Having filled the sink with hot, soapy water, she scrubs each piece of her habit, plunging her arms into the hot water up to her elbows and wringing out each piece vigorously. Then she washes the black veil and carefully pats it with a dry towel. She notices a small wooden towel rack in the bathroom and decides she would hang her clothes there to dry, not wanting her habit to be seen flapping in the breeze of the hotel’s courtyard. She laughs—feeling light and free in her new costume. Once again she is playing a part, just as she had played dress-up in her grandmother’s house. While slipping on the sandals Sheila left for her, she thinks: I’ll enjoy it as long as it lasts.
When she joins the two girls on the modest beach near the lagoon, they clap and whistle.
“Now that’s better,” crows Diane. “We’ll have to watch you like a hawk. There’ll be guys all over you!”
Sheila regards her carefully. Kate suspects that this quiet, thoughtful girl senses the conflict in her, and she feels slightly irritated that she is so transparent. She lies down next to the girls and tries to relax, letting her body mold itself into the warm sand. Soon she dozes off, lulled by the lapping waves of the lagoon.
When Kate awakes the air has turned cool, and the two girls are packing up their things. Back in their room, Sheila loans Kate a long gauzy skirt to wear with the rose T-shirt she has on, and Diane slips a strand of wooden beads around her neck. Standing next to Kate, Diane gazes admiringly at Kate’s reflection in the mirror.
The three women go down the polished staircase to dinner, which is served on a veranda overlooking the lagoon. As they walk across to a table with a good view, heads turn, and there is a lull in the conversations. Kate notices that most of the patrons seem to be Peruvians, but their understated elegance speaks of shopping trips to Miami and New York. The waiter who comes over to light the lamp on the table startles Kate, for it is Pepe, dressed in a crisp white shirt and shiny black pants. When he sees her looking intently at him, his eyes widen in recognition.
Sheila looks up at the young man. “I’ve heard that Ica is famous for its wines. Could you suggest a good one for us tonight?”
Kate admires Sheila’s easy way with Spanish. Hers, she feels, is halting, awkward.
“Rojo o blanco?” he inquires.
“We’ll start with a white wine, I think.”
Kate looks at prices nervously. How many bottles are they planning to drink?
“Then I would suggest Tacama’s Blanco de Blancos. It’s from a winery very near here, about twenty minutes from town.”
“Perfect,” says Sheila.
Pepe bows and rushes off. Diane suggests that they begin with the Caldo Gallego, and follow it with the Ají de Gallina. Kate is ravenous; when the wine arrives she has to force herself to drink it slowly. It is dry and astringent, with a delicate woodsy taste. Sheila suggests they toast Pepe for his excellent choice. As the sun sinks into the lagoon, they find themselves laughing at everything. A bolero plays from somewhere inside the hotel, “Bésame, bésame mucho.” Kate thinks of Tom. Her lips tremble. She looks away from the girls, out to the lagoon. The moon is rising, casting long silver shards onto the water. Is he seeing this same moon tonight and thinking of her? She’s been a coward—or worse, a baby.
After Pepe clears away the dishes and brings tiny cups of expresso, Diane puts her elbows on the table and leans toward Kate, staring into her eyes. Kate tries to focus her slightly unsteady gaze. “Sheila and I were discussing you this afternoon, and we feel you’re holding out on us. Are you ever going to tell us the story of why you’re running away?”
“Well, it’s not very original, or even very interesting,” Kate looks away.
Diane persists. “Our guess is that there’s a man involved.”
When Kate nods in an exaggeratedly forlorn way, they all laugh. Even Kate finds that thought hysterically funny tonight in this magical place, so far away from the mission at Santa Catalina. She is grateful when Pepe appears so they can change the subject.
“Did you enjoy the wine?” Pepe asks, smoothing crumbs from the tablecloth with a knife. When they cry out their enthusiasm he smiles slightly. “You ought to visit the winery if you have time. It is about thirty minutes from town in an old hacienda.”
