November 6, Saturday Ollantaytambo, Peru
Miguel
Pisconte is an affable man. Cherub cheeks and a widening waistline tell of his
fondness for good food. His eyes are bright, brown and serious. His glossy
black hair, which is much too long for a priest, hangs down on his forehead. Today
his mane is dotted with plaster dust. His brow is beaded with sweat. Dust
particles float in the air like feathers, a stale heated aroma of old wood fills
the room. He is looking at the ceiling, where he has torn down much of the old
plaster and laths. He has almost made his way as far as a trapdoor, which is half
way across the room. He’s glad he takes after his mother’s family. Even though
Jemina Pisconte is a small woman, her brothers are all solidly built men. His
carpenter skills, feeble as they might be, are a trait garnished from his
father, Luis. He was never able to master anything mechanical like his Dad or
younger brother Alvaro, but he is handy with a hammer and saw.
He
studies the water stains on the remaining stretch of ceiling, shaking his head.
He fixed the roof where the water came in and now he has to repair the damage
the moisture caused to the ceiling. He realizes he is tired and decides to rest
a bit. He plunks down on the old wooden chair, taking off his safety glasses. He
grabs an open can of Pepsi from the table and finishes off the cold beverage
with one large gulp. Closing his eyes for a moment, he thinks that if he had
known beforehand how much work his new parish would demand, he might not have
accepted the new posting.
In
reality, he knows that isn’t true. He is thrilled to be back in Peru, the land
of his birth. His Quechan ancestors have been calling to him for years.
He
drops the pry bar he is holding to the floor amid the broken plaster and wood.
Folding his arms, he wiggles down in the chair and relaxes. His mind drifts
like an unmoored boat. He’s been in Ollantaytambo for over a month now.
Although he is in charge, a novice priest has been assigned to assist him in
tending his flock. Befriending the young man hasn’t been an easy experience
thus far. When he had met the retiring priest, Father Van Brevoort, a Dutchman,
he told Miguel about the young priest’s disagreeable attitude.
A
smile slowly spreads across Miguel’s face as he remembers the parishioners’
warmth and love for the elderly priest. He hopes he can win their hearts half
as much. He misses the many Mexican friends he had made while in Ciudad Valles,
where he had been the novice priest at one time. He misses his family back in
Canada; he misses the moody waters of the Atlantic Ocean. He recalls the first
sunrise he witnessed there: his father had woken them all in darkness – his
mother, his younger sister Theresa. His brother Alvaro had not been born yet. They
had arrived the night before, in the late evening, and slept in their new home.
He remembers the astonishment he felt when Mr. Alexander, his family’s
benefactor, led him to his own room.
It was unimaginable. He had previously slept with his sister on a worn out cot,
in the same room as his parents. That night had been the beginning of a
wonderful new life. He loves the Alexanders.
He
can still picture his father when he brought them outdoors that morning; their
house was close to the road, with the waters of the Cocagne Bay opposite. They
stood off to the side, by the driveway at the front of their home. Luis
Pisconte huddled them all close together, his arms around his wife Jemina and his
son. Theresa was yawning and leaning against him. Miguel recalls the ancient
Quechan prayers his father had spoken in thanksgiving, finishing his
benediction praising God’s goodness in Spanish for bringing them there. The
horizon was soon defined by the faintest of light. Slowly the flat line of the
earth split into roaring orange and reds above, the water below changed its hue
from dark to steel blue before the rising fire glazed it also. Miguel would
never forget that moment as the sun crested, the lengthy morning rays painting
their bodies. He had looked up at his father. Giant tears escaped from his closed
lids. He must’ve sensed Miguel watching him because he opened his eyes, looked
down, squeezed his son hard and smiled. He didn’t wipe away the tears; he just
continued to study the water. They remained there, embracing, thankful and
hoping it to be real.
Father
Miguel’s reverie is interrupted by the shouts coming from the hallway. He opens
his eyes as he sits up straight. The words are not discernable yet, but they are
moving in his direction. It soon becomes evident, from the shrillness in her
voice, that Senora Carmona is upset. The apologetic baritone of Father Teodoro
Delapaz seems insufficient to calm the tiny woman. Father Miguel stands, wiping dust from his
pants before heading to the door. He assumes they are going to his office. He
kicks an errant strip of broken wood onto the pile of debris as he steps
through the clutter. He opens the door just as the conversants pass by in the
hallway. His abrupt move startles them, causing Father Teodoro to raise his
arms almost in defence while the Senora clasps both hands to her chest
shouting, “Ay! Caramba. Un Fantasma!”
Miguel’s
face is white with plaster dust except around the eyes, which are dark and imposing
where his safety goggles kept the dirt away.
“It’s
no ghost, Senora, only me,” says Miguel, flashing his sociable grin.
