Читать книгу Heartsong - James Welch - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

Charging Elk sat on a fruit box in a small funnel-shaped arcade that led to two shop doors and ate the bread and cheese. He was too hungry to remember that he didn’t like cheese, and in fact, the creamy cheese tasted strong and smoothed the tight ball in his guts. The windows on either side of him were shuttered, but he could see through the iron mesh and he looked into the one that seemed to have nothing but hats in it. There were the tall hats and the round hats that rich men wore, and some others that looked like cowboy hats with the brims turned down or level as a tabletop. Most of the men at Pine Ridge Agency wore hats like this now. The older men wore black hats with beaded or horsehair hatbands. They wore old wasichu clothes given to them by white holy men and their helpers, and black shiny scarves bought from the trader. Charging Elk had been surprised, when the Oglalas came in to Fort Robinson, to see some of the very men who had fought at Little Bighorn only a year before dressed this way. They seemed to have picked up the style from the reservation Indians, most of whom had quit fighting eight years before.

It almost shocked Charging Elk to remember that he had gone to the school at the agency for nearly a year. He had sat in one of the rows of long tables watching the freckle-faced white woman write her words in white chalk on the black board: Boy. Girl. Cat. Dog. Fish. She showed them colored pictures of these creatures. The humans were pink, the cat yellow, and the dog black-and-white. The fish were orange and fat, unlike any he had ever seen. But he was most interested in the cat. He had seen the long-cat and the tufted-ear-cat, but they were wild and only once in a while seen. The cat in the picture was small and had a happy look. He had just seen his first small-cat right there at the agency but it had been rangy with frostbitten ears and it ran away from people and dogs. Still, it lived among humans.

He remembered the word “Indian.” She had pointed directly at him, then at the board, and said “Indian.” She made all the children say “Indian.” Then she showed them a picture of a man they could not recognize. He had sharp toes, big thighs, and narrow shoulders; he wore a crown of blue and green and yellow feathers and an animal skin with dark spots. His eyes were large and round; his lips tiny and pursed. The white woman said “Indian.”

Charging Elk and Strikes Plenty were three years older than the other students, a fact that made them ashamed. All the things they had learned out in the buffalo country were of no use here, and their smaller classmates had to help them spell, and add and subtract the red apples. About the only thing the two older boys—they were thirteen winters then—were good at was art. The woman gave them colored sticks and they drew pictures of the life they had just left—villages of lodges, men on horseback, buffaloes, mountains, and trees. Charging Elk once drew a picture of himself, Strikes Plenty, and Liver cutting off the finger of the dead soldier at Little Bighorn to get his agate ring. The woman had scolded him and torn the picture into little pieces, which she made him pick up and put in the wood stove. He didn’t bother to explain, even if she could understand, that the soldier’s knuckle was too big to slip the ring off. Instead, he remained silent, and when the Moon of the Red Grass Appearing came, he and Strikes Plenty took off for the Stronghold. And that was the end of his white man’s learning.

Charging Elk looked out and watched the rain bounce and puddle on the rough cobblestones of the street. The arcade was dry and the night was warmer than it had been the last four sleeps. He looked up at the shuttered windows in the buildings above the shops. Most of them leaked slivers of yellow light, and he imagined the rooms filled with people, eating roasted meat, talking their strange tongue, laughing, smoking tobacco, playing dominoes. Charging Elk liked the game of dominoes. He liked the feel and design of the tiles and he liked to pu t them together in the proper way. But the poker games were more exciting. He and some of the other performers played poker and dominoes every night in Paris after the evening performance. They weren’t supposed to play for money, so they played for matchsticks. Ten matchsticks equaled one centime. Late at night when they cashed out, some of the Indians went to bed with no centimes in their purses. When this happened to Charging Elk, he was grateful that the white bosses were sending most of his money home to his mother and father.

One night, not long after they arrived in Paris, Charging Elk and Featherman and three others were outside their lodge playing poker by lantern light when they heard a loud commotion across the compound where the wide trail from the arena entered the village. Several people were shouting and rushing toward the path. Charging Elk saw Rocky Bear and his wife come out of their lodge and turn to the sound of the excitement. Then Rocky Bear let out a great yell.

The young men scooped up their matchsticks and stood, watching a group of people coming toward them. Buffalo Bill was in the center of the crowd. He was wearing the fancy black clothes that the rich men of Paris wore in the evening, with a stiff white shirt and a little white tie with wings. His goatee looked yellowish against the shirt.

Rocky Bear and his wife were on one side of him, with big grins on their faces. On the other side, an Indian man, dressed in a rough suit, smiled sheepishly.

“Black Elk,” whispered Featherman. “It is Black Elk.”

Charging Elk couldn’t believe it. Even out at the Stronghold, the word had gotten around that Black Elk and three other Oglalas had been lost in Mother England’s home a couple of years earlier. They hadn’t come back to Pine Ridge with the other performers when the show season ended. Most thought they must be dead, that they had met a treacherous end across the big water. There were even ceremonies to release their spirits and people mourned them in the old way. And in a new way—In the white man’s holy house at Pine Ridge, where the white pejata wicasa, wearing his golden-and-white robes, said many solemn words about their lost brothers and sons. When Doubles Back Woman told Charging Elk about this ceremony, and praised it, he had become angry that she and his father had even entered this holy house, much less believed what the blackrobe said. He had ridden back out to the Stronghold and vowed never to enter such a flimsy house.

And now here was Black Elk, two years later, looking surprisingly thin and pitiful under Buffalo Bill’s arm. Charging Elk hadn’t really known Black Elk, who was three years older, because they had grown up in different places. But he had known of him when they were out in the buffalo country many winters ago. Both were boys then, but the three-year difference in their ages meant they played with their own peers. At the big fight on the Greasy Grass, Charging Elk had seen him and his friends wandering among the dead soldiers, looking for things to take. But after the surrender at Fort Robinson, he didn’t see much of the older boy.

The big fire in the center of the camp was built up and two women came with a large pot of coffee, which they put on a stone on the edge of the flames. Somebody brought Buffalo Bill a stool and the others sat on their blankets. It was a warm spring night and the fire felt good and so did the cool air on their backs. Charging Elk and the other young performers sat on the opposite side of the fire and studied both Buffalo Bill and Black Elk. The women passed cups of hot coffee to the leaders.

