Toward That Which is Beautiful

by Marian O'Shea Wernicke

  He looks hopefully at Vargas, who nods no without a word. Carefully, the lieutenant pours the orange soda into a glass and places it before Kate; then he pours one for himself and sips delicately, deliberately. He nods at Kate to drink; when she tastes the sweetness of the childish orange drink she feels unexpected tears. What is she doing here? Vargas looks at her and then away. Has he seen the sudden weakness his small kind act had aroused? As if reading her mind, he changes the tone of the interrogation.

  Vargas gets up and walks around the room. “I would like to ask you something that I have often wondered about when I see the American priests and nuns and even Peace Corps workers coming to our country. Why are you here? Aren’t there problems in your own country? Last year your president was assassinated, and everyday I read in El Comercio of the growing tensions between the blacks and whites in America. There are riots in your cities, no?”

  Stalling for time, Kate takes a gulp of soda. How can she answer his question? It was one she’d asked herself hundreds of times since she had come to Peru. She decides to be frank with her inquisitor. “Yes, there are many serious problems in my country. Before I came to Peru I was teaching in a school in a poor area of St. Louis. The school had just combined two segregated schools into one. You understand that in America, until very recently, white children and black children did not go to the same schools?” She’s chattering, she knows, hoping to distract him, to win him.

  He nods.

  “The black children and parents were unhappy that their school had been closed, and the whites felt the same. Everyday there were fights, lots of name calling, and almost unbearable tension. Many days I would go into the bathroom and cry, where the students couldn’t see me, because I got so tired of all the hatred.” She looks up to see him watching her closely. His glass is untouched on the desk, a white stain spreading on the wood beneath it from the moisture.

  She hesitates, thinking what to say next, wishing her Spanish were better. “Little by little my students began to listen to each other. I made them read a book called Black Boy by Richard Wright.”

  Vargas says nothing, his eyes flat.

  “It tells the story of a young black boy growing up in the South. At first the students hated reading it, but then they began arguing about it, shouting at each other, writing about their feelings when they read it. A slow change came over the classroom during the year. For the first time the white children began to see how it would feel to be a black child in America. And the black students saw white children really listening to them and trying to understand what they were saying.” Breathless now from the effort of the Spanish, Kate admits in a weak voice, “It was a very small change.”

  Vargas gets up from his chair and paces around the room. “But you still haven’t answered my question: Why have you come here? You must see that your presence here seems patronizing to us. Peru has a very old and very complicated civilization and history. Missionaries have been coming here since the time of the Inca Conquest.”

  Kate winces, expecting another attack.

  Vargas continues without looking at her, walking back and forth like a college professor giving a lecture. “Have you read anything by José Mariátegui?” he asks suddenly. When Kate shakes her head no, he goes over to a bookshelf and pulls out a slim volume. “He has a wonderful essay in here on the Catholic Church’s genius in adapting itself to the customs and beliefs of the people it tries to convert. He gives credit to the early missionaries of Peru who brought not only dogma but seeds, vines, tools.” Changing the subject, the lieutenant looks at her directly. “What did you study in school? Theology?”

  “Well, yes, but my major field was British and American literature.”

  “Ah, Wordsworth, Keats. Do you like Faulkner?”

  “No, not really.”

  “To me he is the greatest American novelist. You should read him if you want a picture of a decaying, crumbling feudal society.” Vargas smiles, a half-embarrassed look flitting across his face. “I am sorry. I do not often have the chance to speak of these things.”

  He sits down across from her. His voice is urgent, low. “I am an incarnation of my country. My father was a campesino, a peasant who worked on a great hacienda near Arequipa. My mother was the daughter of the owner. They had known each other since childhood. They fell in love, and when I was born my father was whipped within an inch of his life and sent packing with his wounds untended. My mother never saw him again. She ran away and disappeared into Lima, where she worked as a seamstress in Rimac. She educated me in good schools, but for years I never knew the story of my birth. She is dead now, and I despise the system and the class that has made me a divided man. Peru must change, and I will do whatever it takes to bring about this change.” His face has a hard, steely set as he looks across the table at Kate. “But we ourselves will bring about this change.”

