The first time I heard about Nicanor was through Maruchi, director, for almost four decades, of the Historical Archive of Teguise. She frequented La Madriguera practically since its opening and in that distant pre-pandemic autumn of 2019, I received some old missals, including one written in Latin, from 1841. I remember that Maruchi, a hunter of bibliographic treasures, acquired it to give it to him, and it was then that I heard, for the first time, the name of Nicanor, the Graciosa priest, a collector of missals. Then he himself began to come to the bookstore, looking for copies, and to this day I continue to notify him every time I receive that kind of liturgical material. Little by little we began to establish a relationship, which at first, as usual, was limited to the typical treatment between a bookseller and a reader interested in a certain type of literature. But with someone as charismatic as Nicanor, it is impossible to remain on the sidelines, although I would say that it was not until I moved to his neighborhood, just a year ago, when our ties began to strengthen, giving rise to the birth of an incipient friendship, which has been strengthened with the passage of days.
And since I now live close, very close to the Church of Nuestra Señora del Carmen, of which Nicanor is the parish priest, either to take my dog Duna to the open field that surrounds it, or on the way to the supermarket, we often meet and even chat for a while in front of the temple gate when necessary. And even if I don't see him in person, I hear the sweet ringing of his bells. On Mondays at eight o'clock in the morning he welcomes the neighbors and on Sundays at eleven, before noon, he says goodbye to the week with his music. Just as I write these lines, his sound accompanies me. Furthermore, it was precisely those sounds of the clapper that led to an approach on my part. Let me explain. It turns out that almost two months ago, on Monday, February 20, in the middle of a carnival hangover, going early to throw the garbage in the containers on Extremadura street, I saw that they had thrown, without compassion, a white wooden structure in the shape of a dove of peace, among the dirt on the floor. The image impacted me so much that some lines occurred to me and after walking Duna and listening to Nicanor's morning call to mass, I ran home and wrote a tenth that I dedicated to the teacher Don Jaime Quesada:
The dove of peace
has been thrown in the trash,
carnival of inculture
on the island of the mask;
in the neighborhood there is no solace,
the priest rings the bell,
Nicanor with the cassock
waking up the neighbors:
come to mass, you pigs,
eight o'clock in the morning!
In the end, it was only a poetic attempt, seasoned with a certain dose of black humor, to capture that moment in octosyllabic verses, but what would be my surprise when, a month later, on Friday, March 17, when I met him again clinging to the bell rope, I decided to show him the tenth. Nicanor not only knew how to value it, but he even found it funny and let out a crystalline laugh, making fun of himself. He immediately asked me to send it to him by WhatsApp, which I gladly did. And as a result of that incident, which could have remained a mere anecdote, we became very good friends. He confessed to me that he has received many criticisms, both through virtual messages and in the mailbox by letter, for ringing the bells at odd hours, in untimely storms, but that he does not plan to stop doing so, no matter how much people are in their right to protest. In his defense I must add that, even being a maniac for noises, who sleeps with earplugs and cannot fall asleep if there is no silence, that tinkling does not bother me at all. It may have done so in the past or it would if they chimed continuously and automatically like those of the large churches or cathedrals, but the fact that it does so on certain days, at specific times, rather than fraying my nerves, calms me down, it is a routine that gives me peace, knowing that no matter what happens out there, the priest of my neighborhood will continue to ring the bells at the established time, as God commands.
And so we arrive at Good Friday and the procession of Christ and the Virgin, the prayer of the Stations of the Cross through the streets of the neighborhood. It is almost ten in the morning, when I wander with Duna around Oviedo street, observing the preparations. There is an ambulance parked and several Civil Protection agents, along with police and four members of the Benemérita, with their winged tricornes. The parishioners crowd at the entrance of the church, awaiting departure. And in this Nicanor appears, dressed in clothes different from his black habits, dressed for the occasion with what I will later learn is the pluvial cape, a beautiful garment embroidered in red and gold, a dark bonnet with a pompom and round glasses, all matching. He seems transformed, invested with a power and dignity much greater than he normally possesses. But beyond those solemn garments, lies the same good-natured and folksy man, who knows and greets each devotee by name, who always has a smile and a kind word at hand and who is dedicated to handing out Ricola candies (flavored with Fiori di sambuco) among those present.
After that sweet refreshment, there is a pause, an expectant silence and then, from a loudspeaker on the wall, the music sounds thunderously, the doors of the temple open wide and a altar boy appears carrying a censer, swinging it like a pendulum, and behind them the four civil guards carrying Christ on the cross on their shoulders. They are followed by Nicanor himself, ensuring the correct ecclesiastical protocol, and four other ladies, porters of the Virgen de los Dolores. And there, at the very entrance of the temple, begins the reading of the 1st station (there are fourteen in total) of the Stations of the Cross and I hear Nicanor sing, microphone in hand, with his melancholic baritone voice:
Sweet Redeemer
For me it was the death penalty
I already cry for my sins, I ask for forgiveness...
