San Salvador de la Marina

The narrow pedestrian streets around the Church of San Salvador de La Marina were coming to life. Waiters set tables and shuffled chairs preparing for the lunchtime rush. Others pulled down canopies protecting customers from direct sunlight if not the midday heat. Greetings and jocularity echoed off the walls.

The streets without restaurant terraces were crammed with stalls selling anything a tourist might need, and many things that they certainly wouldn’t. Classic linen clothing from the ‘White Isle’ and cotton t-shirts with lizards, a Volkswagen camper van or a Vespa scooter. Throwbacks to the island’s hippy past. Gaudiesque ashtrays, counterfeit brand sunglasses, plates with a map of the island or a drawing of the castle and cathedral, necklaces with trinkets, hats with ‘I heart Ibiza’, balsa-wood fans in all colours with Sevillana dancers in polka dot dresses and equally unfathomably, wooden Buddhas of every size. The forest-scented candles were barely perceptible through the smell of the street.

The overflowing stalls that squeezed into the constrained side streets forced passers-by into single file and the inevitable impasse. A deliberate strategy by the vendors to slow the procession so more time would be spent exposed to their wares. Maria Dolores and Baby cautiously negotiated these same streets, she occasionally raising her head to acknowledge familiar faces who, in turn, nodded as she passed. The same routine, the same quotidian exchange. 

The high midday sunlight streaked through the compressed streets. It bounced off the white-washed walls, accentuating the brightness to those looking out from the shade. Maria Dolores ambled, head bowed, not wanting to attract unwanted attention, apparently disinterested to the goings on around her. This was a pretence however, she was a bedouin of these medieval streets. She saw everything she had to see and more, she absorbed everything, habitually vigilant. The tourist season offered opportunities for everyone. She knew if she cleared a table or two at Miguel’s bar after breakfast, she could earn a coffee and croissant or at Planells’ bakery, Rosa would give her a baguette, one baked that day. 

Today, however, wasn’t one of those days, today she had somewhere to go. A little after 1pm she reached her destination and tied Baby to a bike-rack by the wall of the San Salvador de la Marina, just a block back from the Ibizan harbour. She scratched Baby roughly behind the ears and told her to watch out for rabbits. Baby looked up at her aged mistress and cocked her head briefly before lying down, head resting between outstretched paws.

The Carrer de San Telmo opened up behind the church onto the seasonal maritime bustle. Maria Dolores stood for a moment looking at two colossal, ostentatious yachts, both black yet brilliant in the morning sun. Two men hung from one of the monstrosities in harnesses polishing the lustrous exterior. The reflected sunlight from the water below danced around them on the gleaming hull. On the other, an EC 145 helicopter sat atop five storeys of gratuitous luxury. From Maria Dolores’ perspective they dwarfed the nearby buildings. Tourists passing through the marina stopped to marvel at them. They took photos perhaps to post on social media, proof that such beasts existed, that people with such riches also existed. She didn’t dwell on the affluence of the owners, she had no interest in pretentiousness nor the egos of the wealthy. She had experienced enough of that before. Instead she turned and climbed the seven stone steps to the great wooden doors with less effort than most other 84-year-old bodies might have required.

The outside of the church had no particularly remarkable architectural features. The small, gothic arched windows contained opaque glass but lacked colour or any artistic detail as might be expected in a church, particularly one as large and old as San Salvador de La Marina. The interior was equally insipid. An enormous metre wide, porcelain white concha shell which contained Holy water was mounted to the wall by the entrance. In the dark recess of the chancel a three metre tall Christ was lit from below casting shadows up onto the ceiling. It had always fascinated Maria Dolores because it lacked facial features, wore no clothing, yet had no genitalia and no crown of thorns. There was nothing to indicate that it was actually a representation of Jesus except for the crucifixion and its lofty position above the devotees that regularly convened below in worship. 

She entered further into the church with her head bowed and was greeted with cool stale air, quite a distinction from the humid streets outside. She made her way down the nave to the second row of wooden chairs in the transept. Her arrhythmic footsteps, and the faint whir of the electric fans fastened to each of the nave’s columns, the only break in the silence. She sat there a while thankful for the rest, a respite for her throbbing gout-ridden feet. 

“Good morning Dolores, how are you today?” Maria Dolores didn’t even acknowledge that Father Antonio Ferrer had spoken to her. It was a daily ritual that she had little interest in. Most mornings he greeted her in this manner but had some time ago given up any notion that she might offer conversation or give him more than a sardonic look. She wasn’t the type to divulge her concerns or share her feelings. People sought refuge in churches for different and personal reasons, he accepted that. He smiled and moved on, continuing his inspection of that morning’s cleaning. Dressed in church issue black trousers and pale blue shirt he still managed to look elegant, too elegant to be a priest. He was always immaculate, his tanned skin radiated youth and vigour, his hair always perfectly trimmed. Had she not seen him in an ecclesiastical setting, Maria Dolores could have mistaken him for one of the many moneyed tourists commonly seen in the marina, perhaps from one of those monstrous yachts. She had never seen him in a more formal cassock, but then Sunday mass wasn’t high on her list of social functions. 

“What day is it today?” The croaky voice forced itself from her parched mouth, the words apparent strangers to her tongue. Father Antonio, paused a second, surprised at the voice coming from behind him. He turned and carefully made his way back towards the old lady, keen not to miss her next words. He sat on a chair in the row in front of Maria Dolores, who still hadn’t looked up. 

“What day is it?” This time words had more strength.

“It’s the 9th of April. Tomorrow is Saint Michael of the Saints.”

“Then it’s his birthday. They said it wasn’t but I’d know,” she paused. “I’m his mother.” Now Maria Dolores raised her head, but looked past Father Antonio to the Christ without a face, searching for something in him, a recognition of her pain. “I’d know, I’m his mother.” She repeated.

Maria Dolores is part of something bigger