Córdoba

Cosme wrapped the bandages around his large, hairy hand. It wasn’t a slender hand like those of Andalusian flamenco players or the famous leather workers of Córdoba. It was the hand of a construction worker, brick by brick, hardened in the name of Spain’s progress. This hand, now covered in white bandages, the same that fortified his waist, was ready to carry the platform of Our Lady of the Assumption. It was the most important day of the year, celebrating the conquest of Córdoba from the Moors. The people filled the streets, bringing all kinds of religious objects, either to adorn the streets or to receive the Christian grace that had freed the peninsula from the Arabs through so much effort. It was four in the afternoon, and the heat was at its peak. The procession prepared at the doors of the Church of Santa Marina—its destination was the Cathedral, once the famous Mosque of Córdoba. Each participant prepared in their own way. The brides of that year proudly dressed up, displaying their Andalusian jewelry and their hair held up by traditional pins. The many altar boys waited impatiently. Some played with a loose stone from the churchyard, while others hid in the shade of a palm tree. The more daring ones discreetly smoked a cigarette, careful not to stain the freshly washed white vestments with smoke. The sacristan never forgave those who returned vestments in poor condition. The various priests leading the procession were in the sacristy, enjoying the cool air that their status granted them, except for the bishop, who, succumbing to tobacco, smoked shamefully yet proudly near two altar boys who, buying the bishop’s attention, ensured complete discretion. Inside the church, the philharmonic band tuned their instruments, and in the silence of the temple, they listened to the final directions from the conductor. Already tipsy from lunch, he told his young amateur musicians not to be nervous. The nervousness was visible on everyone’s faces, but it wasn’t about the precision of the notes; it was the teenage anxiety of having to parade their acne through the whole city. Outside the church, in the center of the square, the platform bearers gathered around the float. They were strong men, all about five feet three inches tall. Cosme was the strongest, meaning the fattest of them all. They helped each other tighten the bandages on their hands or waists. Nearby, several locals, concerned about the hydration of the procession, handed out drinks with wooden ladles. The strong men stretched their backs and arms like Roman galley rowers. They all wore old clothes, resembling gladiator attire, which gave a more biblical air to the parade. The platform was a complex structure of wood and iron, adorned with gold and silver decorations. At the top, there was a dome with an ivory and gold statue of Our Lady of the Assumption. All around the platform were oil lamps that illuminated the precious metals like stars. It took 20 men to carry the two tons of weight. From the top of the pillory, the Deacon shouted, "Brothers, may God be with you. Let us begin the procession!" And everyone, like ants, organized themselves somewhat clumsily, as briefly rehearsed the previous night. The brides were at the front, followed by the altar boys, then the clergy. The platform came next, with the men underneath, waiting for the firm, booming voice of the foreman. Finally, the band lined up, with the percussion at the front and the wind instruments from the strongest to the weakest. At the sound of the snare drum, the procession began, and little by little, everyone synchronized their steps. The foreman shouted...

• "Chicos, enganchen. Uno dos tres"

...and with a Spartan shout, they lifted the platform. It was unbearably hot, especially under the platform. It took 20 men to lift all that gold and silver. All synchronized, they made a Herculean effort to move the heavy icon of the glories of the Christian conquest. Cosme was positioned at the central pillar, bearing the full weight of the platform's center of gravity. Being the strongest and accustomed to carrying heavy loads, the bulk of the weight rested on him. Slowly, the platform moved out of the churchyard, through the streets of the old city of Córdoba, glorified by the music of the orchestra.

Underneath the platform, nothing was visible except the feet of the crowds lining the streets, eager to drink in the holiness of the procession. This would be Cosme's twentieth procession, and his last. He had promised his wife that when he turned 50, he would watch the procession from the outside, comfortably seated in the shade. After all, the last time he had seen the procession from the outside was the year they got married. His bride had been at the front of the procession, and he had been at the back, playing the bass drum. She led, and he followed.

It had been 20 tough years, and Spain had changed a lot since 1976. Franco and the dictatorship had fallen, and the king and Europe had arrived. Spain, now open to the world, was a stage for international exhibitions. Over the last 20 years, Cosme had hardened his hands working on the constructions for the Seville Expo and the Barcelona Olympics. Those hands had given their strength to a Spain that was establishing itself as modern and open to the world, while always maintaining its religious pride as fervent as its passion for bullfighting and its will for bravery.

• “Stop! Water!”

With effort, the platform crew halted, and in unison, they lowered the platform to hydrate. There was a story that, shortly after the conquest of Córdoba, during the first procession, the Christians, unused to the heat brought by the Arabs, didn’t hydrate, and one by one, the men fainted, causing the old altar to collapse, much to the delight of the "new Christians" who watched bitterly. Cosme refreshed himself during the short break, taking the opportunity to dust his hands with magnesium powder to prevent the grips from slipping out of his hands. The snare drum once again signaled the march, and the sweaty procession continued. The music now conveyed a sense of heroism.

The procession was approaching the "Municipal Hall," where the Mayor waited from the balcony above. He exchanged a knowing glance with the clergy. The bishop deeply envied his governmental counterpart, who stood in the shade, refreshed by numerous drinks (alcoholic ones, too), while he represented Christ’s calvary, dressed in black, coughing from the cigarette smoke. With each sip of water, he thought of the miracle of Cana, and in the clear water, he tried to imagine the bitterness of wine. But his imagination was greater than his sanctity.

