Maatstaf. Jaargang 28

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Donald Weeks An Intrusion Upon Eternity

Time had no meaning in the still coolness beneath the shading trees on the island on the hot afternoon of last July. The low, distant sounds which could still be heard were of a burial service.

The vaporetto had come from the main island to the Campo Santa that day in the same manner it had done for sixty-six years. The Englishman, the author, the eccentric neargenius was then first buried there. And I stepped from that vaporetto into a void of time, a subtle maze of silent history. I was on a pilgrimage. An hundred nineteenth years before, the Englishman Frederick William Rolfe had been born. He died in the internal city of Venice and rests in its cemetery island. His life was not an easy one. He asked, in his writings, to ‘pray for the repose of his soul; he was so tired’. His earthly tiredness resolves into an eternal rest just beyond the shadows of S. Michele.

Hot, bright, windless, I made my way along the route given me by the Venetian caretaker. The destined plot was reached and I placed flowers at the foot of the tomb. More than half a century passed in the twinkling of an eye; and the more than a century since his birth was but a second on the clock: time in Venice elusively escapes all counting. There is a beginning and an end, yes; but, inbetween there is only a faith. The Clock is but an ornament opposite S. Marco. How long did I stand in front of Rolfe's tomb? Can I say? I only knew of an awareness after a thousand reflections of mind. Alone, I suddenly perceived another individual: a young boy of about sixteen. He also carried flowers and searched for a particular tomb. He stopped, not too close to me, and paused. He was no doubt Italian - a Venetian? - beautifully tanned. His black hair was all the blacker against the skin in the shining sun. And the contrast of his simple clothes was admirable. He wore a white shirt, opened to the breast, with light blue trousers. He patiently stood a while, then came nearer. ‘Pardon, sir,’ he addressed me, ‘but may I leave these here?’ He spoke of his flowers and indicated Rolfe's tomb. His few words of English were pleasant, spoken with the overtones of an Italian accent. But who was this boy, who, too, sought out Rolfe's tomb on that day? He was much too young to have ever known Rolfe. A relative of a friend? I asked if he were from Venice. ‘No,’ was his reply. Then where? Near Rome. ‘Near Rome?’ I pondered. And the answer, given in his name, was simple but unbelievable. His name was Toto.

Toto.

There had been another Toto: Rolfe's Toto, the Toto of the Stories, the Toto of The Yellow Book, the Toto of In His Own Image, the Toto of the Abruzzi country beyond Rome in 1891. And this present Toto was a great grandson. He knew of his great grandfather and of his tales: he read them over and over again - those tales set down by Rolfe so long ago. He knew the date of Rolfe's birth and planned to commemorate it with his simple flowers. He had a cousin on the Guidecca and visited him that he may, in turn, visit the Englishman's tomb his great grandfather once knew.

This young Toto was the personification of a

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vision. Rolfe had described a Toto; Rolfe had photographed a Toto; and here was a Toto. Was he, like his great grandfather, a teller of tales? Or could he recall at least one tale not recorded by Rolfe?

The afternoon was ceasing and the cemetery was closing. We two walked back to the vaporetto landing, rode across to the main island and made our way through the narrow, twisting lanes to the Piazza. We chatted all the way. We parted at the Piazza and promised to meet for dinner.

Within minutes, I was in my pension for a refreshing wash and rest. The day had been exciting enough. I saw Rolfe's tomb. And I had met an Italian youth by the name of Toto. Incredible. The great grandson of the Toto of so many years ago. He lived with his family, still near Lake Nemi. He learned English at school in Rome. And he was visiting his cousin Mario in Venice. I could hardly wait to hear more from him. And the thoughts interrupted my rest.

At eight o'clock in the evening we met in front of the Quadri. We had a coffee and talked. We then left for an open-air table outside of a restaurant in the Campo S. Margarita for food and wine. And here Toto began one story told by his great grandfather, this young Toto's favourite.

In a very large city there was a very large cathedral. And everyone who visited the city went to see this beautiful cathedral. It was built in the best of taste, with the finest and costliest of materials. But the one thing which made it different from all other cathedrals was the series of statues of saints. All the saints were represented, from the very first. The architect of this cathedral designed the niches all around the outside of the building, upward from the ground. This had taken many years to plan. He had studied the lives of all the saints and constantly sought advice of the priests and prelates wherever he went. His final plan was approved by all and his work praised for all his conscientious efforts. The cathedral was built and the statues of the saints became the most famous things in this beautiful city.

