When Mountains Walked, page 29
They sat on an unpainted wooden bench and stretched out their legs while the young man did Vicente’s bidding. A passel of runny-nose kids appeared, peeking from corners, and Maggie took a handful of candies from a jar, placing a coin on the counter in exchange. The kids raced up to grab, then ran away to eat, like wild animals.
Carson cleared his throat, but apparently decided not to criticize her. His policy was never to hand out candy or money to children, so as not to encourage cavities and begging. But Maggie could see that Vicente approved, so she continued, managing to coax a little girl of four or so out from behind a stack of wooden soft-drink cases.
She wore grubby knit leggings and had a ponytail sticking up from the top of her head, held by an elastic band with two transparent plastic balls on it. When Maggie had been her age, in Mexico, the maid had combed her hair this way; she suddenly remembered how she’d thought it very glamorous. With all naturalness, the child climbed into Vicente’s lap and sat there sucking fiercely on the sweet. Vicente learned her name, Guisella. “A ballerina’s name,” Maggie said to her, wondering if this Guisella had ever heard of ballerinas. She reached out and gently bounced her palm on the little girl’s topknot, causing her to hide her sticky face in Vicente’s T-shirt.
Carson observed that obviously this kid had not seen many gringos.
“She’s scared,” Vicente agreed. He put his face down near the girl’s cheek and whispered, “Don’t be scared of the Señora, she’s going to give you another candy.” So Maggie did. Over the top of the child’s head, Vicente gazed at Maggie and asked why she had no children.
Carson had turned on his seat to watch the young man setting up the medical table, spreading the white cloth, pinning on the red paper cross. He gestured for the table to be moved left, then back, into the shade of a palmetto. He acted as if he hadn’t heard a word Vicente had said. Taking him as her example, Maggie did the same.
“Don’t you like them?” Vicente persisted.
“Me encantan,” they enchant me. It was the obligatory answer. The question was obligatory, too—for her. Why not for Carson? Still, Vicente’s questioning had reached her. Maybe it was personal this time.
“Why don’t you have any, then?”
Carson turned and said with irritation, “If we had a child, we would not be here.” Then he stood up and walked toward the table.
“That’s not true,” said Maggie to Vicente, behind Carson’s back. Too late, she realized how disloyal this had sounded. All she’d meant, or thought she’d meant, was not to insult Peru as a location for child-rearing. She backtracked, explaining that she and her husband wanted to take care of children who had already been born.
Vicente said, “Which one of us is the one who is too many?” He lifted Guisella from his knees and tried to set her on Maggie’s lap, but the child had reached her limit. She shrieked and slipped down, and ran off along the wide dirt path, shrieking again and again. The other children, who’d been watching, all started running away and shrieking in imitation, making a game of being terrified of the strangers, then forgetting it was a game. Abruptly Guisella tripped, fell down, and, struggling to her feet, stood weeping until her big sister came back and swung her awkwardly piggyback. The big sister stumbled on behind the others, calling “Wait! Wait!”
Seeing Maggie’s stricken face, Vicente said, “They’re only children.”
Satisfied with the table, Carson returned and said, “Let’s get started.”
“Go and bring the mayor,” Vicente said to the young man.
The mayor was out of town, the young man said, smiling apologetically.
“When he returns, you will tell him everything we said about the water.” Vicente turned to Maggie and Carson, audibly remarking that this young man was lying.
“We don’t want problems,” the young man mumbled.
“Children are afraid of you, adults of me.” Vicente laughed. To the young man he said, “Why didn’t you lie at the beginning rather than waste our time!”
They still had enough daylight to walk downhill to Pullo, where the earth was red, and so the mud-brick houses were the same color. Each house had a red wall around it, with small bluish aloe plants growing on top, the plants coated with brick-colored dust. Two patients came, one young man with a cold and a lady complaining of arthritis, then a man leaning on his brother’s shoulder, the same brother who had sliced off most of his calf muscle with a machete as they were clearing a field together. A fourteen-year-old girl appeared saying she’d had a miscarriage, a mother whose two-year-old child was deaf. Maggie handed out a dozen rehydration packets.
