Toward That Which is Beautiful

by Marian O'Shea Wernicke

  “Madre Catalina, what are you doing here?”

  Kate turns to the voice. It is Magdalena, their Peruvian novice who had left the community. It does not seem strange to Kate that she has appeared like some dark-haired guardian angel.

  Magdalena’s eyes widen as she stares at Kate’s habit. “What happened? There is blood all over you. Papi, help me. It is one of the nuns from the convent in Juliaca.”

  Now Kate sees a man at Magdalena’s side. He is a big man, with a massive head of curly gray hair. She feels him catch her as she starts to fall. His arms are strong as he lifts her up, cradling her. He carries her for a long time when finally Magdalena whispers to her, “Cálmate, Catalina. Ya estamos en mi casa.” They enter a dark building, and Magdalena’s father begins to carry her up the stairs. Kate is embarrassed and protests, but he shushes her and goes on, stopping at each landing to take a breath.

  Then a door opens, there is light, and a woman’s voice cries out. Kate hears Magdalena reassure the woman that everything is all right. Despite all the blood, the wound is not deep. The woman bends over her, and Kate sees another Magdalena in the mother, but her hair is graying and the face has the beginnings of delicate lines by the mouth and the dark eyes. The woman passes her hand over Kate’s forehead in a gesture of infinite tenderness. Kate tries not to cry.

  Later she is sitting at the kitchen table eating the stew Magdalena’s mother has put before her. It is steaming hot, and the aroma of eggplant and tomato reaches her as she lifts her spoon for the first bite. Around the table the family watch her. Magdalena’s two brothers have come home from school, slender young teenagers who stare at the sight of a strange nun in a blood-stained white habit sitting at their kitchen table. They watch her solemnly without saying anything.

  Magdalena chatters on. Her father and she were just coming home after work. Magdalena explains that he is a teacher in San Miguel, a private school for boys in San Isidro, a wealthy suburb on the other side of the city. She has been working in the office of his school as a secretary until she can enter the Universidad Católica in the fall.

  “We had just gotten off the bus in Rimac when I saw you, blood on your habit. I couldn’t believe it was you, Sister!” Magdalena’s voice rose.

  “Rimac?” Kate looks puzzled.

  Magdalena’s mother cannot resist asking her now. “But madre, what were you doing in this neighborhood? It is not safe for any woman to be walking alone at night.”

  “Chabelita, leave her in peace. The girl is famished, can’t you see? She can talk later.” Magdalena’s father is fingering a pipe, tamping down the tobacco carefully.

  Kate looks at the him. Cristóbal Ruiz is a quiet man. He has been watching her steadily, and she notices now the furrows in his brow and the wide hands that are rough and callused.

  “I must have taken a wrong turn when I got off the bus. I thought I was headed toward Balconcillo. I remember walking across a bridge,” Kate finally manages to say as she looks around the room. The kitchen is large, and the big table in the middle is covered with a clean white cloth. Books and papers are scattered over a long sideboard that holds a silver tea set, polished and gleaming. Over the sink is a window, and a picture of the Señor de los Milagros, Lord of the Miracles, hanging over the arch that leads into the next room, a blessed palm tacked to the front of the picture.

  Finally the father breaks his silence. “Where were you going?”

  His eyes are piercing, and for an instant Kate thinks he must know her whole story, that somehow this wise and strong rescuer has been sent to deliver her from doubt and confusion, to show her the way. His name is Cristóbal, the Christ-carrier. But he just sits there, sipping his coffee, and waits for her answer.

  “I was trying to remember how to get to the Precious Blood nuns’ convent in Balconcillo. The parish is called Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe.”

  “That’s near La Victoria,” exclaims Martín, the youngest. “You were going the wrong way totally.” He grins up at her, amused that a grown-up could have been so mistaken.

  Kate looks around. “I really should be going now.” She looks down at her arm. Magdalena’s mother has washed and dressed the wound and wrapped it in a clean white cloth. But it still throbs dully.

