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 was 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
