Heartsong (63 page)

Vincent insisted that she bring an extra glass when she brought the
eau-de-vie
, and she felt her heart leap. It could only mean one thing. But when they lifted their glasses, he said, “To your dear mother and my dear wife, may she be in heaven where all earthly woes are forgotten.
Adieu
, dear one.”

Nathalie sipped and felt the liquor sear her throat. But the flush in her cheeks came not from liquor but from the guilt and anger she suddenly felt. Her disappointment in the toast seemed monstrous to her—her mother had been dead for only a few months
—yet
real enough. But it was unfair that her father did not consider her happiness. She was young and alive. She deserved to be happy with the man of her choice. She felt a welling behind her eyes and looked away, but not before a tear ran down her cheek.

“There now, my daughter, it is not so bad. I'm sure she looks down upon us this holy night and gives her consent to the toast I now propose. She was a wise and generous woman, your mother. And I have talked to her often these past few days.” With that he raised his glass again. “To you and Charging Elk—may you be happy together.” As he swallowed the drink, he thought, And may God and my dear wife forgive me.

T
hree weeks later, Nathalie and Charging Elk were married in a civil ceremony at the Hotel de Ville in Agen. It was a simple proceeding and took less than fifteen minutes. Vincent's younger
brother stood up for Charging Elk and his wife stood beside Nathalie.

Charging Elk's pardon, which declared his rights and duties as a citizen of the Republic of France, served as his official papers. And so, by quirk of fate, he finally acquired his citizenship, as well as a bride.

But his bride's happiness was mitigated by a crushing disappointment that she could not be married in the church. Vincent would not allow it, and even if he had, the priest would not have. Charging Elk was an unbaptized heathen in the eyes of the church, Vincent had explained. And so Nathalie had found herself in a quandary—wait for the long conversion process, even if he did want to convert, and he had been unresponsive to the idea, a reaction that she found strange; or forgo her dream of a real wedding, with a new white wedding dress and beaming family and a celebration afterward. Since she was a little girl she had always envisioned a real wedding where all the people loved her. In her daydreams she was a shy, humble bride but the people nevertheless remarked on her beauty. And her new groom, whoever he might be, gazed upon her with pure adoration, dumbstruck by his good fortune.

Perhaps even more than such worldly approval, Nathalie wanted the blessings of the priest, therefore of God, with the Virgin and Jesus and all the saints smiling in acquiescence. Only then would she feel truly wed. And forgiven for her wickedness in fornicating with the man now standing beside her.

But here she was, in a cold, high-ceilinged chamber, with a tall, balding man in an ill-fitting suit reciting the marriage contract in the most perfunctory way. Even her dress, which her mother had made a year and a half ago and which was already tight in the hips and bust, was not white or even lacy. Because of the season, her bouquet was a spray of dried flowers that Vincent had bought in a
kiosk in the central
place
. And instead of a large audience of family and friends only her aunt and uncle and father were present.

When the man pronounced them man and wife, Nathalie and Charging Elk kissed for the first time in public. She kept her lips pressed tight, for she was afraid he would try to put his tongue in her mouth. But he didn't. He was as shy and awkward as she.

V
incent had destroyed the hateful letter he had written to Madame Loiseau some weeks ago and had written another telling her of Charging Elk's imminent arrival in Marseille. Almost as an afterthought, he mentioned that his daughter, Nathalie, who was engaged to become Madame Charging Elk, would accompany him and therefore they would probably need larger living quarters. He had received a reply from Madame Loiseau: “You can't imagine how surprised and pleased we all are here at the Relief Society. Surely his marriage to your chaste daughter will do much to ensure Charging Elk's future happiness. You must be very proud.” She asked him to wire her when the newlyweds were ready to leave so that someone could meet them at the Gare St-Charles.

Now Vincent stood beside Nathalie and watched Charging Elk unload their possessions from the wagon. Nathalie had a steamer trunk, a smaller case, and a cloth valise. Charging Elk had the duffel bag and valise he had come with ten months ago. Vincent had presented him with a small leather pouch containing 250 francs, just about the sum that Madame Loiseau had sent for Charging Elk's keep. He had earned that much and more, but it was all Vincent could afford.

He had been worried sick ever since the evening he had given the two lovers his blessing. But now, seeing them walking together, Charging Elk wheeling a cart with their worldly goods, he suddenly saw them as they really were. True, Vincent had grown used
to seeing them together the past few weeks, but still they made a handsome, even striking, couple. Nathalie even seemed taller, more dignified, more a woman. Since Lucienne's death, he had worried about his daughters future. But now he felt an unfamiliar trust deep inside and he knew that Charging Elk would treat her well. And instead of the quiet but burning resentment he had felt toward the Indian for taking his daughter from him, he experienced a strange new pride in trailing after the couple and he tried to ignore his bad leg and walk with as much dignity as they possessed.

