Toward That Which is Beautiful Read online

  She remembers her first glimpse of Tom. It was in December, just six months ago, after she’d traveled all night on the bus from language school in Cochabamba to La Paz. At the train station, she was to meet the team of priests and nuns she would be working with in Juliaca. Cold and tired, she’d felt relieved to see the tall form of a Dominican nun waiting for her in the crowd. When Sister Josepha embraced her, Kate breathed in the clean, unmistakable scent of Palmolive soap. Then she noticed two men standing by, waiting to be introduced.

  Sister Josepha led her over to the priests. “This is our pastor, Sister, Father Jack Higgins.” Kate felt her hand crushed between the rough hands of a tall, gray-haired man in a black windbreaker. Beneath it she saw a gray sweater, but no evidence of a Roman collar. He motioned to the man beside him, and Kate looked up into blue eyes that reminded her of a winter sky in Missouri.

  “Tom Lynch,” he said, and she recognized the tones of the west of Ireland, the lilt of her grandfather.

  “Sister Mary Katherine O’Neill,” she found herself saying in her most prim nun voice.

  “Well, Sister Mary Katherine O’Neill, let’s get the hell out of here. It’s freezing, and we haven’t had breakfast.” Grabbing her suitcase, he strode ahead as Sister Josepha and Father Jack walked beside her through the crowded bus station. She’d had the faint impression that Tom Lynch was making fun of her, but soon forgot about him in her struggle to breathe. Her heart racing, she had to stop several times to catch her breath.

  “It’s the altitude, my girl. You’re at 12,000 feet now,” boomed Father Jack. “You’ll soon get used to it. Why, look at Josepha here. She’s a pro by now.”

  Sister Josepha smiled slightly and took Kate’s arm. “Don’t worry, Sister. We all felt that way at first.” The nun led her to the street where Father Tom was already in the jeep, waiting.

  He drove fast through the winding, narrow streets of La Paz, barely missing several campesinos heading for market with baskets of potatoes and beans. They pulled up in front of a two-story brick bungalow on a shady street that angled sharply up a steep hill.

  “Now don’t get used to all this luxury,” warned Father Jack. “Juliaca is nothing like this. We’re having breakfast with the St. Louis priests and nuns at the convent of Cristo Rey; then we’ll drive on to Juliaca later today.”

  Tom had already hopped out and was at the front door, greeting the two nuns who stood there and slapping the backs of a couple of priests in the entrance. He looked more like a politician than a priest.

  During breakfast the whole group wanted to hear the latest gossip from Cochabamba and the language school. Kate told them about her teachers, especially the ruthless nineteen-year-old Mirta who had made her life miserable for the two weeks she had taught Kate Spanish. Then over bacon and eggs and strong coffee, the men and women traded stories of their own struggles to learn the language. Many had studied Aymara and Quechua as well as Spanish. Kate was stunned by the easy camaraderie among them; some called each other by first names, unlike the stiff “Yes, Sister,” “No, Father,” repeated endlessly at home.

  Kate found herself glancing too often down the table to where Tom Lynch was engrossed in a quiet conversation with a white-haired priest for much of the meal. Once she heard the younger priest raise his voice and pound his fist on the table.

  “Well, the gobshites that did this will pay. Kennedy was a great man, and you Americans will see to your shame what follows.”

  The group quieted suddenly at the mention of the luminous young president, the first Catholic to hold the office, gunned down in Dallas in November. Father Jack said they were waiting anxiously for copies of TIME and Newsweek to arrive with the news they had only gotten in bits and pieces over the shortwave radio from Maryknoll in New York. Though Bolivian papers were full of the news, Father Jack complained about the confused accounts he read. “Or maybe it’s just my Spanish that’s confused,” he said with a sigh.

  Kate hadn’t believed the news of the president’s death at first when the young Chilean teacher who was her favorite had told her gently that morning at language school. How could he be dead, their young president, who had stood hatless among the sober old men on the morning of his inauguration? She’d seen all those pictures in LIFE Magazine, Kennedy scooping up his daughter, playing on the beach with his son, grinning down at his dark-haired wife. To her he seemed everything a man should be. Secretly Kate had felt a fierce tribal pride that he was Irish Catholic. And now he was gone. Today was the first chance she’d had to talk about the assassination with Americans. They felt shame and confusion, as did Kate. What was happening to their country?