  Kate says nothing. Everything he has said echoes the doubts she has begun to feel about what she and the other nuns and priests were doing here in Peru. He stares down at the notes he had taken when she had told him about her journey. “Now I’m going to have to get on the radio and place a call to Juliaca. I must verify your story.”

  “Please.” Kate’s voice is hoarse. “I really want to get to Lima before nightfall.”

  Avoiding her eyes, the lieutenant stands up, makes a slight stiff bow, and leaves the room. In a few minutes, she hears the squawking of the radio and some rapid two-way Spanish. After ten minutes Vargas stands in the doorway. “The Guardia in Juliaca have sent a messenger to the Maryknoll priests there. They will be calling here in a few minutes. You may speak with them after I do.”

  Helplessly, Kate searches for something she can say. She has been foolish and thoughtless. She has run away blindly as an animal would, to avoid pain. Now she can hear Vargas talking to the pastor, Father Jack Higgins. Although the priest has a deep and simple faith, a boundless enthusiasm for the work, the pastor also has the dirtiest mouth of any priest she has ever known. Sister Josepha had tried to reassure her that this was simply his way of getting rid of tension, but Kate still flinched at the onslaught of his language. He will be furious now.

  After several minutes of polite, carefully phrased inquiries on both sides, Lt. Vargas motions for Kate to sit in front of the radio and speak to the pastor. The voice of Father Jack Higgins sputters in the small room:

  “God dammit, sister Mary Katherine, what in the . . . frigging hell are you doing?” He is making an effort to control himself, she knows, since he is on the public airwaves.

  Kate holds the microphone close to her mouth, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m really sorry, Father, I just had to get away. I’m fine, really I am. Don’t worry.”

  “How in the hell did you get that far? Josepha says she doesn’t think you have any money. Over.”

  The stilted radio conversation is frustrating, especially with Vargas and his sergeant sitting there. She doesn’t know how much English they understand. “Oh, it’s a long story. Tell the sisters I’m fine. I’m going to Lima and I’ll write them as soon as I get there. I’m sorry for all the trouble. Over.”

  “Trouble! That’s an understatement, missy. Tom’s been out in the jeep all night scouring the countryside for one small baby nun who doesn’t know her ass from a hole in the ground. Jesus Christ, Kate, I’m about ready to fire off a letter to your Mother Superior telling her to recall you immediately.”

  Kate glances at Vargas. Was that a ghost of a grin? Oh Lord, let him not understand English.

  “Yes, Father, I understand perfectly. Over.” Kate hopes her docile tone will mollify him. She hands the microphone back to Vargas who soon signs off with a curt expression of reassurance about her safety.

  He looks at her somberly for a few moments. “I’m going to warn you, Sister, that what you are doing, traveling alone like this, is very dangerous. You have no identification; not every guardia is interested in an intellectual debate with a young, blue-eyed American nun. Do you under
stand me?”

  Kate flushes at his implication and catches, too, the note of restrained gallantry. He is not joking, she knows. Her naiveté, she feels, only gives him further proof of her presumption in thinking that she is helping his people.

  He looks at his watch. “The night bus leaves for Nazca and Lima at 7:00 p.m. The sergeant will take you to the station up the road and wait with you there until it arrives. Then you are on your own.”

  Kate stands to thank him and holds out her hand to shake his when he grasps it suddenly and brings it just beneath his lips; then, with a quick, ceremonial bow over it, he abruptly releases her hand.

  “I’m very grateful for your kindness, Lieutenant. Muy agredicida. I will think about what you said.”

  Kate turns away and climbs into the jeep. When she looks back, Vargas is watching her from the door of the small police station, fondling absently the ears of a black dog that has sidled up to him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Without a word, the sergeant drives Kate to the bus station in Vitor. He parks the jeep, and, with a grunt, heaves himself out of the seat. It is dusk now, and the town’s few lights blink forlornly in a bar and one store lining the main street. Kate follows him across the street where, from an open door, the plaintive music of the mountains mingles with the hectic music of the coast. It must be Saturday night, she thinks, as she watches small bunches of drunken men lurch down the street, their arms around one another, their voices loud and slurred. She sees few women.

