Toward That Which is Beautiful

by Marian O'Shea Wernicke

  “Yes, but at least what you’re doing is concrete, real. I’m not sure that my classes are doing anything. Heck, half the time I’m not sure that Elva is really translating what I say. She goes on and on, and I just have to hope that she’s not making up her own catechism lesson.” Kate leaned against the counter, admiring the thoroughness of her companion as she scrubbed the sink with soap.

  “Listen,” Jeanne Marie insisted, “you teachers are teaching them to read. If the Aymara people become literate, they can solve their own problems.”

  “Tell me about the coca leaves, Jeanne. Today I watched a group of men in the market. They sat in a circle and passed around what looked like a lime, squeezing the juice over the leaves.”

  Jeanne laughed. “Well, what you saw is the equivalent of the men back home who go down to the corner tavern for a couple of beers after a hard day in the factory. Or at least that’s what men did in Newark where I grew up.”

  Kate had known that Jeanne was from somewhere in the East, and now she could place the accent, her clipped speech. “Okay, but why the lime juice?”

  “They wad the coca leaves up in a ball after they’ve sprinkled them with the juice, and then they chew it. Slowly the drug gets released from the leaves and suppresses hunger.” She sighed as she took off her apron.

  Once a month the whole team met in the priests’ house to discuss their work and evaluate what they were doing. Kate found herself looking forward to her first meeting, getting a glimpse into the priests’ house. She’d wondered at her excitement on the day of the meeting. It had been the week before Christmas, a clear day that ended in numbing cold. She and the other nuns arrived at the rectory at five o’clock as the mountain dusk fell quickly. Señora Montoya and Alejandro were waiting on the porch and greeted them as they came up the steps.

  Before they could ring the bell, the door was flung open and Tom Lynch stood there, tall and welcoming in the doorway. As Kate passed close to him she saw that he had on a soft blue shirt. She was perplexed by the rush of warmth she felt as he helped her off with her cloak. He seemed surprised to see her, almost as if he had forgotten she existed. “Well, I haven’t seen much of you except at early Mass. How have you been?”

  “Okay, I guess. I know I fall into bed exhausted every night. They told me you’ve been out in the campo.”

  “Yeah, I love to be out there in the mountains. I get restless if I’m cooped up around here too long.” He looked at the drink in his hand and ushered her into the living room. “I’m forgetting my duties as host,” he said. “What will everyone have? There’s coffee or hot tea, beer, whiskey, Scotch. You can see Father Jack and I are way ahead of you.”

  Kate glanced at a table covered with bottles of liquor. All the comforts of home, she thought. Alejandro accepted a beer, and Señora Montoya and the nuns all settled for hot tea. She would have liked a glass of wine but felt self-conscious about being the only woman to have a drink. Father Jack was smoking a pipe, and its fragrance made Kate think sharply of home and her father sitting in his red chair in front of the fireplace. She took the chair furthest from the center of things. She was new; she should try to keep quiet today.

  Father Jack opened the meeting with some statistics on the numbers of people coming to the clinic and the school. He then called for reports from each team member and finally sat back with a grunt. “Well, the big news we have this month is that the government is starting a new program of redistribution of the land. Tom has been trying to find out how this will affect our people here. As you know, many of them work on the lands of Alfredo Muñoz Pacheco. Few families here own more than an acre of land for themselves. Tom, will you fill us in on the situation?”

  Kate watched the face of the Irishman as he spoke for a long time about the government’s new plan. Growing vehement as he spoke, he argued, “What we have done here is build a parish on the model of those in the States. I don’t think that’s what’s needed here. We need to go out in the campo and talk to the men, get them in groups to listen to their problems, see what they think they need the government to do.” His eyes were blazing, and his hands trembled a little as he brought his drink to his mouth.

  Father Jack sighed and shifted in his chair. “Tom, we know what you think. You’ve told us a million times. Remember that our goal here is to work ourselves out of a job. In a few years we hope to turn the parish here over to the people.”