AFFLICTED MOTHER
OF DEEP SEA OF PAIN
GRANT US THE GRACE
OF NEVER SINNING
And since I am new to Valterra and have not attended any procession in the neighborhood before, I decide to follow it, like any other believer, accompanied by Duna, my faithful squire, the only four-legged animal that attends the event. Always behind the Virgin, we cross the road and head along El Malacabado street, named after a nao of the Lanzarote fishing fleet, on whose left flank, to port, the official protection homes deteriorate (will the deeds be given to their legitimate owners one day or will they continue to beat around the bush for years?), falling to pieces. Everything breathes simplicity, poverty and humility, and suddenly I no longer feel like an intruder, but like a Franciscan in communion with God. The procession advances, the small censer in the form of volatile white smoke purifies the tar, Yurima joins us in front of the park in the middle of the street and as the stations follow one another, I perceive how the neighbors lengthen, leaning out on the balconies and terraces, following the procession, crossing themselves as the sacred images pass.
It is on Clavijo y Fajardo street (who advocated the prohibition of sacramental autos), in front of the Emergency Room of the Valterra Health Center, already by the tenth station, when I feel compelled to carry the Virgin, whose burden we take turns among the residents of the neighborhood. I notice how the left wood is nailed into my right shoulder, sinking into my flesh, and I accept that weight with joy, however light it may be - like all the virgins, Nuestra Señora de los Dolores, although majestic, is a truly fragile carving - I contribute to lifting it and I am invaded by a rare feeling of community that I have rarely experienced before. But I also fall into a trance, seeing myself there as a member of the brotherhood, suffering a kind of split, when I contemplate myself in front of the four picoletos who barely hold the cross: we cannot be more different and, nevertheless, here we are, shoulder to shoulder, all gathered under the same sky, although we probably do not share the same faith or the same creed, but human beings after all. Because I profess the religion of Paul Éluard ("There are other worlds, but they are in this one. There are other lives, but they are in you") and at least at this point, I firmly believe that, if a soul exists, it does not leave for another world, but remains here, in the places where the body and spirit were happy. It simply changes dimension, ascends from the plane of existence and for that reason we are unable to perceive it (the novel Flatland is a good literary example). But it remains on this planet. It is reborn, in another way, on Earth, not incarnating again, but being free, without ties of any kind. For me, paradise is these streets, the neighborhoods of El Lomo and Valterra, the oval silhouette of the Charco de San Ginés, where I find happiness daily, often waiting for me around the corner, here I am getting trapped forever, in this labyrinth from which I do not want to leave, through whose nooks and crannies my soul will wander when I am dead. Don't look for me in the afterlife, look for me in the streets of Arrecife, in the abandoned mansions, where the old thrives, there and only there I will be waiting for you, hidden among the rubble and ruins.
Two Muslim women, wrapped in the chador, intersect with the Catholic procession shortly before the end and it is a beautiful moment, how they look curious, bowing their heads as a sign of respect (not of submission), recognizing the other, the brother who believes as they do and finds solace in Christ or in Muhammad, in God or in Allah, in Valterra, Rome, Jerusalem or Islam, because does monotheism matter when the human heart suffers and rejoices? And, finally, at the conclusion of the last station, after more than a quarter of a century absent (except for my cousins' communions), I step into a church again. Because I had not done so since those remote summers in Galicia, when I was a lay altar boy in the Capela da Virxe do Carmen of Muros de San Pedro, under the tutelage of Don Joaquín. And despite not having the same beliefs or embracing the same dogmas, I enter the Parish of Nuestra Señora del Carmen and listen to Nicanor's last words, his gratitude to all those present, starting with the security forces. I examine the veiled images, covered with purple cloths, as stipulated by the biblical rubric. The great golden rudder with which to pilot the Christian ship, along with the fourteen anchors, one for each station of the way of sorrow. And, to finish, the sober representation of the last supper, with the seats of the twelve apostles arranged around a frugal table: the bread in the center, the jug of rosé wine on the left and the bunches of grapes on the right, with the school clay cups, waiting for someone to pour the blood of Christ and refresh their dry throats. But when I take the count, I discover that a chair is missing. It is lying on its side, with the colored robes getting dirty on the floor. And, naive of me, without knowing that I am about to commit the greatest of sacrileges, ignorant of the symbology, I incorporate that seat, before a pious lady tells me: "Excuse me, sir, but that chair goes like that. It's Judas'". Great, I've been on the verge of pardoning the supreme traitor, the one who sold his Master for thirty pieces of silver. But will we not all be forgiven in the end, despite what Matthew evangelizes (26:24)? Be that as it may, I return Iscariot to his place, at the feet of Jesus, and I go to sit on a bench in front of Father Nicanor, surrounded by his flock of parishioners, with whom he takes a group photo, illuminating them with his presence, before disappearing towards the sacristy, leaving the church in darkness.
