by James Welch
Charging Elk had been watching two men put up a poster along a wall beside the tobacco shop as he walked along. The wall had the remnants of many posters, some of them still readable, others faded or partially peeled away The men stood on a platform and with long-handled brushes smoothed the wet poster into place. Charging Elk had often looked at the posters on his way home from work, and although he couldn’t read the words, he could tell the subject of most—bicycle races, circuses, theater events. The posters changed often, sometimes between the time he went to work and the time he came home.
Now he was close enough to the tobacco shop to see the sign in detail as the men smoothed the last corners into place. And he stopped. He didn’t believe what he was seeing. The last thing he ever expected to see again was the image of Buffalo Bill, with his white hat and goatee, surrounded by smaller images of cowboys, soldiers—and Indians. He walked slowly, hesitantly, closer, until he was just a few feet away from the men, who were now taking down their scaffolding. He looked at the three Indian portraits. They seemed realistic, like real faces, but he didn’t recognize any of them. The headdresses and beaded tunics looked like they could have been Lakota. He looked at the words, but the only ones he could recognize were “Buffalo Bill,” “Indiens,” “Wild West,” and the dates: November 1—12.
Charging Elk shuddered against the bite of a cold breeze that crawled up his backbone, but there was no wind that day.
Nathalie had noticed a distance in her husband for the past several days. Even when he helped her with the dishes or brought her a cup of tea in the evening, his eyes seemed not to focus on her or on the small chore. Of course, he was obliging in his ways and even more solicitous since she had announced her pregnancy. But when he sat down at the kitchen table to work on one of his sketches, she would see him sometimes staring at the paper or the shuttered window. And when she looked again, he would be looking at his hands or his teacup.
Although this behavior worried her, Nathalie hadn’t inquired about the source of his distraction. She had problems of her own. It seemed that every morning she was sick, and when she wasn’t sick, she was hungry, But nothing seemed to satisfy her. If she ate one thing, she would crave another; then another. And she could feel her body changing, growing heavier. Sometimes she felt at peace, even exhilarated on occasion, but at other times, she felt a great dread come over her. She knew nobody in Marseille that she could call a friend. There was no one to talk to, no one to help her when the time came. Except for Dr. Ventoux, whose office was just around the corner on Place des Capucins, and Madame Robichon, the midwife he introduced her to. But both of them were too professional to take a personal interest in her and her uneasiness. She did have a passing acquaintanceship with the woman in the fabric shop, where she bought cotton cloth to sew the tiny gowns and yarn to knit caps and socks. And there was the young mother she had met on the landing just below her flat. The woman had noticed Nathalie’s stomach, and so they had a brief conversation about birth and motherhood. She invited Nathalie to tea sometime soon but she hadn’t set a time. Nathalie tramped up and down the stairs more often than was necessary, running one errand, then another, on the chance that she might “run into” the young mother. She was tired of being alone all day. She wanted a friend.
But more than anything she missed her mother. She needed her now in a way that she never had. She needed someone to trust. How does one have a child? How does one raise it? On some days, when Charging Elk was at work, Nathalie would imagine conversations with her mother. She would imagine her mother there in the flat in Marseille, fluffing pillows, cooking a big pot of soup, dusting the sparse furnishings, sitting beside her daughter with her knitting —“There, there, babies happen all the time, nothing to worry about, you have good hips, Nathalie, easy as falling off a wagon.” Nathalie took great comfort in these snippets of conversation, but when the daydream ended, she was alone, in a small flat, in a city far from Agen, and her mother couldn’t help her.
Charging Elk knew none of this, and he was always surprised when she would run to him when he walked in the door and hug him tightly before he even got his coat and cap off. He would hold her, feeling her round belly against his lower abdomen, and kiss her on top of the head, smelling the clean scent of her. He would hold her, stroke her hair, whisper in her ear, but even then his mind would drift away.
Charging Elk told Nathalie about the return of the Wild West show two nights before it was to open at Rond Point du Prado. She became excited and wanted to know all about it.