  Magdalena comes around to Kate’s chair and sits close beside her. She motions to the rest of her family, and soon she and Kate are alone in the kitchen. Her eyes are gentle and she speaks softly, soothingly, as if to a child who has seen a ghost. “Catalina, why don’t I call the sisters in Balconcillo and tell them you are with us, but that you would like to come over and see them tomorrow. Then you can get cleaned up here and get a good night’s rest. They will be horrified if they see you with blood all over.” She watches Kate to see how she takes this suggestion. “In the morning I will take you over there myself after they give me directions.”

  Kate begins to cry. She puts her head down on the table, and Magdalena pats her arm, stroking her hand and humming until Kate says, “Oh, I’ve made such a mess of this.” She looks down at their two hands clasped together. Kate is sobbing now. “Everyone has been kind, but I’ve been so selfish, a coward.

  “No, Catalina. I know something must have happened. You don’t have to explain to me. Living in the Altiplano was not for me. She smiles now at Kate, and her face is radiant in the lamplight. “I’m glad I went to the convent. I don’t regret a minute of it. But it wasn’t my life.” She got up from the table and began to gather the dishes. “Bueno, it’s all settled then? You’ll stay here tonight with us, we can share my room, and that will give Mami a chance to try to get those spots out of your habit. She has been dying to get at them all evening.”

  “Okay. But, Magdalena, don’t call the nuns in Balconcillo. They’ll just worry. When I get there tomorrow, they’ll see that I’m all right.”

  In the bathroom that night, Kate peels off her stained habit and veil. She will have to wear the same things tomorrow. The hot water stings the cut on her arm, but she sinks gratefully into the tub. Her body is stiff now, and her neck is sore where the attacker had grabbed her. Why did he call her puta, whore?

  The family explained to her that she was in the Alameda de los Descalzos, an old lovers’ lane still used by couples in the neighborhood. “In the days of La Perricholi, all of fashionable Lima gathered here to walk in the late afternoon. It is a sad sight now, full of thieves and scoundrels.” Cristóbal shook his head sadly. He remembered a different Lima, a city of close-knit neighborhoods where people shouted to each other by name across the street. Kate saw that he was ashamed of what happened to her. The city seems hostile to her, opaque. Maybe it is the mist, the neblina, that blurs everything, making it hard to see things clearly.

  The Altiplano flashes before her, and she misses the fine sharpness of the air, the clean lines of the mountains and the dark that pulls down the brilliant stars like a great inky cloak. Would she ever see it again? Now it is hard to remember why she thought she had to leave. Tom, of course. She hasn’t thought of him in many hours. She is conscious only of a dull ache, like a toothache, she thinks, that hurts all day but that flares up hotly only when you forget and bite down on something. What had Father Jack said on Lt. Vargas’ radio? That Tom was out looking for her all night. She can picture his face, the lips drawn tight and angry. He was more angry than worried, she knows, furious with her for doing something so childish, so impulsive. Quick and decisive, he has little patience with weakness.

  Why did she fall in love with him so swiftly, so totally? She didn’t even like him at first, the cynical twist to his humor, the way his eyes narrowed and stared when she was saying something that all of a sudden in his presence seemed fatuous, naive. But that was it. He was a challenge, difficult, and she won him in spite of himself. Oh God, this is even worse than she thought.

  Later she slips into bed beside Magdalena in the tiny immaculate room that the only daughter in the house has to herself. Magdalena is already asleep, and her perfume, sweet and pungent like
gardenias, is on the pillow. For a long time Kate stares at the car lights flickering against the shade. She has been rescued, snatched up from trouble. She is safe and warm, but she doesn’t deserve to be, she knows. She thinks of the smoke she saw this morning when they passed the slums of the barriadas, curling up black and ugly into the sky. It was a signal, an SOS sent to God. They all need help.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Wednesday, July 1, 1964

  Kate awakes to the sight of Magdalena examining her habit, the blood stains fainter now but still visible. The girl turns and sees Kate watching her. “Buenos días, sleepy-head. I thought you would never wake up.”

  Kate looks at the window. It is still dark. Magdalena is putting on her makeup, and Kate notices how lovely she’s become since she’d left them in Juliaca.

