Heartsong

by James Welch

  By now, two other fishmongers were bidding with him, and so René got down to work. He enjoyed this part of it—to pay as little as possible, occasionally bidding the price up, then leaving another fishmonger to pay a little extra for his booty. Next time he might be a little shy and bid too low. In the end, René purchased twenty-eight kilos of herring, seventeen kilos of rouget, a basketful of anchovies, and one octopus—mostly for display. He paid too much for it, but it would go by the end of the market, even if René had to take a beating on it. He bought what few squids and sea urchins he could find. Breteuil had been partially right—it was not exactly nothing but not a lot either. René estimated that he had enough fish to last about half of the four-hour market, just enough to keep the people in his neighborhood—at least the early birds—from grousing too much. Ordinarily, he could sell well over a hundred kilos, but he would make do with what God provided him. At the last minute, he walked down to La Martine and bid successfully on a twelve-kilo tuna, which he would cut into steaks. As he was leafing through his roll of francs, satisfied that he at least had a decent variety of fish, he glanced around, looking for Charging Elk. In the excitement of the bidding, he had forgotten his ward. He saw François walking toward the cart with two heavy baskets. François had been bidding for scallops and mussels at the other end of the quai. By the look of the baskets and the awkward gait, he had been somewhat successful.

  Then René spotted Charging Elk. He was helping Breteuil load his fish on a cart. Damn that Breteuil! He was an abomination in the eyes of God, with his effeminate ways and haughty manner. René knew by hearsay the kind of crowd the chef ran with. They were all polissons, all bound for perdition in the next life—but in this life they were more than a simple thorn in the side. They were evil beyond compare.

  René finished paying the fisherman, then hurried over to his baskets, dropping the tuna in with the anchovies. He was almost running by the time he reached Breteuil s cart. “Monsieur Breteuil! What are you doing with my new helper?” René felt his heart beating in his chest and he knew that he was more worked up than he probably had a right to be. And he realized that he was more scared than angry. Charging Elk was like a puppy. He could be led by anyone with nothing more than the promise of a treat. Even now, he had a long, thin cigar clamped between his lips.

  “He offered to help me, Monsieur Soulas. It is nothing, just a helping hand.” Breteuil wiped his glasses on his coat. It had begun to mist, and both he and René instinctively looked up at the graying sky. Both seemed mildly surprised, after yesterday s brilliant winter sun.

  “But it is not done, monsieur. You have a helper. You must not take mine too.” René laughed and immediately felt ashamed of himself for being deferential to an insolent pervert. He tried to recover. “You must never do it again, monsieur. It is not done on the Quai des Belges. Look around.” He waved his arm toward the men loading the carts.

  Breteuil hooked his spectacles behind his ears. “It is nothing, Soulas. He was just standing here, so I invited him to help me lift my baskets. My helper was bringing the langoustines from way over there.” Breteuil pointed off into the vague darkness. “I thought your Peau-Rouge could use some exercise.”

  But René was already leading Charging Elk away toward his own baskets. “You must stay away from that creature. He is an evil one. He and his fellows prey on the uninitiated. They are the devil’s own spawn, a pox sent by Satan to tempt young men of limited intelligence and morals....”

  Charging Elk stopped, freeing his sleeve from the tugging hand, and looked back at Breteuil. He suddenly knew who the man reminded him of—the pale skin, the slender body, the spectacles. Yellow Breast. And this man had given him a smoke too. Perhaps they knew each other, or were sent by Wakan Tanka to help him. Perhaps they were heyokad, sacred clowns, come to show him the way. The little man tugged more forcefully, all the time chattering at him, and Charging Elk allowed himself to be separated from the pale hey oka. But he knew he would see him again. He would watch for him, for surely, somehow, he or Yellow Breast would give him a sign.

  René was almost beside himself with excitement. He had been surprised when the indien had looked back at the evil Breteuil. He seemed to have known what René was saying and looked back to confirm his judgment. Charging Elk could understand! Madeleine had been wrong to doubt the man’s intelligence. “Oui, oui, mon ami, you are a bright one. You see what I say is true. A severe lesson. But come, René Soulas will show you how to sell fish.”

