TOWARD THAT WHICH IS BEAUTIFUL: EXCERPT

TOWARD THAT WHICH IS BEAUTIFUL

On an ordinary day in June of 1964 in a small town in the Altiplano of Peru, Sister Mary Katherine (formerly known as Kate), a young American nun recently arrived in this very foreign place, walks away from her convent with no money and no destination.

Desperate and afraid of her feelings for an Irish priest with whom she has been working, she spends eight days on the run, encountering a variety of characters along the way: a cynical Englishman who helps her out; a suspicious Peruvian police officer who takes her in for questioning; and two American Peace Corps workers who befriend her. As Kate traverses this dangerous physical journey through Peru, she also embarks upon an interior journey of self-discovery―one that leads her somewhere she never could have expected.

EXCERPT

The engine groans in low gear as they climb the final mountain range before descending to the coast and the Pan-American highway that leads north to the capital. Suddenly Kate hears the brakes grind, and the driver, swearing slowly and methodically under his breath, stops the bus. When Kate notices a line of soldiers stretched across the highway, she thinks there must have been an accident. Then she hears a few people mutter, “Contrabando,” and she realizes this is a blockade to search for smuggled goods. According to Father Jack, the border patrol at Desaguadero between Peru and Bolivia is notoriously sloppy as well as greedy; Bolivian goods were constantly being smuggled in and traded at the extensive black market in Lima.

The driver leaps from his seat and flings open the door. He is met by two serious young soldiers who demand his papers, oblivious to his strenuous complaints. Then one of the soldiers boards the bus. Stooping a little as he peers in, he barks the orders: all Peruvian citizens are to get off the bus with their baggage and have their papers ready to be inspected. Kate feels her throat go dry and she sits very still, remembering her passport in the drawer of her desk in Juliaca.

She glances at the Peace Corps worker who is pulling his papers from his knapsack.Suddenly the woman next to Kate wakes. She leans over Kate to peer out the window at the soldiers, and her breath reeks of chicha, warm and intimate on Kate’s face. Swiftly she bends down to a small bundle at her feet and slides it under Kate’s seat. She speaks directly to Kate for the first time, her face smooth and brown and untroubled. “Madrecita, por favor, ayúdame. Guard these things for me. The soldiers will not search you, for you are a foreigner.” In a graceful motion, surprising in one her size, she hoists the other bags on her back. By the time Kate starts to protest, the woman is already down the steps of the bus.

Kate bends down and unwraps the package enough to see twelve bottles of Bolivian beer. She straightens up and keeps her eyes fixed on the cut-out picture of the Sacred Heart that the conductor has tacked up over the steering wheel. Trying to look as if she is deep in prayer, Kate reflects that if ever she needed to pray it is now, for she has become not only a fugitive but a smuggler. Oh God! How her father would enjoy this story—if she lived to tell it. The officers— finished with the Peruvians— are talking and gesturing toward the bus with the two lone Americans still on it.

In a few minutes another officer of the Guardia Civil boards the bus and heads straight for the Peace Corps worker. Short, with shiny straight black hair and intense dark eyes, the officer asks to see his passport. His voice is polite but cold. After a careful inspection, he asks the American to stand up and open his bags for a “routine check.” The Peace Corps worker does as he is asked and even tries a few friendly words to defuse the tension, but the officer is businesslike, unsmiling. Watching his compact, powerful body, Kate feels a prickle on the back of her neck.

He turns to her next, removing his hat. “Por favor, señorita, su pasaporte.” It is a demand, not a request. Kate knows that by calling her señorita he is deliberately ignoring the fact that she is a nun. This makes her apprehensive. His accent is not that of the Altiplano, but she hasn’t been in Peru long enough to place it. “I don’t have it with me, officer. Since I was traveling within the country, I didn’t think I would need it. I am Sister Mary Katherine from the Dominican nuns in Juliaca.”

“Stand up, please.” His eyes slide down her body in the practiced, almost involuntary way of Latin men, and then she notices him staring at the smudged dirt on the front of her white scapular. He gestures toward the brown paper package, half hidden by her long skirt. “What’s in the bag?” Kate freezes. If she tells the truth she will implicate the woman. But how can she explain twelve bottles of Bolivian beer?

“The package isn’t mine. I think there’s beer in it.” The officer’s eyes are expressionless. “Then to whom does this package belong?” he asks in Spanish with exaggerated politeness.

Kate looks directly into eyes almost on a level with her own. “I don’t know,” she says evenly, trying to keep a tremor out of her voice. At that he wheels around and barks out a command, all pretense of politeness gone. “Follow me. We’re taking you in for questioning.” Then he stops and comes back to the seat where she still stands, unable to move. With a lithe movement he reaches down and picks up the package, holding it away from his body as if it were garbage. Kate follows him then, and as she steps off the bus into the harsh sun the people move back in silence as the officer strides to his jeep. He motions for her to get in the back, and then quietly gives orders to his men. Another soldier hops into the driver’s seat, and in a moment they are speeding down the treacherous mountain road, back toward Arequipa.

As in a dream, Kate watches the deep blue of the mountains as they appear and disappear above the hairpin turns in the road. They drive fast, the driver honking his horn at each curve to warn any approaching car or truck. By now it is almost noon, and the sun directly overhead is hot. Descending through shade and sun, the winding curves, Kate feels nausea rise in her. Finally they come to a tin hut with a Peruvian flag, slightly faded, hanging over the door at an angle. Two mangy black dogs drowse in the dirt.

—

Marian O’Shea Wernicke was a nun for eleven years and spent three years working in Lima, Peru, during that time. She is a former professor of English and creative writing at Pensacola State College and the author of a memoir about her father called Tom O’Shea: A Twentieth Century Man. Her upcoming novel, Toward That Which is Beautiful came out in September 29, 2020.

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Category: On Writing