On Loving Josiah (21 page)

‘You mean, such as “
Anima Christi
” or “
Spiritus Christi
”? I’m not much of a theologican, but the
Spiritus Sanctus
seems to have hogged the
anima
and left Christ with a mere body.’

‘Why do you call the body “mere”, Tom? Perhaps that’s all there is, in the end, our bodies.’

‘Do you think you’ve got a soul, Jo?’

‘I don’t know. But I do know I’ve got a body.’

‘Have you ever heard of Descartes?’

‘No. Perhaps.’

‘Descartes would have put it the other way round. He would have said, you might be experiencing the illusion that you have a body. But the important thing is you are the subject of that experience.
Cogito ergo sum
.’

‘“I think, therefore I am,”’ smiled Josiah happily. ‘But I, Tom, I
know
I have a body. I don’t care what Descartes or anyone else says. Do you feel the same about your body?’

‘Well, obviously I hope I have a body,’ said Thomas, tentatively.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Josiah. ‘You
hope
you have a body! Does that mean you like having one?’

‘That’s an interesting question, Jo. I don’t really know how to answer it. Sometimes I forget I have one altogether, and quite often that suits me. I don’t often gets aches and pains. I’m not often ill. That means I don’t have to think about having a body.’

‘But what about the good things about having one? Here, give me your arm, Tom.’ (I’m afraid Thomas kept his arm very close to his side, and his one sensation was one of the stiffening of it.) ‘All right, I’ll show you what I do to myself, when there’s a great racket and commotion outside my bedroom door, and I can’t sleep at night, and I need my body to be mine again, far from these… these
invaders
. I pull up the sleeve of my pyjamas, and I run my finger between the crook of my arm and my wrist, very lightly so that it half tickles. And somehow, because then I remember I have a boundary which they will never infiltrate, I feel better and stronger.’

‘Who are these invaders, Jo? Do they exist, or just in your head?’

Then Josiah remembered one lie, at least, and promptly added another to it. ‘They exist, all right. We live next to a pub, you see, and at closing time the noise can be awful, right outside my window.’ And then, seeing that Thomas wasn’t quite persuaded, he
continued
apace to distract him. ‘But worse than that, even, is when the boundary of your body separates you from others, when you wish to be pressed upon so heavily that you’re breathless.’

Thomas paused and said, ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

‘I was thinking the other day, and perhaps this is the kind of thought you used to have,’ began Josiah. ‘I was thinking that it was a very good thing to have a body, because bodies don’t lie. And I
was thinking that bodies that live side by side aren’t any good at all, because that’s not the point of them. They ought to be
pressing
against each other. Otherwise we might just as well be ideas or something. We might just as well not exist at all. Do you see what it is I’m trying to say?’

‘Well, yes, I do,’ said Thomas, co-operatively. ‘So tell me, what’s the name of the pub you live next to?’

‘I like having a
corpus
, Tom, it sounds substantial.’

‘Does your father ever drink there?’

‘No, he doesn’t. The other day, while I was in the library, I looked up the word for “pressing” and found “
insisto
”, and I thought, yes, that’s what I have, I have a
corpus insistens
, a pressing-upon body, and I quite liked that.

‘Good, Josiah, amusing.’

‘But then I thought, “No, that’s not quite right. I think what I really have is a
corpus insistendum,
a body which ought to be pressed upon.” What kind of body do you have, Tom?’

‘What is it that you’re asking me, exactly?’

‘I’m asking a question about boundaries and how we break through them. Boundaries are interesting, aren’t they?’

Thomas sat forward in his chair and asked, ‘Are they there to contain you or to tempt you?’

Josiah said passionately, ‘Nothing, nothing, will ever contain me.’

‘That is a dangerous thing to say.’

‘I am dangerous,’ said Josiah, more to himself than to Tom.

Thomas already knew that. He made some excuse and told Josiah he’d better be going; but when Josiah’s eyes had looked up at him so accusingly on his doorstep, when his whole demeanour seemed crushed, Thomas relented and kissed him tenderly on his forehead.

‘Next week, we’ll whitewash those walls,’ he promised. 

IF EVER THOMAS HAD EVER THOUGHT JOSIAH
a fool for taking himself off to Corpus, by the end of February the idea rather moved him. In fact, he even sought out the porter who had left the note – Mr Herrod was a reliable, kind man – and asked about what the boy had said to him and where he had gone; he even dared to ask what kind of mood he was in. The truth is, by now he was interested in retracing Josiah’s footprints: for if Josiah had pleaded that he wanted to see the world through Thomas’ eyes, Thomas was keener than ever to see the world through Josiah’s.

Allowing himself to indulge his love – for by now, that’s what Thomas had decided the feeling was, for better or worse – made him happier and more even-tempered. He was even kindly disposed towards Samantha, who seemed more serious nowadays, and was producing good work, at last. She was thoughtful, sad. He preferred her sad. In fact, he even felt sympathetic towards her and
somewhere
, somewhere he understood her wistfulness. For if to be wistful is to look back with sadness at something which might have been, then he too had been in that place all too recently. The difference was, that right now he was optimistic. For he and Josiah were going to be friends forever, and love deeply and truly and hold their heads high before Time itself. The thought steadied him. And the new, steadier Thomas allowed the good Fellows of Corpus to notice his change in spirits and remark upon it to themselves, and in particular the chaplain, Justin, felt it was an appropriate moment to ask how Thomas had got on with the Augustine he’d lent him. That was in
the quad,
en passant
, but Thomas took the opportunity to suggest that there was a lot more he wanted to pick his brains about. Might he come to see him again one night after dinner? And this time he would happily drink a whisky.