Lastly, a young woman came to lead them, with apologies, into the stifling darkness of a house where her great-grandmother lay on a bed, in a nest of rags, her eyes squinched shut. Althea, Maggie thought. She was a hundred and ten, according to the great-granddaughter, and her face was covered with innumerable wrinkles that began at her toothless mouth, like a bag with a knot in it. Her great-granddaughter bent down and shouted in her ear, but she did not stir.
Carson burrowed among the coverings for an arm and pulled it out, releasing a thick, greasy reek. It looked like a mummy’s arm already. He held its wrist tenderly for a minute. Maggie imagined how his mind swam down the threadlike veins. Stealing a glance at Vicente, Maggie saw him watching Carson with a curious, almost disgusted expression.
It had been days since she’d remembered Julia’s threats. She should have gone to Boston right away. Now it was too late. She was involved, responsible; she had to stay in this valley until the water analysis arrived. It was unfair, she knew, to be upset with Carson for not wanting to help her grandmother; but it was also true that he’d never do this for Althea.
Carson set the skinny yellow arm down gently and tucked it under the blankets where it had been before. The woman’s face scrunched tighter. Her great-granddaughter said sadly, “She doesn’t eat. Is there nothing I can do?”
Carson shook his head. “Keep her clean and warm.”
“You can whisper in her ear.” Maggie couldn’t bear to have nothing to offer. “Tell her that you love her and that everything is all right.” At the divinity school, the halls had fairly murmured with lore on Death and Dying. The dying were thought to want permission to die; they were thought to be confused. This old lady seemed the reverse to Maggie: determined, trying to leave this world. Forgiveness might release her. The great-granddaughter nodded, so Maggie went recklessly on. “If you like, tell her to look up and see the light of Heaven, full of angels who love her, ready to take care of her.”
Yes, the great-granddaughter said eagerly.
They emerged blinking into the light.
“The New Age comes to the Rosario,” Carson observed.
“Go and fuck yourself,” Maggie said, her attempt at a light tone failing. Carson scowled at her. He often chided her for using strong language.
At the first curve of the trail, Vicente hung back to tell Maggie he had found it very pretty, what she’d said. He touched her on the shoulder and Maggie felt the jolt travel through her body, into the ground. What a sucker I am for a crumb of attention, she thought.
When they had walked fifty yards, the young woman came running after them to tell Carson that her great-grandmother had smiled and said yes, then fallen asleep. And that no one had wanted to speak of this, but two monstrous babies had been born in town this year, one with a tufted tail and the other without skin on its belly, its organs hanging out. Both had died unbaptized. While Carson took notes, Vicente whispered to Maggie, “ Ves, all people need is a little cariño. She took confidence in us because of you. You are like us. You understand.”
Cutting straight down a switchback, they barely managed to catch the bus downhill. All seats were full except the last long bench. Maggie was grateful that the scary window view was blocked from both sides, but squashed between Vicente and Carson, she was excruciatingly conscious of them both. She adopted a neutral policy: when either of their bodies bounced against hers, she did not withdraw, but she did not encourage contact, either.
…
Cachabambita was south of Pullo, close to the bank, on the far side of the river. It had a new mayor, a son of the village who’d been successful on the coast. He wore thin orange shoes and a dark, tasteful plaid shirt. He came out beaming to shake hands and greet the North American doctors, of whom he’d heard so many, many good things. Peru was a disgrace, he said, nothing functioned here. He guaranteed to publicize to all of his citizens not to drink the river water. And yes, if any monsters or idiots were born, he would send down the child if possible, and if not, a sample of its hair and its mother’s hair. In Cachabambita, many babies died or were unwell. As he went on explaining how all this was the misery of Peru, how Peru was a beggar sitting on a throne of gold, Maggie saw the impatience on Carson’s face, and hoped that the mayor would not notice it.
