by James Welch
The next morning Charging Elk wore his suit to breakfast. By now it was eleven years old and very much out of style, even by the standards of provincial Agen. More than that, the pants were baggy in the seat and in the knees and there was not even a suggestion of a crease. The coat looked like those worn by the peasants on town days, the pockets empty but retaining a vestigial bulge from long-forgotten cargo. Nevertheless, Charging Elk wore the suit with dignity, and the nearly clean white shirt, which had been packed away since his arrival in Agen, gave him an almost priestly look. Only the hair which flowed down his back to his shoulder blades was a reminder of his days at the Stronghold and later the Wild West show.
Charging Elk sat down in his usual place across from Vincent. Vincent toyed with his spoon, twirling it around and around. Nathalie had her back to the two men, stirring the porridge on the stove. Her brown hair, which she usually let fall loosely around her shoulders, was pinned up so that it formed a neat bun. She wore her usual dress and apron but her shoulders seemed a little higher and her back straighten She left off her stirring and poured coffee and hot milk into a large bowl and set it before Charging Elk. He glanced up at her almost without recognition. He had his mind on another thing.
“Again I ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage, Monsieur Gazier,” he said, as though he were simply carrying on the conversation they had had in the orchard. He was looking at his own hands, which were folded together and resting on the oilcloth covering the table.
Vincent toyed with his spoon for a moment, tapping it against the table. Then he glanced toward his daughter, who had quit stirring the porridge and stood erect but motionless. There was much about her, now that she was filling out, that reminded him of Lucienne. Even the way she wore her hair in a loose bun today
“And what does my daughter say to this?” he said to her back.
Nathalie didn’t turn around right away. With her apron she moved the steaming pot of porridge to a cooler place on the stove. She wiped her hands, a practiced but unnecessary gesture. Only then did she turn, but instead of facing her father she looked toward Charging Elk.
“I would be very happy to become his wife,” she said. Her voice sounded weak to her, unused, but she added, “We are in love.”
Vincent frowned. “So you two have discussed this—without telling me?”
For a moment neither of them answered. Perhaps they were deciding how much to tell him. Perhaps they were both remembering last night. Finally Charging Elk said, “Yes. Nathalie has agreed to become my wife. With your permission, monsieur.”
“We love each other, father. We will be happy together.”
“And if this marriage were to take place, would you move with him to Marseille?” But Vincent didn’t wait for an answer. He stood stiffly and walked around the table and out the door, closing it behind him.
At any other time, Vincent would have marveled at such a beautiful morning. A thin fog hung in the courtyard, golden beneath the rising sun. Soon the fog would burn off and the sky would become the clean blue of a rare late-December day when the earth would warm just enough to remind him that the orchards were only sleeping, that in three months’ time the tiny buds would begin to appear on the plum trees and the growing season would begin again, just as it had for the many generations that the Gaziers had owned this land. At any other time, Vincent would have given thanks to the Lord for allowing his family to enjoy the bounty of such a paradise. And Vincent would have considered himself a very lucky man on such a rare day.
But in truth, he was a dispirited man and had been so for the past several months. Perhaps he could have gotten over Lucienne’s death. He had watched it coming for a long time, and when it came, in spite of his grief, he had felt relieved and almost was able to think of a new life for his daughter. He knew that eventually she would marry and go off to start her own family. But he could have lived with that, as long as she was happy. And who knew—perhaps her husband would end up working alongside Vincent in the orchards. Then they would all be together. He had always dreamed of grandchildren playing in this very courtyard. In his best moments, he thought that life could be tolerable again for him. Even without Lucienne.
But Vincent s own health had taken a turn for the worse. His leg ached constantly now, no longer a matter of mere annoyance, and was actually growing thinner, weaker. He knew that even if Charging Elk managed to complete the pruning by himself, his leg would not allow him to endure the rigors of the growing and harvesting seasons—and of taking care of the pigs and geese and doing the dozens of other chores around the farm. Even if Nathalie decided to stay with him, if they could somehow stay on the farm, she would become a slave to the garden, to the orchards, to a life of constant labor. He had seen it happen before—young women who became little more than beasts of burden, who became bitter and resentful, old before their time, and finally as unresponsive as the dumb oxen who pulled the millstones in circles.
