Heartsong (12 page)

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.

C
harging 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.