“Oh,
you startled me, my heart won’t slow down. You should be more diligent Father,
scaring an old lady such as myself.”
She
has a small lace handkerchief in her hand, waving it to fan her wizened face.
Miguel looks into her light blue eyes, admiring the seventy-year-old’s vibrant
mien. She is still an attractive woman.
“How
can we assist you today, Senora Carmona?”
Teodoro
interrupts Miguel’s query by stating, “I was telling the Senora that it would
be impossible for one of us to be at her sister’s birthday party tomorrow
afternoon with such short notice. We have two weddings tomorrow, as you
remember, Father Pisconte.”
Miguel
responds, directing his words towards the elderly lady, “How marvellous that
Senora Ramirez is celebrating another birthday. How old will she be?”
Senora
Carmona changes her scowl to a more pleasant expression, her eyes twinkling when
the new priest remembers her sister’s name. She turns her back to the younger
priest and his unaccommodating manner.
“She
will be 80 tomorrow. As you may remember, Father Pisconte, she has been widowed
for many years and with no children. We are her only family. She is very devout,
and one of your most faithful attendants. I think it is only appropriate that
one of you could offer the blessing for our celebratory meal.”
She
folds both hands about her small clutch, holding it at her waist. She steps
back from the two men as if to say, “Well?”
Miguel
touches the Senora lightly on her shoulder, guiding her toward his office, the
second door on the right.
“Please
come, Senora, and have a seat for one moment while my assistant and I discuss
our schedule. At what time would the meal be presented?”
“We intend to sup at 6 o’clock, so any time
prior to that would be adequate.”
Miguel
makes sure she is comfortable, suggesting he will only be a few moments. He
returns to the hallway, where he sees Teodoro leaning against the wall with a
look of discomfort. He looks up as Miguel approaches. He is about to say
something when Miguel forestalls him by saying, “Wait, Teodoro, don’t say anything
just yet. Hear me out. Come, let us step into the sanctuary for just a moment.”
He
leads the younger priest through the heavy door separating the offices from the
main church. He wonders why the man is so disagreeable and intolerant. When the
door shuts behind them Teodoro knows what’s coming.
“Father
Pisconte, there will be nothing but old women there; it will be a dull, boring
encounter. Can we not find an excuse to put her off? I know it will be me that
has to attend, am I correct?”
“Listen,
Teodoro, the Senora’s husband’s family are our wealthiest benefactors. We don’t
have the luxury of offending them. Our congregation is shrinking as it is, and
it is our job to invigorate this parish and make it grow. Now, as boring as
this event may be, it is without a doubt very important to her. I must remind
you that the Carmonas have the most splendid vineyard in all of Peru. They will
be serving some of the finest wines fermented in these valleys. Does that alone
not tempt you?”
Something
akin to guilt causes Teodoro’s brow to wrinkle. He is rubbing his hands,
avoiding eye contact with his senior as he asks, “Why do you think the vintage
of their wine would be important to me, Father?”
“Come
now, Teodoro, do you think me so stupid that I don’t notice the missing wine
from our own meagre stock. I think you have a fondness for the grape, yes?”
There
is no use denying Father Pisconte’s allegation. Teodoro’s blushing cheeks
already suggest that he is not innocent. He has been in trouble enough times in
his life to know it is better to remain quiet.
“So,
you do not deny it? Well, Teodoro, let me suggest to you that it is not a sin
for you, or I for that matter, to indulge in the blessings that God has offered
us in the way of alcoholic spirits. It is only a sin when it is abused. It is
also a sin to steal. I will hear your confession on Sunday, but I will offer
you your penance now. The weddings will be over by five o’clock and you will be
free to attend the birthday party. So I am asking you, please be kind to the
Senora. Now go to the office and make plans with her. Then change your clothes
and meet me in the dressing room so we can get the ceiling torn down and the
debris cleaned up this afternoon. Okay?”
The
novice nods, realizing that Father Pisconte is being generous. He also relishes
the idea of sampling a vintner’s private collection.
“Yes,
Father, I will do as you ask.”
The
two men separate, Miguel going back to the mess in the dressing area, Teodoro
to soothe the Senora. As he enters the work area, Father Pisconte is thinking how
little he knows of his assistant. The man doesn’t encourage familiarity. When
Bishop Altamirano had welcomed him back to Peru, he had explained the young
man’s need for a strong mentor. He is twenty-two years old and impetuous. The
bishop explained to Miguel that the lad was familiar with money, spoiled and
pampered most of his life. Why he became a priest is still a mystery to the
older man. The grandest of all surprises is that Teodoro Delapaz is the son of
Anacelia and Guillermo Delapaz a noted politician and a paleontologist. The
bishop confided to Miguel that he had received specific instructions that the
novice priest was to receive no special treatment because of his parents. It
had been left at that.
