Miss Buddha (4 page)

“I don’t understand.”

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she
unclasped a silver chain from around her neck, and, after another
brief hesitation, unfolded her hand to show him the chain and its
famous medallion, marking her as, yes, he knew all about the
medallion and what it meant: a Cathar.

He nodded—or, rather, felt himself nod. He
did not want to understand, but he did.

Beside him, still holding his hand in hers,
sat one of the few to survive the intense massacres launched by
Pope Innocent III, and the subsequent and thorough extermination
efforts by the Inquisition; though not thorough enough, never
thorough enough. Pockets had survived. Always do.

She was one of the survivors.

“Now I have entrusted you with my life,” she
said. “For truly, I do love you.”

At that he had cried, for the first time and
last time as a grown man, cried like a child cries when overcome
with incomprehensible loss, for he realized that he would never
possess this woman, and in that moment, counter to every one of his
physical fibers, he no longer wanted to possess her, for he, in
turn, loved her too much.

He had laid his head in her lap then—child
in mother’s, the only thing he could do to ease the pain—and she
had cradled it with her hands, and perhaps she had even hummed some
comforting melody or incantation, for he felt surrounded by more
than tender fingers and warm cloth.

Here comes more wood shoved in his face,
stirring him back to the present. “Please, please, I beg of you,”
shouts the monk holding the cross, no more than a boy, “repent.
Save your soul.”

Oh, how he wishes he could spit in the ugly
youth’s face.

The boy—as if startled by his
thought—withdraws the crude symbol and leaves him to his
reverie.

Leaves him to return to Nola, his childhood
town, which comes rushing back, pushing aside crosses and throngs
and jeers and trumpet blasts up ahead, while the square draws
nearer with each clip, with each clop.

Nola, by the foot of his beloved
mountain—Mount Cicala they called it; Nola, the little town gifting
him its name: for he was to be known as “The Nolan.” The little
town where life was lived before trouble grew too dense and clawy
to be survived.

He could smell, taste even—despite wooden
splinters piercing lips and cheeks and tongue—olives, chestnuts,
poplars, rosemary, vines, elms, myrtle, even the earth itself out
of which Cicala sprung like a vast but guarding spirit. He was
running across fields with his friends, fresh wind in his face,
re-living the exploits of his soldier father (always away, it
seemed). And here, in this land of memory, the sun always stood
high in the sky, sweeping away any cloud before it. There was no
shadow upon those days. No shadow.

:

He had been a brilliant student—at least in
his own estimation, though none disagreed with that assessment. But
his family was poor, and there was no question of higher schooling
for the bright boy. A soldier’s pay did not go far; the funds were
not there.

Were he to study further—something he deemed
his God-given right—he had only one option: The Church, which, in
his opinion, was the far lesser of the two relevant evils.

The other, far greater evil, was to forfeit
his education and settle for a menial life. This was out of the
question.

Thus, just turned seventeen, he also turned
monk.

If only he had learned to hold his tongue
well enough to actually hold it.

He was not pious, nor did he claim to be.
Not even to appease his teachers, most of whom saw and accepted him
for what he was: a young man ambitious for learning, for that was
all it took—in their estimation and experience—to fashion, in the
end, an obedient monk, true to dogma and the Holy Church: a useful
instrument.

He would, however, soon
topple their complacent views for they had misjudged his desire for
learning, which was by no means limited to orthodox teachings, but
was a deep and irrepressible desire to know the
truth
; and truth, he was soon to
realize, was not constrained by the codex of canon law and the
constitutions of his order.

Seeing this, he deeply and
honestly rebelled against the diktat that he adopt and exclusively
subscribe not only to the Gospel truths—as found in the Good Book
itself—but to every and minute interpretation of those truths by
Roman Authority, boringly and at length spelled out in crabbed
Latin by long dead theological scholars.
This is the truth
, decreed his order,
and there is no other, down to the very last holy inflection, comma
and period.

