Heartsong

by James Welch

  Charging Elk thought of asking the short, broad man at the door why the girl in the blue wrapper wasn’t there tonight, but he knew the man did not like him and would be curt, even hostile. Instead, he asked the bartender why it was quiet in the whorehouse.

  “It is the season,” he said, without looking up from his newspaper. “Our clients are very religious. They do not want le péché on their souls so close to Noël.”

  Le péché. Or as Sees Twice had called it, the sin. According to him, fornicating with the girls of Paris was a sin to the wasichu’s god. When Featherman had mentioned that fornication made one feel good, Sees Twice had said that was the devil’s work. The devil wanted the Oglalas to have their pleasure with the white girls of Paris so he could claim their nagis. Although Charging Elk and some of the others had laughed at such an absurdity, none of the Indians went with the girls.

  But now he was bitterly disappointed as he bade a sad good night to the unheeding bartender and walked slowly, aimlessly, back to his flat. Perhaps she was ill tonight or perhaps she didn’t go with men on Thursdays. It was natural to take an evening off. But he was worried that she had gotten tired of fornicating with men and had quit. It was this possibility that he chose to believe. Charging Elk put his hand in his pants pocket and closed his fingers around the small brown velvet box. It contained a cameo that he had purchased in the flea market on Rue St.-Ferréol. He had meant to give it to her. He wanted to tie the blue velvet ribbon around her neck and watch her as she admired herself in the mirror over the dresser. He had not thought that he would end up walking home with it still in his pocket. He felt sad for himself.

  By now the Old Port was nearly deserted—the juggler, the acrobats, the band, were gone. The tables filled with santons had been packed up and the lights on the big boats were extinguished. Le Royal was still lit, but he did not have the heart to wish the old waiter a Joyeux Noël. There was nothing merry or holy about this night. The waiter would take one look at him and see that.

  The morning of Noël dawned crisp and clear and filled Charging Elk with a strong sense of nostalgia. The sharpness of the air and the sun that streamed into his window to make a bright patch of yellow on the cement floor reminded him of those mornings at the Stronghold during the Moon of the Falling Leaves when he would snuggle closer into his robe and bask in the airy light of the canvas tipi. It was always a contest to try to outwait Strikes Plenty to see who would build the fire. By the time the boys left their lodge, although they could still see their breath, the sun would already be warming the earth. Charging Elk could almost see the frosty buttes golden in the distance, could almost feel the dry grass crunch under his feet, could almost smell the frost turning to water and the toasty musk of High Runner as he bridled him for a day of hunting.

  But now he heard the clanky sound of the bell of the small church in the next street and he was reminded of where he was and it was not unpleasant. He didn’t have to work. That fact meant more to him than the significance of the holy day. In the four years he had been in this country he had had a holiday from work only on the holy day of Noël and the day before Pâques. Even on other holy days that some of the men took off, Charging Elk kept the fires glowing a bright orange beneath the cast-iron vats. He preferred work to the empty streets of holy days.

  He glanced at the pocket watch on the stool beside his bed. Seven-thirty. He lifted himself onto an elbow and looked again. He had not slept this long in years. His first reaction was to jump out of bed, eat some soup and bread, then go for a long walk, perhaps out to the beach off the Corniche. It was always fascinating, and a little sad, to watch the fire boats going out to sea bound for other ports—America?—or the tiny fishing boats, drifting with the current like small pieces of flotsam in the silvery shine that hid their work. It would be nice and peaceful to do that, but this day he had another obligation, one that he looked forward to with less and less enthusiasm as the seasons passed.

  From where he lay, he could see a patch of blue sky above the building across the street. Then he heard a child calling, and he thought this day would be like any other to them. They were North Africans, heathens, as René called them. Today, Charging Elk envied them. As he listened to another child calling back, he thought of the girl in Rue Sainte and he wondered how she would spend this holy day.