Kate hasn’t even thought about the next day’s activities. How is she going to steal away? She has complicated her flight by joining Diane and Sheila; yet she finds them kind and comforting. They bring back a world she had left years ago, a world of impulse and fun, a world with no commitments.
Pepe lingers at their table, and says, looking at Kate, “I will tell you a true story about this winery that many tourists do not know, nor even many Peruvians, I think. The winery is still irrigated today by a canal that was built by the great Inca Pachacutec. He built it as a gift to Princess Tate, with whom he was in love. According to the legend of my people, it took 40,000 men only ten days to build the canal. It brings cold pure water down from the mountains to make the desert of Ica bloom with grapevines. Pachacutec named the canal Achirana.” He stood very still as his words echo in the evening air.
“What does Achirana mean?” Kate feels that Pepe wants her to ask him this.
“It means: ‘That which flows cleanly toward that which is beautiful.’”
After he leaves, the girls sit in silence on the veranda. Kate feels the damp air on her bare arms, and the long forgotten sensation of the breeze ruffling her hair. It has been years since she had sat outside bareheaded. A little tipsy, she finds herself longing for Tom. Absently, she listens to Sheila and Diane plan their visit to the winery the next day. She says nothing about leaving. Kate knows she should push on to Lima, but now she wants to see the canal that Pepe had spoken of.
Later, stretched out on her cot under the window in one corner of the spacious bedroom, she falls asleep thinking of flowing water, cool and clean, as waves lap the sand of the lagoon under the chaste moon of Ica.
Chapter Fifteen
Monday, June 29, 1964
Waking to the sound of birds twittering outside the window, Kate remembers where she is. Early-morning bird chatter was one of the things she has missed most during her last six months in the Altiplano. Although it is still dark in the room, she can make out the outline of two sprawled bodies in the great cama matrimonial, as the señora called it. This has been her first good night’s sleep since staying at Peter Grinnell’s house three days ago.
In the bathroom she finds her habit still damp. She slips on the shirt and skirt she wore the night before and unlocks the door quietly. She’ll go to Mass before the girls get up. Yesterday had been Sunday. She’s shocked to realize she hasn’t even thought of Mass.
No one is in the foyer below, but she hears sounds coming from the hall that leads to the kitchen. She knocks timidly on the swinging door, and pushes it open to see Señora Reyna seated at the long table, sipping her café con leche, reading a newspaper. Pepe is bending over the stove, lighting the gas; the smell of strong coffee fills the room.
“Buenos días, señora,” she says to woman. “Could you please tell me where the nearest church is with an early Mass?” Kate, dressed in the Peace Corps worker’s clothes, waits for a look of surprise or disapproval to appear on the woman’s face. Surely she recognizes Kate as the bedraggled nun of yesterday.
The señora looks at her for several long moments and then puts down her cup. In silence she rises and walks with Kate down the hall to the front doors. She pulls back the sliding locks and steps out onto the porch to show Kate the direction she should walk to find the church in the village.
Walking down the tree-shaded driveway, Kate breathes in the fragrant morning air, and watches the gray sky turn pink. She turns right at the gate and soon passes some concrete-block houses before entering the main street with its few store windows still shuttered fast. Then she sees the chapel, all white stone, squat and rounded like a massive loaf of bread. She steps over the wooden portal and blinks in the sudden dimness. The two candles on the altar are
lit, the priest bent over, mumbling the Confiteor. Kate realizes that not a whisper of the recent changes to the liturgy had reached this remote church. She genuflects and joins the few elderly black-clad women who are the chapel’s only worshipers. The priest, too, is old, his shoulders bowed beneath his cream-and-gold embroidered vestment.
She listens carefully to the priest recite the words of the Gospel:
I baptize you with water for repentance, but he who is coming after me
is mightier than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to carry; he will baptize
you with the Holy Spirit and with fire. His shovel is ready in his hand,
and he will winnow his threshing floor; the wheat he will gather into his granary,
but he will burn the chaff on a fire that can never go out.
