By mid-morning, as the highway enters a green valley, the driver shouts: “La proxima parada, Nazca! Una hora, no más!”
Passengers begin to grumble. One man shouts, “It’s that you have a girlfriend here in town, no?” The driver grins into the rear-view mirror. Soon the passengers are gathering their packages and heading for the nearest restaurant or chichería.
When Kate steps off the bus she is startled to see the two American girls—she has forgotten all about them. As she passes them, she smiles and says hello. They look up in surprise, and the short, blond girl holds out her hand.
“Hi, Sister. I’m Diane McKenzie, Peace Corps.”
“Sister Mary Katherine. I’m with the Dominican Sisters in Juliaca.”
Diane gestures to the other girl, who stands a little to one side, looking on with a stiff half-smile. “And this is my fellow Peace Corps worker, Sheila Ford. We’re going to get a bite to eat. If you aren’t meeting someone, why don’t you join us?” Diane looks around the narrow platform in front of the bus station, which is now nearly empty of passengers.
Kate feels inordinately grateful for the breezy American friendliness of the girl. “Thanks. I’d love to join you.”
The three women cross the street and enter the Plaza de Armas. The neat, compact town bustles with tourists. Kate has read about the Nazca Lines, a series of animal figures and geometric shapes drawn across the bleak, stony Pampa de San Jose. She had wanted to see them, but has been too busy to be a tourist.
Now Kate hears German and French all around her. With expensive cameras slung over their shoulders, many of the tourists are dressed in elegant khaki, and Kate smiles at the contrast the American girls present. Diane, short and chubby, is resplendent in a yellow flowered blouse and fuchsia pedal-pushers. Espadrilles laced halfway up her legs, she walks with short swaying steps. She lifts her face to the sun, and, although her eyes are hidden behind a large pair of sequined sunglasses, she radiates cheerfulness.
So far, Sheila has said nothing. Tall and slender, she wears faded jeans and tennis shoes, and carries a poncho made of llama wool. She has a beaded choker around her neck studded with dark blue stones. When she speaks to Kate for the first time, her voice is low, assured. “We’re looking for a restaurant called La Canada, near the Hotel Montecarlo. The guys in La Paz told us about it.”
Trailing behind the two girls into the small, dimly lit restaurant, Kate is hit by a blast of fast música criolla. A few male heads go up as the three women enter. Kate imagines their confusion at seeing a nun with two young gringas. Cigarette smoke hangs in the mid-morning air.
The waiter leads them to a table near a window, where Kate sits facing Diane and Sheila. The girls quickly order two beers, then glanced quizzically at Kate.
“Una limonada,” she says softly to the waiter, thinking of her fast-dwindling soles.
As if reading her mind, Diane says briskly, “Hey, Sister, this meal’s on us. We’re in a good mood because after six months in La Paz we’re on R & R. First for a few days at a little resort in Ica, then on to Lima for some fun in the sun—we hope. So let us pay for your lunch. They’re supposed to have wonderful ceviche here.”
Kate glances hungrily at a nearby table where several businessmen are tucking their napkins under their chins, staring at great plates of rice and shrimp. “Oh, you don’t need to do that,” begins Kate, but Diane just shakes her head.
Sheila is reading the large, hand-printed menu carefully. “Why don’t we start out with Papas a la Huancaína and then have a big bowl of shrimp? It should be really fresh here.” She sips her beer, glancing coolly around the busy restaurant.
Kate nods. “Where are you two from?” Suddenly she feels lighter sitting with these two girls, who are about the age of her sister Maggie.
“I grew up in Ann Arbor, Michigan,” Diane said. “I went to Catholic schools all my life. I about died when I saw you get off the bus—you reminded me so much of my favorite teacher, Sister Marguerite!” She beams at Kate and finishes the beer, which leaves a white line of foam on her upper lip.
“What are you doing in La Paz?” Kate asks.
“I work with a group of priests and nuns up in Cristo Rey. They’re all from St. Louis.”
“Oh, I’ve been there. I’m from St. Louis, too,” Kate says, feeling uneasy. Maybe they knew Father Tom.
