Heartsong (57 page)
Authors: James Welch
Nathalie suddenly felt a little faint. She had been up all night and had had only two hours of sleep this morning. Her stomach felt hollow and bitter, even though she had eaten a piece of bread on the way to the train station. She tried not to think about Catherine's lover's fat tongue which almost made her friend faint; instead she concentrated on the moment at hand and the stranger who would come to live with them for the next few months. She was nervous about having a savage around, not because she was afraid of himâher father had been assured that he was not
dangerousâbut because she was afraid of what the neighbors might think. She did have her reputation to think of. In spite of her lack of success with boys, she was becoming a woman. There were certain parts of her that were filling out while other parts were diminishing. When she looked into the mirror these days she saw actual cheekbones and a nose that didn't quite look like a pudgy button. Such knowledge made her feel secretly superior, as though she were becoming the swan she always knew she would be.
V
incent Gazier stood beside his daughter with his arms crossed, a thin cigar in one hand, a scowl on his gaunt face. The stiff March wind blew from the west, picking up the chill from the Atlantic, and this troubled him. Usually it was this very wind that kept his trees safe from freezing, but last night the breeze had blown away the clouds and he and his wife and daughter had had to build fires among the trees and tend them until early morning. This night promised to be just as clear and cold. Even now he should be gathering more wood from the forest to the east of Agen. And the train was late.
Gazier's family had raised plums just outside Agen for countless generations. Most of the time it was a pleasant occupation, but hardly one that would make a man rich. Still, in a normal year, if God granted him just an average harvest, he could keep his family clothed and fed until the next year. And that was all he had come to ask for. That was all any of the generations of Gaziers had ever asked for. But too often a late frost would kill off the buds or the setting fruit, or a year without rain would make the plums small and hard, or a couple of days of rain late in the season would split the ripening plums and all the year's work would wither on the trees or go to the hogs. Fortunately, last year had been a good one; his family
had harvested a heavy crop and delivered it to the processing plant for a decent sum of money.
But it only takes one bad year, thought Gazier, and then you have to humiliate yourself in front of the bankers to borrow enough to see you through the winter. This could be one of those seasons. He pulled out his watch. One-thirty. Twenty minutes late. He was already having second and third thoughts about what he had let himself and his family in for.
He had received the letter from Madame Loiseau of the Catholic Relief Society two weeks before. He had read it to himself, then to his wife and daughter, leaving out the portion that described the crime. After the obligatory familiarities, it had gotten down to the meat of the matter.
By now you may have guessed that I am about to avail myself of your kind offices and more than generous offer to help the Society in any way we might see fit. Well, you may feel inclined, and indeed justified, to rescind your generosity, because I am going to ask of you an enormous favor. And I only ask it because twice in the past you have extended your hospitality to our Prisoner Rehabilitation Project subjects. I do believe that both endeavors proved successful and came to a happy ending. We hear that both young men are engaged in honest labors and go to mass regularly.
Now to the heart of this letter: We have taken up, as part of our project, the case of a prisoner to be released in two weeksâif all goes well. This is a most unusual case, and after you hear the particulars, you may find that he is an unsuitable candidate to take in. You may rest assured that we will be in absolute accordance with your decision.
The subject's name is Charging Elk and he is an American Indian, thirty-seven years of age. He came to this country in 1889
as part of the Wild West show of Buffalo Bill. Perhaps you have heard of this show. It performed in Paris during the Exposition of that year, then moved on to tour Europe. One of its first stops was here in Marseille, where he met with an accident during a performance and entered hospital. For some reason the show moved on without him without making any provisions for his well-being. At the time he couldn't speak our language, and so he found himself in the hands of the authorities, who had no idea of what to do with him. Fortunately, a good family took him inâthe man is a hardworking fishmongerâand he lived with them for the next two years. After that, he lived on his own, working in a soap factory, accustoming himself to our way of life. From all reports he was doing very well whenâalas!âhe found himself in a compromising situation with a despicable manâplease don't ask me to go into itâand ended up killing the man. Many thought, as the trial brought the whole matter into the light, that Charging Elk was justified in his actions. In fact, the trial became quite the
cause célèbre
. The magistrates agreed, to a degree, with the publicâthat indeed there were extenuating circumstancesâand sentenced him to life imprisonment, instead of the expected death penalty.
Now for the good part, Monsieur Gazier. Charging Elk served nine and a half years in Samatan Prison and by every account was a model prisoner. He had not a single disciplinary report in that whole time (and you may be assured that he was virtually alone in that respectâI'm sure you are aware of the reputation of “La Tombe”). Moreover, he worked every day possible during the last seven years of his imprisonment in the gardens and orchards.
This latter fact made us here at the Relief Society think of you, my dear fellow. We thought you, as an orchardist, might have some interest in taking on this hardworking, experienced hand.