  By midmorning the drizzle had stopped and the dark clouds were giving way to the high gauzy puffs that would soon blow off to the south. The tall gloomy buildings across the way were lit with streaks of sunlight. To the left of the market, where the street narrowed, a woman began hanging her wash on a line between buildings. She leaned out of her third-floor window, pegging clothes to the line, then moving it on little wheels at either end.

  Charging Elk watched her with a neutral interest, much as he had taken in the activities of the market. He had been standing on the duckboards behind the tables full of sea creatures, watching the little man and his wife scoop up quantities of the slippery fish, then put them into a metal tray that hung from a hook beneath the canopy. They would slide a piece of heavy metal along a rod until the metal and the tray would hang in balance; then they would yell at the customer until she gave them money in exchange for the fish. At first Charging Elk had been confused by all the yelling back and forth; one man in particular, who was dressed in white beneath his blue coat, yelled back at the little Frenchman. He made faces and threw his hands about, at one point walking away with a disgusted wave. But soon he came back and yelled some more. Finally he bought several kinds of creatures and he and the little man shook hands. When the man in white turned to leave with his baskets full, the little fish man glanced back at Charging Elk and smiled.

  Charging Elk knew that the fish man was Ren-ay. And that the taller dark man was called France-waa. The little man had pointed to Charging Elk and said, “Charging Elk,” in a way that Charging Elk barely understood. Then he had pointed to himself and said, “Ren-ay.” When the dark man came to the cart, the little man had pointed to him and said, “France-waa.” Then he repeated the process twice more, the last time seeming to want Charging Elk to repeat the words. When Charging Elk mumbled the odd sounds, he was more surprised at his voice than the act. He had not heard his own voice since he had sung his death song in the iron house. How many sleeps ago was that? Then he thought of the girl in Paris and how she made him repeat her name—Sandrine. She had given him much power with the picture of the man whose heart bled. Later Broncho Billy had told him the picture was wakan. The man was wakan to the white people, but many Indians now worshiped him too, just as they did Wakan Tanka. Charging Elk should have been angry—the girl had tricked him into worshiping this strange, bearded wasichu—but he wasn’t; in fact, he thought of the girl as a spirit-giver who had presented him with his own wotawe, a good luck charm which he should keep with him always. He didn’t have to worship the man, only the power of the charm.

  But now both the girl and the wotawe were gone, and he was in another place—a place where people walked among the stalls with straw baskets and bags, many already filled with cabbages and olives and dates and rough bread. Right next door to the Soulases’ stall was a stand that sold every type and shape of cheese. Some of the pieces were small and round, covered with a moldy white rind. Others were cut into wedges or large squares. The flesh was creamy or hard, white or yellow or orange. A young woman stood behind the raised counter, smoking a cigarette in a rare lull, several bills woven between her fingers.

  From his vantage point behind the fish boxes, Charging Elk could see that one of her legs was shorter than the other. A shoe had been built higher to compensate for the deformity. He was surprised to see that her foot seemed much like the other one. In Paris he had seen people, mostly men, with one leg gone. Once he and Featherman had almost been run over by a man with both legs cut off
at the thigh. He was seated on a low wood platform with small wheels and he moved by swiping his knuckles along the sidewalk. The strips of cloth wound around his hands were dirty and ragged, but his beard was neatly trimmed and his coat and shirt were fairly clean. He didn’t even seem to notice the two Indians looking down at him as he sped along.

  Now Charging Elk looked up and saw that the young woman was staring at him, a crooked smile creased around the cigarette. He looked away, unnerved by the frank stare. At the same time, he knew how odd he must look, a hulk of a man among these people, much darker than any of them. The stature that had once made him so proud in Paris now made him feel as freakish as the man with no legs. He glanced down at his new clothes—the wool jacket, the blue pants, the sweater, the rough shoes. He had stumbled several times on the rough cobblestones with his new shoes. They were stiff and hard and he couldn’t feel the cobblestones. Ren-ay had laughed each time and held him by the arm, chattering up to him with that wide smile that showed the gap in his lower teeth.