Teodoro
escorts Senora Carmona to the parking lot, where her driver patiently waits
with the rear door of her car open. He is jotting down the address for the
celebration as he leads her to the vehicle, a heavy black Rolls Royce. He tucks
his notebook into the pocket of his cassock.
“Until
tomorrow, then, Senora, I bid you adieu.”
“Yes,
Father Delapaz. Until tomorrow then.”
******
Teodoro
watches the dark cruiser slowly leave the parking lot until it disappears, its
wide tires scrunching the gravel of the driveway. The grandness of the
impressive auto is diminished as a smelly gray cloud of exhaust hovers in its
wake, the smell as sour as Teodoro’s mood. He stands in the parking area at the
rear of the church, his hands folded in front of him, wishing he was back in
Spain, in Valencia to be exact. When he had been coerced to attend the
Seminario Metropolitano Inmaculada, he had gone reluctantly, realizing then
that life as a priest, until his grandfather died at least, was much better
than life as an outcast, penniless and shamed. A grimace disturbs his smooth
features as he remembers the fiasco when he had been at university in Madrid.
The young lady that had attached herself to him during a night of carousing
with his roommates had become a nightmare of the hugest proportions. He had
woken in a small grimy hotel at the outskirts of the city. Both the young girl
and his wallet were missing; all that remained was his clothing and a headache.
She had shown up two months later at his door with her father, a grizzly of a
man who stank of rotted fish. Both were protesting loudly at the terrible
condition he had left the poor girl in. She was pregnant and claiming that
Teodoro had raped her.
The
torment that had ensued was an unbearable blemish to his family. His father had
hushed things up by buying off the man and his wayward daughter, realizing
later that that had been the plan from the beginning. Teodoro had been
chastised and banished to a life of celibacy; he would become a priest, where
he would not have the opportunity to shame his family again. The man and the
girl mysteriously disappeared. On top of this terrible recollection, layered
like a poisonous sandwich, is the troubling phone call he had with his mother
only days ago adding to the misery he already suffers from.
Teodoro
clears his head of the troubling thoughts, going to his room to change into
work clothes before he goes to help Father Pisconte with the renovations. He
actually smiles, for he enjoys nothing more than wrecking things. He secretly appreciates
the skills he is learning from the priest. The occasion to work with his hands is
fulfilling. He can forget his cloistered life as he concentrates on the details
of construction. He quickly changes into a pair of jeans faded from many
washings and a navy t-shirt that has a picture of Yoda on the front. He sits
on the bed to lace up his work boots, wondering if Senora Carmona’s
granddaughter Beatriz will be there. He smirks, scoffing at the idea of
celibacy. He may have made the vows, but they were in word only, the fire of carnality
continues to burn within him.
When
he reaches the dressing room, Miguel is on a rickety step ladder tugging at the
mouldings that frame the trapdoor. Teodoro glances at the reddish water stains
that decorate the old plaster, tugs the chair they are using as steps into the
middle of the room and grasps the extra pry bar from the floor.
“What
section should I tackle, Father Pisconte?”
Miguel
reaches up to tear off the mitered wood he has loosened and replies, “Teodoro,
when we are alone, I would like it if we could forget the formalities. Please
call me Miguel. Why don’t you start on the section beyond this hatch and work
towards the back wall. I will work in the opposite direction. Try to direct the
larger pieces towards the pile behind me, okay? “
The
young man smiles because he really does like the priest, who is not much older
than him. Miguel has been kind to him even though Teodoro’s dislike for the
priesthood and his posting have been evident in his behaviour. It isn’t this
man’s fault, he knows.
“Very
well, Miguel.”
“Use
those gloves on the counter, Teodoro; you can’t be giving out hosts with
scarred fingers. The parishioners will be reluctant to let you put them near
their mouth.”
The
men laugh at the quip, knowing that it is only the older members of their
congregation that want the priest to place the precious body of Christ upon
their lips; the younger people want it in the palm of their hands.
Teodoro
puts on the gloves before sweeping some of the larger rubble towards the main
pile. Getting up on the chair, he places the wrecking bar into the cavity made
by the missing mouldings and heaves on the laths that hold the plaster in
place. He is fortunate in his placement. When he pulls down, a section of the
ceiling the size of a small coffee table falls. The laths at the opposite end are
rotted from the excess moisture. They crash to the tarp-covered floor, breaking
into a dozen pieces. A dust cloud erupts from the collection of rubbish fogging
the air.
Teodoro
jumps from the chair to get out of the way of the falling ceiling, slipping and
falling onto his butt. The pry bar he has been using lands in the middle of the
pile with a thud.
“Be
careful you don’t hurt yourself Teodoro,” says Miguel.
