Heartsong (30 page)

So when René had introduced him to the big man who reminded him of Buffalo Bill, Charging Elk had instinctively brightened up. For some reason he knew that the man was strong medicine and that he might help him. He was more important than Brown Suit or Yellow Breast; perhaps even more important than Buffalo Bill.

Charging Elk started work at the soap factory three sleeps later. René had ridden out to the factory with Charging Elk on an omnibus that morning. He left the fish stall with Madeleine and François, the first morning he hadn't shown up for work since he was sixteen years old, the day after his father had died. He didn't like the way things were turning out, but he had had a visitation from the Virgin Mary one evening while he was pruning his geraniums and she had told him, not through words but through her sad smile, that he must free the dark one to cross the waters to his people. She didn't exactly accuse him of selfishness but he knew what she meant.

Unfortunately, René could not pay Charging Elk enough to save up for a ticket on the ship, then the train he would have to take across America, and he could not afford to pay for these things himself. But he did sit on the diocese board with Monsieur Deferre, the wealthy soapmaker, who paid decent wages and who took an immediate interest when René suggested that Charging Elk not only was a strong worker but was a Peau-Rouge who had been a member of the Wild West show. And when he met Charging Elk on the steps of Ste-Trinité, he was impressed by the man's size and color, the dark chestnut face with the cheekbones that almost hid his slanted eyes, the flowing black hair tied with a length of red yarn. He was truly a savage, but one dressed in a rumpled wool suit and a clean white shirt with a poet's tie around his neck. Monsieur
Deferre, who had started his soap factory from scratch and now employed two hundred men, shook the
indiens
hand and told him to report for work in three days.

As Charging Elk began the long climb up the stone stairs from Place de la République, he remembered that meeting with Monsieur Deferre. He had been full of high hopes then—the thought of earning enough money to go home, coupled with the thoughts of living alone and finding a woman, had been almost too much. That night he had fasted and prayed long to Wakan Tanka, thanking him for showing his troubled child the way out of his misfortunes.

But Charging Elk was disappointed when he walked up to the pay window at the factory after his first full week to learn that he had earned only twenty-four francs. René had said Monsieur Deferre was very big with money and Charging Elk thought he would pay him as much as Buffalo Bill had. Charging Elk was still confused about the value of money, but he knew that the American frogskins were worth more than the francs. The thirty frogskins he earned with the show each moon were worth far more than four weeks' worth of francs.

One night Mathias had calculated how long Charging Elk would have to work in order to buy a ticket on a fire boat. He made many money signs on a piece of paper and finally said, “Three years, all told. If you save all your money, which you can't now.”

C
harging Elk had reached his apartment building in Le Panier. It was on Rue des Cordelles, a narrow street which buzzed with many tongues, mostly North African and Levantine. Children played in the street until late at night, sometimes keeping him awake. But more often than not, he found the laughter, the squeals, the cries, the barking dogs somehow comforting, as though the constant flurry of noise
proved that he was not really alone. Now he watched a small group of girls in long dresses and scarves (in spite of the heat) playing a game with a small rubber ball and a pile of pebbles. Le Panier was always more lively than the rest of Marseille. René said the Africans enjoyed life more than most because they were not sensible. Charging Elk noticed that the men argued a lot, throwing their hands about, and the women cried out to their children in scolding voices, but nobody seemed to take offense. He couldn't tell if that was enjoyment of life or sensible, but they all got along. In some ways, this neighborhood reminded him of the village out at the Stronghold. Even the cooking smells seemed much alike, although the food was different. He had eaten a couple of times in a small dark restaurant around the corner which had a beaded curtain for a front door. He had eaten a dish they called couscous, but he didn't use his fingers like the others. But as he watched the other diners, he was again reminded of feasts in the village, the intense eating, the laughter, the teasing, even the dogs that lay patiently at their owners' feet, waiting for the scrap of flatbread or chicken skin. Despite René's protests, he was glad he had chosen to live in Le Panier. These people were closer to his own than any of the others he had come across since he left Pine Ridge.

C
harging Elk awoke and it was already dusk. He lay there for a moment, his naked body wet with sweat. Although his two windows were thrown open, there was not yet the familiar, faint breeze that began a couple of hours after the sun went down. As usual his first thought was of food. He didn't have an icebox, so each evening he had to decide whether to go out to the
charcuterie
or the
épicerie
to buy a meat stick, or sometimes a rotisseried chicken, or pâté and rough bread. If he didn't, he would eat stale hardtack and sweating cheese, a pomegranate or an orange. Since he never seemed to have enough food around, he usually ended up going out to the shops.