  Sister Josepha nodded. Kate noticed how flushed the older nun’s cheeks had become, but when she spoke her voice was steady, controlled. “Father Tom, we’re not all called to promote a revolution. The sisters and I just go on day by day, healing the sick, teaching, visiting—something like Jesus did, I suspect.”

  Frowning, the Irish priest’s tone was icy. “Just remember that I come from a country where my people were denied ownership of land for centuries. We’re not here to make everyone comfortable and at peace with the status quo. We have to provoke and unsettle and bother the hell out of the powers that exist. Our job is to disturb the consciences of the so-called Catholic elite.”

  No one said anything for a few moments, and soon the talk moved on to other subjects. Kate, tense and nervous, kept quiet. After all, she thought, I’d better keep quiet until I know what I’m talking about.

  After the meeting, Señora Montoya and Alejandro left, but the nuns stayed on to share the spaghetti dinner Marta had brought over. Father Jack brought out a bottle of red wine, and Sister Josepha nodded as the pastor held the bottle over her glass. Jeanne winked at Kate as she filled a glass to the brim and passed it to her.

  After supper they sang a few Christmas carols, and Kate heard Tom’s voice over the others, slightly off key. She felt his eyes on her whenever she glanced his way, but he didn’t speak to her the rest of the evening.

  On the way home Sister Josepha and Jeanne Marie shook their heads in mock despair at Tom’s tirade during the meeting. Jeanne Marie said, “Boy, do I get tired of hearing him put down our work.”

  Kate felt more confused than ever. To her companions, Tom Lynch was a wild man. Yet his arguments made sense to her. If these experienced missionaries couldn’t agree on what they should be doing, how was she supposed to know?

  She fell asleep thinking of Tom and wondering who had given him the lovely blue shirt.

  So it had begun. Kate can’t remember exactly when she admitted to herself what was happening. She remembers only an inexplicable happiness suffusing her work as she taught her classes, met with the women who came in the afternoons to learn to read in Spanish, and occasionally drove out in the campo with Jeanne Marie on a sick call. She came to love the austere early mornings as she walked across the courtyard from the convent to join the other nuns in the church for Lauds and meditation. The sky was just lightening, the air cold and clean against her face. Every sensation seemed sharper, more penetrating in those days. Precisely at six the bell of the sacristy struck, and she looked up to see which priest was celebrating Mass that day. When it was Father Jack, Kate would feel calm relief.

  On the mornings when Tom Lynch’s tall form strode into the sanctuary and bowed deeply in front of the altar, she concentrated on her missal in front of her, allowing herself only an occasional glimpse at him. He recited the words of the Mass in Spanish intently, gravely, as if every word were crucial and precious. Only in his sermons would humor flash. Then he would come down from the sanctuary and stand among them, urging the few people there to come forward to discuss the readings.

  His sermons were actually conversations; Kate admired the way he could get people to express their thoughts about the gospel of the day. Tom would ask what they thought Jesus meant when he said that the kingdom of God is within you, or that one should render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, but render to God the things that are God’s. Often Alejandro would speak up, and so would the novice, Magdalena, passionately and at length. Kate rarely dared to speak, unsure of her Spanish.

  Kate found herself looking forward to chance encou
nters with Tom around the parish. She would look up hopefully when a door opened in a classroom. Once he had come upon her when she was sitting on the floor with the women in Magdalena’s weaving group. The young novice from Lima had organized a group who met twice a week to weave caps and sweaters, which they could sell in the marketplace. Formerly the women worked alone at home or in small groups in the campo, but Magdalena thought they would enjoy coming together in the large clean parish hall to chatter and exchange news. After Magdalena’s group grew from four to sixteen or so, Kate decided that she would learn to weave, and she joined the group when she could. The women seemed delighted to teach her, guiding her awkward fingers with rough dry hands that deftly wove the red, yellow, purple, and blue yarn and wool.

  One day while sitting on the floor, she noticed dark, muddy boots and black trousers next to her. “What’s this?” Tom asked in English. “The new one is going native on us.”