Four mothers soon appeared, along with various curiosos who tried to gawk at the examinations. Vicente shooed them away. Carson pantomimed simple procedures while Vicente added words. Maggie stood outside the privacy screen made of flour sacks, fending off the mayor, who wanted to practice English: “Doo, joo, light, Peru?” He asked whether the clinic could offer jobs; Maggie lamented that Vicente was their only assistant.
“Asistente?” the mayor said, sneering, as if he’d never heard the word. He turned to Vicente, asking if this could be true.
“Si, porqué no,” said Vicente musically. Yes, why not? He gazed at the mayor until the mayor glanced away.
A small group crossed the plaza herding a girl of twenty. She was very pregnant, and naked below the waist. Her slender body was black. As she got closer, Maggie saw the darkness was just dirt. Her bare feet were crusted and cracked. Her name was La Lula, the people said. She was an example of a retarded person.
“One for the records,” Carson said. He told Vicente that in India such people were considered holy. Vicente elaborated for the crowd, saying that the Señor Doctor was glad that this town took such good care of a poor opa, for it was a holy duty.
“Oh, very well we have taken care of her,” observed a male voice from the back of the crowd.
Carson confirmed what everyone could see: La Lula was seven months pregnant. No use asking who the father was, Vicente murmured. Who were La Lula’s parents? he asked loudly. Dead, said the voice of the crowd. Who will take care of her child? Vicente asked. Give it to the gringos, said the same mean man’s voice from behind the rest.
Carson announced that La Lula’s child would probably be normal, but that she might need help to care for it. Find a mother for the creature, Vicente commanded the crowd. An aunt. A cousin, someone who wants a criadito, a child to raise. Otherwise, this opa could let the baby die.
No one answered for a while. Then the mean voice said, “Look who repeats the commandments of the gringos!”
“Who speaks!” Vicente cried, but no one answered. “Who?” The crowd shuffled and withdrew slightly. “Cowards,” said Vicente. “Those who love life will listen well. The rest of you may kill your children, or slowly die of poison.”
La Lula giggled lewdly, swiveling her belly from side to side.
If she enjoyed sex as much as it seemed, surely she could let an infant find her nipple, Maggie thought. Vicente was telling La Lula that if strong pains came in her belly, she should call out loudly and run to any friendly person for help. La Lula just laughed and looked at the sky. Unlike most people around here, she had beautiful white teeth.
Maggie asked quietly whether La Lula would miss the baby if it was taken from her.
“She will forget,” Vicente said. “Why, would you like to have it?” His voice was tender; seeing Maggie’s mistrust, he quoted her words on caring for children who were already born.
“People would say the gringa came and stole it,” said Maggie bitterly.
“Verdad, Señora. Anyway, I think you’d prefer to have your own.”
…
“Guess I’d better not get pregnant,” Maggie said that night. She and Carson were lying side by side in bed, staring at the ceiling, their bodies so stiff with exhaustion that neither of them had wanted to get up and turn off the light.
Carson pulled himself up on one elbow. “Have you been worrying about it?”
“Yes, but I’m not late or anything,” she said. She could feel his gaze honing the outline of her profile, but could not turn to him, not even to his tenderness. She should have shared this part of herself with him long ago—after all, he was her husband, the most relevant person. Still, she could not muster the courage to tell him what she was thinking of.
She was thinking of a hibiscus flower in her belly. Of the young women she’d seen all over Peru, carrying babies in bright blankets on their backs, as if they were no burden. Of how children gathered around everyone’s knees as people sat relaxing in front of their houses. Of the older kids who played and ran in packs through the villages, supervised by any adult who was nearby. Of the way people said that children are the love inside the home. She could almost feel an infant lying between her breasts. It would fit between her navel and her collarbone. It would weigh her heart down nicely.
Meanwhile, soundless weeping surrounded Lady Maggy and all the children on the clinic’s list. There were dozens of cases now. Maggie’s wishes were not reasonable.
“You didn’t fall for Vicente’s guilt trip,” Carson mused, lying down again.
“What guilt trip?” Though Maggie knew quite well.
