The jeep climbed slowly up the curved highway that led out of the city, and soon La Paz lay like an inverted bowl beneath them. Tom leaned back and shouted over the engine, “This is one of the worst roads in the world. It curves through the Cordillera, and we’ll drop about 9,000 feet in fifty kilometers.” He turned back to watch the road, but his eyes sought hers in the rear view mirror. “If you feel sick, just shout, and I’ll try to pull over when I can.”
Soon Kate saw what he meant. The road was narrow, trailing off into dirt and rocks at the edge where there were no guard rails. Now they gazed down sheer cliffs studded with scrubby trees and boulders. Trucks packed with workers hurtled by them, not slowing as they raced around the hairpin turns. Often as they climbed they had to pull over to let the traffic coming downhill have the right of way. Several times traffic backed up where a bus had gotten stuck in a narrow curve. A few men would jump out and guide the driver with shouts and frantic motions as he tried to avoid the precipice that yawned below. Kate wondered at the carnival atmosphere. Everyone on the road seemed unfazed by the situation, while at each mile she felt terror gripping her stomach. She fought against the nausea.
Focused on the road, Tom drove steadily, not fast, and a few times she heard muttered curse words. No one spoke. Jeanne looked back at her several times, and Kate smiled reassuringly, not wanting to be the first one to get sick. After a while they were descending, and now Kate felt the air grow heavy and sweet. She rolled up her sleeves, and pinned her veil back to catch the warm breeze through the open window of the jeep. She smelled flowers and saw cascades of blue and orange and red bougainvillea spilling from the rocks. There hills were terraced, with coffee and sugar-cane fields. In only two hours they had entered a different universe. Yet still in the distance the snow-covered peaks of the Andes mocked this temperate new world.
They passed several waterfalls, with steam rising from rocks overhead. She heard a sweet, piercing bird call and realized how much she had missed the songs of birds during her months in the high plains. White crosses dotted the road, and Kate knew they were placed there in memory of people who’d died on this road.
After three hours Tom pointed to white and red roofs in the distance. There, nestled between steep jagged hills, lay the town of Coroico. The scent of orange blossoms and lemons filled the air. How could this tropical world exist so close to the barren, cold world they had just left? Her back was sweaty now from the heat.
It was noon when they arrived, and the town’s streets were quiet. Pots of begonia and roses bloomed in doorways and from small second-story balconies. They drove through the main plaza and headed down a shady side street to the Convent of the Poor Clares. There twelve nuns lived in a low, sprawling stucco building. On one side was a small room open to the public where the lay sister sold the peanut butter, biscuits, and wine the nuns made to support themselves. Tom beeped the horn lightly as they drove up, and Sister Marguerite, the one nun who was allowed to mingle with the public, came out wiping her hands on her apron.
“Ah there you are,” she cried. “And wasn’t I praying the whole morning for your safe arrival?”
Tom jumped out and hugged the little old nun, whose glasses fell down in the tumult. Her eyes shone up at her fellow Irishman; Kate could see the bond between them. His charm worked all over the countryside, she thought, yet he’d seemed so cold and distant to her at first and could be that way suddenly, without warning. She had seen him freeze up at a meeting when the discussion went on too long. He was still a mystery to her. Just then Tom turned and led the gray-and-black-clad nun over to the jeep.
“You know Sister Jeanne Marie, of course, and this is Sister Mary Katherine, the newest one in Juliaca.”
He helped Kate step down from the back seat, and Sister Marguerite gazed up at her.
“Welcome to Coroico, my dear. We’ve got your room in the guest house all ready. You must be exhausted after that terrible road.”
Puzzled, Kate turned to Jeanne, who smiled up at her and winked. “Poor thing,” said Jeanne. “You have to stay in the guest house. Because I’m on retreat I get to stay in cloister. Well, I guess this is where I say goodbye. I’ll see you when I get back.” Jeanne followed the little nun up the path to the main entrance.
Kate looked at Tom. “Where do you stay?” she asked, trying to keep a creeping note of exasperation out of her voice.
“I’ll be over at the priests’ house in the village. Men aren’t allowed to stay in the Convent.” He grinned at her, and Kate felt like smacking him. Had she come all this way to be dumped off like baggage and locked up alone in the guest house?
Sister Marguerite picked up Kate’s bag and grasped her arm. “I’ll show you to your room now. You must be finished entirely by the ride down here.”
She led Kate up a path on the side of the main convent to a low stucco building with a screened porch. As they stepped inside, the cottage smelled musty, yet every surface shone with polish. They passed through a sitting room to a hall with two bedrooms on either