“Will there be Indians?”
“Yes.”
“Like you?”
“Yes.”
“And Buffalo Bill—he is a big man?”
“Very big man.”
“Will the Indians kill a bison?”
“Not really. They will only pretend.” But he wondered if there were any buffalo left. He thought of Bird Tail’s dream of the buffalo entering the cave in Paha Sapa. He had never heard of the buffalo returning. All he ever heard about America—well, he heard almost nothing. Because he couldn’t read, he didn’t know what the journals said about his homeland. Sometimes he unloaded ships from America. Sometimes he heard his fellow workers curse America for being greedy and arrogant. President Roosevelt had attacked the small country of Cuba for no reason. Now they were in the Philippines. The rabblerousers among the dockworkers often talked of refusing to unload American goods. Charging Elk didn’t understand their anger and didn’t know enough about America to come to its defense—even if he wanted to.
But now he would have his chance. He would be able to talk with the Lakotas in the Wild West show. He would see how it was in Dakota. He would learn how his parents were, how all of the Lakota people were. If they were still there. He hadn’t forgotten his dream and the strange voice above the roaring wind: You are my only son. He had tried to put the voice out of his mind, and had succeeded for the most part in the winters he was in La Tombe. But during his several moons with the Gaziers, when he contemplated his freedom and the possibility of going home, the voice had come back, on rare and unexpected occasions—when he was picking plums or working on the horsehair belt—sometimes accompanied by the terrible vision of the broken bodies lying on the rocks below the cliff. And he would remember trying to join them and the terrifying hopelessness as the wind with the roaring voice pushed him back from the cliff time after time, until he lay in the grass and wept with frustration.
But the dream, as terrifying as it still was, was not the reason Charging Elk had become so distant from Nathalie, from his fellow workers, from this world. He was tormented inside, as though some animal were clawing at his guts. And the almost physical pain came because he was certain that he could have the one thing that he had wanted so desperately over the past sixteen years—and he didn’t want to want it so much now.
On the Saturday evening that they were to go to the Wild West show, Nathalie had become ill. She had been feverish and tired all day, a condition that she thought was due to her advanced pregnancy—she was less than six weeks away and she often felt heavy and run-down. Just before supper she threw up, but when she sat down at the table, she looked a little better and actually ate some of the fish soup and a crust of bread. Charging Elk urged her to drink a glass of wine to settle her stomach, but when she touched the glass to her lips her eyes grew wide and she hurried into the bathroom. He listened to her retching and coughing and decided that they could not possibly go the performance. In one way he was disappointed almost to the point of dismay; in another way, he felt a great weight being lifted from his shoulders. And he couldn’t tell which feeling was the stronger.
When Nathalie came back, he was startled and concerned by how pale and fragile she looked. Her dark hair, which she had pinned up so carefully was coming loose and her eyes were flat and wet.
“You must come to bed,” he said, holding her hand and leading her into the small bedroom. “You must rest. The show will wait.”
“But tomorr
ow is the last day, my husband. If I am ill tomorrow, I will spoil everything for you.”
“It is of no concern to me.” He sat her on the edge of the bed and knelt to unlace her shoes. He helped her out of her good dress and into her flannel nightgown. Then he tucked her in bed and spread an extra quilt over her.
Nathalie had been quiet during these preparations, but now she said, “You must go, Charging Elk. I know how much you have been looking forward to this.” She managed a weak smile. “Ill be all right. I swear.”
Charging Elk sat on the bed and looked down at her. He remembered the time in the garden she had called him by his name, how she had said it in a way that sent a warmth into his heart. He remembered the morning sun and the fine earth, the musky smell of the spent tomato plants. And he remembered saying what was in his heart, and he said it again: “You make me feel good.”
