Heartsong

by James Welch

  He stood reluctantly and watched Sandrine sort through the contents of her bag. He heard the click and clatter and jingle of things and he told himself he didn’t want this woman as he had wanted the crazy woman. It was enough to be with her on a warm afternoon in this gentle forest. He watched a small boy duck behind a bush and he thought of a conversation with Strikes Plenty, the time they were trying to decide whether to try out for the Buffalo Bill show. When he had asked his kola what they would do when they returned home from the tour, Strikes Plenty had said, with his challenging smile, “What if we don’t come back?”

  Charging Elk had thought the idea of not returning was foolish talk, but now, as he looked at the sorrel hair of the busy Sandrine, he thought the unthinkable and it frightened and thrilled him at the same time. Would it be possible? Would she take care of him, here in her own land? Foolish, he thought, this is foolish to think. . . .

  Sandrine had been muttering to herself as she clattered around in the bag. Suddenly she cried out with pleasure and held up a small, square piece of paper. She looked at it for a moment, then kissed it and handed it to Charging Elk. It was shiny and hard. He looked at it and saw that it was a picture of a bearded man in a red robe. He wore a white gown beneath it and on the white gown was a heart. The heart had a cross growing from its top and there was a woven chain of thorns around it. Blood dripped from the heart.

  He looked at Sandrine, his eyes blank with ignorance. Her own eyes were green and moist with some sort of pleasure. “Jésus,” she said. Then she took the card from him and turned it over. It was full of the white man’s neat looping writing. She said something long, something he didn’t understand, but he knew her words came up from her heart and he felt slightly embarrassed. She put the card into his hand and closed his fingers over it with her own small hands. They stood there for a moment, looking at their hands, then she said, “Adieu, Charging Elk—mon ami,” and walked away, up the path toward the arena and Paris. That was the last time he saw her.

  But he kept the picture of the man with the bloody heart. He carried it with him, in the pocket of his vest or in a small leather sleeve he made to attach to his belt when he was performing in his breechcloth. He didn’t understand the picture, but it had been given to him by Sandrine, the woman who had warmed his spirit, and so it had become part of her nagi that he must carry always, just as he always wore his badger-claw necklace.

  Charging Elk’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps, and he looked up to see three men entering the room. Two of them were dressed in the akecita uniforms, but it was the other one who made his eyes go round. It was Brown Suit! The American. But now he was wearing a black suit with the winged white tie that wasichus wore for dress-up. A round black hat with a short upturned brim rested on his head. Only his mustache that curled around the corners of his mouth was as it was that day at the sickhouse.

  “Charging Elk. Hello, my friend.” Brown Suit stuck out his hand, and Charging Elk lifted his. The man pumped the Indian’s limp hand up and down and he smiled, but he was startled to see how thin and drawn Charging Elk was. The hollows under his cheeks were almost black beneath the harsh light. He turned to the younger policeman with the sergeant’s stripes on the collar of his tunic. “Have you given this poor man anything to eat?” Franklin Bells French was quite passable, despite his having been the American vice-consul in Marseille for only two years. He was annoyed. It was Christmas Eve—or had been—and his last guests had been walking out the door when the gendarme arrived with news that an American, a Peau-Rouge, had been arrested.

  The other, older man wore several ribbons and three medals on his tunic. He was a small, neat man with sparse graying hair parted in the middle and combed straight down on either side. His mustache was a startling chestnut-colored bush beneath his sharp nose. He was Chef de Police Guy Vaugirard, who was equally annoyed at having been awakened in the middle of the night after a pleasant Christmas Eve with his grandchildren for such a trivial case. He spoke quickly and firmly to the sergeant, who snapped his heels together and hurried away. The men listened to his hurried steps in the hall. Then they heard him speaking with great authority to someone at the front desk.