  She flushed. So what if the women couldn’t understand? It was rude to speak in English, and joking about going native seemed uncharacteristically insensitive of him. She answered in clear Spanish so that the other women would hear: “It’s just that women are always busy being useful, unlike men who seem to have time to stand around watching others work.”

  After several moments of shocked silence, the women tittered, their hands covering their mouths. Tom grinned at Kate and walked around to greet each woman and admire her work. Honestly, Kate thought, the man must have been a politician in another life. He could surely turn on the charm when he felt like it. She noticed that he sat for a long time next to normally quiet Magdalena, who talked earnestly to him in a low voice.

  Suddenly Father Tom looked at Kate. “What are the two of you doing after this meeting?” he asked. Kate looked at Magdalena, who shrugged.

  “I was just going to catch up on some letter writing before dinner. Why?” Kate asked.

  “I’d like you both to ride out to Villa Maria with me. It’s a small isolated enclave of a few families about an hour from here. I need to talk to the men, and Magdalena could check on the women and children who need medical attention.”

  Magdalena nodded, and headed for the clinic to gather some supplies and her first-aid bag.

  But why did Father Tom want her to come along? She didn’t speak Aymara, and they would not have a translator. Just then Tom turned to her, with a big grin on his face. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks, and turned away to find some paper, pencils, and crayons as well as some hard candy to take to the children. It felt as if he could read her mind.

  A half hour later Kate climbed into the back seat of the jeep with the supplies while Sister Magdalena sat in front with Father Tom. The young Peruvian nun was animated as she chattered on in Spanish, laughing often at the priest’s remarks. Her recent dark mood had lifted. Kate couldn’t hear what they were saying over the noise of the engine, but as she watched them she found herself smiling. She settled back, gazing through the dusty windshield at the dirt road wandering through green fields dotted with yellow wildflowers. She had to keep reminding herself that it was spring here in the Southern hemisphere. Her world had been turned upside down. Gray hills undulated ahead of them, at times allowing a glimpse of the severe, snow-covered peaks of the Andes in the distance. Above, puffy white clouds bloomed in a sky so blue it was blinding.

  They passed a woman driving her sheep through the field. Her face was hidden beneath the brim of a man’s hat, and her red petticoat peeked beneath a full brown skirt that swayed as she walked. It looked as though she had a baby hidden in the striped blanket slung over her shoulder. Kate tried to imagine her life. How far did she have to walk to get home? Did she have food or water with her on her journey? How often did she have to stop to nurse the baby? She realized she knew nothing about this woman’s life.

  Finally they came to a group of five huts in the middle of a field, no trees, no grass, just a dusty yard near the road. When Tom pulled up in front, several men emerged from one of the huts, shyly pulling off their hats to greet him. The priest jumped out, embracing each one, slapping them on the back as he joked with them in Aymara. Soon two more men came out, followed by the women and children. The men headed with Father Tom to one of the huts. Magdalena and Kate went with the women and children into an adjacent hut. It was dark and smoky in the room, and it took Kate several moments to adjust to the dimness.

  At first Kate thought these women must be the little children’s grandmothers. Their faces were lined with age and sun and some had teeth missing. But when one of the women began nursing her baby, Kate realized these were young mothers, aged by their lives in the harsh climate of the Altiplano. Magdalena, using her newly acquired Aymara skills, explained to the women that she would listen to their hearts, and more importantly, listen to their stories and concerns. Meanwhile Kate took the seven little ones to a corner of the hut, sat on a stool while the children squatted on the dirt floor around her. They looked expectantly at the bags she carried. She gave out the paper, the new pencils, and the wildly colored Crayolas. Frustrated at not being able to speak to them, she smiled encouragingly as they began to draw and color right there on the floor, their dark eyes shining at her in the gloom. She understood a few words once in a while, and thought bitterly of her useless degree in English literature. Why hadn’t she studied Aymara as well as Spanish at the language school? She was out of her depth here.

  From the nearby hut, Kate could hear Tom’s light tenor voice rising and falling, blended with the men’s quiet deep tones and muffled laughter. Finally the priest’s tall form appeared in the doorway, and he stooped as he entered the room, grabbing the bags of candy Kate had brought. Squealing, the children gathered around him, waiting excitedly for him to offer each one a fist full of peppermints and lemon drops.

