Lamplight in the Shadows (28 page)

‘So, back to your conundrum, James. Where is your mind at present? Are you going to return to the outside world next week a new man with a refreshed outlook?'

James removed his napkin from his lap and dabbed at his lips before depositing the crumpled cloth on the table. Taking a sip of cider, he toyed with the glass for a few moments before fixing his gaze on the face of the Warden.

‘One thing that has happened over the past week is that I have clarified what my faith now means to me.'

‘A promising start. Go on.'

‘You will be familiar with James Fowler's
Stages of Faith
?'

The Warden nodded. ‘Essential reading for all theology students. A rather neat way of describing the complex process of spiritual development many of us wrestle with during our lifetimes. Actually…' he glanced away from James, ‘it is one you ought to read, Andrew. Sorry, back to you, James.'

‘Well, I first read it in 1982; I think about a year after it was first published. I had been struggling with making sense of my faith throughout my teenage years and the book helped to put a lot of that into perspective.'

‘Where did you then feel you were?'

‘Meaning which stage?'

‘Yes.'

James hesitated before replying, his eyes roving aimlessly about the walls and windows behind the Warden's head.

‘Stage Four.'

‘That is what Fowler calls Individual-Reflective Faith. A time of critical reflection and examination of all that you have thus far held as literal and unquestionably sacrosanct.'

James nodded. ‘Do you think I was being presumptive?'

‘How old were you then?'

‘Twenty-two.'

‘A good time to get there. Many people never get past Stage Three, with their religious authority firmly linked to the traditional Church structure and its membership groups. You were at a far more rational stage. So what happened to you after that?'

‘I think it was quite a revelation for me – and quite scary at first.'

‘Of those who do reach that stage, many become atheists or agnostics. Indeed, many a theological student seeking ordination has first lost his… or her… faith whilst making the necessary philosophical transition.'

‘That didn't quite happen to me, although I did find myself somewhat at sea. It was as though I had cast anchor but was without a destination.'

‘A nice metaphor. What of now?' As he spoke, Luke Palfreyman refilled James' glass of cider.

‘For some years, I thought no more about it, the stages I mean. I think I was too absorbed with my medical studies. However, since arriving here, I have re-examined what my faith means and where it sits within my life. I thought it was a good starting point in order to try and make sense of all the current confusion in my mind.' He took a sip from the recharged glass.

‘Have you mastered the wheel or is your compass still spinning?'

Replacing the glass on the table, James leant back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair in the process. A deep sigh escaped him as he gazed for a moment at the ceiling, before falling forward to lean his elbows on the table. Taking a deep breath, he proceeded to stare straight at the Warden as he next spoke.

‘In terms of my theological position, I think I have moved on; in spiritual terms, almost to a mystical level. However—'

‘Fowler's Stage Five. An unusual place to reach before mid-life, but a mature place to be.' He nodded approvingly. ‘Sorry, I interrupted you. Why do you express uncertainty?'

‘Because the inner voices are still occasionally anarchic and because…'

For a moment, his head dropped forward and he stared blankly at the placemat before taking a deep breath and fixing back on the Warden's eyes.

‘…and because I am no longer certain that I can dedicate myself to a ministry where the majority of people are stuck in some childish understanding of what Christianity is all about.'

The Warden held his gaze and said nothing.

‘I just don't think I can do it.'

‘And where are you in non-theological terms?'

‘I think I should give my marriage another go. I know the path I have been treading is not morally right.'

Andrew, who had been listening intently up to this point, gently cleared his throat to speak. ‘So, you are willing to sacrifice your ministry, which up to now has meant so much to you. Yet, at the same time, you choose to continue a relationship that is causing you so much pain.' His look was of overt confusion.

James frowned and inclined his head.

‘I'm not sure that I understand you. Surely, I should be true to both myself and the Church?' He looked from Luke to Andrew, and back to Luke. ‘It would be so wrong for me to follow a false vocation.'

Andrew shrugged. ‘Don't look to me for an answer to that one; I am hardly in a position to give you advice.'

‘It's not the vocation that bothers me, James.' Luke drank a little before continuing. ‘Stuck in a juvenile understanding of theology the majority of parishioners may be. However, the task of a good shepherd is to show them the path and lead them on that path. Indeed, many men have entered the ministry with far less an understanding of the richness of theology. Indeed, they are not so far advanced in that respect than their parishioners. No, it is not your ministry; it is the relationship that troubles me most.'

