
of St. James. Sorry,” he said, looking around to see if he offended anyone’s
religious sensibilities.
“Ah, but you forget,” said one of the Spanish
professors (what’s his name? thought Felix)
“Stone boat, winds of providence, miracles . . .”
Everyone around the table laughed. Felix topped up the
wine glasses, and Dr. Callaghan of Dublin continued.
“Nice story! Why interfere with it? You can be sure
the Cathedral won’t!”
“Nor the Xunta de Galicia,” said someone else.
“Of course not.” Felix was surprised to hear that the
voice was Laura’s.
He was delighted to see that she was issuing forth
from the kitchen with some sort of yummy-looking dessert. “With thousands, tens
of thousands of people, tourists coming here every year, why interfere with a
profitable
myth . . . ?”
“That’s the sad part,” said someone else (was it the
same someone else?
Felix had to remind himself that the Ribeiro and
Albariño wines were strong—especially in their cheap state which was all they
could afford).
“Do you mean to say,” said another someone else, “that
the Xunta knowingly encourages tourism on the basis of St. James even though
they know it is a lie?”
“Now, hold on now . . .” said yet another someone else.
“Coffee anyone?” said Felix.
* * *
“You didn’t add much to the
conversation last night,” Laura said to Felix as he prepared for his English
class that day.
No,” said Felix.
* * *
“Felix. Felix! Look at this!
Just in from Miranda and Keiran.”
Laura was in front of the laptop, Internet established
only that day (blasted Telefónica!).
Grabbing Felix’s elbow with the force of a vice grip
she pulled him so close to the screen that he could hardly see the picture:
Miranda heavily pregnant and Kieran grinning, sporting a fine fuzz of hair
after his chemotherapy, his hand on Miranda’s bump. In his other hand there was
a copy of his book Pilgrimage to Heresy, finally accepted by a small but
influential Irish publisher.
“Typical!” said Felix, “Trust the boyo to get both
things right at once.” But there was
great affection in his voice.