Cosme, focused on leading the heavy load he carried on his shoulders, thought of the various projects he had worked on over the past 20 years. Just like the procession, he realized that in recent years he hadn’t seen the final result of his efforts. After all, his simple spirit and uneducated mind didn’t understand the purpose of the world exhibitions, all that exultation of culture… for which he only laid cement, brick upon brick, never witnessing the ribbon cutting, never receiving credit for the hernias he’d developed. He always returned to Córdoba to make up for the time spent away from home, watching on television as the King cut the ribbon with a disinterested air. He barely recognized his work, hidden beneath so many billboards and red carpets.

After all, what did they want? What were they glorifying? Spain? The bulls? The King?

One, two steps, and his hand began to slip. With a bold move, he grabbed the handles with one hand, plunging the other into the magnesium bag. His companions looked suspiciously at the veteran Cosme. They already saw in him the signs of age, and his strength was no longer the same. Another break, more water. Cosme stepped out from under the platform, and while putting the wooden ladle to his mouth, he contemplated the various onlookers, inspired by the heroic music and the beauty of the procession. Among the faces, he recognized few familiar ones. Behind the lenses of the cameras, he saw blue eyes from abroad, observing the procession casually for its picturesque character. Blondes, redheads, black people — these were not the people of Córdoba, who plowed the fields, harvested the olives, and worked the leather throughout the year. Those people listened to the procession from the side streets, where they could still keep track of the prices in the cafés and bars.

These were the people who had come because of the work of his hands, in the numerous exhibitions and modern cities he had helped build. They filled the streets but weren’t part of the procession — turning it into a spectacle of easy emotion, good for photographs, a religion they no longer wore...

Why all the celebration of the conquest of Córdoba, if even Christianity is no longer truly welcomed? What was this great evil that was expelled from Iberia, and that Cosme had spent over 20 years commemorating under the intense heat of the platform? He remembered that once, in primary school, a Franciscan friar who had been his teacher (those were the only studies he ever had...) explained to the class that the last Arab king, when he was expelled from Granada, the last Islamic stronghold, looked back and cried. They say he cried like a woman for what he had failed to defend as a man. After all, those who cry for something do so because they love it. And true love can only be for something truly sublime... but what was so sublime that made the last king cry? After all, whether under the cross, the Arab crescent, or the Star of David, Córdoba had always been home to real men. He saw this in the variety of people who came to visit the birthplace of the great Jewish scholar Maimonides or the great Arab scholar Averroes.

On the other hand, he, Cosme, the great ignorant Christian, had spent his entire life building cathedrals for weak cultures that promoted themselves over others in a pretense of understanding. The procession stopped again, this time for a longer break. The bishop took refuge in a courtyard to smoke a cigarette, pretending he had entered to bless the space. He and the altar boy who carried the incense walked in together, and with a knowing glance, they lit their cigarettes from the embers of the censer. The hot smoke drifted into the shade of the courtyard, in stark contrast to the procession group waiting innocently on the streets, crowded with tourists.

The procession resumed, and the cathedral was already in sight. The final ramp was the most tense and challenging part of the entire procession, where everyone had to balance their strength to solemnly carry the platform down the slope without losing control and crashing.

Everyone counted on the veteran Cosme to lead the strong men. But Cosme mind was far away, in the hills of the Sierra Nevada, contemplating the Arab kingdom that everyone wept for like a woman… without fighting for it like men. If only he could go back in time and fight for a kingdom of lived traditions. Then, drops of sweat fell from his forehead onto his arms, and their trajectory reminded him of an Arab tear. Perhaps, if he couldn’t fight like an Arab man… maybe he could cry like a Christian man… or better yet, like a Christian woman? A sense of calm took hold of him, and the weight of all the national propaganda he had helped build was now felt in his magnesium-coated hands. Closing his eyes and speaking softly to himself, he said, “Don’t fight like men… instead, cry like women,” and let go of his grip.

His companions, not noticing, were focused on balancing the platform, which had already begun descending the cathedral’s ramp. They suddenly felt an unexpected weight pushing the platform downward (few knew how much weight had been on Cosme), and instinctively, they pushed back, accelerating their pace. From outside, the clergy began to see the platform rushing down the ramp… the alert altar boys screamed, and some jumped to the sides of the slope. With the jolts of the descent, the oil lamps spilled over and set the dry flowers on fire, quickly spreading flames to all corners, turning the platform into a giant Valencian-style bonfire.

The priests, alarmed by the smell of burning, also jumped from this flaming chariot, leaving only the bishop—deafened by the drumbeats, his eyes closed in prayer, asking forgiveness for his weakness of spirit, and without a sense of smell due to the cigarette smoke. When he turned, he saw only a burning saint walking toward him, ready to punish him for his inner lies. The panicked bearers trampled over the bishop and hurried forward, rushing past the brides, who, in their vanity, leaped into the arms of tourists eagerly snapping photos. The conductor, now quite drunk from the aguardiente he carried with him, instinctively commanded the musicians to continue with vigor, playing an epic march to announce what was coming.

Inside the cathedral, the grumpy sacristan, hearing the commotion approaching, proudly prepared to open the doors of the cathedral and receive the procession—his annual moment of glory. Dressed in a robe decorated with the Cross of Santiago, with both hands and a grin from ear to ear, he opened the heavy doors of the cathedral only to see a flaming platform charging toward him. Running back inside, he was too late to avoid the same fate as the bishop… inviting the dragon into the castle.

There, upon the stones erected by the Arabs, the platform crashed into the wall, transmitting its fiery wisdom to the altar curtains, spreading the fire throughout the cathedral. The procession was now complete… from outside, everyone wept over the disaster… Everyone wept like women for what they had not dared to defend like men.