Heartsong (17 page)

St-Cyr stood in the shadows of the buildings across from the Prefecture, scribbling as fast as he could, as the story came to him. It was as if the first story were merely a warm-up for this one. In his haste to get it all down, he had forgotten entirely the small gathering listening to the rambling priest, who was now telling the story of Christ and the money changers in Jerusalem.

If St-Cyr had really thought about it, he would have realized that there was a small war going on inside of him. He had suffered for three years a rather humble, boring life in a town he didn't like, waiting to marry a girl he now didn't think of more than once or twice a week, doing the most beggarly kind of reporting, and now he had a chance to write the story of his life. It was all there—he couldn't write fast enough to keep up with all that he had to say, and he had plenty to say. This was not merely the bare bones story of a wife-beating, or a drunken Levantine cutting off the nose of a Muslim. This was the story that would make St-Cyr a legitimate journalist—perhaps even a notorious one.

On the other hand, he had been genuinely moved by the sight of Charging Elk in his cell. He could not forget the dark, sunken eyes behind the cheekbones, the flatness of them and the way they avoided looking directly at St-Cyr. They were the eyes of a dying animal, of an animal that had resigned itself to death. St-Cyr had always thought that eyes, when they were alive, reflected hope, no matter how mean the circumstances.

St-Cyr, in his fevered state, did not realize that he had come
to think of the creature in the cell as an animal that had been cornered. And in a way, he cared more for the animal than the man. If the man had been French, he would have thought of him as an unfortunate creature who had suffered an injustice at the hands of the law. But Charging Elk, like an animal, had no inkling of what had happened to him, why he was there, and he couldn't voice a protest, could not explain his circumstances or mount a defense.

St-Cyr was not aware, at the moment, of this war going on inside him between the cynical young reporter and the human being who feared for the welfare of a fellow creature. That he had come to think of Charging Elk as a somewhat lesser animal did not enter his consciousness. He was inventing a story—based on the small demonstration—that would eventually release the Peau-Rouge from his hellish isolation. And wasn't that a noble thing?

O
nce in a while Charging Elk could see trousered legs walk by the high window of his small stone room. At first, they appeared as thin shadows on the opposite wall, an almost imperceptible blurring of the light. But when he gradually realized that the brief shadows belonged to something outside the cell, he began to stare up at the window. For long periods of time, he stared at the window, and his heart jumped each time he saw the legs. He looked forward to seeing legs. They gave some definition to the world outside his stone room—a world of light and fresh air, of trees and sky, of people. He could imagine the legs walking up a flight of stairs to a warm room full of padded chairs and good things to eat, or down to the port to climb aboard one of the fire boats that would steam off to America, to take their owners to the wide-open country of the Lakotas.

It had been three sleeps since the man with the cigarettes had entered his room to look at him. The man had called him by his name
and had worn a yellow vest that reminded Charging Elk of the yellowbreasts that called so sweetly on summer mornings at the Stronghold. Those mornings when he and Strikes Plenty had lounged about their cooking fire, drinking coffee and talking of women and game and good times seemed so long ago, although less than a winter had passed. Charging Elk continued staring at the window and thought that it was good that Strikes Plenty—and his parents—could not see him now.

For two days, Charging Elk had lain on the sleeping platform and sung his death song. It was a powerful song and it took him away to his own country. He did not feel the cold or see the close stone walls. He did not notice when one of the
wasichus
brought him soup or emptied his slop bucket. Once, one of the helpers, the fat one, grabbed him by his coat and pulled him to his feet and screamed and made threatening signs with his fists. Charging Elk had sung on, scarcely noticing the hatred in the small pale eyes. But this day, the third sleep, his song was weak and he was afraid it was losing its power. He no longer felt his
nagi
lifting inside of him, hovering, waiting to be freed for the long journey home.

Then, around midday, something happened that caused him to quit his death song entirely. One of the helpers entered his room, carrying a small platform and a tray. He smiled and talked soothingly, pointing to the window, then to the shaft of light on the opposite wall. He pointed to the tray and rubbed his belly, and Charging Elk followed the man's finger and he saw real food. A cooked bird and several small potatoes, accompanied by a large chunk of bread and a piece of chocolate. He saw the usual mug of pale tea, but he also saw a small bottle of what looked to be
mni wakan
. It had no paper with the French writing stuck on it, but he could see the dark juice through the deep green of the bottle. A clean squat glass stood beside the bottle. The helper noticed that he was looking at the wine. He pointed to the bottle and put his
thumb against his lower lip, tilting his head backward. Then he left, laughing.

Charging Elk had not eaten anything solid for several days. He had drunk the liquid from the soup and swallowed the tea because he was always thirsty, but he was anxious to be dead and away from this stone room, this foreign land. It had been easy to quit eating the things that floated in the soup and the sour bread, but the sight and smell of real food made him almost grateful that he had not gone away. As hungry as he was, he didn't know if he could eat anymore. His stomach felt small and dry inside him, like a leather pouch that was drawn tight.