  “Why is this man being detained?” Bell’s voice was still truculent but careful. He knew that Vaugirard was the chief of police, a much-needed hero of the disastrous Prussian war and a favorite of the conservatives of the Third Republic. But Bell was outraged that an American had been arrested; he also felt a certain amount of guilt that he had not done more to contact the Buffalo Bill show before Charging Elk left the hospital. He had waited three days before he wired Barcelona—he had more pressing problems involving a disagreement between a Marseille soap manufacturer and an American distributor—but by then, the company was on its way by ship to Rome. And Charging Elk had left the hospital and was nowhere to be seen. It had surprised Bell that Charging Elk, sick with influenza, and with two broken ribs on top of that, could disappear so completely during the four days he had been on the loose. It didn’t surprise him that the police would pick him up at the first opportunity. But now it seemed that Charging Elk was being charged with some sort of crime.

  Chief Vaugirard opened a small leather case and offered Bell one of his slender black cigars. Bell said, “Non, merci,” and he watched the chief light one with a silver lighter. He looked at Charging Elk and saw that the Indian was looking at the cigar. On an impulse he said, “You might offer one to your guest.”

  But Vaugirard returned the leather case and lighter to his tunic pocket. At that moment the sergeant returned to the room. “My man is bringing food,” he said.

  “Why is this American being held?”

  “Vagabondage, Monsieur Vice-Consul,” the sergeant said. “My man found him wandering in Place St-Victor outside the Basilique. He behaved suspiciously, he could produce no papers. My man acted according to his authority.”

  Bell had become accustomed to this authority during his tenure in Marseille. One of the unpleasant parts of his job as vice-consul was acting on behalf of Americans, usually sailors, who ran afoul of this authority. They were guilty unless they could prove their innocence. Napoleonic Code. Unfortunately, the French system was just as rigid as the American. “And did your man ask him for his papers?

  “Of course, Monsieur Vice-Consul. He did his duty in a very correct and professional manner.”

  “And did this man understand what was being asked of him?”

  “I don’t follow, monsieur ...”

  “Do you understand this man?”

  “But he has said nothing—not one word—”

  “This man, Charging Elk, is a member of the Wild West show of America. Perhaps you took your family to a performance? Or read about it in the newspaper?”

  “Ah, yes, Monsieur Vice-Consul. I did not have the honor to attend a performance, but my brother-in-law—”

  “Monsieur Charging Elk is a very important American. He took ill during a performance and was hospitalized. He was still in the hospital when the show left for Spain. I was in the process of reconnecting him to the show when I learned of his detention.” Bell felt uncomfortable in the small, sterile room. He had been here before, trying to get a sailor released so he could sail with his ship the next day. He hadn’t been successful—the sailor had gone to trial for public drunkenness and destruction of property and had served six months in jail. It had cost the consulate sixty dollars to send the sailor home on a steamship. And their budget didn’t provide for such random expenditures.

  Bell looked at Vaugirard, who had not said a word and seemed quite content to let his sergeant take care of the matter. Bell would not let him get away with it. “As you may have deduced, Chief Vaugirard, Monsieur Charging Elk is not a vagrant. He is an important member of the Wild West show who had the misfortune to fall ill in your city, a victim of the influenza epidemic. Now he wishes nothing more than to repatriate with his American comrades, who are performing in Rome. If you would be good
enough to release him to my custody, the consulate will guarantee his immediate passage to Italy.”

  The sergeant set an ashtray he had retrieved from the top of the filing cabinet on the table before the chief of police. Vaugirard looked up at him and said, “What do you think, Borely?”

  Sergeant Borely’s eyebrows lifted in surprise as he watched the chief tap the ashes from the little cigar into the ashtray. But he was quick-witted and recovered his composure. “Monsieur Charging Elk is charged with vagabondage. And it has been reported to us that he left the Hopital de la Conception without permission. These are serious offenses, I think, chef. Especially with the influenza epidemic in full bloom. Perhaps he is contagious, yes? To leave the hospital before he is pronounced well and to wander our streets—it is very dangerous to our citizens, I think.”

