Barry Unsworth - The Ruby In Her Navel

It is a mystery, when we have borrowed so much else.

I felt a different man when I emerged. I was dressed in the clean things I had carried with me and wore the hooded robe of the penitent over them. The clothes I had travelled in I left in a bundle there, in the yard. There were Arab cookshops and sweetshops adjoining the bathhouse, and I had a square of rice jelly sprinkled with ground walnut, eating it as I stood there, with the little spatula they give you. It was already evening and the light was beginning to fade as I set off back towards my lodging. There were some acrobats performing in the square, and one of them was very good – he walked on his hands and kept his legs very steadily upheld, and one of his fellows put coins on the soles of his feet and they did not slide. As I turned to go on my way, I glimpsed a face in the crowd that I thought resembled Mario's, even to the mark of the scar, though my eyes had moved away before this resemblance struck me, and when I sought the face again, though it was only moments later, I could not find it any longer among the people there, and so thought I had been mistaken, a mistake perhaps caused by the fact that I had wondered about his disappearance, and this wondering had kept his face present to my mind.

The illusion was brief, dispelled almost at once, as acrobats and spectators were scattered now by a party of mounted knights and their ladies, whose people ran before them, clearing the way. The knights were armed with sword and mace and dressed in cap and vest of mail and long surcoat, the ladies wore silk gowns and their faces were freshly painted and their hair threaded with gold. Tomorrow these riders would be nameless, on their knees in cloak and hood, part of the penitential throng. I thought that perhaps it was the knowledge of this that brought them out now to parade their wealth and power. I was angry to be jostled and pressed back so they could pass. But below this, irrepressible, was the bitterness of envy for that very wealth and power, for the weapons and the armour and the richly caparisoned horses and the look of calm indifference the men wore. In my heart I felt that I belonged in their number.

Close by there was a stall selling badges and emblems of Saint Nicholas.

Such stalls were all over the town and doing a brisk trade, but I had not paused at one before. Now, however, perhaps seeking distraction from this culpable envy of mine, I stopped and looked, and the stallkeeper began at once to tell me that these goods of his were of a quality much superior to any that could be found elsewhere. Some were made of tin, some of plaited straw and some of pottery. I took up one of those in tin and looked more closely at it. It was circular in shape with a pin behind, and it was painted in blue and red and showed the saint with satchel and staff – a clever thing this, as it made Saint Nicholas too into a pilgrim. "What are you asking for this one," I said.

The vendor was a short fat man with hair that grew in curls and the kind of arching eyebrows I have noticed to be common among dishonest persons.

"I leave it to the faithful and the pure in heart to set their own price on these sacred images," he said. "As we know, in truth they are priceless."

"Two kharruba," I said.

"You are joking," he said. "At least I hope so, for the sake of your soul."

"We do not measure souls in kharruba." I held out the money to him.

"Here, take it."

"Nine, I will take nine. These fashioned in tin cost more to make and so are more costly to buy, but you thereby do more honour to the saint."

"So this is the way you leave it to the faithful and pure in heart," I said. "Do you think it matters to Saint Nicholas whether his likeness is fashioned in tin or in straw? He is in heaven, he is a soul in bliss. I will give you three."

"You are one that would haggle with Saint Peter over the terms of entry," he said, taking the money, which I think he was pleased enough with, it being a full third of what he had asked.

"You will not get so far as the gate, if you continue thus," I said, and I continued on my way, solaced to think I had had the better of this exchange, and relieved from the bitterness I had felt on seeing the splendour of the mounted knights. I had been a good custodian of my master's money; I had shown that stallkeeper that I was a person of consequence, no mere ignorant bumpkin to be taken in by his lies. I kissed the image before pinning it to the front of my cloak and uttered in my mind a prayer to Saint Nicholas, humbly asking for his blessing and protection through the days to come.

Next morning I made my way early to the church. I had no idea when Lazar would arrive there, or whether he had yet arrived in the town. I had decided to station myself at the entrance to the crypt and wait for him there.

My way was impeded because of the thronging in the streets. It was now for the first time that I saw Russians, the men stocky and heavy-bearded, in hats trimmed with the skin of animals, the women in black shawls and shoes such as I had not seen before, that came right up over the ankles. Oddest of all, to my mind, were the hats of the German women, shaped like tall crowns with a strap that passed below the chin.

As we neared the church many people fell to their knees and shuffled forward in this fashion, which made it more than ever difficult to pass.

When I finally reached the basilica, I took up the position I had decided on, near the steps that led down to the crypt, a little to one side. Here I was jostled and there was a press of bodies round me, but it was aside from the main movement of the pilgrims, which was towards the top of the steps, and so it was possible to stay there without being dislodged and borne away. The closeness of people was oppressive, there was not air enough, but I could see no help for it. I felt a renewal of anger against those who had chosen such a place; I suspected it had been Lazar himself.

A confusion of voices carried to me from the crypt and I understood that the priest had begun to extract the holy oil. This set up a new conflict within me. I knew I should remain here, at my post, waiting for Lazar.

To meet Lazar, to make the fact that I had come empty-handed significant to his mind, and so inspire him with purpose, this was what I had been assigned to do, it was what I was there for. The Kingdom of Sicily was in grave danger. Unlikely as I felt it to be that a clandestine conversation in a corner of Apulia between two men without great power or influence could do much to change events, it was my duty to follow instruction. It was what I had always done, and I took pride in it. But Lazar was nowhere to be seen and I was standing near the stairway that led down to the tomb of Saint Nicholas, and a miracle was taking place there and even just the witnessing of this, without partaking in the oil, might redeem some of my sins, if not all, and turn God's favour towards me, because this oil was a balm for the soul as well as for the body. The voices from the crypt were sounding in my ears and I knew that I might never have such an opportunity again, there was a burden of sin on my soul, a burden of rage and envy, visits to Sara not confessed and now this plunge of appetite for a pagan dancing girl.

The struggle was brief. The cries came up to me, seeming louder. I edged my way to the stairs and began to make my slow way down along with the throng of the faithful. Reaching the foot, I struggled against the crowd until I could set my back against one of the thick columns that ran close to the walls.

The priest was standing with his back to the altar, facing the people, who had fallen to their knees, so that now there was no sound among them and the people on the stairs behind were halted there and obliged to wait. Behind the priest was the tomb of the saint, its marble panels open at one side. He raised his voice in a chant that filled all the space and seemed to come from all directions, from walls, from ceiling, from the stones at my feet: Holy God, Father Almighty, have mercy on us!