No, he couldn’t allow this to happen to his daughter. But to marry a savage! What would Lucienne think of such an ungodly union? Where was God in all this?
Later that day, Vincent composed a letter to Madame Loiseau. His hand was slow and deliberate but the words and letters were very readable, thanks to his mother, who had taught in a country school only a few kilometers to the south before she had married his father. Even as he wrote the words that he hoped would put an end to this insanity, he regretted never having insisted that Nathalie learn to read and write. Although she had gone to school for three years, she had been an indifferent pupil whose only concern seemed to be measuring up to her friends, and when her schooling had ended, so too ended any desire to read and write. She had been content to learn the skills of the house and farm with the idea that such skills would serve her better as a farm wife. What good is it to learn to read and write when I have nothing to read and nobody to write to, she would say to his entreaties.
As Vincent folded up the letter, he felt a stabbing ache in his leg from having sat in one position too long. And when he stood, he couldn’t feel any sensation in his foot. My God, he thought, it gets worse by the day now. He hadn’t been to a doctor for many years, at least twenty, since the time he almost lost a finger splitting kindling. He had been embarrassed then at such a stupid accident, but this was serious. He sat down again and massaged the leg with both hands. Even as he felt the burden of his miseries seemingly mount by the hour, he tucked the folded letter into a cubbyhole of the writing desk, then closed the top. He suddenly was frightened for himself and for Nathalie. Dear, sweet Lucienne, what should I do?
Nothing more was said of the proposed marriage that day or the next. Vincent ate his breakfast in near silence, and at dinnertime, he retired early, even though Nathalie would light the fire in the parlor. He spent the days either inside or wandering among the buildings of the farm, rearranging tack, cleaning the goose pen, although that was Nathalie’s job, or just standing in the horse shed, not really knowing why he was there.
Charging Elk spent the days pruning in the orchards. He had not pushed Vincent again because he sensed that the man was thinking, that he was not just ignoring the proposal. And so he pruned the trees, sometimes with a great burst of joy at what might be, other times with a numbing despondency at what would probably happen. In the evening, he and Nathalie would sit in the parlor and watch the fire and look at the crèche. They sat apart from each other, glancing at each other from time to time in an almost searching way, then he would swallow the last of his eau-de-vie, say his good night, and go to his room.
On the eve of Noël, Charging Elk hitched the horses to the wagon. He had not wanted to go to the wasichu church again but Vincent had insisted. This puzzled Charging Elk; nevertheless, he waited outside in the cold night air for Vincent and Nathalie.
Vincent sat between them during the service. Charging Elk was pleasantly overcome by the holy smoke and the songs of the priest and the choir, but he noticed that Vincent slumped when he knelt, half sitting against t
he bench, his forehead resting on his folded hands.
When Vincent slumped like this, Charging Elk had a clear view of Nathalie out of the corner of his eye. He had never seen a more beautiful woman, and in her finest dress and felt hat with a netting that half-hid her face, she was truly a woman. But even as he was thrilled at the sight of her, he almost felt that he didn’t know this young woman, that she might have been a stranger that he admired from afar. And he suddenly felt unworthy—a savage that didn’t deserve such beauty. Although he knew that this was not a holy place for him, he closed his eyes, breathed in the smoke which reminded him of burning sweetgrass, and asked Wakan Tanka for kindness and pity just this once.
After a late dinner of fish soup, a dish that Lucienne had always prepared on the eve of Noël, Nathalie cleared the table while the men sat and talked of the pruning. Nathalie listened with a feeling of annoyance and disbelief that such a mundane subject should occupy the two men. She had prepared the soup that afternoon, almost without thinking because her mind was on so many things—this was the first Noël without her mother, the first with Charging Elk, the last on the farm, and perhaps the last with her-father.
