Traveling with Spirits (13 page)

  “It’s one thing to practice quietly. And quite another to sell religion with food or education or medical care,” grumbles the oldest of the young men.

  Once again, she hears Ashok’s comments on the plane and the censure of the airport cabbie. Surely Raul has heard all this before. Surely he will maintain his cool.

  Sister Eleanor’s eyes fill with tears.

  Raul’s calm voice and agility impress Monica. “Oh, that’s the problem,” he says, “a misunderstanding. Please sit down.”

  They stand their ground.

  “We ask no questions about faith and do not proselytize. We sell nothing. Services are free. A few patients make donations. ”

  “Rupees from poor Indians go straight into your gilded Vatican,” the quietest man finally speaks. In fluent English.

 
Gilded Vatican
. Either he’s had foreign university training or he is mimicking the embellished prose of
The Hindustan Times
.

  “All patient funds supplement medical expenses or food for the wards.”

  Suddenly Raul notices Monica. He makes the slightest gesture of his eyes leftward, cueing her to return to the exam cubicle.

  He could be right. The sight of a woman doctor might provoke these young zealots. Admittedly, she’d be safer in the cubicle. No, she will stand by, will witness.

  The intense men take no notice of her.

  “We object to you preaching strange dogma to our people.”

  Sister has trouble translating this and says something
sotto voce
to Doctor Sanchez.

  “Quite right.” He rolls his broad shoulders. “Sister Eleanor asked me to remind you that she is an Indian, who comes from many generations of Christians in Kerala.”

  “A Communist State in the deep south,” sneers the curly-haired fellow.

  “Besides,” Raul strains for dispassion, “we don’t preach to our patients, except to insist that they take their medicine as directed and return for check-ups.”

  The quiet man sways from one foot to the other. He whispers to his friends.

  They nod soberly.

  Finally, he speaks. “Consider this as a reconnaissance trip. A first contact. We will keep you under close watch. We will return with reports from your ‘patients.’ ”

  They file out quietly, the decorous departure a contrast to their clattering arrival. If Raul has his way, they will return one day for check-ups.

  She peers out the window to the white Ambassador sedan splashing through large puddles and down the hill.

  Turning, she catches Sister Eleanor crossing herself.

  Raul murmurs, “Jesus!” under his breath, righting the overturned table.

  “Thank God!” Monica squeezes sister’s cold hand. “Well done.”

  Monica pats Raul’s shoulder. “You, my friend, were magnificent.”

  He shakes his head. “Brutes,” he spits. “I’ve seen it all before.”

  As Sister sits, a healthy color returns to her face.

  “I thought I’d get some reprieve from Argentina here,” he growls. “These people are the same the world over. Different bodies, different language, same bullies.”

  Monica studies a tremor in his left cheek.

  Raul continues. “Still, it’s about domination. An international virus.”

  Making a show of inspecting the empty waiting room, she cajoles, “Since we have no patients and are likely to be overloaded this afternoon, let’s break for lunch.”

  “Either a flood of patients or a drought,” Raul rolls his eyes, “once the word gets out.”

*****

  Sister Catherine greets them anxiously. “I knew, after last month’s firebombing of the church in Chennai. I knew we’d be targeted.”

  Raul shakes his head. “Chennai is a long way from here,” he says irritably. “These men are from the north. I can tell by their accents.”

  “Locals?” Sister Catherine declares and inquires simultaneously.

  “No one I recognized,” Sister Eleanor whispers. “But, yes, they were Punjabi.” 

  “A Tamil wing of the R.S.S. claimed responsibility for Chennai,” Monica nods.

  “Ten parishioners killed,” Sister Catherine cries, “and one priest.”

  “God keep their souls.” The younger nun bows her head.

  “The point,” Raul leans heavily on a chair, “is that these goons harass all over the bloody country. With tacit approval of the National BJP and state leaders.”

  Father Freitas rushes in the refectory door. “Is everyone OK? I heard on my way from giving the Last Rites to Bina Singh. Her neighbor was at the clinic, a young woman named Veena. She said there were guns and knives.”

  “No,” Raul laughs edgily. “No dynamite either.” The chair wobbles under his grip.

  Monica wonders if it—or he—will crack under the stress.

  “No hand grenades,” he snaps. “Nothing cinematic. Just big talk from the inflated chests of small-minded men.”

  “But what can we do?” Sister Eleanor entreats. “They’re coming back.”

  “We can pray,” Sister Catherine clasps her hands together.

  “We can indeed,” declares Monica, “and we can continue our work.”

  Raul eyes her gratefully, finally sitting down.

  “With God’s help.” Father moves toward Raul, grasping his friend’s arm. “Dr. Murphy is right. People in Moorty know us. We will carry on.”

*****

  Monica lies across her bed listening to the night rain. Is she imagining the deluge is ebbing? How can she describe this morning to Beata without terrifying her? She felt so frightened today, although oddly invisible. Raul was effective, an authoritative voice devoid of Walsh’s sanctimony. Imagine even momentarily missing Walsh! If Dr. Blowhead had been here, it would have grown ugly. At best, they’d be stuffed in Emmanuel’s van now, winding down the mountain to the airport.

  It was good of Father Freitas to say Mass after dinner. Being together in their beautiful little chapel helped. Praying helped.

  Bang. Bang. Loud, piercing sounds. Her heart races.

  Bang. Bang. Ring.

  The telephone. What’s wrong with her.

  Two rings. For her.

  Phone, she scolds herself. Before answering, she listens to the natural patter of rain to steady her nerves.

  “Monica, are you all right?” Sudha’s voice is loud, anxious.

  “Just fine. A little shaken, but nothing happened, except...words.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Sensing Sudha’s exasperation, she adds. “OK, the threats are frightening. But one is grateful there were no assaults.”