Water and fire. Both are dangerous. But fire can purify and refine. It can burn away the dross. And water can drown you, or quench your thirst. Like love, she thinks. She’d never known its fierceness before now. There was a passage in the scriptures about love, something about how “many waters could not quench love.” What was it from? And how could one tell the wheat from the chaff in love? She sinks to her knees, burying her face in her hands.
When she raises her head Mass is over, and she did not go up to receive communion. The parishioners are leaving the chapel. No one glances her way. Kate enjoys the anonymity. Dressed as she is, she does not represent anything other than herself. She has ceased to be a symbol.
She watches as the elderly priest enters the ancient confessional in the shadows of the shrine to the Virgin Mary. No one enters. Footsteps echo as the last old woman shuffles out of the church into the early morning. She’ll go to confession, Kate decides. But what will she say? I love a priest? I’m burning up with desire? I’m sorry for my sins?
And what about the firm purpose of amendment she is supposed to make? She stumbles over the pew and hurries to the small black door. Inside it is pitch dark, and the smell of incense mingles with the scent of an old man, musty yet sweet. The priest coughs as he slides back the wooden door, leaving only a thin black linen screen between them. He waits, the outline of his face barely visible in the gloom.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she murmurs. “It has been two weeks since my last confession.” Her Spanish is halting, childish. She says nothing.
“Go on, mujer. Don’t be afraid. God knows all our thoughts and actions.”
“Father, I don’t know what to say. I’m in love, I love someone I am not supposed to love.”
He sighs. “Are you married, my dear?”
“Yes, no . . . I’m a nun.”
“Ah, I see. And is the man married?”
He waits. By now Kate is trembling, her voice breaks. “He’s a priest,” she manages.
Silence. Somehow a coldness has entered the tiny space. “Well, have you done anything?” the voice rasps.
“No. But I want to,” she blurts. Now the words come rushing out on her pent up breath. “Father, tell me what to do. I’ve taken a vow of chastity. Does that mean I can never love a man? How can love ever be wrong?”
“My child, God is love, as the evangelist tells us. But the question is what is this you feel for this man? Can it be love to want to lure him from his promise of celibacy? And what about your vow? You know in your heart what you must do. Renounce. It is the only way to peace. You will look back in the years to come and know that your love for God has been tested by fire and has come through brighter and purer than ever. Now go, and pray the rosary for strength to do what you know is right.” Swiftly, the old priest raises his arm and she hears the familiar words: “I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” The wooden panel closes with a firm click.
Kate stumbles out into the dim light of the church. He had forgotten to have her say the act of contrition. Could she have said it? “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee.” But was she sorry? She prays the rosary, counting the decades on her fingers. It’s Monday, the joyful mysteries: the annunciation, the visitation, the birth of our Lord. Her head sinks down on the smooth wooden pew, she rests her bottom on the seat. Finally, she lifts her head to stare at the tabernacle, the sanctuary light gleams cheerfully in the dark church. Where are You? No answer.
As she walks back through the town, she smells baking bread. Children in white smocks dawdle on their way to school, gazing into shop windows. Most of the girls have their hair tightly braided, with shiny black braids hanging down their backs in a single coil. The boys’ hair is slicked down, wet and shiny in the early morning. The children’s high voices ring out in the quiet streets.
When Kate reaches the hotel, she hears the clatter of dishes from the dining room, where she finds her two companions cradling cups of coffee as they wait in silence to be served breakfast.
Sheila looks up and smiles at Kate. With a tilt of her head towards Diane, Sheila says, “This one has one big headache this morning. How’re you feeling?”
“I feel wonderful,” Kate says, hoping there is no trace of her tears on her face. “That’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in three days. I’m ready to explore the winery and canal Pepe told us about last night. Are you?”