‘Are you saying that I should break my marital vows?'

‘I think that is no longer the question. I perceive that they have already been broken, thereby making the question less than academic. What now troubles me is your apparent willingness to pursue a path that perhaps promises nothing but a painful future for both you and Janice. Ask yourself as an educated man, are you doing the right thing by her? What right do you have to keep her trapped in a relationship where there is nothing but angst? Do you have the ethical right to make her your prisoner just for the sake of appeasing your moral conscience?'

‘So, you think we should separate?'

‘It is one of the options in front of you. Indeed, it might perhaps be the best option for you both in the longer term.'

‘I didn't expect to hear that from a priest.'

‘We live in an imperfect world. Sometimes, sacrifices have to be made for the greater good. In this case, your sacrifice is for Janice's greater good. Surely, she cannot be any happier than you?'

‘No, I don't think she is, but my Christian conscience says—'

‘Then you must set aside the Church and what you believe your conscience to be, and concentrate on that relationship in its purest sense. Listen to what your heart tells you. By doing so, you will know the right path to take. Remember, there is evidence to suggest that Jesus' relationship with Mary Magdalene was not entirely in keeping with what Jewish law and his elders would have seen as the correct moral path.'

James sighed again and looked ruefully towards Andrew, who just shrugged. ‘I guess the compass is still spinning.'

The Warden slowly nodded. As he did so, one eyebrow lifted and a wry grin appeared.

‘I couldn't agree more, James.'

‘Ah, there you are.'

James strolled onto the terrace outside the communal breakfast room, a glass of fresh orange juice in his hand. Janice was sitting at a small, white plastic table beneath a blue parasol; a partially drunk cup of black coffee sat abandoned on the table, whilst the ashtray suggested that the cigarette she was smoking was just one of several since rising. She nodded as a response and exhaled a stream of smoke, which hovered under the parasol before availing itself of a gentle breeze to escape into the blue Mediterranean sky. He gave her forehead a polite kiss and sat down on a chair upwind of her.

‘Did you sleep well? Have you eaten?' His gesture towards the breakfast bar was superfluous, well knowing the reply to the second question before it came.

‘I'm not hungry. You go and get something for yourself.' The first question was unanswered.

He tried again.

‘I thought we might explore Valetta this morning, if you are interested? It has quite a history dating from the Holy Crusades. Some of the best preserved streets are those built and once lived in by the Knights of St John – you know, the organisation that today runs the St John Ambulance in England.'

‘If you wish.'

‘Then this afternoon, we could take a stroll around the harbour and perhaps find a café there, where we can sit and read or watch the boats, or something?'

‘Whatever.' She stubbed out the remains of the cigarette, picked up her lighter and stood up. ‘I'm going for a shower. I'll see you after you've had breakfast.'

James silently watched her stride back into the hotel, vaguely aware of the hubbub of conversations from nearby tables as couples and families breakfasted together. Laughter drew his attention to another young couple, who were more intent on holding each other's hands across the table than tackling the plates of fruit, meats and bread they had chosen together moments previously. They leaned towards each other and tenderly kissed. James turned away. As he did so, his ears noticed the sound of a distant, solitary bell calling the locals to Morning Mass. For the second time since arriving in Malta, he sighed deeply, thinking that never before had he felt as alone in the world as he did at that moment.

* * *

Not for the first time that week, James found himself sitting on a low wall outside one of the five remaining auberges of the Knights of St John of Jerusalem. Originally, there had been eight. However, time, the need for a new town hall, and heavy bombing during the Second World War had reduced the number of these architecturally splendid hostelries once belonging to the eight langues, or nationalities, of that historic Order of Knights. Situated on a strategic crossroads of sea-routes within the Mediterranean, Malta had seen many skirmishes in its time; not least of all the Great Siege, when 9,000 Knights of St John had seen off some 40,000 Moslem Turks in the name of Christianity, a faith originally brought to the island when, in 60 A.D., St Paul found himself shipwrecked there. This week away with Janice was beginning to feel a little like a siege of its own to James.

On the first day here, his tour of Valletta had turned into a solitary excursion as, after ten minutes of walking, Janice had declared the prospect of viewing the auberges, cathedral and great defensive walls of the harbour ‘boring' and abandoned him to his own devices. It was probably for the better, as he had been able to immerse himself in the 268 years of occupancy by the Knights of St John, an Order that fascinated him for their dual roles as monks as well as knights.