Diane continues. “Well, anyway, I help the nun in the infirmary giving shots. I visit families in the parish, telling them about the programs we have there. And I also teach an evening course in English at the Instituto Cultural. That’s where I met Sheila. The truth is, I don’t really have any special skills—that’s what I discovered when I came here. I wish now I were a nurse or a farmer.” A note of self-doubt has crept into her voice, but she recovers and grins. “And, of course, I came down here hoping to meet some interesting guys.”
Kate turns to Sheila. “And what about you?”
Just then their first course arrives. Kate bites into the warm potatoes covered with spicy dressing and sighs with pleasure. She realizes she hasn’t had a really good meal in three days, since that first night in Peter’s house. She eats too fast, barely savoring each bite.
After a few careful bites, Sheila puts down her fork to answer. “I’m from Boston. My mother’s a professor at Harvard, and my father’s a partner in a small law firm. Everyone expected me to apply to Harvard, but instead I went to Amherst, in the wilds of western Massachusetts.” She picks up her beer, and holds it in front of her face, her eyes narrowing. “I can’t say I loved it there. Most kids there were spoiled upper-middle-class kids just like me, but I did have some outstanding teachers. My favorite professor was a fiery woman from Peru. She opened my eyes to the reality of the class struggle in South America.”
A small dog limps over to their table. After Kate slips the mangy creature a crust of bread, it whines and slumps beneath her chair to wait for another bite. Sheila and Diane seem not to have noticed the beggar.
Sheila glances at Kate, then goes on. “I signed up for the Peace Corps the week before graduation, when all my friends were signing contracts for low-level jobs with big corporations. My parents think I’m wasting my time, although secretly I think it gives them a little cachet among their friends to have a daughter doing something so bizarre.”
When Sheila flicks back her long, straight brown hair, Kate notices the delicacy of her hands. “So are you working with Diane?”
“Right now I’m teaching English at the Instituto with Diane. That’s about all we liberal arts people are good for.”
“But she’s also keeping a journal,” interrupts Diane. “She’ll probably write the great Peace Corps novel someday. Okay Sister, it’s your turn. We can’t wait to hear about your life!” She wriggles eagerly in her chair, a wide grin showing perfect white teeth.
Kate wonders suddenly what her life would have been like if she had not been a nun. Would she have been like the two women before her? This is not a question she has ever let herself ask before, and she is stunned to think it has taken her so long to come to it. “Well, I grew up in St. Louis, went to Catholic schools, and entered the Dominican convent in Chesterfield the summer after my graduation from high school.”
Diane stops eating, and gazes at Kate with her fork in mid-air. “Why?”
“Let her finish,” Sheila says, lighting a cigarette.
“It’s hard to explain. It’s what I thought I was supposed to do. Anyway, I majored in English at the convent’s junior college and then finished up my last two years at Fontbonne, a small liberal arts women’s college in St. Louis. Then I taught for a year at one of the grade schools there.”
The waiter removes the plates. Diane asks for another beer, and Kate nods when he asks if she’d like more lemonade. The heat and spicy food have made her thirsty. Sheila stubs out her cigarette and leans back in her chair. “How did you get down here?”
“When I was in the novitiate, they asked us if anyone was interested in being sent to th
e missions in Latin America or the Philippines. I raised my hand for Latin America. I never really thought about what I would do when I got here.” As she says the words, Kate realizes how true they are. What did she think she would be doing down here—a twenty-four-year-old American who barely spoke Spanish and had never traveled before in her life? Kate looks up and finds Sheila staring at her intently. She goes on, “Well, they took me up on my offer. So, about a year ago I came down to Lima, then spent five months in Cochabamba at the Language Institute, and now I’m working in Santa Catalina in Juliaca, with our sisters and the Maryknoll priests.”
“Where are you headed now?” Sheila’s question hangs in the air.
The two girls smoke quietly, waiting for Kate to explain. Ah, that is the question, isn’t it? Where would she head now? Kate raises her eyes. “I don’t really know,” she whispers finally.
Diane and Sheila look at each other.
“What do you mean?” Diane leans in, lowering her voice.
“I really don’t know. I just sort of . . . left. I’ve been struggling with a problem,” Kate says slowly, choosing her words carefully, “and I felt as though I needed to get away, take some time to think it out.” Kate looks at them helplessly, aware of how foolish she sounds.
“Do the other nuns know where you are?” Sheila asks, watching her carefully. She seems much more interested in Kate now.
