He sits down across from her. His voice is urgent, low. “I am an incarnation of my country. My father was a campesino, a peasant who worked on a great hacienda near Arequipa. My mother was the daughter of the owner. They had known each other since childhood. They fell in love, and when I was born my father was whipped within an inch of his life and sent packing with his wounds untended. My mother never saw him again. She ran away and disappeared into Lima, where she worked as a seamstress in Rimac. She educated me in good schools, but for years I never knew the story of my birth. She is dead now, and I despise the system and the class that has made me a divided man. Peru must change, and I will do whatever it takes to bring about this change.” His face has a hard, steely set as he looks across the table at Kate. “But we ourselves will bring about this change.”
Kate says nothing. Everything he has said echoes the doubts she has begun to feel about what she and the other nuns and priests were doing here in Peru. He stares down at the notes he had taken when she had told him about her journey. “Now I’m going to have to get on the radio and place a call to Juliaca. I must verify your story.”
“Please.” Kate’s voice is hoarse. “I really want to get to Lima before nightfall.”
Avoiding her eyes, the lieutenant stands up, makes a slight stiff bow, and leaves the room. In a few minutes, she hears the squawking of the radio and some rapid two-way Spanish. After ten minutes Vargas stands in the doorway. “The Guardia in Juliaca have sent a messenger to the Maryknoll priests there. They will be calling here in a few minutes. You may speak with them after I do.”
Helplessly, Kate searches for something she can say. She has been foolish and thoughtless. She has run away blindly as an animal would, to avoid pain. Now she can hear Vargas talking to the pastor, Father Jack Higgins. Although the priest has a deep and simple faith, a boundless enthusiasm for the work, the pastor also has the dirtiest mouth of any priest she has ever known. Sister Josepha had tried to reassure her that this was simply his way of getting rid of tension, but Kate still flinched at the onslaught of his language. He will be furious now.
After several minutes of polite, carefully phrased inquiries on both sides, Lt. Vargas motions for Kate to sit in front of the radio and speak to the pastor. The voice of Father Jack Higgins sputters in the small room:
“God dammit, sister Mary Katherine, what in the . . . frigging hell are you doing?” He is making an effort to control himself, she knows, since he is on the public airwaves.
Kate holds the microphone close to her mouth, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m really sorry, Father, I just had to get away. I’m fine, really I am. Don’t worry.”
“How in the hell did you get that far? Josepha says she doesn’t think you have any money. Over.”
The stilted radio conversation is frustrating, especially with Vargas and his sergeant sitting there. She doesn’t know how much English they understand. “Oh, it’s a long story. Tell the sisters I’m fine. I’m going to Lima and I’ll write them as soon as I get there. I’m sorry for all the trouble. Over.”
“Trouble! That’s an understatement, missy. Tom’s been out in the jeep all night scouring the countryside for one small baby nun who doesn’t know her ass from a hole in the ground. Jesus Christ, Kate, I’m about ready to fire off a letter to your Mother Superior telling her to recall you immediately.”
Kate glances at Vargas. Was that a ghost of a grin? Oh Lord, let him not understand English.
“Yes, Father, I understand perfectly. Over.” Kate hopes her docile tone will mollify him. She hands the microphone back to Vargas who soon signs off with a curt expression of reassurance about her safety.
He looks at her somberly for a few moments. “I’m going to warn you, Sister, that what you are doing, traveling alone like this, is very dangerous. You have no identification; not every guardia is interested in an intellectual debate with a young, blue-eyed American nun. Do you understand me?”
Kate flushes at his implication and catches, too, the note of restrained gallantry. He is not joking, she knows. Her naiveté, she feels, only gives him further proof of her presumption in thinking that she is helping his people.
He looks at his watch. “The night bus leaves for Nazca and Lima at 7:00 p.m. The sergeant will take you to the station up the road and wait with you there until it arrives. Then you are on your own.”
Kate stands to thank him and holds out her hand to shake his when he grasps it suddenly and brings it just beneath his lips; then, with a quick, ceremonial bow over it, he abruptly releases her hand.
“I’m very grateful for your kindness, Lieutenant. Muy agredicida. I will think about what you said.”
Kate turns away and climbs into the jeep. When she looks back, Vargas is watching her from the door of the small police station, fondling absently the ears of a black dog that has sidled up to him.
C
hapter Thirteen
Without a word, the sergeant drives Kate to the bus station in Vitor. He parks the jeep, and, with a grunt, heaves himself out of the seat. It is dusk now, and the town’s few lights blink forlornly in a bar and one store lining the main street. Kate follows him across the street where, from an open door, the plaintive music of the mountains mingles with the hectic music of the coast. It must be Saturday night, she thinks, as she watches small bunches of drunken men lurch down the street, their arms