  Charging Elk didn’t like the feel of the stiff new clothes, but he was relieved to see that the other men were dressed similarly. If the coat and pants were a little longer, he would feel almost like one of them. At the very least, if he stood perfectly still he would feel almost invisible.

  Charging Elk suddenly looked around the market with a clarity that made his heart jump. He almost exclaimed in Lakota as he remembered that this was the same town that he had come to with the Wild West show. That was so long ago that he had come to think of it as another town. He suddenly saw the parade from the train station to the arena. He had been proud then, proud of being a Lakota, proud of being in the show, proud of his appearance. He had been eager to put on a show for these new wasichus that they would talk about long after he was gone.

  Charging Elk watched the little man—Ren-ay—argue with an old woman in a black scarf over a pile of small silver fish. She pointed a crooked finger at the fish man and said something in a quavery voice. Ren-ay threw up his hands and laughed, then scooped a mess of anchovies into the measuring bowl. The old woman regarded the scale with a suspicious eye but she seemed to be getting what she wanted.

  Charging Elk watched the exchange, but he seemed to see nothing. The enormity of his changed situation had hit him in the chest as hard as a horse’s kick. He had put on a show, all right, a shameful display. He had taken many falls from horses in his young lifetime but never in the arena, unless he was “shot” and had to tumble off the horse. And he had never been so helplessly sick that he almost crossed into the real world. Now, instead of being with his Lakota mates, wherever they were, he was standing in a market with the smell of fish in his nostrils.

  Charging Elk had thought of running away during the night before. It would have been easy to sneak out of the dark flat—the man and his wife were in their own room on the other side of the stairs—but where would he go? He had had his taste of freedom after escaping from the sickhouse and he hadn’t liked it. He had been cold and weak and hungry and still sick. If the akecita hadn’t taken him to the iron house, he probably would have died. But then, death would have been a good thing, something he had wished for; on the other hand, how would his nagi have found its way home? That was always the question that prevented him from accepting death or seeking it.

  Charging Elk glanced up at the now blue sky, then at the little fish man’s back, and he didn’t feel like a prisoner, not as he did in the iron house. As far as he knew there was no lock on the door to his room. He had listened carefully the night before when the little man had escorted him up to his room after the night meal, but he heard only a soft click as the door closed—no key turning, no final clank of a bolt. But why was he with these people? He seemed to be with them the way he was with Strikes Plenty out at the Stronghold, or with his parents before they surrendered at Fort Robinson. He seemed to be free, yet he was with them, as though he and they had become relatives.

  Even as he thought this, he knew the woman did not like him. He could see it in her eyes—the way she watched him—and he could hear it in her voice. He had sensed it immediately upon stepping into the akecita chief’s big room with Brown Suit, the way she had turned her eyes away when he glanced in her direction, the rigidness of her mouth. And why should she like him or not like him? What was he to her? What did surprise him was the way the little man held on to him, the way he chattered in his tongue, even though he must have known that Charging Elk did not understand anything. Ren-ay seemed to like him very much. But why? He was no longer an important man, a man who made the audiences stare with their mouths open, their eyes wide.

  “Monsieur?”

  Charging Elk had had his eyes fixed on a golden horse’s head above a shop across the street. Below it, a man with hair only around the sides of his head and wearing a white bloody apron was cutting chunks of dark red meat for his customers. The meat had made Charging Elk’s stomach rumble. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had real meat.

  “Monsieur?”

  He turned and saw the young woman with the short leg. She was standing on the other side of a stack of wooden boxes that separated the two stalls. She had her hand extended toward him. He saw a cloth tobacco pouch and a small pack of cigarette papers in her palm. She raised her palm slightly and nodded. He moved toward her and realized that he had been standing in one position so long his legs had grown stiff from the cold. But now a streak of sunlight had reached the woman’s stall and her face was bathed in the sharp glow. He took the pouch and papers from her, tapped out some tobacco on one of the papers, and handed the makings back to her.

  “Merci, madame,” he said, without thinking. Broncho Billy had taught the Indians that merci meant gratitude, just as “thank you” did in the American tongue. Charging Elk was surprised at how easily the words had come to him. “Tabac,” he said. “Merci beaucoup, madame.”

