Daughter of Fortune (5 page)

At night he was scarcely able to sleep because of drunken parties and quarrels, and because of the daily burials, which took place between twelve midnight and three in the morning. The new cemetery was high on a hill overlooking the city. The storm washed open graves and coffins rolled down the slopes in a muddle of bones that equalized all the dead in the same indignity. Many commented that the dead were better off ten years ago, when decent people were buried in the churchyard, the poor in the ravines, and foreigners on the beach. This is a truly eccentric country, concluded Todd, who kept a handkerchief tied around his face because of the sickening wind-borne stench of misfortune, which the authorities fought with great bonfires of eucalyptus branches. As soon as he felt a little better, he went out to watch the processions. Ordinarily they did not draw a crowd, since they were repeated every year during the seven days of Holy Week and on other religious holidays, but on this occasion they had become massive rallies imploring heaven to bring an end to the storms. Long lines of the faithful poured out of the churches, led by the associations of black-clad caballeros, each group carrying a platform bearing the statue of a saint in magnificent robes embroidered with gold thread and precious stones. One column bore a crucified Christ whose crown of thorns lay around his neck. Someone explained to Todd that this was the Cristo de Mayo, the May Christ, which had been brought from Santiago especially for the procession because it was the most miraculous image in the world, the only one capable of changing the weather. Two hundred years before, a devastating earthquake had leveled the capital, completely destroying the church of San Agustín except for the altar that held this Christ. His crown had slipped from his head to around his neck, where it stayed, because every time they tried to put it back where it belonged the earth began to tremble. The festivities brought together hundreds of monks and nuns, pious women faint from fasting, humble people praying and singing at the top of their lungs, penitents in coarse robes, and flagellants flaying their naked backs with scourges of leather strips tipped with sharp metal rosettes. Some swooned and were attended by women who cleaned their open wounds and gave them cooling drinks, but as soon as they recovered they pushed their way back into the procession. Lines of Indians filed by, punishing themselves with demented fervor, followed by bands of musicians playing religious hymns. Mourners' prayers roared like a rushing stream, and the humid air was heavy with incense and sweat. There were processions of aristocrats, richly clad but all in black and stripped of jewelry, and others of the ragged, barefoot, down-and-out, all of whom crisscrossed the plaza without touching or mixing. The more who crowded in, the greater the uproar and the more intense the displays of piety: the faithful lifted their voices begging forgiveness for their sins, convinced that the bad weather was divine punishment for their failings. The repentant came in swarms, overflowing the churches, and rows of priests were installed beneath tents and umbrellas to hear confessions. The Englishman found the spectacle fascinating; he had seen nothing in any of his voyages to compare to such exoticism and gloom. Accustomed to Protestant sobriety, he felt he had awakened in the Middle Ages; his friends in London would never believe him. Even at a prudent distance he could sense the primitive shiver of animal suffering that swept in waves through the masses of humanity. With no little effort, he climbed upon the base of a monument in the church plaza facing the Iglesia de la Matriz, where he could enjoy a panoramic view. Suddenly he felt someone tugging at his pants leg; he looked down and saw a frightened little girl with a black mantle over her head, her face streaked with blood and tears. He jerked his leg away, but too late; his trousers were already stained. He swore and tried to shoo her away with gestures, since he could not remember the words to do it in Spanish. He was astounded when the child replied in perfect English that she was lost and that maybe he could take her home. He took a better look.

“I am Eliza Sommers. Do you remember me?” the child murmured.

Knowing that Miss Rose was in Santiago posing for her portrait and that Jeremy Sommers had scarcely been home because his warehouse was flooded, Eliza had seized the moment and nagged Mama Fresia to take her to the procession until the woman finally gave in. Her
patrones
had forbidden her to mention any Catholic or Indian rituals in front of the girl, much less expose her to them, but she herself was dying to see the Cristo de Mayo at least once in her life. The Sommers would never find out, she concluded. So the two stole out of the house, walked down the hill, and climbed onto a cart that took them close to the plaza, where they joined a column of Indian penitents. Everything would have worked out fine if in the tumult and fervor of the day Eliza had not let loose of Mama Fresia's hand, Mama Fresia being so caught up in the collective hysteria that she failed to notice. Eliza shouted to her, but her voice was lost in the clamor of the prayers and the mournful drums of the brotherhoods. She began running around, calling for her nana, but all the women looked the same beneath their dark mantles, and she kept slipping on cobbles slick with mud, candle wax, and blood. Eventually the many columns blended together into a single mass that dragged along like a wounded animal as bells pealed madly and the horns of the ships in the port blared. Eliza had no way of knowing how long she was paralyzed with terror until gradually she began to think clearly. In the meantime, the procession itself had grown quiet, everyone was kneeling, and on a platform in front of the church the bishop, in person, was celebrating mass. Eliza thought of just starting off toward Cerro Alegre, but she was afraid that she would be overtaken by darkness before she found her house; she had never been out alone and did not know which way to go. She decided not to move until the crowd thinned out; maybe then Mama Fresia would find her. That was when she spied the tall red-haired man clinging to the monument in the plaza and recognized the sick man she had helped her nana take care of. Without a moment's hesitation, she made a beeline straight for him.

