Stories from Holy Week in Seville
A MATTER OF HEART...Mid-afternoon, Good Friday, in the working-class barrio that’s home to the most beloved image of Mary in all Seville, La Macarena. I was right here in this same spot at a little after 1 a.m. last night, shivering in the unseasonable cold. With thousands of people from the neighborhood, and thousands more from around the world, I watched La Macarena leave the basilica on the shoulders of 38 costaleros, preceded by 2,600 nazarenos in green velvet hoods. Now, we’ve assembled again, watching her return. After all the showers yesterday, it’s a joy to have the sun on my back. The air smells of orange blossoms and incense.
It took14 hours for the costaleros to carry the paso to the cathedral and back. Thankfully, the trajectory was without incident. All that remains is to inch the canopied platform through the basilica portal and they will have acquitted themselves fully—vows completed, penitence done. But they have to be exquisitely precise now or they will damage the paso. And so the crowd quiets down for this final effort. The silence is respect, gratitude.
In the hush, you can hear the sharp voice of the capataz, a kind of general or director who guides the movements of the costaleros and encourages them, start to finish. “Anda, hermanos!” he exhorts them now, “Aquí no vale la fuerza ya; sólo vale el corazón!”— Come on, brothers! At this point, strength won’t do it. Now it’s a matter of heart.
MAYBE THEY'LL GET THE HINT...One of the biggest worries in the run-up to Holy Week was a soccer match scheduled for Maundy Thursday evening, during the period known as La Madrugá, when processions leave in the wee hours and continue throughout the night into the following day. The most famous images are taken to the streets during Madrugá— Jesús del Silencio, La Macarena, Jesús del Gran Poder—and some of the processions are conducted in complete silence. Not just any night, then, but the most thrilling and solemn night of Semana Santa.
Not just any soccer match either, but a critical qualifier between the Seville Club and the Hotspurs of Tottenham. The English were chartering a zillion planes to fly fans into Seville for the game. City officials here faced the prospect of 4,000 Spur-crazies mixing with Holy Week crowds during Madrugá. Fueled by past history with “hooligans,” the Sevillian imagination went into overdrive picturing the possibilities—English fans rushing a paso and draping the Virgin in Tottenham colors, obscene chants in the cathedral plaza…
What to do? Simple! Petition the soccer authorities for a change of date. Holy Week is an international event of cultural and religious significance. Surely a change would be in order. No way, came the reply. The game was on. Weeping and gnashing of teeth in Seville. Now what?
Well, sevillanos are renowned for their hospitality. They would be hospitable. They’d create a “hospitality zone” a few blocks from the stadium, stock kiosks with beer and free paella, pipe in vintage rock n’ roll. Fence the whole thing in. When the planes landed, buses would carry the ingleses right to the hospitality pen, er…zone. And there they’d remain, it was hoped, until the match began. Afterwards, buses would haul them back to the airport.
Now, city officials could not require every English fan to accept this hospitality—kidnapping is illegal, even in Seville. So, anticipating that a few might get it into their heads to spurn the free paella and wander into the city, they prepared a map to distribute. An arrow on the map pointed from the stadium to the city center. It said, “Seven miles.”
The actual distance from the stadium to the city center is slightly less than a mile. And every sevillano knows it. (By the way, it was Seville over the Hotspurs, 2-1.)
WHERE CHARITY AND LOVE PREVAIL...
The Plaza del Duque, Tuesday, late-afternoon. This is a “juncture” plaza where, if you’re willing to wait a long time, you can see as many as five pasos come by sooner or later, without having to scurry from neighborhood to neighborhood. Consequently, the crowds here are always huge, and once you’re fixed in your spot, you have to be very brave and pushy if you should want (or need!) to go somewhere else. The old sardine simile doesn’t begin to describe the experience.
I was wedged in one row back from the curb, with a great view. After a little while I noticed that people were starting to cross the procession line from the other side of the street, intending to break through the crowd on my side. Four sturdy women in the front row directly ahead of me saw them too. They clucked disapprovingly and plotted to hold fast if anyone should try to breach their position—or worse, press them out of position altogether and usurp their places.
Within minutes, a harried-looking family of five approached. The four sturdy women planted their feet, crossed their arms, and closed ranks. The family tried to pass, but it was like pinball—they bounced off one woman, and then another. The exasperated mamá explained that they needed to reach the café-bar behind us so that the kids could use the restroom. Too bad. They had been standing in that spot for hours, the sturdy women said, and it wasn’t right that they should have to keep stepping aside. At this, papá said something naughty. Other spectators joined the discussion. There were differences of opinion. The volume increased.
Suddenly, from behind us came a woman’s voice with the coquettish accent of Seville—breathy dropped “esses,” flamenco inflections, a hint of mischief, and unmistakable authority. “Ea, señoras!” she said. “Déjen pasar. Aquí estamo’ todo’ en la Pa’cua del Señor. Hagan felice’ a esa gente!”—Hey, ladies! Move aside. We’re all here in the Pascua [Easter Mystery] of the Lord. Make those people happy!
And they did.
