Well, between you and me, Lewis, this ain’t too much to show for forty years; this ain’t no place for no Talmudic scholar. And at this he began whimpering with mirth, snee, snee, snee, snee. Hey Lewis, lemme ask you, are we ever goin to amount to anythin, you and me?
ON a low rise above the slow brown river stood the Iglesia de la Virgen. Andy faltered in the road and stopped. The old church burst with chords. Its door was open, and she crept in out of the brightness of the day.
The interior was damp and deep dark-brown, and smelled of atrophy. A lone old woman crossed herself at the sight of the evangélica, and fled through a side door; the door resounded. A gasping human voice rose with the organ, and small candles flickered on pale gilt and silver at the altar.
“In Paradisum
Deducant te Angeli …”
She had never dared enter a Catholic church, and was astonished at the panoply of this small chapel of the backlands. In place of a communion table was a great stone altar and sepulchrum, with linen cloths, red candle glasses, and the vessels of the Eucharist; there was a canopy over the altar, and everywhere a wealth of silver plate. Two small windows of stained glass threw a theatrical and ruby-tinted light upon the altarpiece, and the whole was given benediction by a statue of the Virgin in a dark niche.
In this magnificence, as if enthroned, sat Padre Xantes, head bent to the organ; his head rolled joyfully as he sang, and his eyes were sealed by ecstasy. He had not seen her. She was moved by his unequal struggle with the mighty instrument, by his poor straining voice. Now he held a note, mouth open wide in song, as if drinking holy raindrops from the Heavens.
“Domine …”
The voice cracked on a note, coughed in vexation, and took up a soft rapid incantation:
“Inclina, Domine, aurem tuam ad preces nostras,
quibus misericordiam tuam supplices deprecamur:
ut animam famuli tui WILLIAM QUARRIER, quam de
hoc saeculo migrare jussisti, in pacis ac
lucis …”
Had she heard Billy’s name? How queer she felt! Though she knew no Latin, the priest’s ritual voice in the unearthly light evoked half-memories of illuminated manuscripts, of fat abbeys and round-pated monks, fair countrysides and far cathedrals against towering windy skies crossed by dark birds. Music and voice and soft dim light consoled her; she peered about her like a child.
“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine …”
Above the organ was a dark oil painting of a black Christ in extremis; a white Jesus in the altarpiece hung in life-size terracotta crucifixion. In this cruel work the wounds were lovingly incised, like bleeding mouths in the soiled shiny skin. Christ’s eyes rolled heavenward beneath a crown of thorns like spikes; his hair was matted and his face shrunken, his body was twisted and meager, and in his agony he wore a bright green loincloth, like the shiny dress material for a doll. His indignity was unbearable, and she turned away.
“Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna
In die illa tremenda
Quando coeli movendi sunt et terra …”
“We are a cru-el race, we Span-i-aards,” sang the tenor voice; Padre Xantes, still humming a little, drifted forward from behind the organ. He moved into the candlelight as if he had awaited her. “A cruel race, for we humiliate Him still, with our poor vulgar worship.” He gestured at the littered altarpiece. “It is scarcely a Fra Angelico, this relic of the noble conquistadores. But the black Christ of the painting was done by an Uyuyu of an earlier time, a convert more mystical, it would seem, than his religious teachers …” He gestured at the dreadful crucifixion. “As for that holy garment, it was blessed somewhere and sent along to me; a bird had snatched its predecessor for its nest.” When she did not smile with him, he nodded vaguely, sighing. “And do you like our church? I fear I am not in voice. Perhaps I am coming down with … influence? Influencia? Have you not caught it yet? The influence is everywhere in Madre de Dios. I fear for the poor Indians.”
“Influenza.” She shook her head. “I mustn’t interrupt your service.”
“But you are welcome here. It is only a rehearsal of the liturgy, the so-called Office for the Dead. And the service itself will be informal, a simple gesture to please myself; it is a sort of memorial service for two people who were not members of the Church.”
“Oh, I see! Well … but I must be going!”