  The meal broke up quietly, and soon Sister Josepha was loading the jeep with supplies for the infirmary in Juliaca as well as groceries for their house.

  They left the city slowly, winding up the bowl-like city streets in a cloud of mist for half an hour. Kate felt nauseated, light-headed.

  Father Jack turned around, his arm draped over the seat. “You know, Sister, it’s summer here now, so that means the rainy season.”

  Kate pulled her black wool cloak tightly around her and reached into her bag for gloves. The damp cold was penetrating, and she was glad for the hearty breakfast that still warmed her.

  “Just think of the Altiplano like Scotland, and you’ll always be dressed right,” said Tom, not taking his eyes from the treacherous road. “Summer is never summer here.”

  “I’ve been spoiled by Cochabamba,” said Kate. “The weather was perfect there—cool nights and warm hot days.” Kate thought wistfully of the garden in back of the Maryknoll house where she had studied each afternoon, a glass of iced tea at her side.

  “Ha—that’s our strategy, young Sister,” laughed Father Jack. “We soften you up for the kill in Coch and then we let you see Juliaca.”

  Sister Josepha took out her breviary; Father Jack was snoozing in the front seat. It had begun to rain, and Kate found herself watching Tom’s long white hands on the steering wheel and the way the black hair on them curled. Occasionally he would glance at her in the rear view mirror, but he looked away when their eyes met.

  She stared out through the rain. The flat treeless pampas were deserted. They passed a little boy, about seven or eight, herding his scraggly bunch of sheep with a stick. Kate wondered how far he had to go. After a while the sun came out and white clouds appeared and disappeared in roadside lakes made by the rain. Blue and white and gray, an alien landscape flashed by with nothing familiar. Nothing seemed real except the snowcapped mountains in the ever receding distance. Then, at last, she fell asleep.

  Kate awoke with a jolt to hear Father Jack exclaim, “What the fuck?” He leaped out of the jeep. A taxi, actually an ancient American Ford, was on its side in the ditch. The five or six passengers stood around the driver who sat on the ground holding his head in his hands. As she climbed out of the jeep, Kate saw the stream of red oozing from a gash over his eye.

  Walking to the edge of the road, Kate heard a faint sound below. Down a steep incline, she saw six dead sheep scattered like stuffed toys on the brown field. A small boy—could it be the one she had glimpsed earlier?—stood nearby, weeping helplessly. Kate came over to him as the priests went to see if the taxi driver was hurt. The child wiped his runny nose on the back of his hand and gazed dully up at her. A blue stocking cap was pulled down over his head; the sharp lines in his face made him look like an old man. Around his mouth was a patch of rough white skin. His aqua sweater, with its carefully mended patches at the elbows, was too small. Gray pants, baggy and torn, fell down over his rubber sandals. He had a dirty white cloth wound around his shoulder and chest. Kate guessed it held his lunch. When he began to wail, Sister Josepha came over to where Kate stood watching helplessly.

  “Nene, que pasó?” The older nun knelt in the dust next to the boy, her face close to his. He began talking rapidly in Aymara. Kate caught only some of his words, but gradually it became clear that the taxi had hit his flock of sheep as it wa
s rounding the curve in the road. Now his father would beat him, for he had lost the sheep he was guarding. Kate saw a man in the distance approaching from the fields, dressed in black with a felt hat pulled down over his face. As he neared, the child ran to him and threw himself at his feet.

  The father bent over and brushed the boy’s head with a swift gesture and then gently disentangled himself from the boy’s grasp. He looked at the carnage impassively, then slowly walked up the hill to the taxi and the two priests. A long conversation took place, with the taxi driver gesturing wildly and motioning toward the child. Kate couldn’t tell what was happening, but finally she saw Father Jack take out a notebook and write down something as the two Bolivians looked on. Everyone shook hands then, but the eyes of the farmer looked murderous to Kate. By now the boy had gathered together the few remaining sheep; he followed his father down the steep bank toward the faraway hills.