Now, as he gazed at the white, eight-pointed cross of the Knights emblazoned into the stonework above the lintel of the front door to the auberge opposite, he could not help but ponder the eight beatitudes represented by the eight points of the cross of Amalfi as given in Christ's Sermon on the Mount. He mentally paused at the sixth one before repeating it aloud: ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.'

‘Indeed, they will, my son; but it often takes all the strength of the four cardinal virtues depicted by the arms of the cross you see before you in order to attain that purity.'

James turned to find a priest standing behind him, his long black cassock surmounted by a large, wooden pectoral cross. The fact that he did not wear a beard suggested to James that he was Roman Catholic rather than Greek Orthodox.

‘I have been watching you for a while. You seem sad,' the priest continued.

‘I am, Father,' replied James, staring up into the gnarled, brown face of his beneficent inquisitor. ‘Like Malta, I feel that I am at a crossroads. A crossroads in my life from where it is unclear which path I must take.'

‘You are alone here?' The priest raised the hem of his cassock, revealing a dusty pair of feet strapped into a battered pair of brown sandals, and sat down beside James.

‘No… and yet… yes.'

‘I thought as much. Nobody comes alone to our beautiful island and remains sad for long. You must carry a very heavy burden in your heart.'

It was more of an assured statement of fact than a question and the two sat silently for a while, the priest with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his cassock.

‘My name is James, Father. Back in England, I am a doctor who is also walking the pathway to ordination. At least, that is what I thought I was doing until…'

‘…until you met someone who is not your wife, whom you love more than your wife loves you, and now your heart is heavy with indecision.'

James turned. His eyes roved over the face of the man next to him. However, before he could speak the priest smiled, met James' quizzical eyes and continued.

‘You are wondering how I know all this about you.'

Again a statement, not a question. James said nothing and the priest continued.

‘You are a young man who has come to Malta on holiday, yet you are sad. You are also a young man who wears a wedding ring, yet there is no sign of your wife to comfort you in your sadness.'

He paused, accepted James' silence for acquiescence and continued.

‘You were earlier reciting one of Christ's beatitudes aloud; the one that speaks of having a pure heart. Why would a man do that and be so sad unless his heart was not pure? Which leads me to believe that it was the thought of a woman other than the one who placed a ring onto your finger that has made you so sad.'

‘You are very astute, Father.'

‘It is God who is astute, my son. Twice I have been prompted to walk down this street recently with no intention of a destination. Each time I have seen you sitting here alone. On the first occasion, I wasn't sure but suspected that you were the reason I had cause to come here. Now, I do not have that uncertainty.'

‘I am grateful to you for spending time with me, Father. However, as you so rightly say, I have a torment that is tearing at my heart and I cannot see the way forward.'

‘Have you asked God for His direction?'

‘How can I? I am a married man. How can I be married, follow God's calling to become a priest, and also be in love with a woman who is not my wife? Jesus has already given us the answer to that: “what God has joined together, let no man put asunder”. Are they not the words recorded in St Matthew's Gospel?'

‘How sure are you that your marriage had God's blessing?'

‘We were married in church, Father. Doesn't that amount to the same thing?'

‘Did it feel right to you? Can you say that you were led to that moment with a blissfully happy heart, without reservations, and that the day itself was, beyond all doubt, the happiest day you can recall to that point of your life?'

Their eyes again searched those of each other: the priest for verification of the answer he already knew; James for a sign, any sign, that the priest was not leading him into some falsehood of interpretation.

‘As I thought. Your silence is both accusatory and affirmative; so let me ask you several more questions. What were the circumstances of you meeting the person you hold so close in your heart? Did your pathway in life take you on an unexpected route? Is this truly the first crossroads you have found yourself at or were there others that deflected your direction of travel up to the point that you met the person of whom we now speak?'

‘You are a wise man, Father.'

‘It is God who is wise and I am just one who speaks in His name. It is St James, after whom you have been christened, who reminds us that when we lack the wisdom to know what we should do, we should ask God, for St James assures us that God will answer generously and without finding fault. However, he also says that he who asks “must believe and not doubt, because he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed like the wind”.'