His voice was soothing but insistent. “The service is for the innocent child, your countryman, and also for Señor Moon. The child’s death recalled to me the death of Señor Moon—is it not possible that this Moon also occupied some special place under the eye of God? Fools and children, no? And so a service for the two seemed quite appropriate.”
“But we … there was already a service for Billy!”
“And Moon?” Padre Xantes smiled. “In any case, I doubt if my little service will do the child much harm. The music is a Requiem used also, I believe, in certain Protestant churches.”
She nodded, doubtful. “Yes. I know the music.”
“The Requiem will be performed on the organ by myself, and sung in all its parts—baritone, soprano and choir—by the tenor voice of the same personage. Unless you would sing the soprano in my place.” He raised his hand. “You may do it in good conscience; there is no Roman Mystery being performed here.”
“But Moon was hostile to the church—your church as well as ours! Why are you doing this?”
“Why not?” He gazed at her; she could not answer. “Do not be unquiet, my child. Let us say that I was drawn to Señor Moon, who was plagued by my own troublesome search for knowledge, and that—while he was certainly very hostile to the Church—I did not feel that he was an unreligious man. Will that not satisfy your doubts?” He smiled. “I could inquire, after all, why you have come into this church. But I will not, because I see that you do not know.”
“I heard music …”
“Yes. The music is very beautiful. When one considers the soaring monument of art and toil and tears and song and love built up across the centuries in hope of God, one feels … what does one feel?” He shrugged helplessly.
She nodded. Suddenly she said, “Father, do you still believe that his death was inevitable?”
“I prefer to believe so.” The priest winced before he smiled. “The fall of Icarus—does it not affirm us? Otherwise, our own careful solutions appear … vain? In vain? Or even worse.”
“But suppose he didn’t fall.”
“If he did not fall, then he may put us in the un-Christian position of wishing secretly that he had.”
From where they stood, in the flickering mystery of the altar, the rectangle of sun which was the door to the day outside seemed hopelessly remote. She gasped for breath. “Padre Xantes? Please—forgive me, Padre—do you truly believe?”
He took both her hands in his. “My child, is that a question or a confession?” He bent his head when her tears came. “I do.” He lifted his surplice with his fingertips, as if in proof, then dropped it again, shutting his eyes on the glisten of his tears. “I love the Church,” he whispered. “And … a man like myself … I need it, you see … I need it.”
He turned his back on her and moved behind the organ. “Shall we sing?” He struck a chord. “The soprano solo of the Pie Jesu, perhaps—Pie Jesu, Domine, dona eis requiem—and then the In Paradisum, no?” He gazed at her. “Grant them rest,” he instructed her enigmatically, his face gone old. “God grant them rest.”
19
AFTER THE DEATH OF BILLY THE WILD NIARUNA DISAPPEARED, taking with them the boy Mutu; they did not come back. Kori and his band avoided Quarrier. They put on their pants and shirts again, despite his protests, and one night, after stealing what they could, they fled the mission.
Now there was a mission station and no Indians. Quarrier sent word by radio that all was quiet, but Leslie returned with Andy a week later, bringing with him four new Quechuas and news of the murder of some Tiros.
On their way upriver, the Hubens had
found Kori and his people in Remate. Kori would scarcely listen to Huben, having pledged fervent allegiance to Padre Xantes and the Church of Rome. Huben told Kori that he should be very ashamed of the great wickedness of this sin, and Kori said earnestly that he knew he should be very ashamed but that he wasn’t.
Leslie gave full credit to the Lord for their safe deliverance from the episode with Tukanu, alluding several times to his own agonies during his ordeal; he wore the wounds upon his hands as if they were stigmata, and spoke over and over of the arrow shot at him by Aeore. Quarrier did not bother to point out that Aeore rarely missed except intentionally. He was happy to see Andy, to watch her smile, and he did not hear Huben when the latter, as if conscious that his voice had lost its audience, addressed him.
“What?” he said. “I’m sorry, Leslie, I didn’t—”
“I said, what was that word you shouted at them?”
