Fresco Behind a Wooden Statue of St. Andrew
On the plastered wall of the sanctuary of Sant’Andrea in Orvieto, a strong young man in a green robe, red sleeves beneath, holds up a bloody sword. As in so many frescoes of the Renaissance, his eyes and nose and mouth have been dissolved by time. He is facing (if you can call it facing) a red-robed woman on his right. Her eyes are exceedingly sharp. She gestures toward him with one hand—a tight gesture—and holds the other over her heart. The man, likewise, has placed his left hand, loosely, over his own heart.
Behind him, and to his left, an older couple lie tucked in bed, face-up. Their heads rest on matching pillows. The older man has a white beard, neatly trimmed, and he wears a green night cap that matches the young man’s robe in color. The older woman wears a white head scarf, just like the woman who is standing. The eyes of the couple in bed are closed. Both of them are bleeding profusely from stab wounds in the neck.
If it were not in a church, and if Duncan had a wife in the play, the fresco would seem to mark the moment in which Macbeth says, “I have done the deed,” the moment in which Lady Macbeth receives the news in a fury of cold agitation. But this must be the story of the martyrdom of some saint—of two saints. Mr. and Mrs. Saint. But what if the two are not married? What if the woman in red is the wife and the woman in bed is the paramour, the man in green the hired assassin?
I wish we could see the swordsman’s face. Is he aghast at what he has done? Relieved to have taken vengeance? Simply glad to receive his pay? St. Andrew might know, but his wooden statue has turned its back on all this sorry business.
We have to look farther afield, to the crucifix above the altar. The very sad man hanging there, his face quite clear in its agonies, looks out across the nave and sees. And bleeds. And sees. And bleeds. And knows. And what he knows is that the faceless man with the sword is the one who will become a saint. Saint Julian. He has just murdered his own parents, who had come on a surprise visit while he was hunting, and who were sleeping in his bed when he came back. He has just murdered them because he thought he had found his wife cheating on him. But now his wife arrives to tell him he was mistaken, he was wrong, and Julian is filled with remorse. This is what the hanging man on the cross well knows. And he knows that Julian—and his wife, as well—will spend the rest of their stricken lives helping the sick and giving shelter to the weary. For a night of killing, years of care. And at once and at last, Julian will be forgiven. No longer seen in a fresco darkly, he will be known, and he will know. He will receive his face.
Paul Willis has published seven collections of poetry, the most recent of which is Somewhere to Follow (Slant Books, 2021). Individual poems have appeared in Poetry, Christian Century, and Christianity and Literature. He lives with his wife, Sharon, near the old mission in Santa Barbara, California.
Amethyst Review 