As he weighed his options, he suddenly remembered that it was Saturday. He had been so dazed from the week's work and the heat that he had forgotten that he had drawn his money from the man in the little window and tomorrow he didn't have to work. He stood and walked over to the small bench beneath one of the windows where he had thrown his work pants. He pulled a handful of bills and coins from a pocket. He smoothed and counted the bills, then counted the coins, arranging them in neat stacks: twenty-eight francs and thirty centimes. He counted again, not believing his arithmetic, but he came up with the same sum. Had the payman made a mistake or had he received a raise in his wages? Over four extra francs. That was half of his room rent for the week.

As surprised as he was, Charging Elk suddenly knew that this was all part of Wakan Tanka's plan for him. He wanted his child to come home to him even sooner than the original plan.

Charging Elk felt a surge of energy and excitement that caused him to shiver in spite of the heat. Although he hadn't seen Brown Suit in well over a winter, perhaps two, and had never seen Yellow Breast again after he had first visited Charging Elk in his stone room, Wakan Tanka had taken it upon himself to see that his child would return to his people. Charging Elk made a prayer of thanks as he tucked the money into a purse he kept at the foot of the duffel bag. Then he opened the purse again and took out five francs. He would go out tonight. He would celebrate his newfound good fortune.

L
e Petit Zinc was a small restaurant on the Quai de Rive Neuve, not far from the Quai des Belges, where Charging Elk had helped René load his fish only eight months before. The man who owned the restaurant, Monsieur Valentin, was a close relative of Madeleine's, perhaps even her brother, although Charging Elk didn't know for sure. But sometimes the family and he ate at Le
Petit Zinc, the only restaurant they went to—the only restaurant Charging Elk had been to in Marseille before the few meals at the North African hole-in-the-wall in Le Panier.

Now he sat at a small outdoor table, near a low iron fence garnished with pots of geraniums, the only barrier between the customers and the passersby. Across the street was the broader promenade that led to the ships and boats moored in the brackish water of the Old Port. During the day, nets were spread out as men, and sometimes women, sat on the stones, mending them. But tonight it was a promenade for families, for friends, for lovers.

Charging Elk smoked a cigarette and waited for his dessert. He felt good and not a bit lonesome. He even allowed himself to think of what his homecoming might be like. It was still a long way off—he had only eighty-five francs saved in the purse. It would take him some time to get up to a thousand. But with his new wages, he was that much closer; hence his feeling of well-being, his lack of self-consciousness as he watched a fancy open carriage with gold trim and brass oil lanterns rattle rapidly over the cobblestones. And perhaps Mathias was wrong—perhaps his passage would cost less than the boy thought. Charging Elk put a reminder in his
cante iste
to have Mathias help him find a fire boat bound for America. Together they would find out exactly how much it would cost.

Charging Elk was now of twenty-seven winters. He was not the same young man who had crossed the big water with Buffalo Bill and Featherman and the others. Lately, he had been thinking of Black Elk and that night he had come to the camp in the Bois de Boulogne. All of the Oglalas had welcomed him heartily, yet he seemed almost haunted, even fearful of all he had seen. His eyes had seemed young with apprehension but his body looked stooped and weak. Charging Elk had now been gone two years longer than Black Elk. What would Charging Elk be like when he arrived in Pine Ridge? Would his parents be happy to see him? Surely, they
would believe that he had returned from the dead. But what if they themselves were dead? No, not in four years. They would be themselves, just a little older. His mother would hug him and cry and hold him close, then make him a big meal of roasted beef and the potatoes they were now undoubtedly planting. His father would also hug him, then tell him all about High Runner as they sat and drank
pejuta sapa
. And the people—they would feast him with honoring songs, perhaps even give him a new name, but would they know him? Perhaps he had changed more than he knew from living among these strangers.

Charging Elk watched the waiter set the dish with a slice of apricot torte before him. His thoughts were so far away he didn't see the waiter staring rudely at his dark face and his long hair, but if he had, his only reaction would have been a small amusement. The waiter scraped the breadcrumbs from the tablecloth with a knife, then took the empty half-liter and glass away, along with the cheese plate, all the time looking at the lean dark face.

After his
prix-fixe
meal, which came to two francs twenty, Charging Elk walked farther along the Quai de Rive Neuve, again lost in thought, and because it was dark now, he began to have a memory that at first puzzled him. Although he had been this way a couple of times before, it had been crowded and noisy, just as it was this night. But the farther out he went, as the numbers of people diminished he began to have a memory of a cold, dark night in winter. It had been raining and the cobblestones were shiny under the gaslights. His feet were wet and cold. He was weak and his ribs were tender and ached with the constant throbbing of his heart.

He suddenly stopped and looked up a side street that led away from the Old Port. He saw a basin full of small ships with folded masts just a short distance from the side street. And he saw a yellow glow in the longer distance and he knew where he was.