Without variation, world without end,
amen.

Not to his taste.

Oh, if only he had learned to hold his
tongue.

And to tolerate stupidity.

And to hide things better.

The drop to finally overflow this rebellious
cup of dissent was his illegal acquisition of Erasmus of
Rotterdam’s commentaries on the works of Saint John Chrysostom and
Saint Jerome. Erasmus, as he well knew, was on the Index of
forbidden books, but a brother from Venice had whispered his name,
had told him of truths told by Erasmus but denied by the Church,
had offered to smuggle him a copy of his book and Bruno had agreed,
of course, his thirst would have it no other way.

He had hidden the book in one of the
monastery privies, well concealed, he thought. But before too long
it was found, and eventually traced to him, led there by his own
stupidity: Too anxious to prevail in debates, and too eager to
display his brilliance, he had taken to quote from this forbidden
book—not by name, obviously, but most certainly verbatim (his
excellent memory, already in evidence, had seen to that). And most
certainly to the recognition of those elders who did not look upon
him too kindly, for they, too, had read Erasmus, the better to
expose the errors of the heretic’s views. And so, hearing young
Bruno expound upon something or other with the help of Erasmus, it
was clear to them who had hidden the book in the privy.

And after this it was not long before the
Prior asked to see him, again, and this time told him that the
Neapolitan Inquisition had now initiated judicial process against
him. He was charged with insubordination to the monastic
authorities, and with heresy. He was urged to reflect long and hard
upon his misdeeds.

The impatient young man reflected only
briefly.

Then he fled.

:

Into years of exile.

Ever searching, ever seeing, ever finding,
ever writing, ever fleeing, ever moving on when the Church hounds
picked up his scent and alerted their masters to his
whereabouts.

Against the ceaseless clip-clops below, the
many cities parade before him, each at first a welcome, each in the
end an unwelcome: Rome, Genoa, Turin, Savona, Noli, Venice, Milan,
Chambery, Lyons, Geneva, Toulouse, Paris, London, Oxford, Marburg,
Wittenberg, Prague, Frankfurt, where his traitor-to-be, Giovanni
Mocenigo, finally reached him with an invitation to return to
Venice, offering him both work and protection, which Bruno—homesick
by now, and weary of constant flight—could not resist.

A few months later, Mocenigo—thirty silver
pieces richer—handed him over to the Inquisition as a heretic.

Seven underfed and miserable years later.
Many, many visits to the rack later. Many failed attempts to make
him recant later. All these now see him tied to the back of a
donkey choking on wood, and now nearing the Campo dei Fiori.

He caught the drifting song of oil drenched
kindling mixed with the thirst for blood of the growing throng, of
end approaching.

And still they shoved the cross in his face.
Pleading, as if they had the faintest clue about what they were
asking.

::
6 :: (Renaissance Rome)

Donkey hoofs no longer clip-clop. They have
come to rest.

He can hear, and feel—in his arms, in his
chest—the slow breath of the animal. He can hear the soft swish of
tail, as it chases some early-riser flies away. He listens to this
for several heartbeats, and for a time—although he cannot bend his
head to see—all that takes place in the here and now is the
graceful flicking of the mule’s tail.

He tries to hold on to this moment (and so
many other moments like it that now comes rushing to the rescue),
tries to make it last and last and take the place of all other
moments. Then comes another cross near his face and another
eager-to-please monkish face, and here comes the rising susurrus of
the anticipating crowd. The square then. They have arrived.

The animal chooses this moment to bray.
Loudly to those nearby, louder still to Bruno, ear pressed against
the braying neck, issuing the grating howls first as rumbling earth
within the thick, redolent hide—he is still in two minds about
whether the strong scent is comforting or disgusting—then as
hissing forth through windpipe and maw, then out into air as
scream.

And again, and again, as if a trumpet now,
heralding arrival.

Then the animal has had its say; it is still
now. Waiting, it knows not for what, but waiting. Waiting, like
Bruno.

