I was in London when I decided to follow, somewhat loosely, the old medieval pilgrim road to Compostela in Northern Spain, taking in the Notre Dame Cathedrals along the way, especially Chartres Cathedral about which much remains a mystery.
I caught the channel ferry to France and I was on my way.
Woman In A Doorway
Compostela, SPAIN
It was easier to travel around back then and relatively hassle free, so long as your passport photo was a reasonable likeness no one was interested in why you were entering the country, no one could care less if you had a return ticket or not, money or no money at all. You could pick up a job without worrying about a work visa. It would probably be the kind of work no one else wanted but that was okay. If your funds were running low you could at least earn enough to see you on your way.
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At that time I was interested in the old Gothic Cathedrals. I wondered how it was possible to build such elegance in stone, eight, nine hundred years ago, and when I came to learn that the Templar Masons who pretty much built all the Notre Dame Cathedrals considered they were building a prayer in stone; it intrigued me enough to want to know more, they are unique. Today all we can do is duplicate the feat via computer but no one actually knows how to build one, not exactly that is.
I love to see light streaming through those high stained glass windows, blue and gold, red and green. The soaring lancet arch filled me with awe. Narrow arches of stone spreading out like a spider’s web so high above you need a pair of binoculars to get a close look. A prayer in stone.
I was in London when I decided to follow, somewhat loosely, the old medieval pilgrim road to Compostela in Northern Spain, taking in the Notre Dame Cathedrals along the way, especially Chartres Cathedral about which much remains a mystery.
I caught the channel ferry to France and I was on my way.
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I travelled easy eventually making my way down into Spain and across country to Compostela.
The cathedral, Santiago de Compostela, was a wonder and the tomb of James, well, there isn’t too much you can say about a tomb, other than that it is revered as the resting place of the apostle James, the contention that James the brother of Jesus and James the apostle are one and the same, I let that one go and simply admired the cathedral.
It was hot and if you come to Compostela I doubt you’d want to wear flowers in your hair, the sun would bake them to a crisp.
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A white sun scarred the Spanish sky, heat pored down in relentless waves, dust bloomed and seemed to hang motionless in the sultry air.
By the time I came out of the cathedral and stood for a moment in the square fronting the magnificent edifice the waning sun had turned blood red and gold. I decided to wander around for a while now the pressing heat of the day had given way to a hint of coolness before heading back to the hostel.
Oddly, walking was a relief. After spending so long inside the cathedral, the hot, cloying incense laden air had given me a headache; I crossed the square and followed a street meandering every which way until it eased off.
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I turned into a narrow, winding street of old, Moroccan style houses; deep, recessed arches, walls stained and patched adding a melancholy look of crumbling age, of sad, timeworn indifference to the constant vagaries of the world. Above the recessed doors, blank windows stared out like damp, soulless eyes.
The sun hung low in the sky. The street looked to be heading in the right direction; I could see the church steeple looming high above the rooftops, dramatically outlined against a deepening lavender sky. The transient beauty of the moment caught at my throat and I knew the memory of sunset flooding the streets of Compostela would burn its image in my memory.
One side of the street stood in hazy, cool blue shadows, the opposite side splashed with smoky amber light. High windows fused in shimmering drops of molten gold.
The street was quiet and still; soon enough though people would begin drifting, in the cool of the evening, toward bars and restaurants and cafes sitting down to their main meal of the day with loved ones, family and friends; a good way to live, I thought, no rush no hassle, cuando (whenever). ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ahead, standing in the shadow of a deep recessed doorway I could see a woman. As I walked closer she turned toward the sound of my footsteps. She was tall and rounded, dark hair pulled in at the nape of her neck, held in place with a high silver comb, wide spread, charcoal eyes, lustrous in the gloom, gazed toward me. A blue shawl with emerald green tassels lay across her shoulders and forward across high breasts, the ends tucked under her arms. She wore a pale green dress that fell below her knees. The look on her face haunting and melancholy and for all her velvet, olive skin, there was something ashen in its bloom. She wasn’t pretty or beautiful, but there was something in her face that made you look twice, striking you might say. Woman in a doorway and as I was about to pass by she called out to me in a low, warm voice, her accented English floating and lyrical.
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“Stay,” she said, “stay with me. Pretend that you love me and hold me close through the night.”
I hesitated.
“You are young,” she said, she smiled then, “younger than I and for you there is always tomorrow.” She reached out, beckoning me closer, a faint fragrance of jasmine and lilac hung in the air. “Don’t go,” she whispered softly, “stay, pretend that you love me and hold me close through the night, and in the morning when you go please take the darkness too.”
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I walked on by with a lump in my throat for want of someone to cling to in the deep and the dark. I wish I was an artist, a painter of oil on canvas. And when I was done, the haunt of her won through in her eyes, her face the very shadows she stood in I’d call it, ‘Woman in a Doorway.’
“Stay” she said, “pretend that you love me, hold me close in the night so I can hear you breathe and feel the warmth of your body close to mine, and I will pretend that I love you as you pretend to love me and when you go, please take the darkness too.”
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I wish I was an artist, a painter of oil on canvas. Woman in a doorway, ashen haunt in her eyes.
Roy E Edwards
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Reviewed by Annette Hendrix Williams
9/13/2007
That is a good story. I found this story by choosing literary fiction to see what I would come up with. Then this was the first one that I chose as I was sitting here. Please visit me at my site and tell me why this is literary fiction. Does that mean fiction in plain English? I like your story. Nothing too provacative unless the reader choses to make it that way.
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