Calling your name,
I crawl toward you, Mother Earth,
On bloody knees,
Here I am, Mother Earth,
Scattering flowers of “panti,”
I bow to you, Mother Earth,
Golden nugget, rainbow robe,
Star flower, Mother Earth.
When he had finished, she managed to murmur a few words of admiration. Then she curled up in a corner, immediately fell asleep, and began to snore. Thomas had no other choice but to continue reading in silence. In the meantime Ludivine was passing the time as best she could with a card game. One of the waiters at the hotel had taught her the secrets of a game of patience, and she was annoyed she could never get it right.
They hardly ever drove through a village. As far as the eye could see stretched the mosaic of fields. Around one in the afternoon the coachmen drew to a halt in the small town of La Oroya. They were taken to an inn called the Blue Ceiling, a peculiar name, since the place was whitewashed. In spite of its elegant appellation it was nothing but a dusty, unswept tavern. Celanire, who usually surprised everyone by wolfing down tons of cakes, whole chickens, and platters of red meat, while remaining as slim and lithe as a gazelle, did not touch a thing. She pushed her plate away with a tired hand and dolefully asked for a glass of milk. Just as the grouchy mulatto waitress slammed it down in front of her, Celanire slipped off her chair and collapsed on the earthen floor. It was all over in a few minutes. In the time it took for Thomas to stand up in a fright and for the mulatta to grab a bottle of chichi and skillfully pour a few drops between her clenched teeth, Celanire had already opened her eyes again. But what eyes! Two bottomless holes devoid of any gleam of life. Her brow was covered in sweat, and her body was as limp as a rag doll. The waiters hurriedly carried her behind a curtain into a room crawling with flies adjoining the restaurant while one of them ran to fetch the only doctor in the place. Through the window Ludivine could see people walking to and fro on the sidewalk, oblivious to the fact that Celanire was so sick.
Around four in the afternoon, when Thomas was beside himself with waiting, the doctor, an Indian half-caste strapped in a military-style riding habit, arrived, clutching his black leather bag. Thomas antagonized him considerably by throwing himself on him, babbling in French, and forgetting every word of Spanish he had ever learned. By way of an answer the doctor articulated every syllable of his Spanish, signifying clearly that he was not French-speaking. Finally the two men found themselves on common ground, speaking a sort of pidgin English. The doctor was categorical. Celanire’s asthenia was a complete mystery to him, and he had never seen such a serious case, except in instances of dysentery when the patient drains herself from top to bottom. The only thing he could think of was to give her a shot of camphorated oil so that her heart did not give out. It was obvious she couldn’t continue such a risky journey, and he advised them to return straightaway to Lima to consult with a specialist.
To her dying day Ludivine would never forget the return journey over unfamiliar roads in a carriage suddenly transformed into a hearse. Daylight was fast dwindling. An icy wind blew down from the encircling mountains, which became increasingly oppressive. The horses galloped on, snorting and whinnying like mad, and flocks of buzzards flapped along the branches of the trees, shivering as they huddled against each other. Celanire seemed dislocated. At the same time she had never looked so beautiful as her husband hugged her in his arms, as fragile as a cameo. Suddenly Ludivine realized how much Celanire meant to her. She wondered whether her feelings toward her weren’t to a large extent tinged with tenderness. She had always imagined she hated this woman, who perhaps had killed her mother. But she had been constantly wrapped in her affection. From an early age it was Celanire who had taken care of her when she was ill, dried her tears, calmed her tantrums, who had given her the taste for a certain type of music, a certain type of poetry, and taught her it was not a curse to be born a woman. What would become of her if she lost her? If she lost too that overriding obsession to unmask her identity and bring about her punishment? What meaning would there be to life if there was nothing left to do but drink, eat, sleep, get married, and have children? Surprised at herself, she began to cry as she hadn’t cried for ages.