“Kisu. Isn’t that how it’s pronounced? It was in that dictionary that Moon took, the one you made up with Yoyo. It’s the Niaruna word for our Lord Jesus.” Martin frowned. “Leslie, are you sure … I mean, you saw how frightened they were when I yelled out that name …”
“Well, I don’t really remember this ‘Kisu’ of yours,” Leslie said shortly, getting to his feet. “But I’ll give you credit, fella—it works!”
“I mean, why are they so frightened of us? You’d certainly think, after all this time—”
“Well, it’s very strange, I must say,” Leslie interrupted, as if unable to imagine why Quarrier would want to frighten Indians. He seemed nervous and distracted; he glanced at each of them, one by one, frowned, muttered, shrugged, and went outside.
“In Paradisum
Deducant te Angeli …”
“What are you singing, for goodness’ sake! Isn’t that some kind of Latin?”
Huben bang-banged his heels upon the floor; he was checking his shoes for scorpions. His voice was clear through the partition, on the other side of which the Quarriers lived in silence. Once they had heard the Hubens making love, and were goaded into making love themselves; Quarrier thought of this as the most sordid act of all his life.
“In Paradisum: it’s the last part of the Requiem.”
“Well, I don’t get it. My goodness, Andy, this is no time for Opposition songs!”
“A sunbeam, a sunbeam, Jesus wants me for a SUNbeam …”
Quarrier smiled.
“What has she got to sing about,” Hazel was muttering. Her big back to her husband, she had been speaking to the mosquito netting inside which she lay, but now she rolled over on the bed like something struggling in its cocoon.
“Heh, heh,” she sneered, through the pale netting; of late she had affected the evil laugh of old-time movie villains. “The sociologist! Researching with Indian harlots, in the Sodom called Mother of God!”
At other times, for days and days, she did not speak. She passed most of the hours of light in sleep, and at night sat in the open doorway, slapping vaguely and rhythmically at the pium gnats. Quarrier would lie awake and watch her. He could not reach her any more, and did not try. Daily his wife bore the cross of her own grief, and the red bites which covered her were marks of penance.
Oh God, she called out to the heavens, where are the seasons in this place? Are there no seasons but rain and rain and rain? Is every day the same terrible twelve hours, no more and no less, forever and ever? Answer me! Are we in hell and do not even know it?
Declaiming, she paced up and down and up and down, at bay before the dripping walls; yet she was conscious of her husband’s eyes, and made a sport of her own suffering. She pointed to the jungle. “Look at it! Look at it stare back at me! No privacy, no privacy! If I could only fly over those trees, get up, get out—aagh!” She clawed at the big body that she hated, and clawing, found a tick. “Ticks! Redbugs! Sweat bees! Spiders big as frogs! Oh God!” She gasped for breath and began weeping, and then, with a sly glance, she raised her eyes heavenward, hands clasped piously beneath her chin.
“I am redeemed, but not with sil-ver
I am redeemed, but not with gold
Bought with a price, the Love of Jeesus
Precious price of Love Untold!”
When her hymn was finished, she said to him almost inaudibly, “Why don’t you help me?”
“What?”
“Help me,” she murmured, smiling sadly. “All you do is look at me. Do you think I can’t see what you are thinking? Do you take notes on your disgusting wife, the way you take notes on the savages?”
He rose and went to her.
“Stay away from me,” Hazel said. “I cannot bear your comforting—you are only comforting yourself.” She gazed at him. “Help me,” she said.
He stood there, helpless.
“Do something,” she said. “Do anything. Shout at me, hit me, but for pity’s sake let me know that I’m alive!” Her voice was rising. “It’s all the things you judge and understand! It’s your awful compassion that is so unbearable, it’s your Christian mercy!”
There was silence on the far side of the partition.
“You’re a regular little four-eyed Jesus!” Hazel cried.
He gazed at her without expression. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,” he said, and walked outside.
“Oh God, don’t turn your back on me again!”
He whirled to answer her; the Hubens drew back from their doorway. “Mind your own business!” he shouted at them.