So Thomas found himself one evening with a glass of whisky in his hand, in the gentle light of Justin’s college rooms and enjoying the warmth of his fire, and Justin said to him, ‘So what is it you wish to consult me about, Thomas?’

‘Well, first,’ said Thomas, leaning back in the armchair he’d been given and enjoying the smell of Justin’s room – books, wood, warmth and furniture polish –I found Augustine quite
wonderful
. The beauty of the world demands a God, at the very least. And beauty is a physical thing, or rather beauty is not a thing but the frontier where the physical meets the spiritual. And I think
Augustine
is right.’

‘I think he is too,’ said Justin, making a mental note to
incorporate
such an observation into a sermon. Then Thomas suddenly broke into a smile, and Justin said. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem so much happier than you have done for a long time. It seems like you’ve resolved something.’

‘Actually, I was just thinking of a rather good question asked me by a pupil last week, “Why is your college called ‘Body’ college”? And I’m afraid to say, Justin, that I couldn’t really fill him in.’

‘Didn’t they make you swear an oath of allegiance when you became a fellow?’ Justin was genuinely shocked.

‘I think you could call it that; and of course I swore it, as an article of faith. But tell me, Justin, did I swear allegiance to the body?’ Thomas was whimsical, amused, happy.

But Justin stood up and began pacing by his fireplace, and
proceeded
to lecture Thomas as he might have a prospective
undergraduate
. ‘The college was founded by the Guilds of Corpus Christi and of the Virgin Mary in 1352, specifically to train priests, as so many
had died during the Black Death. It’s the only Oxbridge college to be founded by the townspeople, and the phrase
Corpus Christi
is St Paul’s, of course, referring to the church, which is the body, and Christ, which is its spirit – though in
Ecclesiastes
, Christ is referred to as the head of the body. Does that ring any bells, Thomas? I want to say, shame on you, as a Corpus man.’

‘Shame on me,’ agreed Thomas. ‘I think I knew some of that at about twenty. But I’m afraid, Justin, I feel rebellious on this point, and perhaps posterity will too. I hear they’re doing away with the apostrophes in place names – it confuses people, apparently, too many spelling errors in King’s Cross and St John’s Wood. Well, as we know, for ages people have been trying to do away with Latin
altogether
, calling it ‘elitist’ etcetera. So don’t you think one day there’ll be a popular cry for the removal of these pompous Latin names and a desire to get back to basics? And what could be more basic than a body?’

‘You’ve changed, Thomas, you used to be such a traditionalist!’

‘Oh, I am, I am! But the question is, in what period should we steep our traditions? The traditions of ancient Rome, or Greece? Or do we admire Renaissance Man or Late Victorian England? Where are we to get our traditions from, Justin? More than once you’ve told me you’d like to go back to the spirit of the early Christian fathers, you’ve told me that those first Christians had the right take on what it meant to be a Christian, and we’ve been falling foul of that vision ever since. So could you tell me how we’ve fallen foul of it? This is why I’m here, this is what I want to know about. I want to know about the relationship between the body and the spirit, and I thought that, of all people in Corpus, you would be the one to put me straight.’

‘That’s a big subject,’ muttered Justin, anxiously.

‘You could just tell me what your conclusions are, if you like. You have a wife. You have known carnal desire. Or do you think
I’ve already biased it? I should say, the desire to know the horizon between bodies and souls – would you put it like that?’

‘Sexual desire seems pretty biological to me. Without it there would be no human race. But what Christianity does, or any
religion
for that matter, is that it turns what is a morally neutral thing into a good thing.’

‘A lot of people would argue with you there, Justin. They would argue that Christianity turns what is a morally neutral thing into a bad thing.’

‘Religion provides sex with boundaries. In Christianity, sex, love and commitment to each other are a perfect triad. Love redeems sex.’

‘But why does sex need redeeming?’

‘Because sex when it is out of control is wrong. People always suggest that the advent of farming watered the first shoots of
civilisation
as we know it. But I’ve always maintained that when people first adopted sexual
mores
, when they began to live as couples and families, long before the family was defined as such, when sexual fidelity was approved of and promoted – that was the moment
civilisation
began to establish itself. The rules which rein in sexuality are the bedrock of society – and all those books which tell us otherwise, which tell us that monogamy is unnatural etc. etc., I want to shout back and argue against them, “What’s so good about what’s natural, all of a sudden?” Anger is natural, does that mean we shouldn’t try to control it? Human beings deserve their title “human” for the simple reason that they can curb “natural” behaviour for their own good, and for the good of the society they live in.’