  With a slight nod of his head the sergeant indicates the bus station; then he swaggers across the street to the bar.

  Alone again, Kate feels dizzy. She’s had nothing to eat since breakfast. She grips the jacket. The money Peter had given her would be gone as soon as she bought another ticket to Lima. Then what?

  As she enters the bus station, she sees an Aymara couple slumped against each other, fast asleep. Three young girls, carefully made up and dressed in wool skirts and bright shiny blouses, their good shoes stored carefully in mesh shopping bags at their side, sit laughing together in a corner of the cramped room. They look at Kate in surprise and stop talking, watching her as she steps up to the ticket window. She counts out the few remaining soles and then asks the tired-looking clerk where she could find a place to wash her hands and go to the bathroom.

  “Sí, sí, madrecita. Hay servicios atrás,” he motions vaguely toward the back of the building.

  Kate finds an overgrown garden in the back. She sees a small outhouse and, as she walks closer, she hears a steady stream of urine, as if from a horse, splashing into a hole. The door slams, and a slight, dark man with a cane lurches past her in silence. Kate holds her breath as she enters the falling down shed. In the solid blackness the stench is unbearable; Kate gropes her way to the wooden hole, holding the skirts of her habit out of the unseen muck.

  She closes her eyes, trying not to breathe. For a moment she thinks she will faint. There is no water to wash with and, of course, no toilet paper. Well, what did you expect? This is the way the poor live. You thought your life was austere when you entered the convent and took a vow of poverty, but now you are beginning to see what real poverty is. The jeering voices of Peter and the sergeant mingle in her mind. Reaching into the deep pocket of her habit, she finds her handkerchief. She tears it in half and carefully puts one part back in her pocket, thinking she might need it later. Using the other half to wipe herself, she then peers at the white cloth to see if her period has started. Please, God, no, not that. She throws the scrap of cloth into the dark hole beneath her. She hurries out, and in the garden breathes in the cold night air. The moon is rising over the tops of the few eucalyptus trees, coating everything with silver. She stops for a moment, lifting her face to the beauty of the night.

  Hearing a truck backfire in the street, Kate panics and runs. She cannot miss the bus. When she sees that no one in the station has moved, she crosses the street and enters the only open store. The woman behind the counter is startled; Kate realizes she must look like a grimy, bedraggled ghost in the harsh light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling.

  “Por favor, señora, do you have a place where I might wash my hands? I have been traveling all day.”

  “Oh, madrecita, of course. You can come into my little room here in the back.” The woman is kind, and leads Kate into a small room with three beds pushed together in one corner. In the gloom, Kate can see three or perhaps four pairs of eyes staring out at her from under the covers. “You should all be asleep by now,” the woman whispers as she leads Kate to a small sink in the corner; she hands her a clean white towel, embroidered with tiny blue cornflowers. Kate examines this salute to beauty, and feels her eyes fill. She is dangerously close to hysteria. Pushing back her veil and headdress, she splashes cold water on her face. Her scalp itches under her veil, and she smells of sweat. She rolls up her sleeves to wash her arms, and gratefully scrubs her hands in the cool running water.

  As she leaves the room she looks over at the children in the bed, their white teeth gleaming in the darkness. The woman at the counter glances at Kate as she emerges from the bedroom. Kate smiles at her. “Mil gracias, señora, that felt wonderful. Could I please have three bananas and an orange?” Looking around the shop, she feels in her pocket for the last four soles. “Also, I would like a wedge of cheese, two pancitos, and two bottles of Coca-Cola.”

  Above the racks of Coke is a faded poster of a smiling blond, blue-eyed American girl, dressed in a skirt and sweater and black-and-white saddle shoes, perched on the hood of a car with a Coke in her carefully manicured hand.

  The woman follows Kate’s eyes to the poster and begins to laugh softly. “She looks a little like you, madre, no es cierto?” She continues to laugh as she opens the bottle of Coca-Cola carefully; she wraps the rest of Kate’s purchases in clean brown paper and ties the package tightly with string. “Buen viaje, madre, have a good trip.” Kate feels her watching her as she crosses the street. She wonders if the the woman was laughing at her naivete.

