FICTION
Stabat Mater
Her visit was unannounced. Radiating energy and self-confidence, she followed him into his den.
“That music is WEIRD!” The would-be girlfriend’s voice had a sharp, judgmental edge.
“That particular piece is called ‘Stabat Mater,’” he murmured as he cut off the recording. “It’s Latin for ‘the mother stood.’ It’s a medieval hymn that has attracted the attention of several composers over the centuries. It speaks of Mary, the mother of Jesus, witnessing the suffering of her son as he dies on the cross. I think it invites us to enter a space where we share the agony of people helplessly witnessing the suffering of those close to them.”
“But you’re not religious,” she laughed, a slight smirk on her lovely face.
“I’m not — well, not in any conventional sense,” he replied, hiding his irritation. “But that music helps me to think about things.”
Things! He could have said but did not say: “The music enfolds me. While it plays I return to a place where you would not wish to go; to a dusty road with makeshift tents and the lines of mothers — only mothers — some weeping, some silent, some with wounded children, some holding their children close, just as we held our weapons, close and ready, as warily we trudged along.”
“I fancy going to the new Turkish restaurant tonight,” the would-be girlfriend said, eyebrows raised. “It’s new and supposed to be very good.”
When he did not immediately respond, the expectant twinkle in her blue eyes began to fade. Then, after a moment, she drew a breath and fixed him with a level gaze. “I have been thinking,” she began, then paused and drew a breath. “Perhaps it’s not working — between us?”
Between us? “Perhaps not,” he heard himself saying.
She nodded slowly, dipped into her bag for her car keys and headed for the door. “Anyway, you have my number. See you …” Then, half turning with a sad, small smile and a questioning glance, she added, “… or perhaps not?”
He flicked on the music and refocused on the Latin words he had learnt, but only with some difficulty.
Quis non posset contristari
Piam matrem contemplari
Dum moritur Filius …
“Who would not be saddened
To contemplate the pious mother,
As her Son dies?”
Again, in his mind, he drifted along the dusty road and held the image of the mothers sitting there.
Again, he groped towards that inner place where witnessing could mean a sadness fully shared, where his humanity might be restored.
Fac me tecum pie flere …
“Make me weep with you.”
John Farquhar Young is a retired old chap. His first degree is a BD — Bachelor of Divinity — at St Andrews University. For nearly 25 years, he was a Scottish criminal justice social worker and then manager (equivalent to the work undertaken by probation and parole Officers). He has an MPhil and a PhD in a related field of study.
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Image: The Crucifixion by Joos van Cleve, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
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