Buffalo Bill talked to Rocky Bear, glancing from time to time at Black Elk. He had a big voice that seemed to include all the Indians around the fire.

Rocky Bear turned to Black Elk and said, “Our leader, Pahuska, welcomes you back to his family. He has been sad these past two years that his brother has been lost. But he never gave up hope that one day he would find you. He was a great scout in his younger days and he had no doubt that he would track you down. But now it seems that you have found us. Welcome to our camp, Black Elk.”

Black Elk seemed almost dazed that he was sitting at the fire with Buffalo Bill and his people once again. He looked at all the faces as he thanked Buffalo Bill and Wakan Tanka for bringing him here. Then he said, “Pahuska knows that Black Elk is an honorable man who would aspire to become a wichada yatapika, perhaps even a wicada wakan. I have lived in the wadichu world for two years and I do not like what I see. Men do not listen to each other, they fight, their greed prevents them from being generous to the less fortunate, they do not seem to me to be wise enough to embrace each other as brothers. I have learned much from this experience, much that will help me teach our people the right road when I get back to my country. I am glad to see Pahuska and my brothers and sisters, but now I am tired of this land and my heart is sick for home.”

Rocky Bear translated for Buffalo Bill, but the showman seemed to have heard the gist of it in the Lakota tongue. He nodded at Black Elk and said, “Yes, yes,” as he listened. Even after Rocky Bear had stopped, Buffalo Bill continued nodding. Then he spoke more words in his own tongue, occasionally signing to Black Elk. He was a decent sign-talker and all the Indians watched for the signs. He made the sign for friend, for travel; later, he signed for big water and iron road.

Then Rocky Bear said to Black Elk, “Pahuska understands you. He too gets sick for home. This night he was with the big royals and the big bosses of this great nation. He drank their wine and ate their food, but all the time he thought of his home and his relatives at North Platte. But Pahuska is a big man too and he knows he must teach these French what the ikce wicasa are like. They have become too modern with all their powerful engines and big buildings, their fire boats and iron roads. Even tonight they boasted of their progress in the hundred winters since they killed their king and took over. They build their big iron tree so they can look over all that they own. They forget where their people came from; that they too were ikce wiccua in the long ago. Pahuska thinks Black Elk could help him teach them the wisdom of the simple life.”

Black Elk had stayed with the company for two sleeps. During that time he told the story of himself and his companions missing the boat home; then wandering around the big English town of Birmingham, until they took the iron road to London. One of the Lakotas could speak English and he found a Wild West show called Mexican Joe. It was a small show, but the Indians were paid in cash and got enough to eat. Eventually they came to Paris, then traveled to other cities in another country, then back to Paris. After a time, Black Elk fell ill and couldn’t perform any longer. A French family took care of him, but not before he almost lost his nagi. His body did die and he dreamed of many things that only the dead are allowed to see. He didn’t say what—only that he had journeyed home and had seen his mother and father and the pitiful ikce wicasa and now he knew how to help them to regain their dignity and honor. He didn’t say how he would do this, but the young men did not question the power of Black Elk’s death vision.

After a big feast on the second night, Buffalo Bill gave him some American frogskins and a policeman took him to the iron road to reach a place where a fire boat would carry him across the big water. He was subdued as the people embraced him but he looked happy. After having died, he was happy to go home.

Charging Elk stood and stretched. The rain had diminished to a fine mist and he felt that he should go down and scout around the harbor where the fire boats rested. Of course he didn’t have enough francs to cross the big water, but he wanted to see if any of them flew the flag of America. Now that his belly was almost filled up, his mind was clearer and he had begun to think of other possibilities. The boat they came to this land on was big, with many little rooms and the big ones that held the animals and equipment. There were many little nooks that might hold a man if he didn’t require much room. He would have to have food and water to last him many sleeps. But at night, perhaps he could stretch his limbs and relieve himself.

Charging Elk gulped back a sudden rising in his throat as he remembered the first three sleeps out of New York. The fire boat had crashed up and down and rolled from side to side and he had become sick almost instantly after losing sight of the big town. The farther away from land they went, the rougher the ride. The Indians shared rooms down in the bottom of the boat and they could hear the creaking and groaning and crashing as they lay in their swaying rope beds. There were many Indians in each room and they swung and wept and vomited and sang their death songs. Charging Elk, when he thought back on it, had never seen and heard such fear in his life—not at the fight on the Greasy Grass, not at the surrender at Fort Robinson.

But then the big water calmed down, and the people, exhausted and weak, had come out in the open air and they saw nothing but water and sky forever. At that point they thought they would never see their mother earth again and were frightened all over—but they were alive. And in five more sleeps, the ship was moving slowly along the coast of France to the big port in the north. And the people gave a thanks-giving song to Wakan Tanka and once again were excited by the adventure that lay ahead. They had performed in New York and had liked it and were excited to perform for these new people. But when they set foot on the stone quai, their legs felt strange and they became dizzy and had to stand or sit for some time before maka ina forgave them for leaving her bosom.

Charging Elk now thought that he could take a few sleeps of near-death if it meant that he would be on the home side of the big water. If he didn’t cross over, he would never get home, and that was the truth of it. It would be a hard thing, but if he found an iron boat that flew the flag of America and if he could find some more of the francs for meatsticks and bread, he could do it.

The rain was no longer ticking on the umbrella that Charging Elk held over his head, so he closed it and hung it on his arm. His feet were wet inside the fuzzy slippers and his toes were numb with the cold. But he had made it to the harbor and there were more lights here, tall lights on big poles, and a few humans. Most of them were men and they walked in groups, talking loudly and laughing and striking each other on the back and head. They were drunk and happy, but Charging Elk stayed away from them, sometimes crossing the street to stand in a dark arcade as they passed.

At first, he had been dismayed to see hundreds of boats in the small harbor. Most of them were sailing boats, some small, some large. Their tall sail poles looked like a thick forest of slender skinned trees. Not even in Paha Sapa had he seen such a strange forest. The boats were tied to each other, so that some of the men that Charging Elk watched had to climb over two or three boats before they could disappear below the deck of their own.

