Traveling with Spirits (9 page)

          ***** 

  At five o’clock Monica peeks into the waiting room, distressed to discover six long-suffering people. She’s shattered, wants to sleep for twenty-four hours. Her stamina will build as she get used to the altitude, the language. Monica invites Sister Melba into the exam room.

  “No, Doctor. No critical cases. All can return tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Monica sighs.

  She exits through a newly discovered back door and heads for the residence.

  They’re serving cocktails in the refectory to welcome back Dr. Sanchez from Manda. She should attend. No, she needs time to herself.

  Still some natural light, she notices, making tea. Kevin Walsh has warned not to be profligate with electricity. The emergency generator is for hospital use. She collapses in the window chair, a blanket wrapped around her weary legs. Monica inhales steam from the hot tea as she opens Beata’s letter.

Dear Monica,

  Great to get your letter from Delhi. What bureaucracy! And your visa is still insecure? I’m sending this to Moorty, assuming you have to be there now. Glad to know your health is fine. And nice to hear about running into Tina after all those years. More details on Ashok, please.

  She hasn’t heard from either since arriving in Moorty. Chances are, of course, that both Tina and Ashok have sent emails. Her heart sinks, remembering it will be another week-and-a-half before she can visit Moorty’s internet palace.

  I miss our talks. In fact, I’m looking into long distance plans that allow you to call India without losing your old age pension. I want to know about your patients, the other doctors? Is there a real spiritual community there?

  She muses about her own early quixotic hopes of landing with kindred souls sharing faith and work. Still, what can she judge after one week? Father Freitas and Sister Catherine are devout, humble, insightful. And she hasn’t met Dr. Sanchez. Glancing at the clock, she sees there’s time to finish Beata’s letter. She’s not going to be late for two meals in one week.

 
We’re in that part of winter when I wonder why I moved back from Seattle after grad school. It’s not the cold; it’s the ice. Also, I hate the milky skies. Usually the saving graces of our winter are blue skies and
glistening
snow. But we’ve had skim milk overcast for a week and no fresh snow. The back garden has lost its creamy texture—dead grass gets exposed and the lawn is beginning to resemble those glazed sugar cookies. Do you get much snowfall in Moorty?

  She grins at Beata’s excellent manners; following her own news with questions.

You must be wondering about James.

  Well, yes, dear.

 
Last night we went to that funny restaurant: Sushi Tango in Calhoun Square. He surprised me with his expertise about sushi and sashimi, which he picked up when he was a soldier in Japan. A hard posting for a black man, but he made several close Japanese friends and he’s devoted to the cuisine. The evening was full of stories. He asked about me, too. The one disappointment is that he attends Westminster Presbyterian. At least he’s a man of faith. We have plans to see each other on the weekend.

  Yes! Beata was beginning to give up finding a good man in Minnesota. Here’s a woman who deserves happiness, after all she’s done for others. Finishing the tea, Monica realizes she’s not at all jealous. She must truly be recovering from Eric.

  The gong echoes. She stretches, folds the blanket, grabs a blue sweater to wear under her shawls. The walk back to the residence after dinner will be freezing. Hurrying, she notices excitement about meeting the elusive Dr. Sanchez. She trusts he found some peace in the chapel.

  Father Freitas walks into the refectory at the same time. “How was your afternoon, doctor?”

  “I met an interesting woman, a teacher. Perhaps you know her—Sudha Badami?”

  “Yes,” he smiles. “A good person. She often brings students here. She’s made an unusual vocational choice for a Bombayite with such fine training—did she tell you she has a degree from St. Andrews?—to opt for village education. She’s very dedicated. A missionary in her own way.”

  “But definitely not a Christian.”

  “Ohhhh, most certainly not.” He holds out a chair at the dinner table for her. “At first she was leery of us. Worried we were peddling doctrine with our medical care.”

  “She quizzed you about this?” Monica recalls the woman’s imposing manner.