  “Gracias, padrecito,” they shouted, smiling at the two of them. They hugged the priest’s knees and he bent to be eye level with them. Over their heads, Tom grinned at Kate.

  They said their goodbyes, and Kate noticed the sun was going down as they headed back to the jeep.

  “Okay, candy lady, you ride shotgun this time and let Magdalena rest in the back seat,” Father Tom ordered.

  Magdalena climbed in and was soon resting her head on the window, her eyes closed in fatigue. Dusk was coming on quickly, and the sun’s slanted rays lit up the fields with a rich golden light.

  “So, Sister Mary of the candies, what did you think of the little group at Villa Maria?” Tom kept his eyes on the road.

  Kate turned to him and tried to keep her voice from trembling. “Oh, I felt so useless! I wish I’d studied nursing so at least I could do something concrete like Magdalena and Jeanne Marie. What good is knowing Keats or Wordworth up here? Without a translator, I’m helpless.”

  Tom drove on a few minutes in silence and finally glanced at her. “Give yourself a break, Sister. You’ve only been here a few weeks. Today you brought laughter and spring time . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Kate examined his hawk-like profile. “What were you talking to the men about?”

  “Oh, we were trying to come up with some ideas for growing new crops here, exploring different ways of using the land, maybe even getting the regional government to sponsor some new methods.”

  Kate knew nothing of farming, she realized, but she could learn about the local government. She would read. She’d go to the American Embassy the next time she was in Lima and check out some book on agriculture. She was good at studying.

  Now darkness was complete. The jeep’s headlights traced the rocky road ahead. Tom’s cigarette glowed. He drove fast, carelessly. She felt his gaze on her often, conscious of his body so close to hers. What could she say? That I’m out of my depth here in this upside down universe? That I can’t speak the language? That worst of all, I’m falling for you? In the distance, Kate saw the new moon rising above the dark shadows of the mountains. She prayed for help. Then she felt Tom’s hand on her arm.

  “Would you like a drag of
my cigarette?”

  “Sure,” she murmured, hoping Magdalena was asleep. She put the cigarette in her mouth. It tasted of him. She inhaled, and when she handed it back, he held her gaze. Then watching her, he put the cigarette to his lips and took a long draw. She did not look away. They drove back to Juliaca, the silence between them heavy, riding through the night on this darkling edge of the world.

  Chapter Five

  Much to Kate’s surprise, she wasn’t homesick during her first Christmas in Peru. In the convent back home she always felt a stab of loneliness on Christmas Eve, so she expected a severe case of homesickness here so faraway.

  Nochebuena was celebrated with Midnight Mass, just as it was at home. The sisters had spent the afternoon of December 24 decorating the old colonial church. Since there were no evergreens to be found, Alejandro and some of the men carried branches of eucalyptus trees into the church, and the nuns arranged them around the altar and stuck dozens of small white candles they had fixed in tinfoil holders among the branches. Jeanne Marie unwrapped the figures of the crib scene and placed them carefully in front of the altar. Kate was moved when she observed that the carved figures of Mary and Joseph and the shepherds were Aymara. The familiar scene looked so natural here in the Altiplano with the young poncho-clad mother bending over her tightly swaddled child and the sheep hovering nearby. She could almost feel their breath, warm and sweet.

  As midnight approached, the four sisters lit the candles on the high altar. Kate watched Alejandro lift up Tito to pull the thick rope to the bell in the tower. After the ringing of the bell, they turned out all the lights as people from the campo began trickling into the church. By the time the two priests entered wearing glowing white and gold vestments, the church was packed with people, all dressed in their best feast-day clothes. The men wore red and blue knit caps, and brilliant woven tunics over their best white shirts. The women wore carefully brushed bowler hats, and their braids shone in the candlelight. All was still. No baby cried. In the darkness, a flute begin to play. Then reed pipes and a drum joined in, and a plangent music filled the church—Inca music played on a high plain at the top of a lonely world under the cold clear stars of Christmas.