The Eighth Day (27 page)

“How do you explain it?”

“Oh, I think it was some practical joke of Mr. Bristow's.”

“If you're on the rat list, Mr. Tolland, there may be some scar to identify you by.”

Ashley put his hand up to his right jaw. “There is.” He stroked his chin, then stared at her in the darkness. “So that was it!”

“He wants to collect the money on your head, Mr. Tolland.”

“How would he do it?”

“He carries some kind of document around with him. He's honorary deputy sheriff of some town in the States. It has probably no official value whatever, but it's enough to impress the police down here. It's covered with ribbons and seals and flags and eagles.”

“What will he do now?”

“He's gone up to Rocas Verdes to talk you over with Dr. MacKenzie.”

“Dr. MacKenzie's my friend.”

“Mr. Tolland, Dr. MacKenzie would betray anyone for the sheer pleasure of it.—What time is it?”

Ashley lit a match, “A quarter past one.”

“Please light the lamp. . . . ? I found the rat list in Mr. Bristow's luggage. I copied out the description of yourself. Read it!” He did. “Why didn't you tell me about this before? You think you are lucky. You think some special providence watches over you. There are no special providences, Mr. Tolland; there's simply our wits. Why didn't you trust me? Friendship is for those who earn it. You are in very great danger. Since you have been found out, there is only one thing to be done: James Tolland must die. John Ashley and James Tolland must die a good thoroughly certified death. The whole world must be convinced of it so that this search for you will be over. We are going to forge some documents for you. We are going to spirit you away across the desert to a little harbor called Tiburones up near the Peruvian border. Some small nitrate boats put in there. They'll take you to Central America. You'll be a Chilean who had a German mother. Have you any money?”

“I have more than I know what to do with.”

“You're going to fall ill tonight. You're going to have a rare and terrible disease. I've chosen one that's not contagious; otherwise, I'd have to lock everybody up in quarantine. You've heard of poison ivy. Well, we have something ten times worse than poison ivy. You are going to die of the
tachaxa espinosa
rash, in perfect agony, Mr. Tolland. Dr. Martínez will write your death certificate. The Mayor and your friend Mother Laurencia and myself will sign it. The consul's office in the capital will register it. Newspapers all over the world will publish it. That escaped convict John Ashley—the terror of decent men and women—is dead. You will have a glorious funeral. You will be buried near me in almost consecrated ground. Then you will be born again. Drink your rum.”

“I haven't finished the laundry.”

Mrs. Wickersham snorted. “You haven't helped me build the new Atenas. Life is a series of disappointments, Mr. Tolland. Life is a series of promises that come to nothing.—I'm tired of talking. My voice is tired. I want you to tell me this story about your killing a man and this other story about your escaping from your guards.”

He talked for half an hour. He finished the story and fell silent.

“Well!” she said. “Well!—someone else shot him.”

“There was no one else around. And even if there had been, he couldn't have shot him at exactly the same second. Only one shot was heard.”

“You have no idea who those rescuers were?”

“None.”

“They were miners who felt indebted to you. . . . ?”

“Oh, Mrs. Wickersham, miners spend their lives underground. They're not quick on their feet. They're not quick in the head. They couldn't plan a thing like that and carry it out—like circus acrobats.”

“Mr. Tolland, it's very strange. It makes me feel twenty years younger. I don't believe in miracles, but I couldn't exist if I didn't feel that things like miracles were happening all around me. Of course, there's an explanation for what you've told me—but explanations are for people who carry dull minds through dull lives. I feel thirty years younger. But I was very unhappy at dinner—hearing all that nonsense about building a university here and a medical school—and even a concert hall and a theatre! In all my dreaming I never got as far as that!—and of how we must found a city! And who's to do all that—a woman of seventy and you, a man who can't show his face in public? That old fool of a professor wants to locate this Atenas here in this valley where we have two hundred earthquakes a year. Earthquakes start fires. Ceilings fall in. The churches collapse so often that they don't try to build domes any more. . . . ? Opera! Singers can't catch their breath at this altitude. Why are idealists such ninnies?”

Mrs. Wickersham kept losing and recovering the train of her thought.

“Do you know why we have so many earthquakes? Because the Andes are rising higher. Soon they'll be higher than the Himalayas. They'll be the highest mountains ever seen. But sun and ice will reduce them again. They say the Alps are already crumbling away. It'll be as flat as your hand here before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.' A few little Atenases, like the original Athens, will have had their day. Cities come and go, Mr. Tolland, like the sand castles that children build upon the shore. The human race gets no better. Mankind is vicious, slothful, quarrelsome, and self-centered. If I were younger and you were a free man, we could do something here—here and there. You and I have a certain quality that is rare as teeth in a hen. We work. And we forget ourselves in our work. Most people think they work; they can kill themselves with their diligence. They think they're building Atenas, but they're only shining their own shoes. When I was young I used to be astonished at how little progress was made in the world—all those fine words, all those noble talkative men and women, those plans, those cornerstones, those constitutions drawn up for ideal republics. They don't make a dent on the average man or woman. The wife, like Delilah, crops her husband's hair; the father stifles his children. From time to time everyone goes into an ecstasy about the glorious advance of civilization—the miracle of vaccination, the wonders of the railroad. But the excitement dies down and there we are again—wolves and hyenas, wolves and peacocks.—What time is it?”