I’ll be right back…
A little after 9 p.m. on Wednesday, thinking about making supper—a mixed salad that requires onions and a can of dark tuna. I was out of both. Ah! There’s a little grocery store at the end of my street. I put on my sweater, stuff five Euros in my pocket, grab my keys, tramp down four flights, and go to the store.When I come out a few minutes later with my onion and tuna, I hear drums and cornets. Loud. A procession! The plaza in front of my building is full of hooded nazarenos with their tall candles ablaze. My way home is blocked by a dense crowd. Not to worry. I know another route. Edging behind the crowd, I reach a cross street above the procession line. Three blocks later, I turn into a long lane that connects to the back end of Siete Revueltas—my calle.
As I’m approaching this intersection, I hear drums and cornets. Loud. A second procession! The back route is also blocked. Now the only thing I can do is bide my time. I decide to retrace my steps and stand in the crowd near the grocery store so that I’ll be closer to home when the procession there eventually winds up. But with one block to go, I find the street jammed with yet a third procession. I’m really stuck now. Frustrated and cold, I think how little devotion the pasos inspire when one has not had supper.
When I get home, it’s midnight. I promise myself that the next time I need to make a quick run to the corner store, I’ll check the procession schedule. And take my toothbrush.
WIN ONE FOR LA MACARENA?
I’m watching a procession on TV, very early morning, Good Friday. The commentator notes that the “hospitality plan” for the English fans worked well the previous evening. There were no disturbances in the city during the Madrugá, although there were numerous arrests inside the stadium.
The TV cameras are focusing on a team of costaleros that has just finished its leg under the paso. Out from under the platform they crawl. A round of back-thumping, teary hugs begins. I notice one gorgeous fellow crawling out and straightening up. He’s wearing an earbud. Hmm, I muse, maybe the capataz communicates via radio with a lieutenant under the paso. Traditionally, directors shout their instructions, but in this communications age, he might control things electronically.
I notice a costalero on the left of the screen raise his eyebrows and turn up his palms. It looks like he’s signaling a question over to the good-looking guy with the earbud. Yes. And with a big handsome grin, Señor Earbud sticks up his fingers in reply. “Two to one,” he says.
WELL, YOU'RE LIKE A GOD TO ME...
We are packed in at a corner where a paso of Jesus condemned by Pilate has come to a complete stop. The capataz has ordered it set down to allow the costaleros a rest. Although I’m not fond of baroque religious imagery, I’m quite taken with the figure of Jesus on this paso. He is serene and sovereign, but also sad, although not for himself. Behind me, a young father is bouncing his baby girl in his arms. She is looking all around, fascinated by the crowd, clapping her hands.
The capatz signals the crew to lift the paso and proceed. The band begins a traditional march. As the paso moves on, turns the corner, is almost out of sight, we hear daddy say, “Venga, nena, díle adiós. Mándale un beso al Señor… No, no a mí, hijita, al Señor, al Señor!”—Come on, baby girl, say bye-bye to the Lord... Blow him a kiss… No, not to me, little one, to the Lord, to the Lord!
Grins all around.
NEVER JUDGE A BOOK...
I feel safe in Seville. I don’t hesitate to walk out late at night, in part because the city doesn’t sleep and you’re nearly always surrounded by people who seem happy and at ease; and in part because sevillanos are solicitous towards folks of a certain age, and, apparently, I have reached it.
The only time I got nervous was Thursday night returning from La Madrugá. I wasn’t far from my building, but I was unusually alone on the street when a group of teenage boys entered up ahead and started toward me. They were drinking beer—a fairly normal thing here, not all that alarming, but I was a woman alone, and … well, you know what I mean.
They were also singing. Rapping in fact. I recognized the rhythms, but I could make out only a few of the words they were obviously inventing on the spot. As they passed me I got a good look at them. Slicked-back hair, ear, nose, eyebrow and lip piercings, a couple of tattoos. I averted my gaze, accelerated my pace.
Suddenly they stopped rapping. I glanced over my shoulder. They were standing about twenty feet away, looking back at me. “Señora,” one of them called out politely, “Si tiene Vd. miedo, podemos acompañarle a su casa. Quiere que vayamos consigo?”—Lady, would you like us to escort you home? We’ll go with you if you’re afraid.
I said no, I was fine, it was only a few more blocks, but muchísimas gracias anyway. They said, “Vale”—that ubiquitous, all-purpose slang that in this case meant simply “Okay.” They went on their way, rapping, and I went on mine, laughing. It is only now, playing back the scene so that I can write it down, that I recall that one of the boys had been working out a rap that rhymed the word pena (sorrow, sadness) and the name of the Dolorous Virgin, Macarena.
JESUS IS UP, WHY AREN'T YOU?Saturday night, the vigil of Easter. I set the alarm for 8 a.m. so that I can be at the cathedral at 9 tomorrow, a full hour before Easter Mass begins. My alarm clock has been iffy for the last few days, taking its own capricious sabbatical I guess, and I’m worried about making it to the cathedral on time. I test it a time or two. It’s working—at least for now—and so I turn in.
The bells begin tolling at 5 a.m. I recognize their peculiar sound—the cathedral. Somehow I go back to sleep—until a little before 6, when the drums begin. And the cornets. There are no pasos on the street—what band could that be? And more bells too. San José, down the street? La Encarnación a couple of blocks away? Who knows… I turn over. By 7, there are people singing flamenco coplas in the street beneath my window. I am no longer worried about the alarm clock. I get to Mass on time.