Robyn Hogan

GLIMPSES FROM APULIA, SOUTHERN ITALY

Was there a Santa Claus? Yes, says Robyn Hogan — and he is buried in Bari.

The balmy Bari air greets us as we enter the delightful Piazza Aldo Moro (once known as Piazza Roma). It is a huge square with trees, paths, fountains and gardens, planned and placed with precision. No matter the tourist office has forgotten to open and cyclists, two by two, are circling after our wallets. The atmosphere is too lovely to allow such inconveniences to interfere with our wonderful mood of anticipation.

We arrive by train. The railway effectively divides Bari city, the ‘Murattiano’, from the sprawling, congested suburbs, preserving the elite, stylish guidelines set down by its Napoleonic designer, Joachim Murat. We waft down broad streets lined with elegant, solid buildings, through another wonderfully green and colourful piazza, to the Corso Vittorio Emanuele II which is the boundary between the modern city and the medieval and on, into the old village hewn from its limestone promontory foundations.

It is said that everyone gets lost in medieval Bari, the ways are so tortuous. We approach from the port side and plunge in along a slanted, rising stairway and wander. Houses, shops, roads are all limestone white. We stroll past wide open doorways, loud conversations spilling forth, and under low lying arches. Women are doing washing in big tubs, suds rolling down the lanes. Toddlers, laughing, chase each other under the ‘rain’ from the dripping clothes strung overhead. Then, suddenly, we stumble out into Piazza San Nicola and gasp in awe at the sight of the great white Basilica of St. Nicholas bathed in brilliant sunshine.

No photograph, no words, has properly prepared us for what is claimed to be the perfect example of Apulian-Romanesque styling. Its austere, glowing white façade sparkles, totally dominating its surrounds. Beneath this glory, we have been told, lies St. Nicholas, he of Santa Claus, and we head straight for the crypt and its warm shadows.

We enter a rectangular area; the light from dozens of candles beckons us through the wax-scented maze of columns like moths to the flame. The tomb is a bulky altar in the central apse of the eastern wall and the only source of lighting. Behind is a large, intricately wrought icon of St. Nicholas. A huge figure, his is a strong but kindly face, brown eyes beneath level brows, wavy brown hair, reaching from bald pate to below his chin, blending with his moustache and, maybe, a short beard. As my eyes become more accustomed to the icon and its glitter, I realise the episcopal garments are depicted in intricately wrought silver, adding a richness to the unadorned face. This exquisite portrait of St Nicholas is so far removed from the Santa Claus of snowy beard, big belly, red suit and gum boots as to make me wonder where the truth lies.

Gradually, my eyes move to other parts of the icon. Nicholas’ right arm is raised in blessing; his left holds a book. About the size of these hands and at the top corners are the figures of Jesus and Mary, looking a bit like relatives. But at the base and reaching to Nicholas’ hip height, are the donors of the icon, King Stephen II of Serbia, and his wife, Helen. They are presented in an attitude of reverence and are well aware of their importance in the scheme of things.

All the faces and hands are left uncovered but every other part of the icon is covered in gilt silver in a design that includes rosettes and rectangles, angels and vines, and what appears to be a menagerie in the Saint’s aureola. Dating from 1319, I can believe it is an absolutely marvellous example of the goldsmith’s craft.

His life, miracles and how he arrived in Bari is a tale intertwined with the building of the basilica and depicted in eleven panels of a large silver 17th century altar, the work of Neapolitan goldsmiths. And what a tale of skull-duggery it is! Bishop Nicholas was, apparently, a greatly admired and loved figure in the East and was buried at Mira in Lycie, Asia Minor, now Turkey. In 1087, either pirates, patriots, simple seamen or bold traders (depending on the version you choose to accept) rescued the body. That is, they stole it from its grave so, it is said, it could not be defiled by marauding Turks. That Nicholas was the most cherished saint in the East and would be sorely missed may have been a motive too. Anyway, these abductors crossed the sea to Bari, in a little open boat (if the drawings are correct) and, as the Bishop, Ursone, was out of town, gave the coffin into the hands of the Benedictine Abbot, Elia. Elia obviously understood tourism and created a tomb in the crypt of the monastery church. But the fun was only just beginning. When Bishop Ursone returned, he insisted the holy remains belonged to the cathedral. The friars objected violently until the wily Elia proposed the building of a new church on neutral ground. Duke Roger Borsa came strutting to the party and gave them the derelict courtyard of the abandoned Catapano Palace close by the monastery.

The crypt was ready by September 1089 by which time Ursone had died and Elia was bishop. It must have been a great day for the Benedictines: monastery, church and saint all under one mitre.

After a time, we begin to look at the rest of the crypt. Elegantly beautiful columns of various coloured marbles with delicately carved leaves, birds, animals and monsters decorating the capitals, turns the main space into four, fan vaulted aisles. One, of dark green marble, has birds, perhaps doves, facing each other, beak to beak; another, lions with a single head between two bodies. They are fascinatingly beautiful but I cannot guess their relevance to Santa. We have lost so much of the richness of the old stories. We turn to the basilica itself, wandering through its cool, spacious interior. It was not consecrated until 1197 — 110 years after the crypt.

Elia died in 1105 but he did not plan to be forgotten: he managed to have a throne built for himself. Where it rested for ninety years is anyone’s guess but I bet it was in close proximity to St. Nicholas. Perhaps in the left apse of the crypt where, today, in a sweet gesture of remorse for having stolen the remains so long ago, is, what is called, an Eastern Chapel, dating from 1966.

Today, Elia’s throne is installed behind the high altar and ciborium. It is a square slab stone structure, three sided like an arm chair, embellished with, mainly, floral carving, and is supported by extraordinary, almost grotesque, figures labouring under the supposed weight. Grimacing, half-clad labourers hold up the front corners, while a fully clad central figure literally ‘lends a hand’. At the rear, between two columns, a lion bites a man’s head off. One fierce symbol. I could not help thinking Elia was probably very small in stature; the effect one wonderful joke. That Elia’s early death did not destroy the concept of the cathedral and that the ideal of its design survived over a century of troubles is nothing short of miraculous. (Another for St. Nicholas?) The façade is divided vertically into three by pilasters corresponding to the nave walls and emphasised by a dominating main door, enclosed in a slightly protruding porch, and flanked by two plainer doors. Blind arches spread above these doors, narrower ones beside the main door. The windows above break up the massive stone face horizontally and an elegant, smallish rose window completes the top of the central section. Great open arches run down the side walls and above them groups of small arches, created by columns, provide a lighter feel.

We are well satisfied with our visit with Santa Claus and the shelter built to honour his mortal remains. Then a van whizzes into the square, men hop out and begin lugging great pots of palms into the cathedral. Another runs a red mat up the short flight of steps and, in the distance, we can hear the blare of car horns heralding the coming of a bride. She arrives in a flurry as we saunter outside and a local directs us to a delightful restaurant hidden between two nearby arches. Bari meals are a series of small dishes and wonderful flavours and served in an order we do not question.

Later, as we stroll, we find the San Nicola jetty, Bari’s original port, where, each May, the locals re-enact the arrival of their saint. We can be sure, then, that we have found Santa Claus: the jetty exists, the crypt holds an altar tomb, an icon bears his likeness and, in the basilica museum, is a piece of grey, undressed wood, part of the original coffin — and more evocative than any jewelled relic. Besides, any soul, condemned by modern myth to the North Pole, would surely like to be buried in Bari.

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