Oh, I was lucky to get a ticket for the blessing of the cross by

The Pope, from the bishop, although it was only right seeing I

Got him one for the world cup semi. Anyway, there I was, off

To the side but near the front next to a man in dungarees and rough

Hands, and a woman wearing something by Dior, maybe. I was near

The crossing so I could look upwards into the dizzying atmospheres

Of the towers. There was a lot of ceremony, choirs and the like -I’m not

Religious- and the Pope chuntered on, piously in Spanish and I thought

My report for the Guardian needed some facts, so I said to my neighbour

“It’s about 500 feet high, yes?” “560 feet” he answered. “That’s now they’ve laid

This cross on top, it’s around 50?” “56 feet” he confirmed. The Pope was doing

the blessing, finger in the air. Then I said, “You seem to know it well,” Chewing

his gum, he nodded. “So, let me ask you: do you like crosses? I mean I know

it’s a Christian symbol, but it’s also an instrument of torture devised by Romans

for rebels and riffraff.”  “It’s quite a bit older than Rome,” he said. “Used in Babylon

and Egypt and very much in Persia.But the Romans standardised it” “Nab you, then

scourge you, then nail you up, then you can’t take a breath because your weight

pulls you down.” “The other way round,” he told me. “The pressure is so great

on your chest you can manage intake but not out-breath, unless you push

with your feet, which would be agony. When you couldn’t manage that, you

suffocated.” “The big cross up there with its viewing platform will be too

comfy, from your perspective,” I suggested. He nodded. I was hoping to get

a photo of him for the article, but there was a huge explosion overhead

and outside, of celebratory fireworks, and by the time I recollected

my job, the knowledgeable man had disappeared. That was the finish.

I went home to write, without the man to whom I had been glad to listen