  Now it is dark. Kate stands under a swinging light bulb, waiting for the bus to the city.

  Finally, the bus rolls into the station, already half full with passengers from Arequipa. As Kate climbs on, on she notices two young, fair-haired women in the second seat behind the driver snuggled fast asleep under their sleeping bags. She makes her way to the back to an empty double seat by the window.

  The town slides away as the bus pulls into the winding mountain roads that will take them down to the coast. Kate gingerly holds the open Coke. Finally she takes a long swig; the sweet warm soda tastes of America and of a summer afternoon at Sportsman’s Park. She devours the cheese and one of the rolls, then a banana, and sits back to savor each section of the orange. When she looks out the window she can see nothing except the reflection of her pale face. Although the motion of the bus seems to lull the rest of the passengers, Kate feels despair settle in like an unwelcome, talkative guest.

  How has she gotten into this mess? She is an O’Neill from St. Louis, Missouri. This wraith-like creature with a smudged face and hollow eyes staring at her from the window is no one she recognizes. Hurtling through the night to an unplanned destination, she feels loneliness seep in like fog. No one knows where she is; no one around her knows her name, her history. It is hard to conjure up images of her mother, her father, in this blackness. Even Tom’s face, so desired, has become a shadowy image, dimly seen in an old mirror. A terrifying chasm looms before her. What if she is truly alone? What if God is only a word the poor and frightened of the universe use to comfort themselves in moments of cold fear—a word repeated in vain, like the cry of a sobbing child who’s lost and can’t find her mother?

  Doubt is a stranger to Kate, and she struggles against its pull. She tries to think about Tom, of these last few months when he has somehow become the center of her universe. But now in the darkness she sees. She has fallen into idolatry. She has made him the reason for her existence. Again her thoughts race b
ack to the early days.

  The euphoria of knowing she was loved had yielded quickly to anxiety. After those first letters admitting their love for each other, the next two weeks had dragged by. Kate found herself going to the dining room early before lunch, looking for a letter with Tom’s thick scrawl on the envelope. She hated the way her stomach dropped each day when there was no letter for her on the buffet. One Sunday the three nuns sat talking together after lunch.

  “I think what this group needs is a little excursion,” said Sister Josepha, wiping her mouth neatly on the napkin while looking across the table at Jeanne Marie and Kate. The mood in the convent the past week had been somber. Sister Magdalena had left the community the week before. Moody and withdrawn for weeks, she had burst into tears one evening at supper and rushed away from the table. Later, in a tearful session, she blurted out how unhappy she was, how much she missed her family and friends. Kate watched as she shredded her delicate handkerchief in her hands, her eyes shining with relief at having at last said the truth.

  Magdalena had looked at the three American nuns pleadingly. “The thing is, I feel so guilty abandoning you. These are my people, and yet I feel as if I am on the moon. I feel so strange up here.”

  Jeanne Marie interrupted, her voice calm, matter of fact. “Now there’s nothing to feel guilty about. You gave this life a wonderful effort.”

  “When will you be going?” Kate asked.

  Sister Josepha answered for her. “Father Jack is going down to Arequipa on Thursday. She’ll go with him that far, and then her mother and father will meet her there and take her home.” Kate knew that Josepha was crushed. It was her dream to build up a small Dominican community of Peruvian nuns. There were other Dominicans in Peru, but they were the old European orders, tucked away in their houses in Lima or Arequipa.

  Magdalena, intelligent and lively, had seemed like the perfect first candidate for a new community of native Peruvian sisters. The daughter of a teacher, she had been at the University of San Marcos for two years studying philosophy. She was idealistic and passionate about her country. But Kate wondered if the nuns had done the right thing in bringing her up to the Altiplano so soon. She had been in the order for only two years; it might have been better to have left her in Lima. Learning to be a nun was hard enough in the best of circumstances. She thought of her own long years in the novitiate, yet here in the Altiplano she was still as confused and uncertain about her vocation as a homesick postulant.