As he looked at the harbor full of so many boats, he began to feel confused and he felt the old familiar hopelessness begin to set in. He didn’t see a single iron boat among them, much less one that flew the right flag. The only encouraging thing he noticed was the ease with which one could get on one of these boats.

He started to walk farther along the stone quai, out toward a large tower on a promontory. To his left were a series of restaurants, some with tables and chairs stacked outside under canvas awnings. Of the several that he passed only two were lit up. One of them was empty and the chairs rested upside down on the tables while a solitary wasichu swept the floor. But the other held a large round table just inside the window. Many people, men and women, even a few children, were crowded around the table. Charging Elk saw a big chunk of cooked beef being carved by a waiter in a white shirt and black vest. Bowls of potatoes and other things were being passed around, and Charging Elk felt his mouth water. He watched them all raise their glasses toward the center of the table, then gently strike their glasses with their neighbors. It was for a good wish. Sometimes in Paris, the Indians had gone to big houses with their bosses and had learned that it was necessary to make wishes with the glasses. Now Charging Elk became thirsty for the mnisha. The Indians weren’t supposed to drink it—just as they weren’t supposed to make friends with the French women—but they sometimes managed to sneak a few bottles back to camp. At first, Broncho Billy, their interpreter, would buy it for them for a few centimes that he would put in his pocket, but after a while Charging Elk and his friends realized that they could walk into a wineshop and pick out some bottles by themselves. The shopowners didn’t know that Buffalo Bill frowned on the Indians who drank. He had even sent two of the Oglalas and one Brule back to America for drinking too much.

Charging Elk smiled as he remembered the first time he had tried to pull the cork out of a bottle with the piece of curly iron. Somehow only the top half of the cork came out, and when he tried to capture the rest with the iron screw, he pushed it down into the bottle. And when he tipped it up, the half cork plugged up the neck. It caused great laughter among his friends, as each time he tipped the bottle nothing came out. Featherman solved the problem by pushing the cork into the bottle with the stiletto knife he had bought in Paris and pouring the wine into a tin cup.

Charging Elk stood in the shadows outside the window and watched the platter of meat being passed around. He imagined that he could smell it and that he could taste it. He had gorged on meat the size of the roast by himself, when he and Strikes Plenty killed an elk in Paha Sapa. But mostly they lived on rabbits and porcupines and sage hens; sometimes deer. The big animals had become increasingly scarce in the years he lived at the Stronghold. Many times in winter he had been as hungry as he was just before he stole the iron road policeman’s bread and cheese. Strikes Plenty was right. Their friendship probably couldn’t have survived another winter of near starvation at the Stronghold.

Although the rain had stopped, a wind had come up from the northwest and now Charging Elk could hear the harsh snapping of pieces of cloth tied to the tall poles of the big boats. Strings of white lights slung from the tops of the poles to the ends of many of the boats swayed and cast moving shadows on the water. The wind was fresh, but because of the clouds, Charging Elk wasn’t as cold as he had been during the earlier starlit nights when he would awake with white frost on the papers he would drape over himself.

Charging Elk had torn himself away from the family of eaters and was now walking farther along the quai, away from the big street he had followed from Rond Point du Prado. He would keep that street in mind as a landmark, but now he wanted to make sure there were no fire boats tied to the wooden ones. He prayed to Wakan Tanka to give him a sign, to show him the flag of America. Or the name of the fire boat that had brought him to this land. The Persian Monarch. Before they left New York, before they boarded the giant boat, Broncho Billy had pointed out the name on the front. He had said Persia was way to the east even of the land they were going to. People there wore shiny clothes and the monarch—some kind of king that the people didn’t hate—kept large flocks of comely women for his pleasure. They just lay about and waited until he called on one or two of them. The Indians were used to Broncho Billy’s lies and they didn’t believe this idea; still, some of the Indians, like the Blackfeet, were said to have as many as four or five wives if they could afford them. The Lakota men could rarely afford two wives. Maybe a king, who commanded many people, could have as many of the women as he wanted. Featherman joked that he would stay on the boat when it got to their destination and see if it would take him to these women. That was before the near death of seasickness.

As Charging Elk walked along the quai, he idly looked up a street that led away from the port. He stopped and looked again. In the distance of two street corners, he could see soft but bright yellow light. And he saw small figures, many of them, all walking one way. The yellow light seemed warm at this distance, warmer than the white lights of the port. By now, the wind had begun to bite through Charging Elk’s coat, and his feet tingled in the now-soaked fuzzy slippers. He had become increasingly preoccupied with his health the past few sleeps. He knew if he had to go back to the house of sickness he would lose this opportunity to find his way home. And he had the gnawing feeling that he would just become sicker there. Death visited that house too often, and he felt certain it would take him away next time.

Charging Elk passed a large building made of iron and glass. It looked different from the stone buildings, light and open like the cages for birds he had seen in some markets. It stood apart from the others on the quai, almost at the water’s edge, and it smelled of sea creatures. It too was dark but he could just make out long rows of tables which seemed to be covered with shiny metal, and he wondered if this was where the women washed their clothes. Everything smells of the fish, he thought, and he felt queasy as he walked on the edge of a basin filled with small wooden boats. Each one had a single skinned tree and was open to the weather. Some were filled with small wooden cages; others had piles of knotted string beneath a piece of canvas that hung like a tent from a wooden pole attached sideways to the skinned tree. Charging Elk knew that these were devices to catch the fish and the hard-crusted creatures he had seen in markets. The Lakotas were surprised and disgusted with the things these people ate. Especially the slimy many-legged thing that seemed to melt into itself. Featherman had said something obscene about it and everybody laughed. Still, they were horrified.