  Back on the road, the two priests discussed the incident for a long time. Kate could think only of the child’s despair. In her poor Spanish and non-existent Aymara, she hadn’t been able to comfort him. By noon they came to the border crossing at Desaguadero. Stiff and cold, Kate was relieved to climb out of the jeep. She stretched and looked around for a bathroom. Suddenly Father Tom appeared next to her. He motioned for her to follow him into the office of the guard.

  “Have your passport ready to be stamped,” he said over his shoulder. “You need the salida from Bolivia, and then you’ll get the entrada into Peru.”

  She handed the priest her passport. He opened it idly and read aloud: “Born May 1st, 1938. 5’6”, 118 pounds. Hair, light brown, eyes, blue.” He grinned and handed it back. “I wonder if they’ll be checking your hair color now, Sister Mary Katherine.”

  Why did he always say her name like that, drawing it out sarcastically? It was irritating. She shot him a look that was meant to be defiant, but it was wasted, for he had already walked over to the guard’s desk to begin negotiations for stamping.

  Kate was beginning to realize that nothing official in this country would be easy. It seemed that the man in charge of stamping had gone to lunch. He would most certainly be back in two hours, but the visitors, the guard emphasized, were more than welcome to wait in the office chairs or take lunch at a nearby café.

  As Kate followed the Irish priest out of the office, she tried not to hear the good-natured curses that flew between Father Jack and Tom. She hoped no one passing by understood English. Then the two priests decided to get beers at the only bar in town. “Sisters, care to join us?” asked Father Jack.

  “Oh, no thanks, Father,” said Sister Josepha. “Sister and I will look around town and get a little snack.”

  Kate supposed this tour would take no more than five minutes. Gazing at the shabby gray buildings, she stepped carefully around the muddy puddles in the dirt road, holding her habit above her ankles.

  They found a cramped cafe with a few tables huddled in one corner. The meal for the day was rice and beans with a small piece of dried codfish plopped in the middle. The nuns ordered una gaseosa, soda, to drink, knowing it would be safer than tap water. Kate was relieved to see the owner of the cafe, who apparently doubled as the waiter, bring two bottles of Coca-Cola to their table. Her stomach felt rocky. “I’m not feeling so well,” she said.

  “It’s soroche, altitude sickness,” Sister Josepha said. “It can really be very bad. Mother Mary Margaret had to have oxygen when she visited us here last year.”

  “But I’ve noticed that neither you nor the priests seem to be bothered by the altitude. How long will it take me to get used to it, do you think?” Kate hated to think of herself as weak and sickly. It had scared her that every few feet they walked she had to stop and catch her breath as if she’d just run a race.

  “Oh, but we’ve been here for years. Give yourself time. Your body will accustom itself to the rarefied air, little by little. Jeanne Marie says that the people who live here have more blood than we do. Their lungs have expanded, too.”

  Sister Josepha poured her Coke into one of the two smudged glasses the owner brought on a tray. Kate decided she’d drink hers right from the bottle.

  Sister went on, “The funny thing is that when the people from the Altiplano go down to the coast, they get sick. Their bodies can’t take the thick, humid air.” She looked closely at Kate, her light blue eyes narrowing beneath almost invisible blond eyebrows. “You’re in a different world here, Sister.”

  Around two-thirty the customs official strolled toward his office, picking his teeth meticulously as he unlocked the door. Peering over his wire spectacles, he read slowly, mouthing each word silently. Finally with a flourish, he stamped their documents. Soon the group crossed the bridge into Peru, where another wait was in store as their passports were carefully inspected and stamped again. “Damn it to hell,” Father Jack muttered as he climbed in the driver’s seat. “We have at least another four hours to Puno. I don’t think we’ll make Juliaca by dark, do you Tom?”

  “It depends on what’s ahead. The rain seems to have cleared.” Suddenly Tom turned around and looked at Kate. “Would you by any chance know how to drive a jeep?”

  Before she could answer Sister Josepha intervened. “Oh Father, you know she just got here. We can hardly expect her to drive these strange roads.”

