Leonard and I had been
chatting about these extraordinary magical tales for around half an hour when he
suddenly stood out of his chair and walked over to the shelving on the opposite
side of the room and perused his books. He carefully scoured the titles, then pulled
out an old battered volume and returned to his chair, holding it out at arm’s
length to avoid covering himself in the thick layer of dust in which it was
encased. The book was entitled Contra
Celsum. He blew the top layer of dust off the book towards the window,
opened it and, as he ran his index finger down the contents page, he explained
that Celsus - a philosopher writing in the late second-century AD - called Jesus
a sorcerer and he claimed that the Christians used magical invocations and the
names of demons in order to perform their miracles. He said that we do not have
Celsus’ original text, but the philosopher and theologian Origen (writing in
the third-century AD) quotes generously from Celsus in his apologetic work Contra Celsum. Flicking speedily through
the pages, he found his place and began to read a quotation from Celsus aloud:
‘After she [Mary] had been
driven out by her husband and while she was wandering about in a disgraceful
way she secretly gave birth to Jesus…because he was poor he [Jesus] hired
himself out as a workman in Egypt, and there tried his hand at certain magical
powers on which the Egyptians pride themselves; he returned full of conceit
because of these powers, and on account of them gave himself the title of God.’
Taken aback by this bold claim, I commented that it ‘all sounds terribly
blasphemous’, to which Leonard laughed. He then went on to quote from another
passage in which Celsus compares Jesus to the Egyptian magicians ‘...who for a
few obols make known their secret lore in the middle of the market-place and
drive out demons and blow away diseases and invoke the souls of heroes,
displaying expensive banquets and dining-tables and cakes and dishes which are
non-existent, and who make things move as though they were alive although they
are not really so, but only appear as such in the imagination…’. Then Leonard
bent forward in his chair and continued to read from the book, only this time
following the text with his finger and giving weight and deliberate attention
to every word:
‘And he [Celsus] says: Since these men do these wonders, ought we to
think them sons of God? Or ought we to say that they are the practices of
wicked men possessed by an evil demon?’
He closed the book solemnly and stared at me in anticipation of a
reaction. I thought seriously about Celsus’ statement for a moment and then a troubling
question began to materialize in my mind. What if Celsus is right and there
were other magicians in the ancient world who performed similar miracles to
those attributed to Jesus in the Gospels? And if so, then how are we to
separate the miracles of Jesus from the wonders produced by these magicians?
The question was like a tiny shard of glass lodging itself in my mind
and I would have dearly loved to hear more, but our conversation was cut short
by the gentle hum of my mobile phone vibrating in my bag and, although I
apologised to Leonard and urged him to continue, he insisted that I checked my
phone in case it was an urgent call. Searching through the clutter of pens,
hairbrushes and keys in my bag, I eventually located my phone and found a text
message from Alex asking when I would be returning home. Apologising once
again, I told Leonard that I needed to leave to which he replied, in an equally
gracious and apologetic manner, that he should not be so selfish to monopolise one
more second of my time. As I quickly tapped a reply into my phone, I heard him
rip a page out of his sketch pad, fold it carefully in half and sort through a
pile of books behind his chair (I felt terribly guilty that I had distracted him
from the purpose of my visit and that I had occupied so much of his time
talking rather than drawing).
I thanked Leonard for his hospitality and said that I had found our
discussion to be very interesting indeed, to which he laughed and suggested
that I should dispense with my Alpha courses and try his alternative ‘Omega
course’ instead. Then, as I stood to leave, he presented me with a large green
book. The title was written in Russian and there were no illustrations on the
cover, so I had no idea what the book was about or why he had handed it to me.
Mindful that I was in a hurry, Leonard explained that it was a biography of the
Russian pianist and composer Sergei Rachmaninoff and, given that he could not
read Russian, he had been waiting to meet a musician who would appreciate the
photographs of the pianist and his music manuscripts that the book contained.
It was a lovely gesture but I was beginning to grow concerned about where I
would store all these donated books!
Since Christmas was almost upon us we agreed to postpone the next
portrait session until the new year and Leonard promised that he would call me
in mid-to-late January to arrange our next meeting. I gave him my phone number
and home address when he asked for them, ensuring to deliberately point out
that I live with my boyfriend and so he should not be surprised if a male voice
answers the phone. Even though I was certain that Leonard’s intentions were
entirely decent, the mention of a boyfriend usually suffices to deter any
unwanted attention and I knew that this could possibly determine whether or not
I received a phone call from him in the new year.
I placed the Rachmaninoff book on the hallway table when I arrived back
at my flat and it was not until I passed by the book later that evening that I
noticed the corner of a white envelope sticking out from between the pages.
Opening the book, I took out the envelope and ripped it open to find a page
from Leonard’s sketch book with three pencil sketches; one of my hands and two
very detailed studies of my mouth. A scribbled note attached to the sketches
read:
‘What can I say, except that they mutter for themselves. Love, L.’
I smiled to myself and somehow I knew that Leonard felt me smile. The
pictures, our conversation, our friendship. I had certainly been given
something very precious indeed.