‘I would argue with you on two points, Justin. You seem to
advocate
repression of natural desires – well, we all know that
repression
is absolutely no good for the individual at all, it can cause all manner of nervous diseases. Freud was right on that point, surely, if wrong on so many others. And secondly, you seem to think of society as some kind of organism which is
ipso facto
right in all its
requirements, and needs conformity from those who belong to it. But what if a society is somehow
wrong
? For example, the ancient city of Carthage required the sacrifice of babies to propitiate their gods, but what if some mother refused to hand over her baby, and under threat of death ran away to another city? You can’t blame her for it! What I’m saying is, if the
mores
which define a particular culture are relative, then so are sexual
mores
. OK, even if they are the first organising principles in a society, are we going to applaud the tribe in some far-flung jungle who holds that the only way to ward off evil spirits is for the father to take his eldest daughter’s virginity? In Eskimo communities, it is customary – or has been, anyway – for the host to lend his wife to his guest for the night.’

Justin poured himself a second glass of whisky and began
scratching
above his ear.

‘Why are you here tonight, Thomas? What is it that you want permission for? Are you wanting me to support adultery? Do you want someone to lend you their wife? Or are you already borrowing her?’ Though Justin’s words were angry, his tone was gentle, for he was eager, now, for a confession.

‘I’ve not come here to discuss a personal matter, Justin. My
personal
life is squeaky clean, not a body in it. I have a purely academic interest. I want to know what Jesus would say about love, the spirit and the human body. Or even, truth and the body. For God must like his creation – didn’t he settle back on the Sabbath and decide he was pleased with his handiwork? To admire the beauty of another human being – wouldn’t God think that was a good way of spending Sundays? Even a holy way?’

Justin was a wise man who was out of his depth. He considered giving Thomas another lecture, about how the Old Testament was more into bodies than the New, or at least, was more holistic about them. But there was something about Thomas’ manner that alarmed him: yes, he was happier, but also more out of control. Despite
Thomas’ protestations, he decided that Thomas was without doubt seeking permission for something which was – for want of a better word – unchristian, and he was certainly not going to give it to him. So Justin apologized, and drew the conversation to a close with a fairly paltry excuse, and Thomas went home, enthusiasm undented.

Decorating the house – or in this case, undecorating it – is a good, earthing thing to do with someone you love. On the following
Saturday
, immediately after their Latin lesson, Thomas and Josiah
vigorously
whitewashed walls together in an act of purification. The one germ in their midst was Greg, who made a point of drinking a cup of tea at the kitchen table while Thomas and Josiah were
scrubbing
down Cilla’s lime-green walls, and even clearing out cupboards. When he eventually left, Josiah said, ‘How do you put up with that man?’ and Thomas replied, ‘Better the devil you know… he pays his rent on time.’

Greg didn’t succeed, however, in dampening their mood. Thomas told Josiah how much pride the Romans had taken in their cooking, and how they had kitchen implements as sophisticated as those on sale nowadays, spatulas and balloon whisks and clay pots in which they roasted chickens and exotic birds. In fact, some of the tools were so strange-looking that neither cook nor archaeologist had been able to guess what they’d been used for – gouging out a particular bird’s brain perhaps, or extracting a boar’s brain through its nose. And as the two set to work cleaning out the oven, kneeling side by side on the kitchen floor, Thomas told his young companion about Roman banquets, and how the guests wore wreaths of flowers and rubbed perfumed unguents into their skin. He told him how they lay on couches three sides round a table, resting on their elbows, while the slaves would serve up course after course: sows’ udders stuffed with
sea urchins, dormouse, flamingo, sugared meat; the stranger and the more exotic, the more the cook would be admired and the host be praised. The different slaves had different names, depending on their duties; there was a slave called a
structor
whose sole purpose in life was to set out the dishes for the next course; another called a
scissor
whose task it was to cut the meat into bite-sized pieces…

‘If I were a “
scissor
”,’ interrupted Josiah, ‘and I had a knife, I would probably murder my master.’

‘Owning a slave, being a slave, that was the norm, Josiah. Few questioned the system into which they had been born. And slaves even had a few rights – you could run away from a master who had mistreated you, for example. And if you were an educated slave, you might even eat at the same table as your master from time to time, though obviously at his invitation. Cicero – have I told you about the great orator, Cicero? – had a slave who became his most trusted friend and advisor, and relied on him too heavily to ever grant him his freedom. But if you were set free, you were given all the rights of a Roman citizen, and could even own slaves of your own. And the evidence is, slaves were fairly happy. They had a private life outside the home, they could follow their own religion. Though the one thing they couldn’t do was marry.’

‘I wouldn’t care if I were happy or miserable,’ insisted Josiah. If I wasn’t free, my life would be completely pointless.’

‘Freedom is an attitude of mind, Josiah. In fact, all those with an interior life are free, which is why communist regimes have never known quite what to do with artists and composers and the like. You can’t own a man, in the same way as you can’t own a piece of land. The contracts are cultural, man-made. They aren’t true in any
important
sense, in any god-given way. So many politically “free” people are not free at all, but tossed about by the merest whim; while some of our greatest writers have done their best work in prison. The secret to freedom, Josiah, is your own mind, nothing more, nothing less.’