Charging Elk looked at the bird for a long time before he found the strength to swing his legs over the edge of the platform and stand up. His sudden dizziness, almost a blackness before his eyes, made him think briefly of the sickhouse and the first time he had tried to get up from the white man's bed. His ribs no longer hurt, but he felt just as weak. He stood for a moment, waiting for his sight to come back; then he reached down and touched the bird gingerly, almost a caress. It had been roasted and its smell filled the small room. He pulled a piece of skin from the carcass and tasted it. He thought it might be a
wasichu
trick, that it might be poisoned or diseased. But the skin tasted good. It was greasy and he realized that he had not had any real grease for a long time.

He picked up the plate and sat down on his sleeping platform. He had had chicken meat several times when the show was in Paris and he didn't particularly like it. It did not have the strength of the red meat of buffalo or elk. But now he ate all the skin off the chicken, licking the grease from his fingers. Then he pulled a leg off and ate the tough meat from it.

After he finished the chicken, he popped the small potatoes, one by one, into his mouth, mashing them with one or two bites, then swallowing them. He chewed the dark bread, which had become
dry in the cold of the stone room. The mug of tea was barely warm and he drank it down in two gulps, all the time eyeing the bottle of wine.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the blue packet of cigarettes and the matches Yellow Breast had given him. There was one cigarette left. He studied its almost perfect shape—the roundness, the cut-off ends. He and the other Indian performers rolled their own tobacco and they never attained such perfection as this one. He put it to his lips and struck a match. The thought of making prayers, of performing the
yuwipi's
ceremony with the tobacco, did not occur to him. And for the first time in several sleeps he felt warm and satisfied with this life and did not wish to end it. He did not know what would become of him, but for the moment he was at peace and didn't care about tomorrow.

Charging Elk leaned back against the stone wall and watched the smoke curl up into the shaft of light toward the window. He saw Yellow Breast's eyes in the smoke and he saw that the eyes were troubled, almost frightened, with what he saw in Charging Elk's face. He had given Charging Elk this tobacco to make prayers with; and now he had given him a meal of real food and a bottle of
mni wakan
. Charging Elk would drink it after he finished his smoke because he knew that Wakan Tanka had sent Yellow Breast to help him. Charging Elk smiled. The Great Mystery had almost taken him away after testing him most severely. He had made him sing his death song in an effort to be rid of this life. But now, He wanted Charging Elk to live, to continue to breathe the air of this strange country among these strange people. Just a short time ago, this thought would have caused Charging Elk great heartsickness; now he was content to smoke the cigarette and think of his life as here and now—no matter what, he would survive. And when the time came, he would go home to his people. Wakan Tanka would see to that.

M
adame Soulas sat beside her husband in Captain Drossard's large office in the Préfecture. The captain was speaking of the poor fishing this winter—nothing but
rouget
and
hareng
for sale and those at outlandish prices. The
coquillages
were poor and tasteless, and what few
crevettes
there were cost an arm and a leg. The captain was sure that the fishmongers were taking much too big a cut—they seemed to think that they had not only caught the fish themselves but had created them out of clear blue water. Next, it would be loaves of bread from the sky.

Madame Soulas listened to her husband, René, protest. He was not only a fishmonger, he was an official in the Association. He had been hearing complaints all winter long, both from the fishermen and from the customers, for it had been a poor season and the prices reflected that. Only this morning, a group of men who fished out of Vallon des Auffes had threatened to sell their catch elsewhere if the Association wouldn't give them a fair price. They would spend the rest of the winter in Toulon or Nice. They heard the fishermen there got what they deserved.

Madame Soulas listened to her husband try to explain that if they set the prices too low, the fishmongers would be out of fish in an hour and out of business in two. But the captain would have none of it. He was sure the Association needed a thorough investigation, it was the scandal of Marseille.

Madame Soulas let her mind wander, until the argument became so much buzzing in her thoughts. She was still opposed to the matter at hand, but René had insisted it was their duty as Christians: “Dear Madeleine, did not Christ die on the cross for us? Are we to leave him there, weeping in despair, crying out for his Father? Did he die for nothing?” And when she protested that they already had two young mouths to feed and scarcely enough room to turn
around in, he dismissed her with one of his usual pieties: “If we are true Christians, we will not mind a little sacrifice. Did not Christ call on us to help our less fortunate brothers? Is it not God's will? Besides, it is only for a day or two.”

It was difficult to argue with René, not just because of his pieties, but also because of his genuinely pious nature. It was this quality that had attracted Madeleine in the first place. They had met at a retreat for young people in the Ardèche, sponsored by the parish of St-Laurent. Madeleine had been fifteen and René sixteen. Madeleine went to a convent school in another part of the city and so she had only seen René at church and in his father's fish stall. As the fates would have it, she fell out of a tree at the rustic retreat, injuring her shoulder and tearing her skirt on a broken-off branch. The sight of her white underthings caused much giggling, among boys and girls alike. But as she lay on the ground, trying to gather her senses, she heard a loud, scolding voice and thought it might be the young priest who supervised their recreation. But when she looked up, a short, square boy with thick hair and a stubby nose was squatting down beside her. There was something quite serious in the boy's appearance, a lack of expression, and she recognized him as the fishmonger's son.