“What are you doing here! Are you hurt?” he exclaimed.

“I'm lost. Can you take me to my house?”

Jacob Todd wiped Eliza's face with his handkerchief and checked her over quickly, satisfying himself that there was no visible harm. He concluded that the blood must have come from one of the flagellants.

“I will take you to Mr. Sommers' office.”

She begged him not to do that, because if her guardian found out she had come to see the procession he would send Mama Fresia away. Todd set out to find a carriage for hire, not an easy task at that moment, while the girl trotted along, saying nothing but also not letting go of his hand. For the first time in his life, the Englishman felt a quiver of tenderness as he felt that tiny warm hand grasping his. Occasionally he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, moved by the childish face with its almond-shaped black eyes. Finally they came upon a small cart pulled by two mules and the driver agreed to carry them up the hill for double the usual fare. They made the journey in silence, and an hour later Todd dropped Eliza in front of her house. She thanked him as she said good-bye but did not invite him in. He watched her walk away, small and unbearably fragile, covered from head to toe in her black mantle. Suddenly she turned, ran back to him, threw her arms around his neck, and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you,” she said again. Jacob Todd returned to his hotel in the same cart. Occasionally he touched his cheek, surprised by the sweet yet sad feelings the child had aroused in him.

The processions had the effect of heightening collective repentance, but also, as Jacob Todd himself had witnessed, of ending the rains, justifying once again the splendid reputation of the Cristo de Mayo. In less than forty-eight hours the skies cleared and a timid sun peeked out, playing an optimistic note in the concert of current catastrophes. Owing to the storms and epidemics, nine whole weeks passed before the Wednesday gatherings in the Sommers' home were resumed, and several more before Jacob Todd dared hint to Miss Rose of his romantic feelings. When finally he did so, she pretended not to hear him, but when he persisted she came out with a crushing response.

“The only good thing about marriage is becoming a widow,” she said.

“A husband, no matter how stupid, always makes a woman look good,” he replied without losing his good humor.

“Not me. A husband would be an impediment, and he could not give me anything I do not already have.”

“What about children?”

“But how old do you think I am, Mr. Todd?”

“No more than seventeen!”

“Do not tease me. It is my good fortune that I have Eliza.”

“I am stubborn, Miss Rose, I will never give up.”

“I am grateful to you, Mr. Todd. However, it isn't a husband who makes a woman look good, but many suitors.”

In any case, Rose was the reason why Jacob Todd remained in Chile much longer than the three months designated for selling his Bibles. The Sommers were the perfect social contact; thanks to them, the doors of the prosperous foreign colony were thrown wide open to him, and all the English were ready to help him in his proposed religious mission in Tierra del Fuego. He set himself the task of learning something about the Patagonian Indians, but after a few halfhearted sweeps through some heavy tomes in the library, he understood that it made little matter what he knew or didn't know, since ignorance on the subject was universal. All he had to do was say what people wanted to hear, and for that he could rely on his golden tongue. To unload his Bibles among Chilean clients, however, he would have to improve his rudimentary Spanish. With the two months he had lived in Spain, and his good ear, he learned more quickly, certainly, and also more comprehensively than many of the British who had come to the country twenty years before him. At first, he concealed his too liberal political ideas, but soon he noticed that in every social gathering he was besieged with questions and always surrounded by a group of astonished listeners. His abolitionist, egalitarian, and democratic discourses shook those good people from their fog; they were the source of endless discussion among the men and horrified exclamations among the mature ladies, though inevitably they attracted the younger ones. He was catalogued in general opinion as a kind of harmless lunatic, and his incendiary ideas were considered entertaining; on the other hand, his mockery of the British royal family was badly received among members of the English colony for whom Queen Victoria, like God and Empire, was untouchable. His income—modest, though not to be sneezed at—allowed him to live with a certain ease without ever really having to work for a living, and that classified him as a gentleman. As soon as it was established that he was unattached there was no shortage of marriageable girls intent on capturing him, but after he met Rose Sommers he had no eyes for other women. He asked himself a thousand times why she had never married and all that occurred to that rationalist agnostic was that heaven intended her for him.