  “Quizzes are her specialty,” he chortles. “We had a coffee in town—now you must let me introduce you to the Kerala Coffee House on your half day next week.”

  The Walshes enter, chatting intently. Rather, he talks rapidly to his nodding wife.

  “Ms. Badami has invited me to speak on hygiene to her class Tuesday afternoon.”

  “But of course.” Father rocks in his chair. “She got to you quickly! It took her two months to persuade me to speak about Goan history. She does all she can to introduce those children to diverse voices.”

  She’s intrigued. “So you two sparred about religion?”

  “It was more temperate than sparring, a lively discussion. She questioned why the Church has established our own clinic. Why we needed a priest here. After all, what practical use am I, aside from administrative work, any sensible non-Christian might inquire.” 

  “She asked that?”

  “Not directly,” he lowers his voice. “I did explain that I served those who asked.”

  “I guess you didn’t reveal the local congregation has trebled since you arrived.”

  “Now where would you get such a notion?” He frowns, then checks to see who’s assembled for diner.

  Dr. Sanchez is still missing.

  “Sister Margaret in Delhi told me. She’s one of your greatest fans.”

  “God bless Sister Margaret, but she shouldn’t be telling tales like…ah, here he is, Dr. Sanchez!” He whispers as the dark-haired man approaches. “A fine person, but excitable. Very tired. The last journey was arduous.”

  Kevin Walsh announces, “I believe everyone has arrived. Shall we sit at table?”

  Sit at table: where does he get his arcane idioms? Do the others find him pretentious?

  Monica takes a deep breath, striving to be more charitable. Perhaps Dr. Walsh is attempting Indian English.

  “Before we begin,” Father Freitas raises his melodious Goan voice, “I believe Dr. Sanchez and Dr. Murphy have not met.”

  They smile shyly to one another.

  “Monica Murphy,” she extends her hand.

  “Raul Sanchez,” he grins, tenting his palms in response.

  Sanchez is taller than she imagined in church. Very fit, with an olive complexion and arresting gray-green eyes.

  She tents her palms as well. Part greeting; part prayer. A much more sanitary salutation, especially at mealtime.

  Sister Catherine offers grace.

  Cook enters, bearing platters of curry and
biryani
.

  Kevin Walsh declares. “Dr. Sanchez was telling us over drinks—so sorry you couldn’t join us, Dr. Murphy, you must have had an abnormally difficult day. He was telling us about being detained by
dacoits
on the way to the station.”

  Sanchez stares blankly out the window into the early winter dark.

  “I’m not familiar with the word
dacoit
.” Monica says.

  “It comes from the Hindi,
daikait
,” Kevin Walsh intones, “meaning ‘bandit.’ ”

  “Bandits prosper on the remote back roads,” Brigid Walsh explains. “Detaining, sometimes attacking, travelers for their gear, for what little money they carry.”

  “Praise heaven you are safe,” says Sister Catherine.

  “Sí,” he murmurs. “Heaven and Sanjay the driver. But it’s all over now, so…”

  Monica strains to hear him. He’s stopped mid-sentence. Sister Margaret alerted her to his odd speaking habits. She’s alluded to several family members among “the Disappeared” in Buenos Aires. “A good man,” Sister Margaret had said, “but not the easiest companion.”

  “The thing we should be discussing is the need for a real satellite clinic in Manda,” asserts Raul Sanchez. “It would serve people from nearby villages. These once-a-month forays are bandages, not very effective ones.”

  Walsh leans forward. “We’ve discussed all that. Once we’re sorted out here, we might expand, but first—”

  Raul interrupts, “First you want to create the perfect hospital with state-of-the-art equipment. Meanwhile, people need basic medications for malaria, dysentery, cholera. We could do important preventive work with a little money.”

  Yes, Monica thinks. Maybe Raul and I and a couple of
dacoits
could hijack the clinic from Commander Walsh. Although Father is the Director, Walsh wields a puzzling clout.