She smiled again and reached for his hand. She caressed the back of it with her thumb, her eyes focused on his carefully knotted tie. “You are very handsome this evening, my love.” The smile faded and she was silent for a long moment. Then she looked into his eyes, her own eyes suddenly bright and intense. “I have seen how sometimes lately you stare off into the distance, as though you are seeing something that is not here, not now. It has troubled me because I think sometimes that you are not with me in such a momentous time. I do not want to feel alone. ...” Her eyes grew wet and she wiped them with the sleeve of her nightgown. Then she laughed. “It is foolish, I know. ...”
Charging Elk kissed her on the forehead. “I am here,” he said. “Now you must rest, Nathalie. I will be here when you wake up.” He stood and began to loosen his tie.
“No, please. This is important to you. They are your people. Please. I want you to go.”
Charging Elk looked down at her. She smiled. “I will be here when you get back. I will feel better. I promise.”
“I won’t stay long,” he said, cinching the knot again. “Just for the show.”
“You must stay as long as you like. Promise me.”
“Okay,” he said. “But I won’t stay long.”
Charging Elk walked through Place des Capucins on his way to Rue de Rome. The square was filled with Saturday-night shoppers and diners, young people talking and laughing behind the glass of cafés. Although it was cold enough to see his breath, he felt a kind of exuberance that he recognized from the old days in Marseille. Saturday nights in La Tombe were just like any other night, just a quiet conversation with Causeret, perhaps a bit more melancholy as they reminisced about the good times on the outside. At the Gaziers’ farm, he might stay an extra hour after dinner, have another eau-de-vie, one of Vincent’s cigars. Nothing special.
But Marseille! How many Saturday nights had he walked these streets in his fine clothes, sat in cafés, visited Marie? For two years he had felt a sense of freedom that he hadn’t known since his years at the Stronghold. But even the Stronghold was not exciting, only the things he and Strikes Plenty did when he was there. And now he thought of all those winter evenings he and his friend had sat in their lodge, nowhere to go and nothing to do. Charging Elk quickened his stride as he thought of the show and the possibility of seeing old friends. Surely he wouldn’t know anybody anymore, not after sixteen years. But who knew? Maybe Broncho Billy would still be with the show.
Charging Elk boarded the trolley car on Rue de Rome. It was filled to overflowing with people—families, friends, lovers—all on their way to Rond Point du Prado. As he squeezed in between two men on the lower step, he thought briefly of Nathalie and a wave of guilt washed over him. Usually the trolley cars were quiet—all one heard was the crackling of the wires overhead and the flat clanging of the bell as the passengers ignored each other and rode silently, staring out the window or straight ahead—but tonight there was the sound of many voices, much shouting and laughter, as the crowd anticipated the thrills of the Wild West show. Charging Elk himself quickly overcame his guilt as the trolley started with a slight jerk, then lumbered along the smooth rails in the street. He remembered the first time he and Nathalie had dared to board one of these trolleys, the mixture of fear and excitement as they climbed aboard. And when the trolley started, they held each other’s hand like children, listening to the frightful crackle of electricity above them, marveling at the ability of the car to move all by itself without the big engine. That had been ten or eleven moons ago but he still felt the wonder at such a miracle. And tonight he might find another miracle. He smiled at a man who was looking up at him, almost as though he recognized Charging Elk. But the man may have noticed the long hair flowing from beneath the wool cap, the slanting eyes and prominent cheekbones. There were now posters all over town.
Charging Elk was almost overcome by the familiarity of the scene around him: the large dirt arena surrounded by bleachers under the white peaked awnings that always looked to him from a distance like a snowy mountain range; the scenery painted on the canvas backdrop that spanned the entirety of the back of the arena; the many spotlights on the poles that lit up the whole area like daylight; and the distant hum of the portable generators. Even the settlers’ cabin in the far corner looked exactly like the one when he had been in the show. And the tipi, with its drymeat racks and the small fire burning in front of it, in the other corner! An Indian woman with a baby on her back was stirring something in a pot hanging from a tripod over the fire. Suddenly his mind raced back to those days when he was a small child, an Oglala with Crazy Horse’s band, living out on the buffalo ranges when times were good. Living with his mother and father and his sister and brother. Living with his people in a village of such tipis. Playing with his friends, eating real meat, listening to the stories of the elders. The lights on the poles began to twinkle, and when he looked at them he saw indistinct silver rays in all directions and he realized that his eyes were filled with tears.