  But Kate was determined to prove herself to the Irishman. “Of course, I can drive. My brother taught me years ago in our old Chevy Nova. One of the first things I did when I got to Lima last June was to get a driver’s license. It took at least five trips downtown and a whole month before I could take the test. I’ll be happy to drive.”

  “Good. You can drive when Jack gets tired. We have a long way to go.”

  In the dim light of the back seat, Kate examined Tom’s profile, his high forehead and thin curved nose. She watched as he settled into his seat, hunkering down in his wool jacket. He turned around to look at her.

  “It’s grand to meet a nun who has a brother. Now maybe you won’t be so shocked by the male crudeness around here.” When Tom laughed, Sister Josepha hit him smartly on the back with her breviary. He pulled his collar up and yawned, “I’m going to sleep now. The beer has caught up with this one, I fear.”

  Kate closed her eyes, too, only to wake in darkness to the screech of a train. “We’re here,” Sister Josepha whispered. Kate looked out the window. She could see the outlines of a few buildings. The town was dark except for the lights of the train station at the end of the street.

  Father Jack turned into a driveway on the side of a squat solid church and drove past several buildings, dark and silent. What time was it? Kate wondered. Lights burned in one long low building at the edge of the compound.

  “The sisters are still awake,” Sister Josepha said. “They shouldn’t have waited up. They’ll be dead tomorrow morning.” But she sounded happy nonetheless, and before the jeep stopped, the front door swung open and Kate saw two nuns silhouetted in the light. Soon everyone was milling around, unloading supplies and chattering. The smaller of the two nuns introduced herself as Sister Jeanne Marie. Kate had a blurred impression of brown eyes and a soft rounded body.

  “We’re so glad you’re here, Sister. It’s lonely up here and we’ve been needing some young blood. We’ve been counting the days until you finished language school.” She grabbed Kate’s arm and gestured toward the white-veiled novice who was carrying groceries into the house. “And you’ll be good company for our latest addition, I hope. Sister Magdalena doesn’t quite know what to make of life up here.”

  Kate was puzzled by this, but in the confusion of unloading the jeep there was no time to ask questions. She turned to thank the two priests for bringing her to the mission, but all she saw were the jeep’s red tail lights receding in the distance.

  Now in this stranger’s house, Kate tries to remember if even then she noticed that her world seemed flatter and less luminous after Tom Lynch left them that night. She does remember being surprised by the warmth an
d good taste of the convent.

  The house she entered that first night in Juliaca was one she never would have expected to find in the Altiplano. In the States, it would be regarded as a modest brick bungalow, one in which a blue-collar family might be comfortable. But in this country, where the people they passed lived in mud-and-grass huts, it was a palace. She thought with confusion of her vow of poverty. To the people of the Altiplano, the foreign nuns and priests must seem rich, privileged like the landlords they worked for.

  The small front parlor was austere enough, a few stiff wooden chairs and a large crucifix on one wall. But then beyond the translucent glass door, where few were admitted, Kate entered a rectangular room lined with bookshelves on one side and dark red plaid curtains on the other. At the far end of the room was a fireplace, with an old sofa and two easy chairs arranged around it; Kate saw a basket of red knitting on one of the chairs. The wide planks of the wooden floor gleamed.

  “What a lovely room,” Kate said uncertainly.

  “Yes, we’ve tried to make it comfortable,” said Sister Josepha, looking around proudly as if she were an industrious housewife. “But you can see everything else tomorrow. You’ll have your first day off to get used to the altitude. Then we’ll put you to work. Oh, the bell will ring at five thirty. Lauds and meditation are at six in the church. Sister Magdalena will show you to your room.” She looks carefully at Kate. “Will you be all right? You look a little pale.”

  “I’m so tired, but thanks, Sister. Thanks for bringing me here.”

  Sister Magdalena looked shyly at Kate and picked up her suitcase. Kate followed the novice down a hall past several closed doors on either side. She pushed open the door to Kate’s room, smiled up at her, and whispered, “Bienvenida a Perú, Hermanita Catalina. Nos vemos mañana.” She closed the door of Kate’s room quietly.