  Renés old widowed mother was at the Noël dinner, as were Madeleine s parents, who were not so old. Charging Elk liked Madame Soulas. A small, thin woman with a prominent nose, who always wore a shapeless black dress, with her white hair pinned up beneath a black cloth, she lived just around the corner from her son and his wife and came to dinner every Friday night. She had not been frightened or even apprehensive about Charging Elk. From the beginning, she had expressed a great interest in him and had talked to him as though he could understand her. When Madeleine pointed out that he was a savage and didn’t understand the Occitan, and only a tiny bit of French, she resorted to a kind of sign language that Charging Elk seldom understood. When his eyes did light up with recognition—as they did once when she pointed at him and made a downward fork with her index and middle fingers, then made the same figures with both hands, her fingers dancing from left to right, until he understood that she was making a man on a horse—she laughed, a high, thin laugh that was nevertheless genuine, and she would repeat the gesture and laugh until her eyes grew wet. Then she would talk again, in the strange language that was not French but Provençal, as though they shared a good joke on the family.

  Of course, Charging Elk didn’t understand anything but the occasional figure, but he shared in a confused way her good humor. Madeleine s parents were another matter. They came much less frequently—Charging Elk had seen them less than a dozen times in the two years he had lived with the Soulases—and they sat stiffly on the sofa or at their places around the table. They spoke French only, like good citizens, although both of them came from the Midi. They were much attached to Mathias and Chloé, bringing them expensive gifts and reaching out to touch their heads awkwardly or hug their thin shoulders when they could catch them. They ignored Charging Elk as best they could, but they ignored René as well, a fact which did not seem to make René unhappy. Monsieur Daviel was a furniture maker who employed fifteen craftsmen and numerous apprentices. He often complained that his business was getting too large and that he would one day have to retire or go mad. It was clear that he considered himself and Madame Daviel bourgeois and pitied their daughter for marrying a common fishmonger after the education and upbringing they had provided.

  Madeleine had prepared a large rascasse, hogfish as the locals called it, as well as a ham haunch with lentils and sweet yams. René had joked that they would be eating ham until Easter; then they would have to buy a new one and start all over. As usual Madeleine scolded him, asking if he preferred that she cook a small capon for her parents to nibble on. But dinner went well; even Madeleine’s parents seemed to loosen up on the bottles of good wine (bought especially for them) and the high spirits of the children. Mathias in particular was happy; his grandparents had given him an expensive new spyglass, with which he could watch birds in the trees and shrubs of Parc Borely and the ships under sail from the battlements of Fort St-Jean. Chloé was more subdued, but nevertheless intrigued with a magic lantern that showed all the prominent features of Paris, including the miraculous Eiffel Tower. Charging Elk had once drawn the iron tree for her, but it was a poor substitute for the illuminated picture.

  In fact, Charging Elk’s presents to the children were rather poor. He had spent a large part of his savings on clothes and drink. He bought himself bottles of wine to drink in his room for the first time. It was cheap wine, to be sure, nothing like tonight’s wine, but each bottle cost nearly half a franc. And he had bought a new set of work clothes, for he was tired of wearing the same grimy clothes every day. Each purchase, except for his new suit and shoes, had seemed small enough; but taken together, they had severely diminished the contents of the purse at the foot of his
duffel bag.

  And so he had bought Chloé a crude imitation of a Spanish-style barrette, which she thanked him for, then left in the box buried in excelsior. The colored pencil set he gave Mathias was not even thoughtful—the boy had no interest in making pictures. Madeleine had exclaimed over the colorful tin of candied apricots stuffed with almonds, and René had admired the craftsmanship of the secondhand snuffbox, but Charging Elk could tell that they were surprised and let down by the gifts. Only last year he had given Madeleine a filigree brooch to hold her mantle in place and René a burly fisherman’s sweater to replace his old one, which had holes in the elbows and had been patched many times.