The saints were set in their niches around the cathedral, some alone, some in groups. Most of the ones that were alone were not too far from others - so, they never were lonely, never too far from hearing or saying a word to the others. For these statues were more than mere stone. They were alive to the look. And, who knows? they may actually have been alive. Those in the large niches, in groups, gossiped, conversed, recalling old days, telling of feats heroic in the sight of our Lord or of martyrdom. They all seemed pleased. Each person who looked at this cathedral and the saint was pleased. And our Lord must certainly have been pleased.

There was one saint not too many saw. He stood in a niche off by himself, higher than all the others. He was the first of saints. But, even by himself, he always looked happy. He never was seen trying to contact the others, but he was ever occupied. He was friend to the birds of the skies that fluttered about him, nestled up to him and made their shelter near him. He told endless stories of far-away lands and forgotten times to these creatures of our Lord ‘in this life only’. And this made him happy.

He was the most humble of the saints and his niche the highest. From it he could see half the world, it seemed - the city beneath him, the rivers and lakes, the streams and oceans, the clouds and skies of air, and inhale the sweet scent of the seasons. The cool breezes played out their follies about him on summer days and the gentle winds and rain refreshed his spirit. The music of the centuries was his in the bells and the birds. He appreciated all these sights and senses and glorified the Giver in protecting.

His creatures that came to him, making them as happy as he.

Now, one winter's day, a certain little boy and his parents visited the cathedral. Unnoticed, the little boy stole away on his own and was lost. He was last seen crawling up the high bell tower. A search was made. Every one in the cathedral

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looked for the little boy. The bell tower was explored. The windows leading up to the roof were examined. The roof itself was searched. But the little boy was not found. It was winter and cold. The little boy was not found. The first of the saints was also missing from the highest niche.

The little boy was lost, nowhere to be found. The saint's statue was also gone. But where? It had not fallen. No one had taken it away. What had happened to it? And to the little boy? And all this on Christmas Eve.

The morning after Christmas, the little boy was found. He was found in the bell tower, inside the closed windows. He was warm, alive and unharmed. But he could not tell where he had been or what had happened since his parents last saw him. He was now dumb.

He was found amid a subtle halo of light. And his eyes, once opened, shewn with a glory no man knew. His smile was the smile of an inward peace. But he could no longer talk. And, yet he had seen something which no person could comprehend. Why, then, begin to explain?

The boy was found. The boy had returned. And so had the statue of the saint in the highest niche. And for all this there was no explanation.

The little boy grew. He always was fair, handsome with the radiant beauty of an inward knowledge of peace. He prospered, in his own way, although he could never talk. And there was one thing he always did from the time he was lost in the cathedral. The day before each Christmas, he would visit the cathedral. He would climb the bell tower, crawl out on the roof and lay flowers at the feet of the saint in the highest niche.

If anyone could ever observe, that niche would be empty each Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. The statue would again be there in its place the following day. It would always be there for the whole year, with all the birds of the air who delighted in the tales of the saint. The statue would always be back on the day after Christmas. And, always, the boy's flowers would be gone.

‘Sir,’ said Toto, ‘I will tell you about this saint. He was very special. He is the first of saints. And he, among all the others, has the privilege of going into Heaven on the eve of our Lord's Birthday to celebrate that day. And you, sir, can guess about the little boy. He wandered out on the cathedral roof and was seen by the saint, who pitied him just at that moment and took him along for the Christmas celebration in Heaven. And you can guess, sir, how this celebration captured the little boy. The saint brought him back, unharmed but wiser. He was made dumb, for no man can speak of the glories of Heaven. And this for a simple reason. No one will believe or understand them. But that little boy, even once grown, always remembered. He brought flowers each Christmas Eve. And the saint took these flowers to Heaven to give our Lord.’

Toto and I were then sitting along the Canal della Guidecca. Toto ended his story and we two were silent. It was late. The distant sounds were muffled through the darkness. When I next turned toward young Toto, I asked him about the saint. ‘You said,’ I began, ‘that this saint was the first of saints. But you didn't give his name.’

Toto looked at me. ‘Sir, he has no name. He was the first saint, made so by our Lord Himself. He was the thief on the cross. And, because he knew our Lord only in that one moment of death, our Lord allows him to celebrate his moment of birth each year.’