Salzburg, November 2012

‘The Tender Eyes of May’ was presented in Salzburg in November 2012 at a conference sponsored by Inter-Disciplinary.Net. Like the year before, when I travelled to Vienna and then to Prague to present ‘The Book of Joe’, I had arrived at the conference venue with my paper incomplete. But, unlike the prior year, I had no anxiety about finishing it. I had reserved the evening before the presentation to review the essay and cobble out further ideas derived from the reading of John 13 in the New Testament. But I had teaching duties to attend to and other busy work, and I was not yet ready to write them out, or so I told myself. The day before the presentation some anxiety finally filtered through. 

After the last session on November 14, I went to the lobby of the hotel. I was teaching three online classes at the time, and the hotel lobby had a very nice Wifi connection. I sat down and went to work on my laptop putting my online classes in order. I was typing away when a colleague from the conference bolted through the door and immediately approached me. I had just met this fellow the day before. He was an American professor teaching in Lithuania. He was Christian, and his paper had to do with communicating the significance of the crucifixion. He had given a presentation that afternoon and I had made a comment that was important to him. As I recall my comment was not directed to him but to another presenter. It had to do with the distinction between what is true and what is believed. In narrative accounts of suffering and the meaning of suffering, how should we assess this distinction? Does it matter that events that are said to cause suffering and the suffering itself really happen? It was suggested that the reality of suffering has less significance than we should think. I thought this idea was dangerous. It is, of course, obviously true that fictional narratives about suffering can dramatically influence thinking, perceptions and, with the right historical circumstances, cultural norms and beliefs. But what really happens, the truth, is essential for a whole slew of reasons. To abandon the idea that the truth about suffering is of major significance leads to more absurdities than one can count; including the idea that one’s own suffering is not, or should not be, of central importance when others talk about your own suffering.

This man politely asked if he could sit down and talk. I was pressed for time, but he was so earnest and thoughtful. This will only take a couple of minutes, I thought. We began having a lively discussion roaming over the question of the fundamental importance of seeking the truth in making sense of suffering and claims of suffering. And the event of the crucifixion, its reality and meaning, he thought, were inescapable for any group discussing human suffering. The very real persecution of people and their very real sufferings had to be distinguished from false claims of victimization, and the reality of the crucifixion had to at least be acknowledged—there is an ethics to suffering and its meaning rooted in existence, what is real. On that we agreed.

In the midst of our talk, out of the corner of my eye I noticed an old man walking into the lobby of the hotel. He was thin and gaunt with a little green winter cap on his head. An unlit cigarette was sticking out of his mouth. He walked through the front door of the hotel and stopped, as if he were confused and disoriented. He abruptly turned to his left and walked right up to us with a blank, troubled look on his face. He stood just a few feet away from us and seemed to want something. We both got up out of concern for this fellow.

“Can we help you?” I asked.

The man stared at me groaning with the cigarette in his mouth, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t. 

“Can I get you a light?” My colleague asked.

The man just stood there like a stone, groaning, with a vacuous look on his gaunt, pale face. His eyes were pleading and suffering. I felt deep concern for this fellow, but in his face I recognized something. The unlit cigarette protruding from the middle of his mouth seemed comical to me. I thought about Joe. Without thinking I gave him a little smile.  

Suddenly the man’s eyes fixed on mine like steel, and for a split second his face, his eyes froze, as if he recognized me. The stillness of expression was then, in an instant, shattered in an explosion of expression as his whole continence lit up with a brilliant light and joy, a smile and eyes that I have never witnessed before, nor could I ever imagine witnessing again; from ear to ear his smile stretched, as if his face were made of elastic fabric. His thin lips pulled clear across his face and somehow he managed to retain control of the unlit cigarette, which pointed directly at me. His eyebrows lifted, his eyes dilated, and grew like a flower miraculously blooming all at once. 

I was stunned. 

After just a few seconds his face imploded in pain as instantaneously as it had erupted in joy, and he returned to his former condition. He abruptly turned around and walked away without saying a word. He marched through the lobby and then right out the door of the hotel to the sidewalk. He turned to the right and kept going, passing in front of the hotel window, as if he had someplace to go.

Two young girls sitting in the lobby next to the window on a couch had witnessed the whole thing. As the man passed by they pressed their faces close to the window giggling, exchanging knowing glances in a private feast of mockery.

My colleague and I sat down and continued our conversation. We did not speak about what had just happened at the time, although we did have a short discussion about the encounter at a dinner later that evening. He, too, thought the event was remarkable and strange, especially given the topic of our discussion. Like the year before with the ladies, I could not get this fellow out of my mind. Again, I felt that I had the privilege of being a witness to something extraordinary. 

I could not forget the cigarette. I saw Joe just the day before I left from San Francisco. He seemed more tired than usual, more short of breath. Joe had been on a restricted regime of cigarettes for years, but I suspected he had found ways to get his hands on more cigarettes than he was allowed. So, the day before I left for the airport I took some cigarettes away from him. I had no place to put them, so I dropped them in a plastic tray in my car, which was sitting in the long-term parking lot in San Francisco. Joe cannot enjoy walking the way he used to before his accident. He has no one to talk to, except his friends. In those days I used to take him out to lunch every other week or so. His only great joy was smoking cigarettes and talking with his friends and God. Every cigarette I took from him deprived him of a little joy. I had taken upon myself the horrible task of inflicting suffering on my brother out of love for him. 

Why was the cigarette in the mouth of the man unlit? Was that his only cigarette? Was his only joy the preservation of the possibility of a joy of which he could not partake?

Was the unlit cigarette an embodiment of his suffering?

Like the year before I thought more and more about this man, suffering, mocked, wandering the streets of Salzburg. Would Joe suffer a similar fate, crucifixion on the streets, without me, without the resources, the will, the love to care for him? Did the man smile in recognition of this love? Was the love for my own brother hidden in my little smile? Did he recognize it? Is that why his face exploded in joy?

This is a painting of John Vianney, also known as the Curé de Ars:

When I returned to San Francisco from my trip to Salzburg in November 2012, I took this photo of the cigarettes I had taken from Joe just prior to leaving. My concerns for Joe’s smoking were well-founded—a couple of weeks after this picture was taken, Joe had severe problems breathing and had to be taken to the hospital. Events surrounding this episode are recounted in the essay, ‘The Face of Joe’. (This essay will be published next on this blog.)