  “Mami tried to get all the spots out of your habit, but I’m afraid there are still some stains. But at least you won’t look disreputable when the nuns see you.” Magdalena is wearing a navy blue skirt and white blouse, and her high heels click against the wood floor as she passes back and forth across the room.

  “Magdalena, have you been seeing anyone since you’ve been out of the convent?” Kate can’t imagine that the men of Lima would not have noticed her.

  “If you mean am I seeing a man, the answer is no,” and she makes a face. “I am in no hurry to get mixed up with most of the men I meet. The good ones always seem to be married or unavailable for some reason.” She looks at Kate, and there is a long pause. Kate says nothing. After a minute, Magdalena grabs her jacket and stands in the door. “I’ll leave you in peace to get dressed now. Then we’ll catch the bus to Balconcillo.”

  Kate crosses the room and takes her hand, “You have been so kind, all of you. I can never thank you for this. But I don’t need you to go with me today. You have to go to work, and I’ll be fine if someone will just put me on the right bus. Really. I mean it.”

  Magdalena looks at her for a minute and then nods.

  When Kate comes into the kitchen dressed in her habit, Chabelo embraces her, holding her to her warm breast. Picking up the hem of Kate’s habit, she looks critically at her cleaning efforts for a minute. “Bueno, it will have to do. At least it looks a lot cleaner than it did last night. How did you sleep, my dear?”

  Kate embraces the woman again and feels her springy hair on her face. “I slept like a baby. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  “I am happy to have you. Maggie has told us how kind you were to her when she was still in the convent, up in that terrible place. I was so worried about her. She was flaca when she came back, but we are fattening her up now.”

  “She looks wonderful,” Kate smiles at them.

  “Now sit down and have your breakfast. There are fresh rolls, oranges, grapefruit, mangos, and some nice hot coffee. The boys have already eaten and gone, so we have a little peace and quiet.”

  Cristobal enters, and Chabelo lifts her face to her husband’s kiss. He sits at the table, his newspaper folded neatly in front of him. Kate sees that his eyes are laughing as he looks her over, and she feels shy suddenly as she remembers how he carried her up the steps in his arms.

  “And how did you wake up this morning, little sister?”

  He motions toward her arm, and she pushes up the sleeve of her habit and pulls back the bandage. The cut is still raw. He nods toward his wife to take a look, and Chabelo holds Kate’s arm up, examining the cut. Then she brings a bowl of some brownish red mixture and begins to apply it gently to the wound.

  “What is that?” Kate feels the coolness on her arm.

  “Oh, these are remedies I learned about from my mother and grandmother. This is a mixture of malva and aloe. It soothes the wound and takes away the sting. It helps the flesh to heal. But you may always have the scar.” Her brown eyes stare into Kate’s, and then she adds, “Such a shame to have a scar on your pretty arm. What will your mother say?”

  Kate’s stomach lurches as she thinks of her parents. During the attack she remembers crying out “Mother, Mother.” Whom had she been calling? The attacker had called her “daughter of the great whore” with such pleasure, almost as if he had been whispering words of love or desire. She can feel his hands on her still, and she shudders. He could have done anything with her. There was no one around; he had the knife. What would it have been like if he had raped her there on the grass, in the Alameda de los Descalzos, her habit spread out beneath them like a fine sheet? She chokes on the bread and feels a wave of nausea recede. Someone has been watching over her.

  Cristóbal and Magdalena walk with Kate to the bus stop and wait to see her safely seated in a front seat, right behind the driver. Cristóbal gets on and talks to the driver for a while, wanting to be sure he knows where Kate should get off the bus. The driver nods his head impatiently. As he pulls away from the curb, Kate waves to them and blows Magdalena a kiss. Then the bus enters a main avenue. Kate watches the morning traffic of Lima, a swirling sea of motion and sound.