“Not really, although they have a vague idea of the general direction I’m traveling in.”
The three women sit in the nearly empty restaurant in silence for a few moments.
Suddenly Diane bursts out: “Wow! A nun on the run! This is so neat! Wasn’t there a movie years ago called I Leap Over the Wall, or something like that—about a nun who escaped?”
Sheila frowns at Diane. She looks at Kate, “Listen, we’re going to stay in Ica for a few days. It’s supposed to be lovely. Why don’t you share a room with us for a day or two? We’ve already paid for it. Take a little rest, and then figure out where you’re going next.”
Feeling tears spring to her eyes, Kate tries to laugh them off. “Oh, just what you wanted on your vacation—a nun tagging along.”
“Don’t worry. We’ve both had it with men right now,” Diane assures her. “All we want is some warm sand to lie in, a couple of trashy novels, and plenty of beer and wine. Come on, Sister, it’ll be fun—sort of an advanced slumber party.”
Sheila is inspecting Kate’s habit, dusty and smeared from travel. Her eyes travel to the man’s jacket Kate is holding, and Kate is sure that she’s noticed that she has no luggage. “This would give you time to wash your clothes and freshen up a little,” she says casually.
Kate blushes at the thought of how dirty she is. “Okay, I’ll stay one night with you—really, I’m very grateful.” She swallows hard, thinking of the ticket to Lima in her pocket. Maybe she’d be allowed to use it later. She is becoming more comfortable with not planning everything.
Both women appear immensely relieved, as if they have rescued a dangerous mental patient from the ledge of a skyscraper. Sheila pays the check, talking to the waiter in efficient, clear Spanish. As they leave the restaurant, Kate feels the eyes of the few remaining men on them.
In late afternoon, after a short ride, the bus pulls up at an elegant plaza. Ica. After months in the altitude, Kate is shocked by the hot sun, the dampness of a tropical place. The air is heavy with fragrance. Kate feels she’s in a dream. Diane and Sheila hail a taxi, and negotiate with the driver with the air of experienced travelers. Kate wouldn’t have known how to do this, she realizes, always having depended on Sister Josepha or Jeanne Marie when traveling.
Diane, sitting in front, turns around. “We’re heading for Huacachina, an old resort where rich Peruvians used to come in the 1920s and ’30s. It’s somewhat shabby now, they tell us, but still a really nice place to relax and swim. There’s a lagoon there, so we can do a little sunbathing, too.”
Ten minutes later the driver turns into the gates of a long winding drive, lined with ancient dusty trees. Kate wonders if they are olive trees, for the place, so much farther south now near the coast, has a tropical look, an air of indolence and heat. At the end of the drive, a white, two-story villa shimmers in the afternoon glare. An old man, perspiring heavily in a shiny black jacket, opens the door of the cab. He gathers the girls’ bags and takes the jacket Kate holds with a swift unobtrusive movement.
“We’re in a fairy tale,” Diane whispers in a stage voice. Kate follows, wondering whether it’s a dream or a nightmare. She feels like a grimy refugee trailing real ladies. They enter a cool, dim foyer with a slowly whirring ceiling fan. The parquet floors are covered here and there with Peruvian rugs, their reds and blues a bit faded. The foyer empties into a long drawing room that overlooks an interior courtyard. Through the open French doors Kate hears the splashing of a fountain, broken now and then by laughter and the clink of glasses.
The woman at the front desk is dark-haired and handsome in the severe Spanish style, her hair pulled back in a smooth bun. Looking past the girls to Kate in her wrinkled habit, she frowns. “Las señoritas made reservations for two, isn’t that correct?”
Diane steps forward to explain, but Sheila cut her off. “Yes, but now we are three. Will that be convenient?” She looks haughtily at the woman, whose eyes travel down Sheila’s jeans to her dusty tennis shoes.
“I suppose that will be all right. Will you need another bed? I can have a cot brought upstairs for you.”
“Yes, thank you.” Sheila’s voice has an edge of privilege, even in Spanish.
Kate notices a slight thaw in the señora’s manner. Sheila shows the woman her passport and then signs for all three of them in the large registration book.