Andy had started forward, but now turned to Hazel, who was in hysterics. Leslie came tentatively toward Martin, who had sunk to his knees. “I guess Hazel’s still kind of upset,” he said.
“I haven’t helped her, not one bit—I’ve failed her!” Quarrier shuddered. “And maybe I failed Billy too—perhaps she’s right. My God, what kind of man am I, that I ruin everything I touch!” He pounded both fists on the ground, face streaming. “I had four wild souls right here for months, and not one of them was saved—they hated me!”
“Now Martin! Martin, you mustn’t lose your head like this, this isn’t like you—” In desperation, Leslie spoke of the trials given by the Lord to all His servants, at which Quarrier immediately stopped weeping and stamped off rudely to check the gift racks.
Despite the fact that they had lost contact with the Niaruna, that even Kori had backslid all the way to Rome, Leslie clung to his idea that Billy’s death had been the means of a Niaruna conversion. Quarrier’s outburst only affirmed his conviction that Quarrier must be at fault, not only for his failure to see and utilize the workings of the Lord, but for the anguish of his wife. Leslie’s attitude toward Hazel seemed to be that if no notice was taken of her, she would come around again, or perhaps go away.
But Andy was glad that the problem of Hazel had been brought into the open, and later she said to Quarrier, “You mustn’t mind if Leslie doesn’t seem to realize how serious the situation is. Leslie’s such an optimist, you know; he can’t bear to look at anything but the bright side of things.”
Quarrier nodded; Leslie had even convinced himself that they were under no danger of attack, that the Niaruna would soon return despite the presence of the soldiers. “Perhaps you could talk to her, Andy,” he said. “She will not talk to me. She blames me for Billy’s death, you see, and … well, for other things …”
“I’ve tried,” Andy told him, “over and over. But she always says you’ve put me up to being nice to her. She always says … she …”
“What? She always says what?”
“She speaks so strangely, Martin. She talks about how big and ugly she is—why, she isn’t at all!” Andy interrupted herself to dab her eyes. “She has such dignity and style sometimes, she’s very handsome, Martin!”
Her tone seemed to suggest that if Hazel had any such idea, Quarrier must have put it in her head. Well, Hazel had thought she was big and ugly long before he met her; he hadn’t given her the idea. On the other hand, how much had he done to rid her of it? Perhaps his love, in
those days when he had loved her, had not been enough. He remained silent.
“I may as well tell you, Martin—Hazel is a very sick person.” Andy’s fierceness touched him. “She … one minute it’s all fire and brimstone, and the next … she blasphemes … I mean, awful things … I can’t even repeat …”
“I know,” he said. “She thinks … I think it’s the jungle. The jungle is evil to her in some way, she isn’t herself here.”
“That must be it,” Andy said. After a pause she said, “She even accuses you …”
“I know,” he said. “About Billy.”
“Martin, if I had been Hazel, I would have wanted Billy to be flown out too.” When he nodded, she reached over and took his hand. “But I was thinking of other things …”
“My Indian harlot? I don’t excuse myself. In my heart I had sinned …”
She took away her hand. “Martin, she says that you love me, not her—oh, not love exactly!” She clenched her fists in embarrassment and vexation. “I mean, that you lust after me, that’s her expression. How can I talk to her when she thinks that? Oh, the poor thing, how lonely she must be!” Andy was crying again. “It’s so absurd and sad!”
“Yes,” he said after a moment.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, it’s absurd and sad.” He was flushing so violently that when she stood up he felt she must have seen through to his heart, and had recoiled from him. But when she spoke her tone was level, and she looked him straight in the face; she was giving him the benefit of the doubt.
“Martin, I don’t mean I’ve given up. I’ll try again, and again and again, if necessary. But you must try, too; you must show her how much you love her, these days especially. And one day, you’ll see, you’ll both be so happy again.”
Though he nodded, his heart sank at her words. In this moment he scarcely cared about Hazel and her great unwieldy problems, or about the Niaruna, or even about Billy, or their God; he cared only about this childlike girl in a pale blue dress. His rough face had never concealed a thing, and he turned away.