Finally the horses arrived on the sprawling outskirts of Lima, where the wretched of every color were crammed together. The din of their hooves woke the roosters, who, thinking it morning, began to crow. Once they had crossed the Puente de Piedra, there was a sudden crackling of fireworks, and yellow and silver streaks zigzagged across the sky. Our weary travelers realized that this third Saturday in February was also the first day of Carnival, and that the population of Lima was jumping for joy. Dancers disguised as devils dressed in extravagant costumes adorned with hawks’ feathers, bulls’ horns, and snake tails cavorted around their carriage. On the Plaza de Armas, groups of black musicians played the tejoleta. Amid a general outburst of commiseration, Thomas found his suite again at the Hotel Raimondi. Clutching Celanire like a baby, an old black servant climbed the grand staircase and carried her up to the second floor while another went to fetch the best doctor in town. Ludivine lay down on a corner sofa. Exhausted, she very quickly fell asleep. But her sleep was disturbed by repeated images of bloody piles of dead fowl lying plucked and eviscerated in a cockpit. She finally opened her eyes and saw a man with oily hair and a conceited look in deep conversation with her father. Dr. Iago Lamella seldom paid house calls, especially after eight in the evening. But when he heard it was a Frenchman, he made an exception, because he had studied in France, was a frequent visitor to Paris, and had great admiration for the birthplace of the Rights of Man. And then his governess had been French. He was explaining to Thomas in a laboriously refined French that after having examined Celanire, he remained extremely perplexed. He could diagnose no illness. The liver, the kidneys, the heart and the lungs, every organ in the body, was in perfect working order. The blood and the lymph were circulating freely. It was simply as if the patient had lost all her strength. All her vital functions had slowed down, and if this continued, the outcome was anyone’s guess. He suggested massive doses of cod-liver oil and shots of camphorated oil in order to reactivate the organs.
However improbable such a treatment may seem, it had an effect. Around midnight Celanire emerged from her wasting disease. She opened her eyes as distant as stars and in a tiny voice clearly said:
“Thomas, take me back to Guadeloupe. I have nothing more to do here.”
The port of Lima is called El Callao, and it isn’t much to look at.
Fishermen’s boats bob on the milky, melancholic sea next to a few old steamships whose hulls are eaten away with rust. Thomas had had the good fortune to find two first-class cabins de luxe on board the SS Pachacamac leaving for Esmeraldas in Ecuador. From there he hoped to continue on to Cartagena in Colombia by land, then sail to Caracas in Venezuela, and finally find his way through the Caribbean to Guadeloupe. At dawn they set sail out of the harbor, and all the passengers assembled on the shiny wooden decks to gaze at the sinister Fronton jail, where during the wars with Chile so many enemy soldiers had been tortured. Then the open sea began to parley with the ship’s prow as it tore through its belly. Traveling first-class on the SS Pachacamac, you rubbed shoulders with the usual crowd of tropical aristocrats, owners of haciendas and fincas who had made their fortune from sugarcane, cotton, and coffee, and who all had their hands stained with the blood of black slaves. Their black or mestiza nurses accompanied them in fourth class but came up to join them at six in the morning to look after their spoiled, pasty-faced children. There were also a few priests traveling to Rome and some retired generals. The news that the wife of a senior French civil servant, confined to her cabin, needed constant nursing, quickly spread around the ship. As a result numerous good souls came to offer Thomas their help, although he had never asked anyone for anything. He received them in the small sitting room adjoining the cabin so that he could keep an eye at the same time on the lifeless shape that was his wife. He agreed to Madame Eusebio because no sooner had she entered the cabin than Celanire aroused herself out of her comatose state, propped herself up against her pillows, and held out her arms, smiling like a child who finds a familiar face waiting for her after school. Madame Eusebio looked like nobody on this earth. She was from Borbón, a small town in Ecuador at the mouth of the Rio Cayapas inhabited mainly by descendants of African slaves. In Quito she had looked after the five children of a Peruvian diplomat, who had been so satisfied with her services he had taken her with him to Lima. Suffering from homesickness, she had saved up enough money and was now returning home.