I'm sure you could use some help now that spring and summer approach. Of course, we will compensate you for Charging Elk's room and board to the tune of twenty francs per month. And we won't ask you to keep him one minute longer than you choose. But we are hoping that you will keep him on through the growing and harvesting seasons.
By now I am sure you are asking yourself, Why Agen, why me, why not Marseille? And those would be fair questions. The answer to all is simply this: We feel that after almost a decade in prison he is not ready for the faster-paced life of this seaport, with all of its distractions and, yes, temptations. We feel that Agen and environs would be perfectly suited for his reentry into society. The strong Catholic presence in your part of the country would do him a world of good. As for you, we know of no one better to set our poor stranger on the straight and narrow path of hard work and piety.
I neglected to mention earlier that Charging Elk is due to be pardoned, a fact which might make your decision a little easier. Let me add that he is a very gentle man who wants nothing more than an opportunity to better himself as a human being so that he may more easily adapt to our modern society. He is most deserving to benefit from your tutelage and guidance.
Yours in Christ
,
Mme. Sophie A. Loiseau
Gazier heard the whistle over the blowing wind and thought he must have been mad to agree to take on this ex-prisoner. The other two that he had taken in were just farm boysâone was only nineteen, the other twenty-one. They were still malleable. But this one was thirty-seven years old, and he had spent the last ten of those years in Samatan, the worst prison in France. Moreover, he was a
Peau-Rouge from America. How could lie possibly “adapt to our modern society”? Gazier threw his cigar down onto the tracks and thought how complicated his life, and that of his family, had become. He glanced at Nathalie, but she had her back to him, watching the locomotive steam up to the platform. Poor Nathalie, he thought, she is just a girl and now she will have to adjust to however this endeavor turns out. Thank God she is strong and healthy, unlike her mother. Lucienne would be in bed all day after her labors of the night before. But she had insisted on helping with the fires. Oh Lord, he prayed, please give me the strength to get through these next few days. Give all of us the strength.
C
harging Elk stepped down from the car and looked at all the people on the platform. He wore the suit he had owned for eleven winters now, and it was shapeless and baggy. His new collarless white shirt was too small, even though it was the largest Madame Loiseau had been able to find in Toulouse. She had also bought him some toiletries, underclothing, work clothes, a duffel bag, and a beret. She couldn't find any shoes to fit him, so he still wore the prison-issue canvas shoes with the hemp soles. In the past, he would have been disappointed, but now he was resigned to the fact that he was different not only physically but also in that he had spent the last nine and a half years in prison. He was sure the people in Toulouse knew it, and so he kept to the edge of the sidewalks and he said very little in response to Madame Loiseau and the store clerks' queries. The truth was, he was frightened by the movement of the people, the carriages and wagons, the clanging bells of the omnibuses, even the horses. Once, while Madame Loiseau was in a shop, he had walked over to the curb where a carriage horse was dozing and smelled it. He filled his nostrils with the musky odor, and it smelled familiar and good. But when the horse abruptly
raised its head and and jangled the metalwork of its traces, he had stepped back in alarm.
They had spent the night in a small hotel near the railway station, and this morning she had put him on the train to Agen before catching one back to Marseille. Just before they parted, she had written his name on a piece of paper and pinned it to his lapel. Then she said, “They are a good Christian family and they will look out for you. You must always remember that you are as good as anybody, Charging Elk. May God go with you.” Now as he surveyed the people on the platform, he was somewhat comforted by the fact that most of them seemed to be simple people, as simply dressed as himself. Still, this was a different town in a different part of the country, and he was apprehensive as he stepped aside to let some people on the train. He almost wished he were back at La Tombe, getting the ground ready for another planting. He thought more fondly of Gustave Boucq now than he ever had. The big, taciturn man was probably spreading manure, perhaps even breaking in a new man to take Charging Elk's place. As he looked at the faces, many of which were now staring at him, he began to wish more fervently that he was back at the prison. They knew as well as he that he belonged there.
“Monsieur Charging Elk?”
A slender man in a dark suit and a beret had approached him from the side. A young woman trailed behind him, her eyes looking at Charging Elk's feet.
“I am Vincent Gazier, and this is my daughter, Nathalie. We have been expecting you.”
Charging Elk took the man's hand.
“Enchante, monsieur.”
He bowed slightly to the young woman, who was now looking at the piece of paper on his lapel. “Madame Loiseau said I would work for you. I am a good worker.”
“So the madame says. That's excellent, because we have much to do right now.” Gazier glanced down at the duffel. “Is that all you've got?”
Just then the conductor blew his whistle and they heard a hiss of steam, then the heavy clank of the couplings as the train began to grind ahead.
“Come. We will get you situated in your new home. Then I'm afraid we have some heavy work ahead of us.” Gazier turned and walked off at a rapid pace, and Charging Elk noticed he had a limp. “You will earn your keep tonight, monsieur.”