  The bus heads over the bridge and into the Plaza de Armas and circles the huge plaza, heading down the Paseo de la República. It stops every two blocks, until all the seats are filled and people still pour in, crowding into the aisles. She watches the schoolchildren, their faces shiny, the girls’ hair slicked back in tight braids. Some wear the wool jumpers and white blouses or shirts of the private schools, where they are taught by the Religious of the Sacred Heart or the Jesuits. They chatter loudly and trade pieces of candy and gum as they balance themselves on the swaying bus, their book bags on the floor between their feet. Kate thinks of the children of Juliaca, so shy and quiet compared to these kids.

  One little girl stands very close to Kate, her small hand gripping the back of the seat. When she looks at Kate, her green eyes are startling. This child could be her daughter. Her mouth feels dry as she watches the girl stare out at the street. The child wears tiny gold earrings that dangle from thin gold wires. Kate imagines the mother taking the child shopping for the earrings, or maybe they had been a gift from a grandmother. Kate feels a fierce pain at the thought of never having children, never having a child reach up for her in distress, moving into her arms for comfort. Suddenly the girl looks at her, a smile steals across her face revealing several missing front teeth, like any six-year old the world over.

  “We’re going to the zoo today,” she whispers. “My whole class is going to see the llamas and alpacas and vicunas. They live in the mountains, you know. I have never seen them, only in pictures. Have you ever seen them?”

  Kate can’t speak and simply nods. Then the bus stops and the girl moves to the back with the other children, pushing and shoving.

  “Good bye,” Kate calls out to the girl. “Have a good time at the zoo.” But it is too late. As the bus pulls away Kate watches the girl swing her book bag at her side, picking her way neatly through the vendors that crowded in front of the school. Then she disappears inside.

  Kate is surprised at herself, the pang of longing the child makes her feel. She always loved children because secretly she feels as if she is still one of them. But when she entered the convent she didn’t think much about giving up children. She was only eighteen herself. Now, though, the years stretch in front of her. She, like Josepha, would grow old loving other people’s children. Maybe she would have nieces and nephews someday. Then she could be the doting aunt that the teenagers would talk to when they had stopped talking to their parents. She pictures herself older, much older, stooped and wizened. A shawl is thrown around her shoulders. She is looking out to the Motherhouse garden from her wheelchair, surrounded by the other old nuns. Her eyes are bad, she cannot read, and she never really liked doing the embroidery so many of the nuns do in their long hours of waiting. Is this how she wants to live out her life?

  In the street, people scurry to beat the light. Long American cars are everywhere, old models from the 1950s. As the bus moves out from the center of Lima, the people seem poorer. Squat women lug bags back from the m
arket. Everywhere, crowded together on the sidewalks so that people have difficulty walking by them, are the street vendors. Young men stop to examine the goods, and their shoulders are hunched against the cold in thin sweaters. The bus passes now through La Victoria, with shabby shops and throngs of street vendors. Most of the crowds waiting at the bus stops are going downtown, and the bus is now nearly empty. Finally Kate hears the bus driver shout, “Balconcillo.” His eyes meet hers in the cracked rear-view mirror, and he nods at her.

  She stumbles slightly as she goes down the steps. The door of the bus slams behind her, and she stands uncertainly on the sidewalk, gagging on the diesel fumes from the disappearing bus. The morning is still gray, but in the distance, just over the hills, a few pale specks of blue appear in the sky.

  Now she begins to walk toward a starkly modern church she can see a block away—Our Lady of Guadalupe. Kate’s mouth feels dry. The flight is over. Now she has to face the things she has been running from, or to.

  She walks around to the left side of the church, hoping she won’t run into anyone who might recognize her from the few weeks she had spent here a year ago. All the nuns will be in school. Maybe the cook will let her come in. She passes the front door of the convent and goes around to the back gate, which leads, she knows, into the patio where the nuns do their laundry. She rings the bell and then lifts the latch and slips in.

  Someone has already done a load of wash that morning, and Kate threads her way among the nightgowns and towels that hang limply in the damp morning air. Kate knows it will take a day or two for these things to dry unless the sun surprises them with an unexpected appearance. She glances down at her own white habit, stained with dirt and blood. Her shoes are dusty, the heels worn. She tries to arrange her veil, hoping that she pinned it on straight that morning in Magdalena’s bedroom.