By now Charging Elk found himself standing on the edge of a cobblestone square surrounded by three- and four-story buildings. At one end was a large holy house with two towers. A bell was ringing in one of the towers, and he realized that he had been hearing it for some time. But it was the din of hundreds of people in the square that muted the bell and caused him to shrink into a doorway. Some of them carried torches which gave off warm golden flames. In the center, several men carried a woman dressed in blue and white silken cloth. A golden circle hovered above her head and she was seated on a golden chair, and at first, Charging Elk thought it was a real woman, but she didn’t move. Her hands were clasped, palms and fingers pressed together, and he knew she was one of the holy statues that he had seen in the small street those few sleeps ago. These French worshiped her and were taking her up the steps to the holy house. He looked around for the man in brown robes, the kicking baby, and the men with shiny cloth wound around their heads. Perhaps they came from Persia; perhaps Broncho Billy was right; perhaps this town was where the Perdían Monarch came from. For just an instant, he thought he might be in Persia. But this town was only a train ride from Paris and these people were dressed like all the other French. No shiny clothes, no big cloths on their heads. And no monarch with his many women.

Charging Elk watched the procession make its way slowly up the wide steps of the holy house, and he realized that the voices of the people were not loud, just constant. They seemed to chant the same things at the same time, all the while crowding around the statue and a man in a red gown carrying a gold cross with red fire glistening at its center. As the procession ascended the stairs, Charging Elk could see that the leaders were holy, with their golden robes and tall stiff hats. One of them held a long coupstick which swayed slowly above the crowd. Two of them were swinging iron boxes that made smoke and caused the watching people to bob up and down and move their right hands over their bodies, just as they did that day in the dark cave of the holy house in Paris.

The people followed the golden men into the big house and then the doors closed. The bell had quit ringing and suddenly it was as quiet as it had been that afternoon and evening. The golden torches were gone too; only the lights on posts cast their cold white circles on the wet cobblestones.

Charging Elk wondered what kind of ceremony this was that the white people held during this Moon of the Popping Trees. He knew it was holy; perhaps as holy as the wiwanyag wachipi. But the Dance Looking at the Sun was held during the Moon of Red Cherries, when it was warm and Sun looked down on his people for the longest time of his yearly journey.

Now the people were forbidden to hold the Sun Dance, just as they were forbidden to speak Lakota. But many of the people from Pine Ridge came out to the Stronghold to participate in the Sun Dance. The whites never bothered with the Indians out there and so they were free to perform their holiest ceremony in the old way.

Charging Elk had sacrificed his flesh before the wagachun when he was seventeen winters, one winter after his visit from badger, who gave him much medicine. The pain of the thongs in his breast as he danced before the sacred tree was unbearable and he was certain he would disgrace himself, but just as he was about to cry out, the pain ended and he was in another world. It was as though he could see himself dancing and blowing the eagle-bone whistle and, at the same time, entering the Great Mystery, where he saw the ancestors and the great herds of buffaloes under the wind and sun and moon. He saw many sacred beings in this world and he knew it was the real world. He heard the beat of the drum and he knew it was the heartbeat of the can gleska, where all becomes one. As he danced, he heard the pounding rhythm in his feet, the shrill arrow of his whistle, and he felt the darkness take him. Later, in the pejuta wicasa’s sweat lodge, he had vowed to always live in the old way, to participate only in Lakota ceremonies, to avoid and ignore the holy ceremonies of the wasichus. And he had fulfilled that vow as best he could.

But now he had witnessed one of the white mens ceremonies and he found himself wishing he could go into their sacred house and see some more. He wanted to be with these people, inside where it was warm and holy. But he knew that as soon as he entered, the people would stare at him, or maybe they would throw him out because he wasn’t one of them. Or worse, they might think he was an enemy.

Charging Elk was sunk inside of himself, thinking of his loneliness in the cold dark while the wasichiu were in the sacred room with their holy woman and the golden leaders, and he didn’t notice the slow, measured steps which clumped dully on the wet cobblestones. If he had heard the steps, he could have just stepped farther into the shadows or walked deliberately around the corner and toward the harbor. He had observed that people who walked deliberately in these big towns were seldom seen.

But he was caught unawares and he jumped when he heard the voice behind him. “Pardon, monsieur.” The voice was calling for his attention, and so he turned.

The man wore a shiny dark cape that fell down past his knees and a small flat cap with a visor and a curtain that covered his neck and ears. He said something else, something that seemed to be a question. Charging Elk looked down at the man’s silver buttons, which were attached to a tunic beneath the cape. He shrugged uselessly and he saw that the man carried a long stick. He knew that the man was an akecita, for he had seen many of them patrolling the streets of Paris, and even Marseille. He had avoided them these past sleeps and now he was disappointed that he had been surprised by one. Again he shrugged, and again he avoided looking into the policeman’s face. But he had sized him up and saw that the policeman was taller than the people of this town, but still half a head shorter than Charging Elk. He was also slighter and the knuckles that gripped the baton were sharp and white. Charging Elk thought he could take him with a quick move that would allow him to spin the man and get a grip that would break his neck or his windpipe. One of the older men at the Stronghold, one who had fought many times with enemies, had shown him and Strikes Plenty how he had used this move when an enemy thought he had him cornered.

But Charging Elk stood, still looking at the buttons, while the akecita continued talking. The voice was becoming louder and faster, slightly more threatening, and Charging Elk felt his body go tense with anticipation of the policeman’s first move.

He had been in three or four fights in his life, only one with a white man, a miner who had caught him stealing food from his shack. He had knocked the miner down and hit him on the head with a half-full coffeepot. Then he had run away. He and Strikes Plenty had laughed about the incident, but afterward Charging Elk had wished he had lifted the miner’s hair. But the thought had not occurred to him then as he sought only to escape. Anyway, there was no glory in scalping enemies anymore. There were no real enemies anymore. The old days when one rode into camp with an enemy’s scalp and the people sang an honoring song were gone. Now the reservation people would be angry and frightened of reprisal.

Charging Elk felt the rush of anticipation leave his body. He knew he was just as powerless in this country beyond the big water as the people were on their own land. He knew that his badger medicine would not help him here. All he had left was his death song and now was not the time to sing it.

The policeman grabbed him by the biceps and pushed him toward a street that led away from the square.

Charging Elk sat for a long time under a single yellow wire in a small room in a place of many rooms. He sat on a hard chair with his coat buttoned to his neck and his beret pushed back so that it perched on the crown of his head. His long hair fell over the coat collar to his shoulders and his eyes were slitted and without expression.