A new eternity.

Or a small bouquet of heartbeats.

Hands now, a forest of fingers trying to
untie the not yet wholly dried leather thongs, trying and trying
but failing to. Now a discussion, much of which eludes Bruno, but
it must have to do with finding something to cut the thongs with. A
knife, a sword, anything sharp enough. Suggestions are offered,
attempts are made, the words “not sharp enough” are repeated by
someone to his right—he can sense a priestly figure, pointing,
piping (voice like an old organ) “not sharp enough” and much
casting about for another implement.

More commotion, further attempts, and
finally: someone brought something “sharp enough” and his
compulsory grip on the donkey’s neck slips to his left as he falls
to his right and someone catches him, then drops him as the same
“sharp enough” severs the thong for his feet and he tumbles to the
ground.

More hands and fingers among other crosses.
He is heaved to his feet.

The leather thongs are still welded to his
wrists and ankles and he realizes he can feel neither hands nor
feet, what blood normally comes and goes there has lost access.
Still, with the help of many hands, he stands on feet that, for all
their numb silence, still seem to serve.

How long, he thinks, how long, precisely, am
I for this world? Drink, he tells himself, drink what there is to
drink, even if this wine be foul and painful, it is wine
nonetheless and is better than no wine at all, for now he is
suddenly very afraid to die, and would recant anything, everything;
would assume all the sins of the world, and trade them for eternity
in hell, if only he could live one more day. One more day.

The animal brays again, but this time
nowhere near as loudly. Almost kindly. This time it brays for him,
he thinks, a goodbye, and he looks over at the animal, but it is
being led away now, all he sees is the rump and the swish of tail.
Still, the bray was meant for him, this he suddenly knows and he is
flooded with remorse for not loving this animal until now.

He tries again, but still cannot feel his
hands. Nor his feet. Looking down he sees they are blue with
trapped blood, spindly and blue and not such good instruments for
standing, and so he buckles again, but this time he is caught
before finding ground. Pulled up, supported now from all sides.

Other hands—many pairs, and with what
eagerness—now begin pulling at his sack, his only clothing, and
with many words exchanged between pullers and supporters the
garment finally rises—catching first on the wooden block in his
mouth, then scraping his nose and forehead—and frees itself of its
charge. Tossed then—he cannot see in which direction—it leaves him
naked. His only clothing now the constricting leather thongs on
wrists and ankles.

And here the voice again, the “not sharp
enough” voice. It makes a reference to the thongs, and an attempt
is made to remove these little too-tight nooses, but after a while
the voice loses patience and changes its mind and instead orders
the many hands to lead him forward, toward.

Toward.

Toward the stake driven into ground for the
purpose of purifying souls and now surrounded by kindling and much
wood. The reek of oil rises anew as if to signal to him its
willingness to burn. Toward this stake, and he cannot feel his feet
touching ground. Perhaps he is lifted rather than walking, and then
there is no more toward left.

Only stake.

Hands now press his back against the rough
wood and twist his arms back for new thongs. He can feel, in the
same manner you hear underwater, rope secure his hands and arms the
far side of the bole, and someone else is making sure that his
feet—which he still cannot feel, and which still, as he glances
down, are blue—will not stray. So much binding for such a small
man. That is his precise thought, and if the wooden block did not
fill his mouth into forced rictus he would have smiled at that.
Smiled, that he could still think lucid, even amusing—if not very
helpful—thoughts.

They place a metal ring—fastened by a chain
somewhere above him—around his neck, and—his faculties ever
alert—he works out why: to keep him erect once the rope that ties
him to the pole has charred and crumbled.

The ring is tight; it is more like a metal
noose than a necklace. He swallows. Can. Barely. Swallows again, or
tries to. His throat is too dry for a second swallow.

And so they are done. Many fingers, and
parent hands and arms, retreat. He is safely secured.

Many hands now push wood and the kindling up
against him, closing the path that gained him access to this, his
final spot on Earth.