“Well,
I hope it all comes down that easy, it was all breaking off in small pieces
before. This won’t take us too long.”
He
picks himself up, brushes away some of the dust and retrieves his tool. When he
bends down to pick it up, he disturbs a dusty blue rag that was rolled into the
insulation. He picks it up.
“What
have we here, Miguel?”
Miguel
is braced upon the ladder. He watches Teodoro reach for the rag, noticing that
there is something rolled up inside where the edge of the flap is open.
“It’s
very heavy, whatever it is.”
Teodoro
unravels the cloth to reveal a roll of paper.
The shiny edge of something gleams from within. He drops the rag to the
floor, holding the items in his hand. The paper has an unfamiliar feel and
thickness. As Teodoro unrolls the paper, the golden object slips out, falling
to the floor. Miguel has alit from the ladder, curious as to what Teodoro has.
He is standing beside the younger man when the object falls. He picks it up. Holding
it in both hands, the men are speechless as it is obviously made of gold. After
several moments, Miguel says, “This is an ancient dagger, Teodoro; it is
similar to one on display I saw at the University in Cuzco. Archeologists have
suggested knives like this were used in what was referred to as capacocha ceremonies, human sacrifice,
often children. The squat figure of the haft might be a depiction of one of
their gods. This one reminds me of Supai,
the god of death, but I’m only guessing.”
Teodoro
remains spellbound, not so much by Miguel’s interpretation, but at what such a relic
might be worth. He has forgotten about the paper he holds in his hand until
Miguel hands the golden object out to him and says, “Hold this Teodoro and let
me see the paper. Handle the scroll carefully for it seems quite old.”
The
men trade objects; the younger man’s eyes are glazed by greed, unnoticed by
Miguel. Teodoro handles the dagger with caution, turning it over while
inspecting the details of the carved figure. Miguel studies the paper roll,
surprised at how white the paper is. It hasn’t yellowed like most paper, adding
to the mystery. The texture is much different than normal paper; it almost feels
like a banknote. It is then that he realizes that it is likely rag paper, paper
made from fibres of the cotton plant. That would explain why it is not brittle.
“Come
with me, Teodoro; let’s go into the office with this.”
Teodoro
is mesmerized by the gleam of the polished metal. If it is as old as Father
suggests, it is possible the notes lead to more treasure which makes him think
back to the last conversation he had with his mother, only three days ago. When
he called her, as he did every week, she wasn’t her usual self. Her voice had
been distraught. She confided in him, not as a son but as a priest. She broke
down, telling him that she had just fought with his father. While shopping that
day, her credit card had been declined. When she questioned him about their
finances, he had told her they were deeply in debt. There was no one else she
could talk to; it would be devastating if it were to become public knowledge. Teodoro
offered to come home to be with her, but she put him off, telling him that his
father had said everything would be fine again in a month or so. Their
conversation ended with her apologizing to Teodoro for worrying him and
thanking him for listening. She told him she loved him and that things would be
fine. What she didn’t tell him was that the whole story was a lie, a
fabrication.
Miguel
turns and notices Teodoro standing, a blank stare on his face.
“Teodoro,
did you hear me? Let’s move to the office.”
The
young man snaps out of his musing, keen to find out what the papers Father Pisconte
holds will reveal.
“I’m
sorry, Miguel, it’s just that this is a magnificent relic if it is what you
suggest. What are we going to do with it?”
“I
don’t know yet, Teodoro. Let’s find out what this document says first.”
Miguel
heads to the office, with Teodoro following. The young man is polishing the
figure on the haft of the knife with the bottom of his t-shirt, his gaze fixed
upon the ugly creature. “The god of death,”
he muses. All he sees in his hand is an ingot of gold, something of great
monetary value; he cares not for the stupid old gods. The dagger’s bloody past
pulses through the deadly tool of Incan priests. It weakens his already fragile
consciousness, his eyes frost with covetousness
“I
have to have this!” he tells himself. He lifts his head to look at Miguel, who is
two steps in front of him, just turning into the office. He will have to make
note of where Father Pisconte stores it. He will get it later, but first he has
to learn what is on the papers. It could lead to more items of value, something
that might help his mother and father maybe, an opportunity to compensate for
his youthful misbehaviour. He is already scheming on how to leave Peru.
Welcome to this week's edition of the Scribbler. So happy to have D G Kaye join us. She is also sharing an excerpt from her latest novel. A special note is that Debby is an author's best friend. She has been most kind in introducing her readers to other authors and we are all indebted. Please see her links below.
My
mother had been dying for years, and through those years she refused to
surrender her bitterness and remained in denial of her flaws. The many times I
heard she was dying reminded me of the boy who cried wolf. I almost believed
she was invincible, and even though I never wanted her to suffer, she did.