“How long are you going to go on tormenting me, Miss Rose? Aren't you afraid I may get tired of chasing you?” he teased her.

“You won't tire, Mr. Todd. Pursuing the cat is much more entertaining than catching it,” she replied.

The bogus missionary's eloquence was a novelty in those surroundings, and as soon as it was learned that he had conscientiously studied Holy Scripture, he was invited to speak. There was a small Anglican church, frowned upon by the Catholic powers-that-be, but the Protestant community also met in private homes. “Whoever heard of a church without virgins and devils? Those English folks are all heretics; they don't believe in the Pope, they don't know how to pray, they spend most of their time singing, and they don't even take communion,” a scandalized Mama Fresia would grumble when it was the Sommers' turn to hold Sunday service in their home. Todd planned to read briefly about the exodus of the Jews from Egypt and then refer to the situation of immigrants who, like the biblical Jews, had to adapt to a strange land, but Jeremy Sommers introduced him to the congregation as a missionary and asked him to speak about the Indians in Tierra del Fuego. Jacob Todd could not have found Tierra del Fuego on the map, or told why it had the intriguing name Land of Fire, but he succeeded in moving his audience to tears with the story of three savages captured by a British captain and taken to England. In less than three years those unfortunate individuals, who lived naked in glacial cold and from time to time practiced cannibalism, he said, went about properly dressed, had become good Christians and learned civilized customs, including a tolerance for English food. He failed to mention, however, that as soon as they were repatriated they had returned to their old ways, as if they had never been touched by England or the word of Jesus. At Jeremy Sommers' suggestion, a collection was taken up right there for Todd's plan to spread the faith, with such fine results that the following day Jacob Todd opened an account in the Valparaíso branch of the Bank of London. The account was nourished weekly with contributions from the Protestants and grew despite the frequent drafts Todd drew to finance personal expenses when his income did not stretch to cover them. The more money that came in, the more the obstacles and pretexts for postponing the evangelical mission multiplied. And in that manner two years went by.

Jacob Todd came to feel as comfortable in Valparaíso as if he had been born there. Chileans and English shared a number of character traits: they resolved everything with solicitors and barristers; they had an absurd fondness for tradition, patriotic symbols, and routine; they prided themselves on being individualists and enemies of ostentation, which they scorned as a sin of social climbing; they seemed amiable and self-controlled but were capable of great cruelty. However, unlike the English, Chileans were horrified by eccentricity and feared nothing so much as ridicule. If only I spoke Spanish well, thought Jacob Todd, I would feel entirely at home. He had moved into the boarding-house of an English widow woman who took in stray cats and baked the most famous pastries in the port. He slept with four felines on his bed, better company than he had ever had, and breakfasted daily on his hostess's tempting tarts. He connected with Chileans of every class, from the most humble, whom he met in his wanderings through the poor neighborhoods of the port, to the high-and-mightiest. Jeremy Sommers introduced him into the Club de la Unión, where he was accepted as an invited member. Only foreigners of recognized social status could boast of such privilege, since the club was an enclave of landowners and political conservatives whose members' worth was determined by family name. Doors opened to him because of his skill with cards and dice; he lost with such grace that very few realized how much he won. It was there that he became a friend of Agustín del Valle, the owner of agricultural holdings in that area and flocks of sheep in the south, where del Valle had never thought of going since that was precisely why he had imported stewards from Scotland. That new friendship gave Todd occasion to visit the austere mansions of aristocratic Chilean families, dark, square edifices with huge, nearly empty rooms decorated with little refinement: heavy furniture, funereal candelabra, and a court of bloody, crucified Christs, plaster virgins, and saints dressed in the mode of ancient Spanish noblemen. These were houses that turned inward, closed to the street by tall iron railings, graceless and uncomfortable but relieved by cool colonnades and interior patios filled with jasmine, orange trees, and roses.