Then he heard the music he had heard hundreds of times before, and a section of the backdrop swung open and the Cowboy Band came out on their white horses, playing their instruments, their horses obediently marching in formation until they reached the far side of the backdrop. That music, announcing the grand entry, had always filled his heart with excitement.
And he recognized the high notes of a bugle over the music, an urgent call, and suddenly a rider on a large white horse galloped into the arena, circled it at full speed, then came to a stop before the center of the grandstand. The horse bowed and the rider took off his hat and held it in the air. Charging Elk felt his throat tighten as he looked at the familiar figure of Pahuska, the long hair, now snow-white and thinning on top, the white goatee and mustache, the fringed and beaded buckskin tunic, the thigh boots. The face, once so chiseled and noble, was now gaunt and lined, but Pahuska held his head high as he trotted back and forth before the shouting, clapping audience.
Then the music changed to a sort of drumming beat, the horns imitating a Lakota song that Charging Elk knew well. And the gate swung open again and a file of Indians on horseback fanned out against the backdrop, in three rows, then moved forward in unison. Many of them wore headdresses spread out over the horses’ rumps; some carried lances and feathered coupsticks, others guns and bows. Some of the young men, in spite of the chill, were shirtless, wearing only leggings, feathers in their hair, face paint, and brass bands around their biceps.
Charging Elk almost became sick with the familiarity of the moment. It was a sight he thought he would never see again, and he almost saw himself among the young men. How many times had he ridden in the grand entry in just their place? He knew the pride the young men felt as they trotted forward, faces immobile, but excited to be performing before the large audience. He also knew they would be looking for attractive women in the crowd, so they could focus their performance on them even though they would never acknowledge them. And he could almost feel the warm bodies of the ponies between their legs.
Then another thought came to him, a thought which surprised him because it hadn’t come to him until
just this moment: It was exactly sixteen winters ago, less a moon, that he had become ill and fallen from his horse in this very arena. That simple, lone accident had changed his life forever.
Charging Elk slumped back in stunned silence as he watched the other riders—the cowboys, the soldiers, the vaqueros, and other men in uniforms he didn’t recognize—form up to join the Indians and Buffalo Bill. Then he watched two riders, an Indian and a soldier, circle the arena around the assembled entourage with just enough pace so that the American and French flags snapped out fully over their heads. Finally they came to a halt on either side of Buffalo Bill. All of the people around him stood, and so he stood. He laced his hand over his heart but he barely heard the Cowboy Band play the anthems of the two countries.
The Indian acts were familiar to Charging Elk—the attack on the settlers’ cabin, the attempted attack on the Pony Express rider, the chasing of the Deadwood stage, the hunting of the buffalo, and finally the killing of Custer and his men. Only the last act was new to Charging Elk—Pahuska played a scout for the army and ended up going into a patch of fake trees and brush, where he was ambushed by an Indian. After hand-to-hand combat, Buffalo Bill drew his knife and ran it through the Indian’s heart. Then he knelt over the prone Indian, and after much busywork in the bushes, held up the bloody scalp of the Indian. The announcer said, in French, “The first scalp for Custer!” And the audience cheered and stamped their feet, a rhythmic drumming that shook the stands. Charging Elk remembered the real fight with Custer on the Greasy Grass, the terror that ran through the village as the soldiers attacked. He had been a boy of ten winters then and had hidden with his mother and brother and sister in the cottonwoods along the creek, listening to the popping of the rifles and watching the big cloud of dust kicked up by the hundreds of horses drift over the village. Even now he could see that cloud of dust that blotted out the sun.