  Vaugirard continued to tap the little cigar on the lip of the ashtray as he digested this information. He was a deliberate man and now he had to make a decision. On the one hand, it would be easy to hand over the Peau-Rouge to the vice-consul. It would be a quick resolution and within his power, with a little fudging on the official report. And it would be good for relations with the Americans, who were great consumers of the products of France. On the other hand, the law was the law, and by rights, the man should stand before the legal system. And too, Vaugirard was known for his faith in the professionalism of his officers. He very seldom interceded in their actions or countermanded their decisions. The morale of the Marseille Police Department was very high as a result. He saw no reason to throw his weight around now.

  “As you can see, Monsieur Vice-Consul, my sergeant has given a great deal of thought to this matter and I have to agree with him. If it was just the vagabondage, I think we could look the other way. But to leave the hospital without being properly discharged is a very serious matter.” Vaugirard stubbed out the cigar arid looked at Charging Elk for the first time since a cursory glance when they had entered the room. “We have no choice but to hold your citizen in detention until he can appear in court. You see, it is the only way.”

  “May we at least take him back to the hospital where he can receive proper care? It would be a courtesy to an American citizen and his government.” It occurred to Bell that Charging Elk wasn’t a citizen of the United States. Because of the treaties, the Indian tribes were their own nations within the United States. But the individuals were wards of the government and as such were entitled to diplomatic representation in foreign countries. He had read the directive only some months ago in conjunction with the Wild West show’s appearances in France. “I’m sure my superior, the consul general, would be most amenable to placing Monsieur Charging Elk under a doctor’s care. Then, when he is pronounced fit, we will send him at once to Italy.” Bell tried to act hearty, as though his suggestion put the matter to rest, the end of it, they could all go home well satisfied with such a just resolution to this surprisingly sticky problem.

  But Vaugirard was up to the bluff. “No, no, that is not possible, Monsieur Vice-Consul. He has already left the hospital once. No, I think it would be best if Monsieur Charging Elk remained with us.”

  “But it is Christmas. ...”

  “I am aware of that, monsieur,” Vaugirard said with more force than he meant to. He pulled out his watch. Three-thirty in the morning. His grandchildren would be up in a few hours to open the presents that they hadn’t torn open last night. His only son was a poor surgeon in Orléans and he very seldom had time or money to bring the family to visit. Vaugirard was damned if he was going to waste any more time with the problems of the Americans. “Sergeant Borely will make sure your citizen is cared for. I’m sure a tribunal will hear the case next week, probably a slap on the wrist, nothing more. Bonne nuit, Monsieur Vice-Consul.”

  “Thank you for your kind attention to this matter, Chief Vaugirard. I’m sure Monsieur Charging Elk would thank you too, if he could. Joyeux Noël, Chief Vaugirard!” Bell had meant to sound sarcastic but his French wasn’t good enough.

  Borely turned to follow his chief out the door; then he stopped and said, “I will inquire about the food, monsieur.”

  “Thank you, sergeant.” Bell turned to look at Charging Elk, but the Indian had his eyes closed and he was rocking almost imperceptibly on the wooden chair. Bell couldn’t tell if he was asleep or simply trying to block out the world.

  The American Consulate was on Boulevard Peytral in the Sixth District, only a few blocks from the Prefecture. It was four-thirty in the morning and Bell was walking in that direction. His spacious apartment on the second floor of a grand residence was right next door to his workplace. The apartment had been furnished with antiques from the Empire period. Bell didn’t know how the consulate had acquired such grand furnishings, but after his time in the shabby tenement in Panama, his last posting, he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. His dinner that evening had gone quite well—he had even toasted Napoleon for providing such magnificent craftsmen that could build such magnificent furniture: “To the emperor of good taste and bad judgment.” Margaret Whiston had laughed, to his delight. She was the cultural affairs attaché and a very ample piece. One of the few unmarried Americans (like himself) in Marseille. She did have a fiancé in the embassy in Constantinople, but the distance, and the unwillingness of both to give up their jobs, had created a crisis in their relationship that Bell was only too happy to exploit. So far it had been just talk, but she was considering his offer to spend next weekend in Avignon. She was a very bold young woman.