Many policemen came to look at him, in twos and threes, chatting among themselves, gesturing toward him, then going away. None of them addressed him, but one was bold enough to offer him his tobacco and papers, which Charging Elk took. He rolled a cigarette, accepted a light, then nodded at the man, and the man shrugged and almost smiled as he left. A moment later, Charging Elk could hear much shouting and laughter in the passageway outside the room.

As he smoked, Charging Elk looked at the table before him, with its neat stacks of papers and a jar filled with writing instruments. On the wall behind the table, he saw a photograph of a white-bearded man in a dark suit with a sash draped over one shoulder and thought he must be the boss of these police. He studied the three-colored flag which hung from a pole in the corner. He knew it was the flag of France. During the grand entry to begin the daily Buffalo Bill shows, soldiers carried it along with the American flag. Then after the troupe circled the arena a few times on their horses, the Cowboy Band would play the power songs of the two countries and the audiences would rise and put their hands over their hearts. Charging Elk had grown to like these songs because afterward the crowds would cheer and clap their hands. Then they would be ready for the Wild West show. And the Indians would be ready to accommodate them. Wearing only breechcloths and moccasins and headdresses, they chased the buffalo, then the Deadwood stage, attempted to burn down a settler’s cabin, performed a scalp dance, and charged the 7th Cavalry at the Greasy Grass. Buffalo Bill always rescued the wadichud—the settlers, the women and children, the people who rode in the stagecoach—from the Indians, but he couldn’t rescue the longknives. They died every time before Buffalo Bill got there. And when he came on the scene of the dead bodies, he took off his hat and hung his head and his horse bowed. By then, the warriors were behind the long canvas backdrop, which was painted with rolling yellow hills and the many lodges beside the wooded river. They were hidden from the audience and so they smoked and drank water and told jokes.

It had been good in Paris. The days had been too hot sometimes, but the women were handsome, and there was much excitement all the time. Except for a few bouts of longing for the peaceful seclusion of the Stronghold, Charging Elk had enjoyed the whole experience. He had even come to know and make friends with some of the reservation Indians, who didn’t seem so weak after all. And after all the daily riding, they could sit a galloping horse almost as well as Charging Elk. But he still took the most chances, counting coup on the buffaloes, taking a fall from his horse after being “shot” with more vigor, fighting hand to hand with the soldiers with more spirit. He took pride in his performances, sometimes too much pride, and the others, led by Featherman, would tease him without mercy, calling him a black Indian because of his dark color, or a scabby tatanka because he lived in the badlands like an old bull. They played jokes on him, putting scratchy grass in his sleeping robe or the strong sand that goes on meat in his pejuta dapa.

Charging Elk smiled for a moment as he recalled the jokes, but the reality of where he was abruptly jarred his consciousness. Except for the table and the chair Charging Elk sat upon, there was one other chair and a tall box with many drawers in a corner. The single yellow wire in its glass globe and a window which looked out into the corridor provided a harsh light but the corners of the room were shadowed. He had been sitting in the chair, almost without moving, for two hours and now he had to piss. He had not seen the akecita who had brought him here since their arrival.

The tobacco he had smoked had made him dizzy and his guts were rumbling because he had not eaten for many hours. He closed his eyes and made himself think again of Paris and he saw the young woman who had come to look at the Indians in the village. That first time she was dressed in a long metal-gray dress which did not have the big butt and which was tight around the middle, almost like shiny skin. She was slender and her small breasts only slightly interrupted the smooth line of the tight material. She had come with an older man and another man about her age. At first, Charging Elk didn’t pay much attention to her. Many people, many handsome young women, came to the village to look at the Indians. If there was anything interesting about this one, it was her hat; or rather, the shiny green and blue and yellow feathers that surrounded the crown of it. It looked as though a strangely beautiful duck was sleeping on her head, its own head tucked under a wing. Charging Elk stared at the hat, then looked at her face and was a little surprised to see such a clean simple face framed by vermilion upswept hair. Her lips were pale and her eyes were the green of ice in the wind caves of Paha Sapa. He looked at her for some time and decided that she was nice to look at. Then he went back to playing dominoes.

She returned the next day, just before the afternoon performance. Charging Elk was on the verge of entering the lodge he shared with five other young men to change into his buckskins and the long headdress he was given by the man in charge of costumes, which he wore during the grand entry and during the dance scenes. She was standing on the worn earth path between his lodge and Rocky Bear’s, looking at him. Although, like most of the other Indians, he didn’t like to look at the eyes of these wasichus, he did look directly at her, at her clean face, then into her icy-green eyes. She smiled at him and his heart jumped up and he ducked into the lodge. When he came out, adjusting the feathers of the headdress, she was gone.

She came one more time after that—four sleeps later. Charging Elk had been counting because he had come to realize that he liked the attention that seemed beyond the bare curiosity of the other French women. He liked the way she had looked at him and he liked the smile that he saw many times after that, if only in his mind. For three sleeps he had worn his black sateen blouse with the brass arm and wrist bands, his father’s breastplate, a beaded vest, and the silver earrings he had taken from Cuts No Rope in a poker game. He carefully braided his hair with otter skin and red yarn. Then he waited in a variety of poses designed to show he didn’t care if he saw her again.

The fourth sleep he decided she would not return, so he wore his worn calico shirt, a pair of baggy-kneed white mans pant’s, and a black vest. His braided hair was tied off with bits of rawhide. The day had been hot in that close damp way that made Charging Elk wish for the open air of the plains. He was tired and his young bones ached from all the riding and fake fighting he had done over the three moons since their arrival in Paris.

He was playing dominoes with Featherman. It was just after the daytime performance and there would be no evening performance because this was the day the wasichus went to their holy houses and rested and ate long meals at home. Several of the performers were going to town to see the sights with Broncho Billy that evening. As tired as he was, he looked forward to eating a big meal in a brasserie that Broncho Billy had been told had plenty of American beef.

As he studied his next move, he felt more than saw a shadow that covered his face and hand. He thought it might be one of the other show Indians come to watch the game, but when he looked up with mild annoyance at the closeness of the shadow caster, he saw the clean face of the young woman looking down at him from beneath a simple white bonnet.