  The young woman struck a wooden match and held it to his cigarette. Then she said something that he didn’t understand. “Merely madame,” he said, and he surprised himself again by allowing his eyes to take in the woman’s face. She smiled at him and he smiled back. Her face bore the marks of the affliction that Indians called the white scabs or white man’s disease. Many of the people of Charging Elk’s parents’ generation bore similar marks. Many others had died of the white scabs, including most of his relatives. He had not known any of his grandparents and only an uncle and two cousins on his mother’s side. His uncle had married a Hunkpapa woman after the fight on the Greasy Grass and lived with her people at Standing Rock. He had not seen his uncle and cousins since he was eleven winters. Now twelve more winters had passed and he thought of them only briefly, as though his past were too far away to think of.

  “Il n’y a pas de quoi,” said the young woman. In spite of the pockmarks on her face, when she smiled, she was quite attractive to Charging Elk. “Marie-Claire,” she said, but he didn’t know that the words made up her name. She did not point to herself, as the others had. She said it again and he smiled slightly. He liked her long hair, which flowed over a checked mantle that covered her thin shoulders. It was shiny and made him think of obsidian from Paha Sapa. He thought of his own black hair and he almost reached to touch it, but it barely showed below the soft round cap. He felt his face flush with shame and he looked away from her. He smoked and wondered if he would be allowed to have his long hair again. Perhaps he was a prisoner of the gabby little Frenchman. He stole a glance at the young woman—suddenly he was grateful to her for not being afraid of him—but she was engaged with the old woman with the crooked finger.

  Madeleine Soulas had left the market early that day. She was only needed when there were lots of fish and lots of customers. François was a good helper but he didn’t have the personality to sell the fish. He was quiet and withdrawn, more at ease setting up the stall, filling the display trays, stacking boxes, chipping ice, and keeping the work area clean and uncluttered. Nevertheless, she liked François and when she baked,
which was infrequently, she always brought him a large portion of sweetcake. He had never set foot in the Soulas flat, although René had invited him more than once. Perhaps he didn’t feel comfortable around families, since he seemed to have none of his own.

  Now Madeleine was making a raisin-and-honey cake. She had come to realize that she only baked when she was upset. The act of putting a sweet together, all the small steps, the measuring, the folding, the beating, the decorating, allowed her to think things through without really thinking. But now she had much to think over. Although Charging Elk wouldn’t be with them for very long—and the shorter time the better—she was worried about how the children would react when they saw this savage. Furthermore, she was angry with René for subjecting them to such a shocking discovery when they returned home from school. Thank God she had had the presence of mind to send the children to their grandmother s last night. They would have had nightmares all night long. Madeleine could almost see the future nightmares in the back of her mind—painted, screaming savages chasing the monstrous bison, or worse, the brave pioneers, through their troubled sleep. As she beat the batter a little more ferociously than usual, she thought, Well, Chloé can sleep with me tonight. She didn’t care where René slept. Just so long as her children were safe.

  Madeleine Soulas wiped a loose hank of hair away from her eyes with the back of her hand. Please, blessed Mary, please. And she was surprised and angry to see a tear fall into the batter.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Franklin Bell sat in the uncomfortably small Empire chair and watched the consul general s secretary, Agnes Devoe, pour tea at a sideboard. He had a feeling that something unusual was in the air, but he had no reason in the world to feel that way. Perhaps it was the hour—four-thirty on a dark, wet late-January afternoon—that seemed unusual. Archibald Atkinson was normally out of the office by midafternoon, off to tea with visiting American dignitaries or attending a function with representatives of this or that French organization—or to his penthouse flat on Rue de la République. He was an avuncular man of limited energy because of his girth and age, and he often went home early to be with his wife, who suffered from allergies to just about everything. He once had confided in Bell that her doctor had told him that she would do better in a dry climate. The doctor had said Marseille was probably the worst place in the world for her allergies—dry but weedy in the summer, wet and windy in the winter. Of course, Bell had happily interpreted the statement to mean that the old man was ready to move on, perhaps to retire back to the States. But a year and a half later he was still here and Bell was still vice-consul.