  “And who will raise that money, Dr. Sanchez?” Walsh reddens.

  “It’s not just a question of new money,” he leans on the table, glaring at Walsh, “but also of allocating what the board gives us. I’m sure that if we wrote to them—”

  “Unless I’m mistaken, I was hired as senior doctor.”

  “In Spanish,
senior
, and
despot
are different words.” Sanchez’s hands shake so much, he sets down the fork.

  “Dr. Sanchez, Dr. Walsh, please,” Father Freitas begins.

  “Sorry, Father,” Sanchez stands, rasping his chair back over the wooden floor. “Apologies to all. I’m too shattered to be decent company.”

  “Listen, Dr. Sanchez, there’s no call to walk off in a huff,” Walsh rises.

  “Yes, Doctor,” implores Sister Catherine,
nurse
Catherine, also rising. “You need to eat after that difficult journey.”

  Raul Sanchez signals them to be seated. “Really, the best nourishment for me right now will be bed.”

  The rest of the meal passes in virtual silence (
No, Beata, not yet a spiritual community.
)

  Monica is relieved that Cook, so undone by Sanchez’s abrupt departure, forgets to serve one of his alarmingly sweet desserts. Everyone one seems happy to leave the tense room as quickly as possible.

  Strolling to the residence, she pauses to drink in the cold mountain air. She’s almost cleaned out her lungs after that month in sooty Delhi. Stars gleam in the moonless sky. She recalls that final night in the Boundary Waters with Eric; this same Milky Way shone down. She’s glad that thinking of Eric these days brings more fondness than sadness. She hears something from the road. A woman walks alone, carrying a shopping bag. Wind catches her
dupattas
and the long, silky scarf trails her like a private cloud.

  Monica approaches the residence as quietly as she can in heavy boots, so as not to disturb Dr. Sanchez. From the flat on the bottom floor, she sees lights blazing in his room.

EIGHT

March, 2001, Moorty

  Crisp, clear mountain afternoon. Infused with optimism, Monica sets out for Walkerton School. Wearing a heavy woolen skirt, two sweaters and a shawl, she’s prepared for the hour’s walk. The invigorating air should sharpen her mind. She’s glad she phoned Sudha Badami and suggested that Vikram simply meet her at the campus entrance. He needs rest, not a long hike.

  “Indian life isn’t conducive to rest,” Sudha responded, but finally acquiesced.

  Four coolies pass her, plodding at a steady, almost easy pace under tanks of propane, stacks of lumber, bureaus, boxes of glass and bags of family groceries. They climb higher into the hills from the lower town markets. “Coolies,” it’s hard to believe they use that term here.

 
“Porters,” Monica said to Sister Catherine, who looked through her.

  “We’d never survive without those fine coolies,” the nun explained, “since our road is closed to cars. Finally we Indians are doing something about air pollution before we lose sight of one another completely. Why, coolies transport all our food and supplies from the outside world.”

  It’s a pleasant journey, past houses and stands of deodar cedars and paths meandering into the hills. In a cotton bag, she carries sandals, an umbrella. She’ll change shoes near the school. How do people walk these uneven roads in sandals?

  Ahead, she sees three women chatting at a road construction site. One balances a heavy bowl on her head. All wear saris and carry wood. She pauses to watch as two men heat tar by placing it on top of metal barrels then setting a fire under each barrel. Once again she feels she’s landed in the 19th century.

  “
Namaste
.”

  She turns to find a man dressed in a grey suit hurrying toward town.

  “
Namaste
,” she nods back.

  Everyone travels by foot in this part of Moorty. Further down the mountain, where driving is permitted, cars, trucks and coaches negotiate a cart road. She’s getting used to long distances—sixty to ninety minute walks are routine. A sensible, low-tech solution to limiting fumes. Smog in the Himalayan Foothills, she never would have dreamed. Yet on some days, you can’t see the peaks through the grey haze. She takes a deep breath, inhales a mixture of piquant deodar and road tar.