“I am Mercedes Reyna, the manager of the Hotel Massone. If you need anything while you are here, I will be glad to be of service.” The woman walks around the desk and pulls from her belt a brass key ring with dozens of keys. “You are in number seven.” In a raised voice she calls to a boy sweeping the patio beyond the French doors. “Pepe, take the señoritas’ bags up to the room.”
Kate hears soft footsteps behind her, then turns to see a young man carrying the girls’ bags. Kate notices with a jolt the clean sculpted lines of his face, the ruddy cheeks, the broad chest typical of men from the sierra. He looks so much like the children of Santa Catalina that she is momentarily confused. Less than twenty-four hours away is a world straight out of the fifteenth century. She’s been living in that world nearly a year. It now seems more real to her than the nineteenth-century atmosphere of the Hotel Massone. This world is a fantasy.
She watches Pepe carry their few bags easily up the stairs, half running before them with a serious, purposeful air. He unlocks the door to their room and stands aside; as Kate passes by him she whispers, “Yuspagara, thank you,” and presses one of her remaining soles into his hand.
He looks up at her with a grin. “Yuspagara, madrecita,” he says as he shuts the door quickly behind him.
Diane is already at the window, pulling back the white cotton curtains. “Look! We can see the lagoon from here. It’s gorgeous.”
Kate joins her. Beyond the high stucco wall that surrounds the hotel, the lagoon stretches away, a vivid blue-green in the afternoon sun. Diane is already peeling off her blouse and untying her shoes. “I’m going in for a swim. How about you two?”
Sheila looks at Kate, and when their eyes meet, Kate knows she senses her awkwardness. It has been a long time since she has casually undressed in front of anyone. Startled, she remembers Peter, and how she’d undressed in his guest room and sat in his kitchen in his borrowed pajamas. What is happening to her?
Sheila comes to her rescue. “Sister—” she begins.
Kate interrupts. “Look, you might as well call me Kate. It seems a bit formal to keep saying ‘Sister’ to someone you’re sharing a room with.”
The girls nod, relieved, she can tell. Sheila continues, “Anyway, Kate, you must be dying to
get out of those clothes. I have some extra things here you can probably wear. Go ahead and take a bath and get changed while we go for a swim. Take a nap. Remember, this is a vacation.”
After the two leave, carrying towels, straw hats, and magazines, Kate runs water for a bath in the high, claw-footed tub. She unpins her black veil, dusty and creased, and then, with great relief, peels off the headdress she’s worn for more than forty-eight hours. Her short hair is matted, sweaty; she runs her fingers through it, grateful for the freedom. Then she quickly steps out of her habit, her underwear, and throws all of it in a heap by the bed. She’ll wash her clothes after her bath.
The water smells like copper, and she sinks into its warmth, leans back with her head against the edge of the tub. Suddenly she ducks her head under the water for as long as she can, and comes up with a gasp of pleasure. Then she scrubs her scalp with the lemon soap she found. Bending her knees, she lies back again, letting the soap stay on her hair for a while, and watches the water fall away from her breasts and thighs, still covering her belly. Her body is pale except for the pink nipples and the dark pubic hair.
What was this body for? She holds up her hands, examining them. Yes, she could work with these; she could bandage or paint or write. She could hold a child’s hand in hers and help it cross a busy street. Hands were clearly useful. But what about the rest of her body? What were her breasts for? Were they to be forever unseen, unsucked? Would they never swell with milk and feel the fierce tug of a baby’s insistent mouth, or the kiss of a lover? Her hands slide across her belly. Her womb—every month the unused rich blood drains out of her, wasted. For a long while she lies still, conscious of her slow breathing, the blood streaming in her veins, the even beat of her heart.
Suddenly she rises with a great splash; she turns the shower on at full force, delighting in the water streaming down her body. She dries off quickly, rubbing her body hard with the thin white towel. Wrapping it around her, she goes to the mirror. Her skin is glowing, alive. She slicks back her hair behind her ears and goes over to the bed where Sheila has left the clothes. She steps into skimpy bikini underpants, a type she’s never before worn. As she puts on the lacy bra, she watches herself in the mirror. Not too bad. She’s still slim, but her body has rounded, become more generous. She tugs on the shorts and T-shirt. Now she looks like any other pale American tourist, down for a Peruvian vacation.
Toward That Which is Beautiful Page 14
