“Ah, superstition, is it?” Peter looks at her with amusement.
She sighs. To him all religion is superstition, she supposes. “I admit, it’s pretty hard to make a sympathetic case for Christianity when you think about what the Spaniards did here. In a way, I think our being here, living among the Aymara people in these desolate towns and villages, is a way of atoning for the past.” She pauses, but Peter is silent, taking a drag on his cigarette. She continues: “You know, I spent a few weeks in Lima before I went to language school. I loved the people there. They were easy and friendly. But up here, the people are different. Much harder to get to know.”
“Why should you be surprised at that? First of all, you don’t speak their language. Some of the people you met in Lima are middle class, more European, more like you. You didn’t encounter the otherness of Peru until you came here.” He glances over at her. “Who is this Father Tom?”
“A priest I work with. He’s from Ireland.” She looks out the window, hoping he won’t ask any more questions about Tom.
He glances at his watch. “We’re almost halfway there. Why don’t we look for a place to stop and eat lunch?”
They have entered a break in the mountains and are passing through a wide grassy valley. A silver thread of river winds through it, bordered by fields of bright green alfalfa. Overhead the sky is the same hard brilliant blue as the mountains. They spot a small shack with a tattered chicha flag flapping smartly above the door. Rusty tables have been set out in the shade of a few trees.
Peter parks the jeep and tells her to wait in the car. After a few minutes inside the shack, he emerges into the sunlight and motions for her to join him. She brings the lunch he had packed that morning, and they sit across from one another at a small table.
A balding, heavy-set man brings out two tall glasses of chicha. He bows slightly. “Buenas tardes, madre,” he murmurs, not looking at her directly. Kate feels her face flush. What does the man think, seeing a nun having lunch with this gringo in blue jeans? She hopes he is simply glad for the customers, and not especially surprised at anything these foreigners do.
The sun is warm on their backs, and Kate can already feel the heavier air of the lower altitude. They don’t speak much, listening mainly to the hum of the insects in the cypress branches above them. Few cars pass on the road, and the air is still.
Peter sits smoking and watches as Kate cuts into an apple and hands a piece to him. “Isn’t there a biblical scene something like this?” he grins, his face boyish despite the lines. Confused, Kate realizes that she likes his teasing. It has a comfortable normalcy after weeks of overheated tension. Nothing has felt real to her lately.
Hours later, when they reach Arequipa the sun is setting. “That’s Misti,” Peter says, pointing out a conical peak covered with snow, gleaming in the last rays of the sun. “Arequipa has the best climate in Peru, an eternal spring.”
She wonders if Peter has someone he’s going to see here, someone special. For the first time today she begins to worry; she can’t expect him to take care of her. Peter glances over at her. “I’m just going to run in here and make a phone call. I think I know a Peace Corps worker you could stay with for a couple of days.” Without waiting for a response from her, he jumps out of the jeep.
As he disappears into the small farmacia, Kate knows what she will do. For a moment she looks hesitantly at the navy blue jacket Peter loaned her that morning; then she snatches it up and climbs down from the jeep. Rapidly, she crosses the street and tries to blend into the throngs of workers headed toward the bus stop at the Plaza de Armas. Aware that her habit makes her conspicuous, she has to find somewhere to hide from Peter. He will probably try to find her.
She crosses the Plaza de Armas, passing a three-tiered fountain that splashes water on her white habit, and turns down a side street into an old colonial section of the city. Sunlight glares on the white streets, blinding her. Suddenly she is in front of an old mansion, its coat of arms carved in the porous volcanic stone. From iron gates, great puma heads stare at her, serpents writhing from their mouths. Beneath the serpents are carved ccantu, the sacred flower of the Incas. The gates are locked.
Finally she comes to a square with benches in the shade of scrub oak trees. A statue of St. Francis opens his arms to the people hurrying past. She sees a church with an intricately carved door. A perfect hiding place.
She pushes open the door and steps over the high wooden portal. The church smells of must and incense. Candles flicker in front of various statues; hundreds more burn in front of a tall Virgin Mary. Her cape is blue velvet; her veil is scarlet. Necklaces and rings cascade from her neck, glittering in the candlelight.
Someone would probably lock the door after dark; she can stay here tonight if no one sees her. Kate sinks to her knees in a side pew, folding the jacket beneath her arms. Feeling a slight bulge in the pocket, she pulls out a note wrapped around a wad of soles.
Sister Mountain Spirit,
Just in case you decide to bolt, this may help you get wherever in hell you are going. Good luck in your flight. I’ll be worried until I know you are safe.
Best,
Peter
So, he
