Magdalena chatters on. Her father and she were just coming home after work. Magdalena explains that he is a teacher in San Miguel, a private school for boys in San Isidro, a wealthy suburb on the other side of the city. She has been working in the office of his school as a secretary until she can enter the Universidad Católica in the fall.
“We had just gotten off the bus in Rimac when I saw you, blood on your habit. I couldn’t believe it was you, Sister!” Magdalena’s voice rose.
“Rimac?” Kate looks puzzled.
Magdalena’s mother cannot resist asking her now. “But madre, what were you doing in this neighborhood? It is not safe for any woman to be walking alone at night.”
“Chabelita, leave her in peace. The girl is famished, can’t you see? She can talk later.” Magdalena’s father is fingering a pipe, tamping down the tobacco carefully.
Kate looks at the him. Cristóbal Ruiz is a quiet man. He has been watching her steadily, and she notices now the furrows in his brow and the wide hands that are rough and callused.
“I must have taken a wrong turn when I got off the bus. I thought I was headed toward Balconcillo. I remember walking across a bridge,” Kate finally manages to say as she looks around the room. The kitchen is large, and the big table in the middle is covered with a clean white cloth. Books and papers are scattered over a long sideboard that holds a silver tea set, polished and gleaming. Over the sink is a window, and a picture of the Señor de los Milagros, Lord of the Miracles, hanging over the arch that leads into the next room, a blessed palm tacked to the front of the picture.
Finally the father breaks his silence. “Where were you going?”
His eyes are piercing, and for an instant Kate thinks he must know her whole story, that somehow this wise and strong rescuer has been sent to deliver her from doubt and confusion, to show her the way. His name is Cristóbal, the Christ-carrier. But he just sits there, sipping his coffee, and waits for her answer.
“I was trying to remember how to get to the Precious Blood nuns’ convent in Balconcillo. The parish is called Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe.”
“That’s near La Victoria,” exclaims Martín, the youngest. “You were going the wrong way totally.” He grins up at her, amused that a grown-up could have been so mistaken.
Kate looks around. “I really should be going now.” She looks down at her arm. Magdalena’s mother has washed and dressed the wound and wrapped it in a clean white cloth. But it still throbs dully.
Magdalena comes around to Kate’s chair and sits close beside her. She motions to the rest of her family, and soon she and Kate are alone in the kitchen. Her eyes are gentle and she speaks softly, soothingly, as if to a child who has seen a ghost. “Catalina, why don’t I call the sisters in Balconcillo and tell them you are with us, but that you would like to come over and see them tomorrow. Then you can get cleaned up here and get a good night’s rest. They will be horrified if they see you with blood all over.” She watches Kate to see how she takes this suggestion. “In the morning I will take you over there myself after they give me directions.”
Kate begins to cry. She puts her head down on the table, and Magdalena pats her arm, stroking her hand and humming until Kate says, “Oh, I’ve made such a mess of this.” She looks down at their two hands clasped together. Kate is sobbing now. “Everyone has been kind, but I’ve been so selfish, a coward.
“No, Catalina. I know something must have happened. You don’t have to explain to me. Living in the Altiplano was not for me. She smiles now at Kate, and her face is radiant in the lamplight. “I’m glad I went to the convent. I don’t regret a minute of it. But it wasn’t my life.” She got up from the table and began to gather the dishes. “Bueno, it’s all settled then? You’ll stay here tonight with us, we can share my room, and that will give Mami a chance to try to get those spots out of your habit. She has been dying to get at them all evening.”
“Okay. But, Magdalena, don’t call the nuns in Balconcillo. They’ll just worry. When I get there tomorrow, they’ll see that I’m all right.”
In the bathroom that night, Kate peels off her stained habit and veil. She will have to wear the same things tomorrow. The hot water stings the cut on her arm, but she sinks gratefully into the tub. Her body is stiff now, and her neck is sore where the attacker had grabbed her. Why did he call her puta, whore?
The family explained to her that she was in the Alameda de los Descalzos, an old lovers’ lane still used by couples in the neighborhood. “In the days of La Perricholi, all of fashionable Lima gathered here to walk in the late afternoon. It is a sad sight now, full of thieves and scoundrels.” Cristóbal shook his head sadly. He remembered a different Lima, a city of close-knit neighborhoods where people shouted to each other by name across the street. Kate saw that he was ashamed of what happened to her. The city seems hostile to her, opaque. Maybe it is the mist, the neblina, that blurs everything, making it hard to see things clearly.
The Altiplano flashes before her, and she misses the fine sharpness of the air, the clean lines of the mountains and the dark that