Diane looks up with a groan, and lights a cigarette. “I don’t know,” she says sleepily. “I was hoping to crash on the beach again.”
Sheila laughs and pulls her arm. “Come on, girl. I’ve seen you dance for hours after drinking gallons of chicha at the village festival. Surely you can manage a little sightseeing today.”
“Okay, okay. But you guys make all the arrangements. I’m going to sit in the sun on the veranda for a while.
Diane is dressed in plaid madras shorts and a sleeveless blouse, and she sashays confidently across the room.
By nine o’clock the women are crossing the foyer on their way to tour the winery when Kate hears a querulous voice behind her.
“Otto, I’m not sure I’m up to another day of tromping around in the heat. Wouldn’t you rather stay here by the lagoon and read your book?”
The speaker is a dainty, gray-haired woman in her late-sixties, Kate guesses, in a flowered summer dress. A straw hat shades her face. She is looking up at the florid blond man Kate had taken for German or Danish the night before.
“Oh come on, Mother,” he says. “We haven’t come all this way to sit around swimming pools. We can do that back in California.” By this time the couple are aware that their scene is being played out in front of English-speaking women near the front desk. The man walks toward them, holding out his hand. “Good morning, girls,” he booms. “I’m Otto Schneider from Fullerton, California, and this is my lovely wife Lucille.” He shakes their hands vigorously while Kate notices the way Mrs. Schneider’s smile flits across her face and reveals the girl she once was. She seems embarrassed by, yet proud of, her bear-like husband. When the Schneiders hear that the women are planning to visit the Tacoma winery their faces fall.
“Oh what a shame! We’re going into Ica this morning to see the textiles in the museum.” Mrs. Schneider leans over confidentially to the three women. “I don’t think Otto is up to walking around in the sun at midday, especially if he starts sampling all the wine.”
Mr. Schneider suggests they all meet later in the day over cocktails and compare notes. Kate is relieved. She’s feeling uncomfortable posing as a Peace Corps worker and is reluctant to admit she is a nun. How can she explain being here at a resort with two freewheeling companions?
As their taxi pulls up in front of the hotel, Kate watches the couple from the front porch. The tall, stooped man takes his wife’s arm as they go down the steps of the veranda. Kate imagines them on their wedding day some forty years before, he engulfing her in his embrace and she small and shy in his arms. What blows have the years delivered, she wonders, and how have they managed to hang on to each other through them all? Kate thinks of her parents, whose marriage was hardly perfect. They’d had more than a few q
uarrels, usually over money or the children.
One of Kate’s earliest memories is of the night her mother had wept on the phone because her father was late. She and her brother and sister were all dressed up, waiting for their father to come home and take them to Grandma Sullivan’s house for dinner. Finally her mother gave up and put them all to bed. Much later Kate awakened to the voices of her parents, an angry, indistinct buzz coming from the lighted kitchen. She padded to the door, and stood watching as her father, his face flushed and happy, kept trying to grab her mother. “It’s done now. I’ve enlisted. I couldn’t stand it any longer.” Her mother was crying, pushing him away.
Kate found out later that it was the night her father had joined the Marine Corps. He had been gone for four years, and she was six when he came back. She thought she remembered the day he came home, but it could be that she heard the story so often that the memory had been created by the telling. She was alone in the living room on a Sunday afternoon. Her mother was out shopping, and her grandmother was taking a nap. Where was Dan? Kate had her Betty Grable paper dolls spread out on the rose carpet when the doorbell rang. She ran to the door and peeked between the curtains covering the panes of glass. A tall, dark-haired man in a dark-green uniform stood waiting, ominous amid the red begonias in clay pots and the green-and-white cushions of the porch swing. He had a mustache.
Kate backed up slowly and sat still on the sofa. The man rang again, insistently. She edged over to the door and peered through the muslin curtain. Startled, the man stooped down to her level, took off his hat, and yelled: “Katie, open the door. It’s me—Daddy.”
Toward That Which is Beautiful Page 15