  Charging Elk felt ashamed in his new suit and shiny brown shoes. He had learned from his Oglala people to share with others, whether it was the pain of the loss of a child or husband or an abundance of meat and berries. Somewhere along the way, he had lost that desire to share, replaced by an attention only to himself and his own desires. His shame deepened when he unwrapped the gift from Madame Soulas and held up the black holy beads with the small silver cross. He had brought nothing for her. The fact that she didn’t mind at all, her eyes shining with the act of giving, only made him feel worse.

  After dinner, he sat with René and Monsieur Daviel in the parlor, where they smoked cigars and drank plum brandy. The children helped Madeleine and Madame Soulas clear the table and wash dishes. Madame Daviel sat at the piano and played a lively song for the season. She sat primly but somehow managed to make swooping movements with her upper body as her fingers danced over the keys. Charging Elk was amazed at her ability to make the piano sing so richly, as though it had a voice of its own. By contrast, the piano sounded hollow and abrupt under Chloé s fingers, as though it had a will of its own. After listening to the music and conversation, which consisted mostly of Monsieur Daviel’s complaints over the lack of good kiln-dried wood and exorbitant wages, Charging Elk felt a sudden need to get out into the fresh air. He had never left the Soulases’ home on his own volition before, always waiting until René gave him permission, but now he stood and wished the two men good night. Then he walked into the kitchen and said his farewell to the rest of the family. Chloé hugged him and thanked him for the barrette; Mathias shook hands and said the colored pencils would come in handy for drawing maps. Madeleine kissed him on both cheeks and wished him a Joyeux Noël, pressing a package of parchment paper in his hand. It was heavy with ham. Finally he bent over and kissed Madame Soulas on one cheek, then the other. He had never done that before, but the old lady, her shabby black sleeves rolled up and her hands soapy with dishwater, laughed and made a gesture that looked disturbingly like the Lakota sign for fucking.

  A week after Noël, Charging Elk walked through a heavy downpour toward Rue Sainte. His shoes were soaked and the bottoms of his suit pants were heavy with dampness. The umbrella at least kept his upper body dry, but sudden gusts of wind blew the rain sideways, and he held his coat tight around his neck to keep the new silk scarf that Madeleine and René had given him from getting wet. The guilt that had weighed on him all week was now replaced by anticipation of another encounter with the girl in the blue wrapper. On the other hand, he was ready for disappointment. He had made up his mind that if she wasn’t there this time, it would be his last visit to Le Salon.

  But she was there, sitting on the same red divan. It was Saturday night and the large room was buzzing with talk, music, and laughter. The yellow-haired woman was at her familiar table, again surrounded by men, young and old. The piano player in the far corner with his back to the room played the same songs as before. One of the whores led a man in evening clothes through the curtains to the back.

  Charging Elk gave his coat and umbrella to the short, broad man, who had not greeted him, and walked toward the bar, but halfway there, he turned and walked across the floor to the red divan. He realized that he still had on the white scarf but it was too late to do anything about it.

  “Bonsoir, mademoiselle,”he said, half-bowing before her. “If you remember—1 am François. How are you?”

  “Well,” she said, not really looking up at him. “And you, monsieur?”

  “I am happy,” he said.

  “It is good for you, yes?”

  “Yes. I have a new scarf. I have many friends.”

  This time Marie did look up at him. The dark face with the slanted eyes and high, hollow cheeks seemed on the verge of smiling. Yet there was something tight, almost impassive about it, almost like a mask.

  Charging Elk couldn’t believe his good fortune. First, to find her by herself; then, to be able to say the sentences that he had practiced. And she understood! “I would like to sit with you,” he said, his voice suddenly trembling with a joy he had not felt since last time he saw her. But then, he had become almost sick with it.

  And so he sat and spoke some more. Sometimes, she responded; other times, she looked at her clasped hands or toward the corner of the room where the piano was making music. A woman in a long black skirt and white blouse came with drinks on a silver tray, a stemmed glass filled with the sparkling wine for him, a tall glass full of amber liquid for her. Charging Elk was surprised that she had come without bidding, but he gave her the two francs, then lifted his glass and the girl did likewise. Neither spoke, but Charging Elk drank in the lavender smell of her along with the bubbly liquid. The combination made him unexpectedly light-headed, and he closed his eyes for just a moment. When he opened them and started to speak, he suddenly stopped. The girl was looking right at him.

