The Baptism
December 2019
A wee baby lies on her mother’s lap, staring in wide-eyed serenity at the photographer. The mother gazes at her child with undivided attention– eyes for no other, entranced by the little hands, perfect nose, rosebud mouth; enchanted by the scent of breast-fed baby, her baby, her first baby.
They are both dressed in white, the mother has gold jewellery, a chain and earrings. She is unaware of the little pulls, tugs and yanks that will come in a few months’ time from the tiny determined hands. It is a special day and they are both dressed for it.
I am that mother. The baby is my daughter Marisa born in January 1985 in the Saudi Military Hospital based in Riyadh.
Marisa was only 8 weeks old when she took her first flight, to Spain to meet my parents for the first time in Nerja, Andalusia.
My connection with Nerja began in 1971 when my mother inherited money from a Spanish uncle. The laws at that time prevented transfers of funds outside Spain and my resourceful Mamin plowed the money into an as-yet-to be built villa in southern Spain. She was helped by a lawyer by the name of Herrán who smoothed over any wrinkles caused by arcane Spanish laws. He was some sort of relative. It seemed like we were distantly related to most of Spain.
I had never seen my mother so happy as when she first held out the key to her new casita in the homeland of her ancestors.
My parents had been spending some portion of their winters in Nerja for the previous 14 years and I had visited them several times.
Nerja is located in Andalusia, some 50 kilometers from Málaga on the Costa del Sol. Although Mamin’s family had originated in the north, in San Sebastian, I had fallen in love with Nerja.
Nerja had always charmed me, Nerja with its olive trees, the whitewashed villas, the Roman Ruins, las Cuevas and its vistas of hills that slope gently down from the Sierra Almijara to the Mediterranean sea.
At the end of Nerja’s Paseo, lined with palm and chestnut trees, opens up the crown jewel of Nerja, the Balcón de Europa. The Balcony of Europe juts out over the Mediterranean Sea and provides a view of a vast expanse of sea from which I thought I could see Africa.
I had so many memories of the Balcon de Europa. Drinking café con leche in the café, the evening paseos, dining on merluza a la plancha, gambas al ajillo, flan. The processions during Semana Santa, with the one on Good Friday with the men dressed in the tall hats of the Spanish Inquisition, masked and with lit candles and the colourful parades of Easter Sunday.
Prominent in that space is the Iglesia del Salvador, built in the 17th Century. Although I had an on again off again relationship with the Roman Catholic church, I knew I wanted my baby to be baptized and I wanted her baptized there. There were two principal churches in Nerja. According to the black clad ladies of the village, one was led by a Fascist priest and the other by a Communist one. I was clearly in favour of the Communist priest and besides El Salvador was the prettiest and oldest of the two churches.
El Salvador held baptisms for the villagers who swept down with their babies from the neighboring hills for a group blessing. Preliminary arrangements had been made with the priest by my mother and Alvaro and Vivian Perez, friends of my parents who lived in Nerja year-round and had deep ties in the community.
The date for the baptism was a Thursday, un jueves. Final confirmation had to be made about the hour. My mother and I spoke Spanish. But I was cocooned in a milky haze with my sleepless babe who endlessly had to be fed, cuddled and snuggled. My mother was recuperating from chemotherapy and had to rest. Dad had no affinity for languages other than English and could just muster his orders for café con leche and una cerveza por favor. Ian my husband who spoke fluent French and Arabic and a bit of Italian offered to confirm details with the priest. “French and Spanish are not that different”, he said. “Just add an o or an a to the end of the word.” he chuckled.
We organized the cava and a few tapas to celebrate after the service which would be held at 2 – a las dos.
I timed everything just so. Marisa would be bathed in the morning, put down for her nap, fed, burped. I would then dress her in the lovely 19th Century gown with its tiny buttons that had been the baptismal garb for my father and his father before him.
Around noon, I felt content as I put Marisa down for her nap.
There was a rapid knock on the door of the house. Loud voices down below. Alvaro and Vivian Perez had received a call from the priest. Where were we??
The ceremony was to begin a las doce at noon, not a las dos, 2 pm! “Caramba” screamed my mother. “Qué vergüenza” How shameful.
I don’t recall what I said but I am sure it was loud and unkind to Ian. Las dos is not las doce. How could he be so incompetent, so overconfident in his linguistic abilities and mess up this important detail?
The sleeping Marisa was yanked from her cot, stuffed into the dress. No time to do up the many tiny buttons, I thought as I swaddled her in a white blanket. We rushed for the car and I attempted to feed her en route. Marisa’s lower lip quivered with unhappiness as she began to cry.
We rushed into the church to the very front pew that had been reserved for los extranjeros, past the villagers who were already seated. They snuggled their peaceful, calm and quiet babies. Were they annoyed to have been asked to wait for us, the annoying Canadians, before proceeding?
Marisa was now an angry red and in full howl. Her normally tiny rosebud mouth was fully open, such that I could almost see down to her tonsils. She bellowed with hunger and rage at being awakened abruptly from her nap. My mother was clutching one hand and sucking on the knuckles of her other fist. My dad looked down. I don’t know what Ian was doing; I couldn’t bear to look at him.
Later I was told that it was a common practice that the villagers dipped their baby’s pacifiers in brandy to keep them composed. I would have jumped on that option had it been offered.
Each baby in turn was carried to the altar and their heads dipped towards the baptismal font as holy water was poured on their heads. I moved forward with my screaming banshee and cradled her head while dipping it back to be anointed.
And then a peaceful look came over her face and she gave what I thought was a smile, but may in fact have been gas.
You see Marisa always loved bath time.
Perhaps it was the blessing from God or the fact she imagined her wet head was a prelude to her bath and a shampoo. But she transformed back to the sweet baby who was rosy cheeked, calm and 70% eyes!
Later back at the house, we toasted the day with cava, and tapas that we threw together. My mother and I laughed hysterically. The Perez had recovered and would likely increase their contribution to the parish collection basket the following week. Ian would make no more arrangements in Spanish.
A photo was snapped of me holding Marisa in her long white dress. She is angelic, wide eyed and peaceful. I am looking at her with unconditional love.