He stood quickly, all thoughts of his aching bones a thing of the past, and she involuntarily took a step back and made a noise that he knew was not a word. He was a head taller than she was and she seemed almost frightened at his size. But she recovered in the time it took for him to realize this and she stepped forward and offered her hand. It was a small hand in a white lace glove without finger pockets. Her nails were small and shiny, the skin unlined, even around the knuckles. Charging Elk didn’t know what to do with the pale hand. He had seen men kiss their women’s hands, or take the hand and bow. Both gestures seemed too demonstrative, and he didn’t want to shake her hand as men did, so he brushed her fingertips with his own dark hand while looking at her white bonnet.

She drew her hand back and touched her dress just above her breasts and said, “Je m’appelle Sandrine. C’est mon nom.” Charging Elk looked at her lips and they were the color of wild rose. “Sandrine”, she said. “Moi.”

Then Charging Elk heard Featherman’s voice behind him. “That is her name, I believe. Sandrine. Now you must tell her yours. In American.”

He looked at the young woman called Sandrine and touched his own chest and said, “Charging Elk.”

She said, “Charging Elk.” When she said it again, the first part of his name was soft and flowing, but the Elk was firm and emphatic. He had not heard it that way before. “Sandrine,” he said, pointing to her. Then he laid his fist against his chest. “Charging Elk.” And he heard Featherman’s high laughter ring out in the closeness of the afternoon heat.

Charging Elk opened his eyes and he was still in the small room with the glaring light from above. He was thirsty and hungry and he had to piss. He hadn’t had a drink since he had stopped at a fountain sometime before dark. It seemed a long time ago that he had sat in the arcade and eaten the bread and cheese. He unfastened the bottom two buttons of the coat, crossed his legs, then closed his eyes again to block out the cold light.

Sandrine had led him out in back of the camp into an airy forest of tall trees with heavy leaves and hard, green trunks. Bushes grew among the trees but there were cinder paths that wound around and among the bushes. They came to a lake with an island in the middle. On the island, he could see a cave carved out of a large boulder. He had been to this lake several times before—the show Indians often took walks out here to sit and smoke, to eat bread and meat sticks, away from the curious white people, although they were often followed by children. It was out here, while smelling the grass and looking at the cool surface of the lake, that the young men talked openly of home. The relative peace of the forest reminded them of all the quiet land of home, the open plains, the river bottoms, the pines of Paha Sapa. Quite often they would talk and smoke for an hour, then fall silent, each remembering home in his own way, all sick for home. But when they returned to camp to dress for the next performance, they would make self-conscious jokes, tease each other, perhaps wrestle, all the time putting on their bravado, along with their paint, for that evening’s show. And when they entered the arena for the grand entry, they were dignified young warriors, ready for anything.

Sandrine and Charging Elk sat in the grass on the edge of the lake, looking at the island but stealing glances at each other. Sandrine picked up a small stone and looked at Charging Elk and said, “Caillou.” She held it between two fingers and repeated the word. Then she gave him the stone, dropping it into his palm. “Inyan,” he said. She said, “Inyan,” and they both smiled. It was the first time he could remember feeling warmth for a wadichu. She looked up at the hazy blue sky and said, “Ciel” And he said, “Mahpiya.”

They had spent a pleasant hour naming things for each other—horse, dog, earth, water—but rarely looking into each other’s eyes. If she looked at him, he was looking at the cave. If he stole a glance at her, she would be looking down at a blade of grass between her fingers.

Finally she stood and brushed the back of her flower-print dress. Charging Elk watched this and he thought, She is a different woman from the one I first saw—the formidable one with the tight metal-gray dress and the hat that looked like a many-colored duck. He liked this one better. He wished they could have stayed there into the evening and then the night. Even when they were quiet, he had felt at ease, as though they were two people with one cante, with one being. He had never felt like that with a woman. He had never really been with a woman, except the crazy woman out at the Stronghold who lived alone and opened her thighs for a bottle of holy water. Only twice was he able to bring her the mni wakan and those were the only two times he had entered a woman.

He stood reluctantly and watched Sandrine sort through the contents of her bag. He heard the click and clatter and jingle of things and he told himself he didn’t want this woman as he had wanted the crazy woman. It was enough to be with her on a warm afternoon in this gentle forest. He watched a small boy duck behind a bush and he thought of a conversation with Strikes Plenty, the time they were trying to decide whether to try out for the Buffalo Bill show. When he had asked his kola what they would do when they returned home from the tour, Strikes Plenty had said, with his challenging smile, “What if we don’t come back?”

Charging Elk had thought the idea of not returning was foolish talk, but now, as he looked at the sorrel hair of the busy Sandrine, he thought the unthinkable and it frightened and thrilled him at the same time. Would it be possible? Would she take care of him, here in her own land? Foolish, he thought, this is foolish to think. . . .

Sandrine had been muttering to herself as she clattered around in the bag. Suddenly she cried out with pleasure and held up a small, square piece of paper. She looked at it for a moment, then kissed it and handed it to Charging Elk. It was shiny and hard. He looked at it and saw that it was a picture of a bearded man in a red robe. He wore a white gown beneath it and on the white gown was a heart. The heart had a cross growing from its top and there was a woven chain of thorns around it. Blood dripped from the heart.

He looked at Sandrine, his eyes blank with ignorance. Her own eyes were green and moist with some sort of pleasure. “Jésus,” she said. Then she took the card from him and turned it over. It was full of the white man’s neat looping writing. She said something long, something he didn’t understand, but he knew her words came up from her heart and he felt slightly embarrassed. She put the card into his hand and closed his fingers over it with her own small hands. They stood there for a moment, looking at their hands, then she said, “Adieu, Charging Elk—mon ami,” and walked away, up the path toward the arena and Paris. That was the last time he saw her.

But he kept the picture of the man with the bloody heart. He carried it with him, in the pocket of his vest or in a small leather sleeve he made to attach to his belt when he was performing in his breechcloth. He didn’t understand the picture, but it had been given to him by Sandrine, the woman who had warmed his spirit, and so it had become part of her nagi that he must carry always, just as he always wore his badger-claw necklace.

