Kate realized how happy she felt to be on the road, in a new place. The world of Juliaca was still strange to her after two months. She felt a constant strain as she tried to understand the new world she was in. Now for a few days she could play the part of the tourist. Best of all, there was nothing here to remind her of Tom.
They found the small pension on the Plaza 2 de Febrero. Everything in this town revolved around the great dark Virgin; even the streets were named for her feast day.
The three nuns entered a tiny vestibule and waited until their eyes became accustomed to the darkness. They finally made out a gray-haired woman, all in black, standing behind a desk, waiting for them in silence.
In her heavy Midwestern US accent, Sister Josepha negotiated in Spanish for a double room with access to a hot shower. The señora insisted that the only time there would be hot water would be between two and four in the afternoon. They were finally given the key to a room that turned out to be wide and clean, with four single beds lined up against one wall. The two windows looked out over the plaza. In the distance gleamed Lake Titicaca.
Kate stood at the window, watching a group of campesinos below struggling to put on the feather headdresses of their costumes. From above they looked like a flock of nervous birds as their feathers swayed and shone in the brightness of the afternoon sun. She could hear bands playing all over town. The music of a flute soared over the drums, and the chords of the charango increased the tempo. From further away came sounds of tubas and horns.
They joined the crowds in the streets and made their way to the plaza and the shrine of Copacabana. The wide cobble-stoned plaza was thronged with people in their feast-day best. No one paid much attention to the three American nuns in their long white habits. The Dominicans had come here in the 1600s, Josepha explained, so their habits fit in with the colonial atmosphere. They stopped in front of a Moorish-looking arch. Through the arch Kate could see three tall wooden crosses against the blue sky where huge clouds mushroomed in the distance. The white cathedral was outlined against the dark, distant peaks of the Andes. Jeanne Marie wanted to take a picture, and posed Josepha and Kate in front of the arch.
They passed through the arch, crossed the wide courtyard, and entered the cathedral. From brilliant sunshine they stepped into a vaulted dark space, chilled by stone never warmed by the sun. To the left of the altar, Kate noticed the towering pulpit carved in the ornate, heavy style so loved by the Spaniards. But who had carved this? It must have been the native people, taught by the craftsmen from the old world. What had they thought as they’d hewn out these cherubs surrounded by fruit and leaves? As she stared she saw a small carved serpent peeking from under a vine. His fixed smile made her shudder. The candle in the sanctuary lamp glowed through the silver filigree of its frame. Kate hurried to catch up with the other two nuns in front of the high altar.
Towering above the gold and jewels of the altar was the black Madonna, encased in glass. Remote and young, the image stared out over the heads of the pilgrims who came to honor the Mother of God. Everyone was on their knees now, except Kate. She stood stubbornly, gazing at the carved face above her. It’s just an image, she thought. She watched the faces of the people around her. They wept, they murmured, they lifted their arms, pleading with the young Virgin to succor them. Their great trust moved her. She too sank to her knees and began to repeat the Litany of the Blessed Mother she had prayed only a few Mays ago as a teenager in the church at St. Roch’s. “Mystical Rose, Star of the Sea, Tower of Ivory, House of Gold, Ark of the Covenant, Star of David, pray for us . . .”
When she looked up at last she saw Sister Josepha still on her knees beside her, her eyes shut tightly, her mouth whispering the Hail Mary as she clutched her worn rosary beads. Jeanne was not there. Kate rose and genuflected in front of the altar and maneuvered through the crowds streaming in to the back of the church, where she found Jeanne reading an inscription on a small stone. She looked up as Kate came near, and read aloud. “The statue of the Virgin de la Candelaria was carved in the late 1570s by the Inca artist Francisco Yupanqui, grandson of the Inca Tupac Yupanqui.”
Again, this confusing mixture of Catholicism and the ancient religions of Peru. The town had been a shrine for the Inca before the arrival of the Spaniards. It had been built in honor of the sun god and his children Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo. In the sixteenth century, after the presentation to the town of the statue of the Virgin, miracles occurred. Soon the people were streaming in from the countryside to honor the Virgin. The cathedral had arisen from the faith of the pilgrims. All this devotion to a statue was foreign to Kate. It bordered on idolatry.
“Come on, Kate. Let’s go see the dancing. This church is freezing,” Jeanne whispered to her as she grabbed her elbow and moved Kate out the door and into the sunshine.
Kate was grateful for Jeanne Marie. Her mind was decidedly unmystical. Practical and brisk, she worked hard, yawned her way through early morning prayer, and shrugged at long discussions on the meaning of existence. She didn’t struggle with her life; it seemed to Kate, she relished her work. She was outraged only by human stupidity and cruelty. The body was her field