But an hour later, when he drove the team into the barnyard, he looked around and saw how shabby the buildings were. Several tiles were broken or missing on the roof of the horse shed. The pigpen was a ramshackle affair of old branches and woven wire. Even the main house had three or four patches where the dirty white stucco had fallen out, exposing the red brick structure. Vincent had noticed these defects before, but always one at a time—a casual glance in passing at things that needed repair when he had time. Now he saw the entirety of the compound, and the sight depressed him. Even the trees on the hillside above, although neatly pruned, were old and would need replacing over the next few years, a section at a time.

Vincent now saw the farm with the perfect clarity of a man truly alone. It was hard to believe just now that he had had a happy life here, with a loving wife and a lively, lovely daughter. Now they were both gone. And soon he would be gone too. But the farm would remain in the family. His brother, Raymond, had promised to pay him 750 francs after every harvest season, but Vincent knew that he would never be able to do it. He had too many mouths to feed.

He climbed down from the wagon and unhitched the horses. He took them up to the spring on the hillside behind the house. As he watched them drink, he tried to imagine Nathalie and Charging Elk
in their coach. They would probably be eating their lunch by now, looking out the window at the Garonne or the bare grape vines that ran so perfectly up the hillsides. They would probably be holding hands, perhaps a little frightened at their new adventure—at least Nathalie would be. Vincent listened to the old black horse shudder and he patted its shoulder and he was grateful for the warmth of the beast.

Later, he sat at the table in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee, listening for a footstep overhead, for the clank of pots on the stove, for the rasp of a pruning saw being filed in the toolshed, but he heard nothing. He had not dreamed that silence could be so complete in this world of his. He cleared his throat. Then he struck a match and lit a cigar and looked at the strange belt on the table. He ran his fingers over the tight, nubbly texture of the designs. He would miss Charging Elk. But he would ache in his heart for his daughter. She was all he had left and now she was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

C
harging Elk stood on the corner of Rue d'Aubagne and looked up the
narrow cobblestone street toward the
place
, the square where three alleys came together, where all the market activity was going on. Women passed him on either side, singly, purposefully, some coming away from the market with spring vegetables and cheeses and fish or cuts of meat, others hurrying toward the market with empty baskets and coin purses. The only men seemed to be the sellers and a few old-timers who walked stiffly beside their wives.

He was surprised how small the market was. He had remembered it as huge, full of hundreds of people and dozens of stalls. He had remembered many men in suits, wandering among the women, looking them up and down or admiring the fish in René s stall. He had remembered the smell of tobacco mixed in with the earthy odor of produce and the pungent smell of aged cheese. The one thing that proved true to his memory was the street cries of the mongers,
the loud shouts, the mocking, the teasing, the occasional angry voice rising above the rest.

The voices all sounded familiar to him, almost as though he could recognize them, but more than twelve years had passed since he had worked in the Soulases' fish stand and he knew that many of the voices would be silenced forever; others would have failed or moved on. Still, it was a small neighborhood, the people would have lived there for generations, so it was not impossible that he would know them.

Charging Elk was nervous, almost frightened at being discovered. He was still an oddity, a big man with dark skin and long black hair who looked as if he belonged in an immigrant neighborhood. Strangely, he had not felt so out of place since he had left Marseille, not in the prison, where there were many varieties of men, not in Agen, where he was different enough to feel unique but not a freak. Now the people looked at him with that same suspicion he had felt when he first walked these streets. It had been a puzzling hostility then, but now he was afraid someone would recognize him as the notorious killer of the famous chef.

He had enjoyed a quiet anonymity for four moons since arriving from Agen. He went to work on the quais every day but Sunday, loading and unloading the big ships; he stayed home at nights with Nathalie; they walked along the Corniche on Sundays. It was a quiet life and he treasured it. He had taken up drawing again and drew from memory his life on the plains of Dakota. Nathalie would watch him over her sewing or knitting until she couldn't stand the suspense and would beg him to show her his current effort. But he made her wait until he had finished each sketch. Then he would point out every detail and explain it to her. She was always enthusiastic and urged him to start selling them. There were always artists around the Old Port who sold worse pictures than his. He would laugh at her enthusiasm, but when he was heaving around
the heavy crates or casks or walking home from work, he wondered if that was possible. He had never considered himself an artist, but what if she was right? He began to envy the real artists who sold their pictures on the quais and along the Corniche. And Nathalie was right—his pictures were better than many of those who seemed to draw or paint the same scene over and over. But the idea of selling sketches was a fleeting one, and by the time he walked up the stairs to their flat it was gone.