  Marie Colet sat on the edge of the bed and loosened the laces on her shoes. François would be the fifth man she had been with that night and there would probably be five or seven or eight more after him, including one or two who liked to top off an evening s drinking with a good screw. She hated that part. They would either slobber all over her or become frustrated and abusive when they couldn’t perform. When the girls complained to Olivier and suggested that he throw these drunkards out, he would become furious and say that they came from the best families, what would become of his business without them, and the girls were free to walk Rue Sainte with the other common whores anytime. Gérard would help them pack up and escort them out the door. Goodbye. Good riddance.

  Marie placed the shoes side by side between the dresser and the armoire and laid her stockings on top of them. She glanced over at François, who was hanging his damp pants on the hall tree. His square shoulders and long, sinewy arms sent just the smallest tremor of fear through her body. He was sober and polite, even shy, but so big! He didn’t wear long underwear like most of the men, just a pair of briefs that covered his loins and nothing else. His dark skin made the white briefs almost luminescent in the dim light. Marie hesitated for just a second; then she pulled the shift over the top of her head, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the fading bruise on her right breast, where only last week one of the drunkards had bitten down until she cried out.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and waited for him, and when he turned he had something in his hand. He walked over to her, his penis only partially erect, a far cry from that first night. She looked at the brown velvet box in his hand, then up into his eyes, her own eyes questioning.

  “For you, mademoiselle.” Smiling, he added: “For your beauty.”

  Marie took the box and opened the hinged lid. There, on the satin lining, lay a cameo, white against a pale blue background. She lifted it from the box by the slightly darker ribbon and studied the profile of an elegant woman. Then she looked up at François again.

  “But I can’t accept this, monsieur. It is much too beautiful.” She cradled the cameo in her palm, running her thumb over the raised profile. How could he know that she had always wanted one? “Perhaps you had better give it to your wife.” She almost added, with the slightest bitterness, “not your whore.”

  The man, François, laughed, a rumbling laugh from deep in his chest. Then he sat on the edge of the bed beside her and took the cameo, and she turned her bac
k to him. The small piece of jewelry was cold against her skin as he tied the ribbon snugly around her neck. Then she turned toward him. “It is for a beautiful woman, I think,” she said, not looking into his eyes.

  “Look at yourself,” he said, indicating the mirror above the dresser.

  She stood and walked the couple of steps to the mirror. He followed her and stood behind her. The red-beaded lamp cast just enough light to illuminate the cameo and the blue ribbon that circled her neck. He watched her touch the cameo with tentative fingers. Then he looked down at her breasts, and the large dark nipples aroused him immediately. But he didn’t touch her yet. There would be time for that. For now, he was content to look into the mirror at her dark eyes, which glistened with a kind of awed radiance.

  Charging Elk had never felt such pride in all his life.

  At three in the morning, Marie returned to her room for good. There was nobody downstairs, except for Olivier and Gérard and a couple of girls. The street outside was empty and dark, but the rain had let up and a few high, white stars glittered over the town.

  Normally, Marie felt exhausted and sad at this time of night. Normally, she would collapse in the bed, not bothering to wash herself or change the bedding. She would be mildly depressed that her room was so small and airless. And she would envy Aimée her corner room with the large window that overlooked the small courtyard behind the building. And as she drifted off, she would see the endless white bodies of men and the stiff cocks they were so proud of.

  But tonight Marie was not exhausted and her nose was offended by the smell of sex. After her first few weeks in the whorehouse, she had become used to the odor and thought nothing of it. It became as much a part of her ambience as the lavender body lotion or the smell of cigars and spirits. Now, she hated this part of her life, which had in fact become her whole life and which seemed to consist of nothing more than sitting in the parlor, engaging in the forced cheerfulness of sex talk, then taking a heavy breather to her room and steeling herself for yet another joyless encounter.