Charging Elk’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps, and he looked up to see three men entering the room. Two of them were dressed in the akecita uniforms, but it was the other one who made his eyes go round. It was Brown Suit! The American. But now he was wearing a black suit with the winged white tie that wasichus wore for dress-up. A round black hat with a short upturned brim rested on his head. Only his mustache that curled around the corners of his mouth was as it was that day at the sickhouse.

“Charging Elk. Hello, my friend.” Brown Suit stuck out his hand, and Charging Elk lifted his. The man pumped the Indian’s limp hand up and down and he smiled, but he was startled to see how thin and drawn Charging Elk was. The hollows under his cheeks were almost black beneath the harsh light. He turned to the younger policeman with the sergeant’s stripes on the collar of his tunic. “Have you given this poor man anything to eat?” Franklin Bells French was quite passable, despite his having been the American vice-consul in Marseille for only two years. He was annoyed. It was Christmas Eve—or had been—and his last guests had been walking out the door when the gendarme arrived with news that an American, a Peau-Rouge, had been arrested.

The other, older man wore several ribbons and three medals on his tunic. He was a small, neat man with sparse graying hair parted in the middle and combed straight down on either side. His mustache was a startling chestnut-colored bush beneath his sharp nose. He was Chef de Police Guy Vaugirard, who was equally annoyed at having been awakened in the middle of the night after a pleasant Christmas Eve with his grandchildren for such a trivial case. He spoke quickly and firmly to the sergeant, who snapped his heels together and hurried away. The men listened to his hurried steps in the hall. Then they heard him speaking with great authority to someone at the front desk.

“Why is this man being detained?” Bell’s voice was still truculent but careful. He knew that Vaugirard was the chief of police, a much-needed hero of the disastrous Prussian war and a favorite of the conservatives of the Third Republic. But Bell was outraged that an American had been arrested; he also felt a certain amount of guilt that he had not done more to contact the Buffalo Bill show before Charging Elk left the hospital. He had waited three days before he wired Barcelona—he had more pressing problems involving a disagreement between a Marseille soap manufacturer and an American distributor—but by then, the company was on its way by ship to Rome. And Charging Elk had left the hospital and was nowhere to be seen. It had surprised Bell that Charging Elk, sick with influenza, and with two broken ribs on top of that, could disappear so completely during the four days he had been on the loose. It didn’t surprise him that the police would pick him up at the first opportunity. But now it seemed that Charging Elk was being charged with some sort of crime.

Chief Vaugirard opened a small leather case and offered Bell one of his slender black cigars. Bell said, “Non, merci,” and he watched the chief light one with a silver lighter. He looked at Charging Elk and saw that the Indian was looking at the cigar. On an impulse he said, “You might offer one to your guest.”

But Vaugirard returned the leather case and lighter to his tunic pocket. At that moment the sergeant returned to the room. “My man is bringing food,” he said.

“Why is this American being held?”

“Vagabondage, Monsieur Vice-Consul,” the sergeant said. “My man found him wandering in Place St-Victor outside the Basilique. He behaved suspiciously, he could produce no papers. My man acted according to his authority.”

Bell had become accustomed to this authority during his tenure in Marseille. One of the unpleasant parts of his job as vice-consul was acting on behalf of Americans, usually sailors, who ran afoul of this authority. They were guilty unless they could prove their innocence. Napoleonic Code. Unfortunately, the French system was just as rigid as the American. “And did your man ask him for his papers?

“Of course, Monsieur Vice-Consul. He did his duty in a very correct and professional manner.”

“And did this man understand what was being asked of him?”

“I don’t follow, monsieur ...”

“Do you understand this man?”

“But he has said nothing—not one word—”

“This man, Charging Elk, is a member of the Wild West show of America. Perhaps you took your family to a performance? Or read about it in the newspaper?”

“Ah, yes, Monsieur Vice-Consul. I did not have the honor to attend a performance, but my brother-in-law—”

“Monsieur Charging Elk is a very important American. He took ill during a performance and was hospitalized. He was still in the hospital when the show left for Spain. I was in the process of reconnecting him to the show when I learned of his detention.” Bell felt uncomfortable in the small, sterile room. He had been here before, trying to get a sailor released so he could sail with his ship the next day. He hadn’t been successful—the sailor had gone to trial for public drunkenness and destruction of property and had served six months in jail. It had cost the consulate sixty dollars to send the sailor home on a steamship. And their budget didn’t provide for such random expenditures.

Bell looked at Vaugirard, who had not said a word and seemed quite content to let his sergeant take care of the matter. Bell would not let him get away with it. “As you may have deduced, Chief Vaugirard, Monsieur Charging Elk is not a vagrant. He is an important member of the Wild West show who had the misfortune to fall ill in your city, a victim of the influenza epidemic. Now he wishes nothing more than to repatriate with his American comrades, who are performing in Rome. If you would be good enough to release him to my custody, the consulate will guarantee his immediate passage to Italy.”

The sergeant set an ashtray he had retrieved from the top of the filing cabinet on the table before the chief of police. Vaugirard looked up at him and said, “What do you think, Borely?”

Sergeant Borely’s eyebrows lifted in surprise as he watched the chief tap the ashes from the little cigar into the ashtray. But he was quick-witted and recovered his composure. “Monsieur Charging Elk is charged with vagabondage. And it has been reported to us that he left the Hopital de la Conception without permission. These are serious offenses, I think, chef. Especially with the influenza epidemic in full bloom. Perhaps he is contagious, yes? To leave the hospital before he is pronounced well and to wander our streets—it is very dangerous to our citizens, I think.”

Vaugirard continued to tap the little cigar on the lip of the ashtray as he digested this information. He was a deliberate man and now he had to make a decision. On the one hand, it would be easy to hand over the Peau-Rouge to the vice-consul. It would be a quick resolution and within his power, with a little fudging on the official report. And it would be good for relations with the Americans, who were great consumers of the products of France. On the other hand, the law was the law, and by rights, the man should stand before the legal system. And too, Vaugirard was known for his faith in the professionalism of his officers. He very seldom interceded in their actions or countermanded their decisions. The morale of the Marseille Police Department was very high as a result. He saw no reason to throw his weight around now.