“You remember, in El Hoyo.” Carson’s finger touched the top of Maggie’s ear as he recited, in a mocking voice, Vicente’s question. He also reminded Maggie of the cruel insults Doña Ema had offered that night. “Such a primitive mentality. Women are wombs on legs, and if you don’t have kids you’re worthless. I wish I could protect you.” Maggie thanked him. “I’m not sure I really need you to,” she said, trying to begin the other conversation. She thought she’d spoken gently, but Carson sighed hard. “Okay, I won’t.” He got up, turned off the light, and lay back down.
“I hope it’ll eventually go away,” she told him in the dark. “Honey?”
Carson said firmly, “Me too. Good night, dear.”
She lay there blaming Vicente for putting the idea of a child into her mind again.
…
Carson took the next day’s bus up to the mine, saying he might return that night, more likely Sunday. Maggie pleaded to go. She could chat with miners’ wives about simple sanitation, or translate the subtleties of Carson’s meeting with Ignacio.
“Man the clinic,” Carson said. “I need to talk mano a mano. You’d hate the road, anyway.” He paid Vicente, told him to take two days off. After being in Piedras all week, he must want to check on his house upriver. Monday, they’d resume the schedule.
Vicente nodded in a slow, pondering way, then Maggie saw him turn left outside the clinic door. He walked north, not toward El Mirador at all, but toward the bridge and Piedras Baja.
18
IN THE CONVENT CHAPEL, qualities became things. Purity was the white smock all saints wore as an undergarment. Admonition a pointing finger. Fearlessness was eyes raised Heavenward while arrows pierced the chest. Althea felt closest to a little yellow dog who leapt up to lick a sore on Lazarus’s thigh. Hunger, she thought, or love? Love that doesn’t care about dirt and germs. Like the love that the priest, Brother Jesunanda, shows, washing the feet of the poor. Or like my own curiosity and hunger? A mind without pride.
She had taken to sitting in the chapel through the afternoons of the monsoon, feeling protected by the curtains of rain. Outside, huge drops splashed in liquid mud, forming saucer-sized indentations. Ripping the leaves and flowers, then joining a myriad of other drops all rushing down into the deep gutters. When a gust of wind blew, rain sprayed in through the church windows even though the verandah was six feet wide. Althea sat near the center aisle to avoid getting soaked.
One day Brother Jesunanda came in, wet, his hair in a row of Roman-soldier curlicues across his forehead, his peach gauze gown stained pumpkin by the rain. Althea had the impression that he was seeking a moment of solitude, but he recovered from his surprise at seeing her by reverting to his function as priest. He asked in a tone of superior comprehension whether she’d been praying. She said no, she had not; she already had everything she needed in life. He said: Prayer is not just a list of wants. At its best it is a celebration and an offering. Open yourself, open your heart, be with God. Then your prayer will always be satisfied. And your life will change. You will see that God is in you—eventually, that you are God.
Althea turned her face toward him, daring him to see what was in it.
…
Her mind had been unpleasantly at work since soon after she arrived at the convent, seething and working and worrying, calling up the loss of her son—not that she ever forgot about Christopher, not for an hour.
Johnny’s earthquake kept the bad memories alive. Or rather, thinking of Johnny in an earthquake. What if he died, too?
She’d begun by wondering in good wifely fashion how and where he was. Whether something would be shaken loose in him when he saw the mountains falling. Then she’d understood that she’d sent Johnny to Mongolia not for his own benefit, as she’d expressed to him, but because she wanted him to be broken in spirit, as she had been broken. She wanted him to see the face of death. A thing it was not within her rights or her powers to show to anyone. Instead, it seemed likely that Johnny might experience the earthquake as the most important thing in life. This idea filled her with helpless rage.
Then what if Johnny died?
She reminded herself of a man she’d seen in a late stage of rabies, tied to his bed by villagers. They’d brought Althea to him in hopes that she might help. The man spoke English; he’d been the local schoolmaster. His mouth working, he told her he was desperate to be untied in order to bite her. He wanted to bite everyone.