  In spite of the lateness of the hour, Franklin Bell was in relatively high spirits. He had promised Charging Elk that he would return the next day with cigarettes and food. He thought Charging Elk had somehow understood that, but he couldn’t be sure. The Indian had simply nodded without really looking at him. In fact, Bell couldn’t remember the Indian ever looking at him. They were a strange race of people, he thought, still attempting to live in the past with their feathers and beads. But perhaps that was understandable, seeing that they had no future to speak of. He had read an article in La Gazette du Midi just the other day about “the vanishing savages,’ and that just about summed it up. They were a pitiful people in their present state and the sooner they vanished or joined America the better off they would be.

  Still, he now wished he had gone to a performance while the Wild West show was in Marseille. He had read Buffalo Bill, King of the Border Men when he was a kid, twenty years ago. He had grown up in Philadelphia, and like all kids then, he had wanted to go west to the frontier to fight Indians. And in 1869, there were plenty of Indians to meet in battle.

  Bell crossed into Boulevard Peytral and saw his apartment, with the soft glow of light in the French door behind the wrought-iron balcony. He still hadn’t gotten used to closing the shutters every night the way the French did; he hated to wake up in the morning in a still-dark apartment.

  As he fished his keys out of his pocket, he thought again of Charging Elk, but only in the abstract. He had finally met an Indian, but not in the heat of battle; rather, he had met a poor wretch in a shabby coat that didn’t fit him and hospital slippers that were soaked through; he was alone in a country where he could not speak the local language, and worse, he couldn’t speak the language of his own country. He would sit in a French jail for at least four days until the Christmas weekend was over, and maybe longer, given the crowded nature of the French courts. So much for the romanticism of youth. This Indian was thoroughly defeated.

  Bell suddenly thought of the other Indian—Featherman. He had been brought to Hopital de la Conception as an influenza case even before Charging Elk, but it turned out he had consumption, which had turned virulent. So he was moved to the tuberculosis ward. It hardly mattered. He would be dead soon enough. And it would be up to Bell to notify his relatives. How does one notify the relatives of a savage? He would have to catch up with the Wild West show somehow. It was all too much.

  Bell turned the key and the door swung inward. If only Margaret
were there, waiting for him in bed. But—maybe next weekend, in Avignon. He made a silent prayer as he climbed the stairs to his spacious apartment filled with Empire furniture and the pervasive odor of a delicious bouillabaisse that his landlady had created. He would sleep as long as he wanted and perhaps he would dream of Margaret and her abundant offerings. It was Christmas, after all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Martin St-Cyr hated Marseille in the winter and he wondered at the turn of events that had landed him here. He wondered quite often, at least once a week, but he never came up with a satisfactory explanation. The simple explanation was that he had followed a girl here. After their graduation from university in Grenoble in 1886, she had taken a teaching job in a lycée here. Because she was a brave Christian girl with a missionary spirit, she had chosen a school in Le Panier, an old working-class section of Marseille that now attracted immigrants from the Barbary States and the Levant, who worked the worst jobs in the soap and hemp factories, the abattoirs and tanneries.

  St-Cyr had graduated with a degree in economics and had been accepted into law school at the Sorbonne for the next semester. But he hadn’t counted on falling in love with Odile despite the fact that his best instincts told him that they were not at all compatible. She was deeply religious and felt compelled to spend at least this part of her life helping the less fortunate. He was not religious at all, in spite of being raised in a Catholic household. His third year in college, he fell in with a group of socialists, many of whom (like him) were more in love with the idea of the working classes than with the actual people who constituted the oppressed. St-Cyr attended the meetings and rallies, passed out leaflets, and played a small part in attempting to organize the meat workers and the draymen in Grenoble. But when the police entered the Place St-André, where the workers and students had gathered to protest the arrest of three leading organizers, two students, and a meatcutter, St-Cyr had ducked into the Palais de Justice, just off the square. From there, he watched the trunchion-swinging gendarmes charge the overpowered, if not undermanned, protest. Much blood was spilled that hot autumn afternoon, and after that, St-Cyr had eased himself to the fringes, then out, of the movement.