  “Indeed,” Sudha sounds relieved, “this one is grateful you’re safe.”

  Tears well up. Finally.

  Sudha listens to her weep. “Good. Normal. Even saints cry. Didn’t Jesus cry at Gethsemane?”

  Taken aback, she remembers that Sudha’s Scottish boyfriend took her to some services. And Sudha is a quick study. Monica is touched that this friend, who has her own critique of the Mission, is comforting her with Christian scripture. She cries harder, releasing the tension she couldn’t betray earlier.

  “Yes, cry, get it out. I would have rung sooner, but I was visiting Neela.”

  “How did you hear? Who told you?”

  “Monica, news like this travels like lightning. Everyone is agitated. The town is behind you. I saw Raj in the street and he was shouting, ‘Moorty has no room for these hooligans.’ ”

  “Raj Agarwal?”

  “People can disagree with you without wanting to destroy you.”

  Her tears dry up. “Neela, how is Neela?”

  “Recovering. The baby is well. I offered more moral support than anything.”

  “That seems to be your vocation today.”

  “Do you need anything? Do you want me to come over?”

  “It’s raining.” Of course, selfishly, she wants to see Sudha.

  “It’s been raining for a month. Indians are waterproof. It’s in the genes. How about it? I haven’t even put away my umbrella.”

  “No, Sudha, you need to rest after your journey. School starts early tomorrow. We’ll have our usual long talk on Saturday. I’m much better for hearing your voice.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Just fine. Good night now. Thanks for phoning.”

  Monica stands and stretches, peering out the window into the darkness. Darkness is harder than the rain. It’s true that the days are a little longer than when she arrived in February. But night falls by 7:15. In July. On summer evenings, she and Beata used to go to dinner, then walk around Lake Calhoun until 10 o’clock. Friends, that’s what she needs. Monica refills her tea cup and sits down with Beata’s letter.

  My dear Monica,

  Wonderful to hear about your progress with Hindi. I bet your patients appreciate it. Your new friend Sudha sounds nice. I’m glad you have a break from the almighty Walshes. I hope they don’t canvas in the Twin Cities.

  Kevin Walsh won’t go further than Chicago.

  We’ve been lucky this year—just a few thunderstorms. My roses are gorgeous. Thanks again for those silvery pink ones. I think of you whenever I gaze at the garden.

  James and I had a fab time in Redwing last weekend. Yeah, I can hear you say,
Finally making some progress
. You’d like him. He loves jazz as much as I do. He doesn’t tease me too much about the infamous shoe collection (I have gotten better, really.).

  James is a poetry reader. He’s great in bed. Funny and kind. Did I say great in bed?

  So what’s the catch? OK, I know this shouldn’t bother me. James is divorced. No children or any ties. Amicable. I wish he’d told me earlier.

  Wouldn’t that have scared you off, old pal?

 
OK, it would have troubled me a lot. He said he wanted to wait until I knew him before telling me. What’s the deal? At least half of adult Americans are divorced. Of course I’m not being rational. I didn’t want a virgin. Maybe I’m unrealistic because I’ve been alone so long.

  That’s a point.

 
So he’s given me some “space” to think. Gone to visit his parents in Cleveland for a week. He’s a very attentive son. Oh, Monica, I wish you were here and we could really talk. That’s selfish. You’re doing such important work in India.

  Odd that Beata thinks of her being in India rather than in Moorty.

 
Let’s see, what gossip. Heard the inimitable Dr. Jill twice on the radio. Diet and exercise are this month’s themes. Oh, she doesn’t’ say anything bad. It’s just so obvious. You’ve probably long forgotten your irritating colleague.

  I’m still thinking about that trip to India in the late summer. James keeps mentioning a time share in Captiva. But he knows India is my priority.

  Come soon, friend. R.S.S. bullies. Visa officials. Warring colleagues. She can’t control any of it. She can pray. Sometimes all she can manage is praying for the willingness to pray.

TWELVE

July and August, 2001, Moorty

  Monica and Raul linger over tea after Friday night dinner. Everything is more relaxed minus the Walshes. It’s nice to spend time alone with him. Father Freitas is off on an evening call. The nuns always leave table promptly. Cook will bang around in the kitchen for another hour, washing up and preparing for breakfast.

  “Minneapolis is very cold?”

  “In winter, yes. Often below zero for most of January.”

  “Below zero
Fahrenheit
?”

  “You betcha!” she grins. “January must be a different story in Buenos Aires.”

  He closes his eyes. “Early summer. The roses and the tourists.”

  “Tourists flock to St. Paul in February for the ice sculpture show.”

  “No!” Laughter softens his long face.

  So good to see him relaxed. His large eyes are often shaded in anger or worry. Tonight the brown irises are clear. Newly washed hair drops in curls over his forehead. Does he go to the barber in the Lower Bazaar, the one who props a mirror against a tree? The intimacy of this question shifts her into bashful silence.

  “It gets cold in Mendoza. Where we lived when I was small.”

  “I’ve heard of Mendoza. It must have been a lovely childhood in the Andes foothills.”

  “Until my father was kidnapped,
sí
.”

  “I am so very sorry. Father Freitas told me some of the story.”

  “That story,” he shakes his head fatalistically, “happened long ago and far away.”

  “How did the rest of your family survive?” she persists gently.

  “Mama moved us to Buenos Aires, to Palermo, near her family. It wasn’t bad. She found office work. And on Sundays we walked the city, Mama and I, to watch the street dancers in La Boca; to browse the market in San Telmo.”

  “But how did you get to medical school? Wasn’t it expensive?”

  “When my grandfather left Italy, his siblings left too and went to New York. A better choice in some ways. At least financially. Mama’s cousin was a doctor in Texas, and he helped me get into medical school there.”