‘So you think that I—'

‘What I think is unimportant. It is what God thinks that matters. Perhaps God did not intend you to marry when you did. We all sometimes do things that are contrary to His intentions. Perhaps that was one such occasion. Now, it would seem that He is showing you, in powerful and unavoidable terms, what His real intentions are for you. If that is the case, you must follow your heart, not your mind; for a man's mind can never fathom the reasoning behind God's will, any more than we can the depths of His purpose.'

‘And what of my calling to the priesthood?'

‘You already have your ministry, James. Was not St Luke a physician? Go and do God's work through your ministry of healing; just as Jesus himself did. You do not need to be ordained to perform such tasks.'

The priest withdrew his hands from his sleeves and pushed himself to his feet, dusting down his cassock.

‘My name is Dominic Caruana. I have a small church in the square at the end of this street. You will be welcomed there, if you have the time.' He trailed a finger in the dust on the wall before drawing the sign of a cross on James' forehead. ‘And even if you do not come, I will pray for you, my son.'

With that, he turned and walked slowly up the cobbled street. James watched him until he turned into the square at the top and was lost from his sight.

* * *

The cool interior of the Church of the Assumption of Our Lady, more commonly known as the Rotunda of Mosta, provided a welcomed relief from the scorching heat of the afternoon Mediterranean sun. Indeed, with walls thirty-feet thick, the temperature of the 19
^th
-century church saw little variation all year round.

As they entered, a small, wizened, Maltese woman wearing the traditional black dress of a widow greeted them.

‘Wara nofs in-nar it-tajjeb. Ingliż?'

‘Wara nofs in-nar it-tajjeb. Iva, Ingliż.'

James attempted to return her greeting in Malti and accepted the English version of the visitors' guide.

‘Grazzi ħafna.'

‘Ta' xejn.'

The widow turned to offer Janice a second copy, but she had already gone ahead and was now idly wandering around with a speed that easily registered her disinterest.

The fact that they were there at all was a miracle of sorts. It had taken James the entire previous day to persuade her that a car trip to the central part of the island was worthwhile, not only to take in the church of Mosta but also the ancient walled town of Mdina. They had visited the latter that morning, when Janice had surpassed herself by starting an intense argument just outside the main square in full view of a bemused group of Maltese taxi drivers, before storming off and leaving James alone for almost two hours. She had reappeared just as he had started the car engine to leave, allowing for the distinct suspicion that she had secretly kept him under observation for the duration of his abandonment. However, here they were in Mosta and James entered the church with a determination not to let her insouciance spoil his anticipation of what was to come.

With several side chapels spaced around a central open area, the main attraction of the church was the dome. Boasting, according to the guidebook, an unsupported internal diameter of 122 feet, it carried the quiet assertion of being the third largest in Europe and the ninth largest in the world. However, as if that architectural feat was not sufficient, the dome was also famous for what was known by the Maltese as
Il-Miraklu tal-Bomba
, or the Bomb Miracle. James stopped to read a plaque affixed to a pillar, at the base of which was a replica of a bomb. The inscription told the story of how, on 9
^th
April 1942, 300 people were inside the church waiting for the evening Mass. At the same time, a Luftwaffe raid took place and the roof was hit three times. Two 200kg bombs bounced off, whilst a third penetrated the dome and fell amidst the congregation. The fact that it did not explode had remained a source of contemplation and wonderment for visitors ever since.

He turned his attention to the body of the church. The floor was adorned with a tiled mosaic, the midpoint being directly beneath the apex of the dome. He stood and watched as two women approached the black circle at the middle of the mosaic and gazed upwards, before gesticulating at the floor beneath them, as they imagined the fall of that legendary bomb. Their curiosity and incredulity assuaged in less than a minute, they moved on, leaving the area vacant. He checked around the church, decided that no one else was about to approach and proceeded to walk to the same black circle. For a moment, he paused at the edge, and then stepped inside. It was strangely exhilarating for him to know that his feet were now standing on the very tiles where Anna had once stood and he felt an involuntary tremor in his legs. Gazing upwards, his eyes met an intricate latticework of white plaster, culminating in a small window from which brilliant sunlight streamed inwards.

‘Send forth your light and your truth, let them guide me.'

The words of Psalm 43 came easily to his lips as the light bathed him in its ethereal force, a sensation enriched by the intense knowledge that he was seeing not through his own eyes, but those of the woman whose face had occupied his every waking thought since arriving in Malta and spoke to him in his dreams. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the image of her face, wondering if, by some metaphysical force, Anna could sense that he was there, their souls bonded by an invisible thread connecting them through space and time.