She had made up her mind to run away with Charging Elk rather than go to Bordeaux. She didn’t know how they would get to Marseille, what they would do for money, and the thought of such a far, strange city filled with a different kind of people frightened her. But since the night he had opened up his coat for her she had come to feel that he would protect her no matter what they did, no matter where their fortunes took them.
Vincent insisted that she bring an extra glass when she brought the eau-de-vie, and she felt her heart leap. It could only mean one thing. But when they lifted their glasses, he said, “To your dear mother and my dear wife, may she be in heaven where all earthly woes are forgotten. Adieu, dear one.”
Nathalie sipped and felt the liquor sear her throat. But the flush in her cheeks came not from liquor but from the guilt and anger she suddenly felt. Her disappointment in the toast seemed monstrous to her—her mother had been dead for only a few months—yet real enough. But it was unfair that her father did not consider her happiness. She was young and alive. She deserved to be happy with the man of her choice. She felt a welling behind her eyes and looked away, but not before a tear ran down her cheek.
“There now, my daughter, it is not so bad. I’m sure she looks down upon us this holy night and gives her consent to the toast I now propose. She was a wise and generous woman, your mother. And I have talked to her often these past few days.” With that he raised his glass again. “To you and Charging Elk—may you be happy together.” As he swallowed the drink, he thought, And may God and my dear wife forgive me.
Three weeks later, Nathalie and Charging Elk were married in a civil ceremony at the Hotel de Ville in Agen. It was a simple proceeding and took less than fifteen minutes. Vincent’s younger brother stood up for Charging Elk and his wife stood beside Nathalie.
Charging Elk’s pardon, which declared his rights and duties as a citizen of the Republic of France, served as his official papers. And so, by quirk of fate, he finally acquired his citizenship, as well as a bride.
But his bride’s happiness was mitigated by a crushing disappointment that she could not be married in the church. Vincent would not allow it, and even if he had, the priest would not have. Charging Elk was an unbaptized heathen in the eyes of the church, Vincent had explained. And so Nathalie had found herself in a quandary—wait for the long conversion process, even if he did want to convert, and he had been unresponsive to the idea, a reaction that she found strange; or forgo her dream of a real wedding, with a new white wedding dress and beaming family and a celebration afterward. Since she was a little girl she had always envisioned a real wedding where all the people loved her. In her daydreams she was a shy, humble bride but the people nevertheless remarked on her beauty. And her new groom, whoever he might be, gazed upon her with pure adoration, dumbstruck by his good fortune.
Perhaps even more than such worldly approval, Nathalie wanted the blessings of the priest, therefore of God, with the Virgin and Jesus and all the saints smiling in acquiescence. Only then would she feel truly wed. And forgiven for her wickedness in fornicating with the man now standing beside her.
But here she was, in a cold, high-ceilinged chamber, with a tall, balding man in an ill-fitting suit reciting the marriage contract in the most perfunctory way. Even her dress, which her mother had made a year and a half ago and which was already tight in the hips and bust, was not white or even lacy. Because of the season, her bouquet was a spray of dried flowers that Vincent had bought in a kiosk in the central place. And instead of a large audience of family and friends only her aunt and uncle and father were present.
When the man pronounced them man and wife, Nathalie and Charging Elk kissed for the first time in public. She kept her lips pressed tight, for she was afraid he would try to put his tongue in her mouth. But he didn’t. He was as shy and awkward as she.
Vincent had destroyed the hateful letter he had written to Madame Loiseau some weeks ago and had written another telling her of Charging Elk’s imminent arrival in Marseille. Almost as an afterthought, he mentioned that his daughter, Nathalie, who was engaged to become Madame Charging Elk, would accompany him and therefore they would probably need larger living quarters. He had received a reply from Madame Loiseau: “You can’t imagine how surprised and pleased we all are here at the Relief Society. Surely his marriage to your chaste daughter will do much to ensure Charging Elk’s future happiness. You must be very proud.” She asked him to wire her when the newlyweds were ready to leave so that someone could meet them at the Gare St-Charles.
