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"It's open--let's have something to eat" was all he said.
The red peppers with anchovi
es were arranged on the plate in the shape of a star. On the side, some manchego cheese, in slices that were almost transparent. In the center of the table, a lighted candle and a half-full bottle of Rioja wine.
"This was a medieval wine cellar," our waiter told us.
There was no one in the place at that time of night. He went off to make a telephone call. When he came back to the table, I wanted to ask him whom he had called--but this time I controlled myself.
"We're open until two-thirty in the morning," the man said. "So if you like, we can bring you some more ham, cheese, and wine, and you can go out in the plaza. The wine will keep you warm."
"We won't be here that long," he answered. "We have to get to Zaragoza before dawn."
The man returned to the bar, and we refilled our glasses. I felt the same sense of lightness I had experienced in Bilbao--the smooth inebriation that helps us to say and hear things that are difficult.
"You're tired of driving, and we've been drinking," I said. "Wouldn't it be better to stay the night? I saw an inn as we were driving."
He nodded in agreement.
"Look at this table," he said. "The Japanese call it shibumi, the true sophistication of simple things. Instead, people fill their bank accounts with money and travel to expensive places in order to feel they're sophisticated."
I had some more wine.
The inn. Another night at his side.
"It's strange to hear a seminarian speak of sophistication," I said, trying to focus on something else.
"I learned about it at the seminary. The closer we get to God through our faith, the simpler He becomes. And the simpler He becomes, the greater is His presence.
"Christ learned about his mission while he was cutting wood and making chairs, beds, and cabinets. He came as a carpenter to show us that--no matter what we do--everything can lead us to the experience of God's love."
He stopped suddenly.
"But I don't want to talk about that," he said. "I want to talk about the other kind of love."
He reached out to caress my face. The wine made things easier for him. And for me.
"Why did you stop so suddenly? Why don't you want to talk about God and the Virgin and the spiritual world?"
"I want to talk about the other kind of love," he said again. "The love that a man and a woman share, and in which there are also miracles."
I took his hands. He might know of the great mysteries of the Goddess, but he didn't know any more than I did about love--even though he had traveled much more than I had.
We held hands for a long time. I could see in his eyes the deep fears that true love tests us with. I could see that he was remembering the rejection of the night before, as well as the long time we had been separated, and his years in the monastery, searching for a world where such anxieties didn't intrude.
I could see in his eyes the thousands of times that he had imagined this moment and the scenes he had constructed about us. I wanted to say that yes, he was welcome, that my heart had won the battle. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him and how badly I wanted him at that moment.
But I was silent. I witnessed, as if in a dream, his inner conflict. I could see that he was wondering whether I'd reject him again, that he was thinking about his fear of losing me, and about the hard words he had heard at other, similar times--because we all have such experiences, and they leave scars.
His eyes gleamed. He was ready to surmount any barrier.
I took one of my hands from his and placed my glass of wine at the edge of the table.
"It's going to fall," he said.
"Exactly. I want you to tip it over the edge."
"Break the glass?"