“As you can see, Monsieur Vice-Consul, my sergeant has given a great deal of thought to this matter and I have to agree with him. If it was just the vagabondage, I think we could look the other way. But to leave the hospital without being properly discharged is a very serious matter.” Vaugirard stubbed out the cigar arid looked at Charging Elk for the first time since a cursory glance when they had entered the room. “We have no choice but to hold your citizen in detention until he can appear in court. You see, it is the only way.”

“May we at least take him back to the hospital where he can receive proper care? It would be a courtesy to an American citizen and his government.” It occurred to Bell that Charging Elk wasn’t a citizen of the United States. Because of the treaties, the Indian tribes were their own nations within the United States. But the individuals were wards of the government and as such were entitled to diplomatic representation in foreign countries. He had read the directive only some months ago in conjunction with the Wild West show’s appearances in France. “I’m sure my superior, the consul general, would be most amenable to placing Monsieur Charging Elk under a doctor’s care. Then, when he is pronounced fit, we will send him at once to Italy.” Bell tried to act hearty, as though his suggestion put the matter to rest, the end of it, they could all go home well satisfied with such a just resolution to this surprisingly sticky problem.

But Vaugirard was up to the bluff. “No, no, that is not possible, Monsieur Vice-Consul. He has already left the hospital once. No, I think it would be best if Monsieur Charging Elk remained with us.”

“But it is Christmas. ...”

“I am aware of that, monsieur,” Vaugirard said with more force than he meant to. He pulled out his watch. Three-thirty in the morning. His grandchildren would be up in a few hours to open the presents that they hadn’t torn open last night. His only son was a poor surgeon in Orléans and he very seldom had time or money to bring the family to visit. Vaugirard was damned if he was going to waste any more time with the problems of the Americans. “Sergeant Borely will make sure your citizen is cared for. I’m sure a tribunal will hear the case next week, probably a slap on the wrist, nothing more. Bonne nuit, Monsieur Vice-Consul.”

“Thank you for your kind attention to this matter, Chief Vaugirard. I’m sure Monsieur Charging Elk would thank you too, if he could. Joyeux Noël, Chief Vaugirard!” Bell had meant to sound sarcastic but his French wasn’t good enough.

Borely turned to follow his chief out the door; then he stopped and said, “I will inquire about the food, monsieur.”

“Thank you, sergeant.” Bell turned to look at Charging Elk, but the Indian had his eyes closed and he was rocking almost imperceptibly on the wooden chair. Bell couldn’t tell if he was asleep or simply trying to block out the world.

The American Consulate was on Boulevard Peytral in the Sixth District, only a few blocks from the Prefecture. It was four-thirty in the morning and Bell was walking in that direction. His spacious apartment on the second floor of a grand residence was right next door to his workplace. The apartment had been furnished with antiques from the Empire period. Bell didn’t know how the consulate had acquired such grand furnishings, but after his time in the shabby tenement in Panama, his last posting, he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. His dinner that evening had gone quite well—he had even toasted Napoleon for providing such magnificent craftsmen that could build such magnificent furniture: “To the emperor of good taste and bad judgment.” Margaret Whiston had laughed, to his delight. She was the cultural affairs attaché and a very ample piece. One of the few unmarried Americans (like himself) in Marseille. She did have a fiancé in the embassy in Constantinople, but the distance, and the unwillingness of both to give up their jobs, had created a crisis in their relationship that Bell was only too happy to exploit. So far it had been just talk, but she was considering his offer to spend next weekend in Avignon. She was a very bold young woman.

In spite of the lateness of the hour, Franklin Bell was in relatively high spirits. He had promised Charging Elk that he would return the next day with cigarettes and food. He thought Charging Elk had somehow understood that, but he couldn’t be sure. The Indian had simply nodded without really looking at him. In fact, Bell couldn’t remember the Indian ever looking at him. They were a strange race of people, he thought, still attempting to live in the past with their feathers and beads. But perhaps that was understandable, seeing that they had no future to speak of. He had read an article in La Gazette du Midi just the other day about “the vanishing savages,’ and that just about summed it up. They were a pitiful people in their present state and the sooner they vanished or joined America the better off they would be.

Still, he now wished he had gone to a performance while the Wild West show was in Marseille. He had read Buffalo Bill, King of the Border Men when he was a kid, twenty years ago. He had grown up in Philadelphia, and like all kids then, he had wanted to go west to the frontier to fight Indians. And in 1869, there were plenty of Indians to meet in battle.

Bell crossed into Boulevard Peytral and saw his apartment, with the soft glow of light in the French door behind the wrought-iron balcony. He still hadn’t gotten used to closing the shutters every night the way the French did; he hated to wake up in the morning in a still-dark apartment.

As he fished his keys out of his pocket, he thought again of Charging Elk, but only in the abstract. He had finally met an Indian, but not in the heat of battle; rather, he had met a poor wretch in a shabby coat that didn’t fit him and hospital slippers that were soaked through; he was alone in a country where he could not speak the local language, and worse, he couldn’t speak the language of his own country. He would sit in a French jail for at least four days until the Christmas weekend was over, and maybe longer, given the crowded nature of the French courts. So much for the romanticism of youth. This Indian was thoroughly defeated.

Bell suddenly thought of the other Indian—Featherman. He had been brought to Hopital de la Conception as an influenza case even before Charging Elk, but it turned out he had consumption, which had turned virulent. So he was moved to the tuberculosis ward. It hardly mattered. He would be dead soon enough. And it would be up to Bell to notify his relatives. How does one notify the relatives of a savage? He would have to catch up with the Wild West show somehow. It was all too much.

Bell turned the key and the door swung inward. If only Margaret were there, waiting for him in bed. But—maybe next weekend, in Avignon. He made a silent prayer as he climbed the stairs to his spacious apartment filled with Empire furniture and the pervasive odor of a delicious bouillabaisse that his landlady had created. He would sleep as long as he wanted and perhaps he would dream of Margaret and her abundant offerings. It was Christmas, after all.