Now Vincent stood beside Nathalie and watched Charging Elk unload their possessions from the wagon. Nathalie had a steamer trunk, a smaller case, and a cloth valise. Charging Elk had the duffel bag and valise he had come with ten months ago. Vincent had presented him with a small leather pouch containing 250 francs, just about the sum that Madame Loiseau had sent for Charging Elk’s keep. He had earned that much and more, but it was all Vincent could afford.
He had been worried sick ever since the evening he had given the two lovers his blessing. But now, seeing them walking together, Charging Elk wheeling a cart with their worldly goods, he suddenly saw them as they really were. True, Vincent had grown used to seeing them together the past few weeks, but still they made a handsome, even striking, couple. Nathalie even seemed taller, more dignified, more a woman. Since Lucienne’s death, he had worried about his daughters future. But now he felt an unfamiliar trust deep inside and he knew that Charging Elk would treat her well. And instead of the quiet but burning resentment he had felt toward the Indian for taking his daughter from him, he experienced a strange new pride in trailing after the couple and he tried to ignore his bad leg and walk with as much dignity as they possessed.
But an hour later, when he drove the team into the barnyard, he looked around and saw how shabby the buildings were. Several tiles were broken or missing on the roof of the horse shed. The pigpen was a ramshackle affair of old branches and woven wire. Even the main house had three or four patches where the dirty white stucco had fallen out, exposing the red brick structure. Vincent had noticed these defects before, but always one at a time—a casual glance in passing at things that needed repair when he had time. Now he saw the entirety of the compound, and the sight depressed him. Even the trees on the hillside above, although neatly pruned, were old and would need replacing over the next few years, a section at a time.
Vincent now saw the farm with the perfect clarity of a man truly alone. It was hard to believe just now that he had had a happy life here, with a loving wife and a lively, lovely daughter. Now they were both gone. And soon he would be gone too. But the farm would remain in the family. His brother, Raymond, had promised to pay him 750 francs after every harvest season, but Vincent knew that he would never be able to do it. He had too many mouths to feed.
He climbe
d down from the wagon and unhitched the horses. He took them up to the spring on the hillside behind the house. As he watched them drink, he tried to imagine Nathalie and Charging Elk in their coach. They would probably be eating their lunch by now, looking out the window at the Garonne or the bare grape vines that ran so perfectly up the hillsides. They would probably be holding hands, perhaps a little frightened at their new adventure—at least Nathalie would be. Vincent listened to the old black horse shudder and he patted its shoulder and he was grateful for the warmth of the beast.
Later, he sat at the table in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee, listening for a footstep overhead, for the clank of pots on the stove, for the rasp of a pruning saw being filed in the toolshed, but he heard nothing. He had not dreamed that silence could be so complete in this world of his. He cleared his throat. Then he struck a match and lit a cigar and looked at the strange belt on the table. He ran his fingers over the tight, nubbly texture of the designs. He would miss Charging Elk. But he would ache in his heart for his daughter. She was all he had left and now she was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Charging Elk stood on the corner of Rue d’Aubagne and looked up the narrow cobblestone street toward the place, the square where three alleys came together, where all the market activity was going on. Women passed him on either side, singly, purposefully, some coming away from the market with spring vegetables and cheeses and fish or cuts of meat, others hurrying toward the market with empty baskets and coin purses. The only men seemed to be the sellers and a few old-timers who walked stiffly beside their wives.
He was surprised how small the market was. He had remembered it as huge, full of hundreds of people and dozens of stalls. He had remembered many men in suits, wandering among the women, looking them up and down or admiring the fish in René s stall. He had remembered the smell of tobacco mixed in with the earthy odor of produce and the pungent smell of aged cheese. The one thing that proved true to his memory was the street cries of the mongers, the loud shouts, the mocking, the teasing, the occasional angry voice rising above the rest.