She was ashamed of herself. She was crying. She hadn't shed a tear for thirty, maybe forty, years. Yet she was laughing, too, the long low almost soundless rumble that so often accompanied her thoughts when she was alone.

“Yes,” she went on, “everything's hopeless, but we are the slaves of hope.—Well, the evening's over and I'm drunk. Mr. Tolland, you must go to bed now. You're going to wake up a very sick man. At about seven-thirty you are going to be carried through the streets on a stretcher so that the whole world can see that you're dying. Here's some red ink. Rub it on your chest and especially at the base of your throat. You will have great buboes in your armpits and in your groin. Paint them red. And here's some black ink. The inside of your mouth must turn black. When you're lying on that stretcher keep your mouth wide open. We must all see you buried before Mr. Bristow returns. I'll come and visit you tomorrow afternoon, after you're dead, to tell you what happens to you next. Good night, Mr. Ashley.”

He put his glass down, still smiling. “I'll be back. We'll work on Atenas together.”

“No! There'll be other fools—another Ada Wickersham, another John Ashley, and another Wellington Bristow, of course.”

Soon after four in the morning Mrs. Wickersham was awakened by a loud knocking on her door. It was Tomás.

“What is it?”

“Padrona, the police are taking Don Jaime away.”

“Which police?”

“Captain Rui and Ibáñez and Pancho.”

“Tell Captain Rui to stay right there until I come. Who else is there?”

“Don Velantón” (“Velantón” for Wellington).

“Don Velantón went away this morning.”

“He is here.”

“Tell Captain Rui to wait with his prisoner in the
sala
until I come. Tell him I said to him, 'Remember Fernán.'”

Fernán was the captain's son. Mrs. Wickersham had extricated him from a grave predicament. She made them wait. She dressed slowly. Twenty minutes later she entered the
sala.
Ashley, handcuffed, was sitting between two guards. Wellington Bristow came toward her, almost sobbing.

“Mrs. Wickersham, Mr. Tolland is a famous criminal. He shot his best friend—”

“I thought you left Manantiales this morning.”

“—in the back of the head. He is a very dangerous person.”

“Button up your clothes!” This phrase, frequently exchanged by boys in their horseplay, is used among adults as an expression of supreme contempt.

“Mrs. Wickersham!!!”

“Captain Rui!”

“Yes, Padrona.”

“How is your wife?”

“Well, Padrona.”

“How are Serafina and Luz?”

“Well, Padrona.”

“How is Fernán?”

The captain replied in a lower voice, “Well, Padrona.”

“Good morning, Pancho. Good morning, Ibáñez.”

“Good morning, Padrona.”

Silence.

“I saw your mother yesterday, Pancho. I think she is recovering, I think she's doing very well.”

“Yes, Padrona. Thank you, Padrona. Thank you, Padrona.”

She sat down and gazed weightily before her. Her eyes avoided Ashley's and Bristow's.

“Captain Rui, I have directed a hotel in Manantiales for many years. It has not been easy. I am a woman—alone—a helpless woman. I could not have done it without the help of some strong and honorable men—like yourself, Captain Rui.” (“Oh, my Padrona!”) “I am a mother, with a mother's heart. Forgive my emotion!—Captain Rui, have you ever known anything scandalous or improper happening in my hotel?” (“
No
, Padrona!”) “A defenseless old woman—with God's help I have run a respectable house.”

Another long pause as she pressed her scarf to her eyes.

“But yesterday a shocking and a shameful thing took place. I thought that that man—Don Velantón Bristó—was my friend. I thought he was an honorable man. He is a
SERPENT
!”

“Mrs. Wickersham, I can
prove
to you—”

“He entered the room of one of my guests and
STOLE
an object of great value! I can scarcely speak . . . ? for shame.—Who is
this
man, Captain Rui?”

“Padrona . . . ? Don Jaime Tolán.”

“Yes. Who without reward—without one cent from me—has worked from sunrise to sunset for the love of the people of Manantiales. He has made the hospital fit for a king—the hospital where your dear mother is this very minute, Pancho.”

“I know it, Padrona.”

“Do you know what Mother Laurencia called Don Jaime Tolán? With her own sainted lips she called him an angel.”

Wellington Bristow slid to his knees. “Mrs. Wickersham. That's
ASHLEY
—the murderer. I can prove it.”

“Captain Rui, that man on the floor, that
SERPENT
, from his black, black heart accused that
ANGEL
of crimes too horrible to mention.—Remove those handcuffs and put them on the wrists of that
LIAR
and
THIEF
, and may God be merciful to him.”

It was done.

“Mrs. Wickersham, have some pity on me. I'll give you half the cauliflower.”

“Captain Rui, when you are taking him to jail, do not hurt him. Behave to him in a Christian way. But do not talk to him. Don't let him talk to anyone. I will call on the Mayor this morning and tell him of this treachery. Put Don Velantón in the ‘coffee bin.' The first three days a little soup and bread at noon. Do not treat him unkindly, but make certain that he
talks to no one
—not even to you and your guards.—It is too late to weep, Mr. Bristow!—Don Jaime, you do not look well.”

Ashley could not speak. He pointed to his throat. He unbuttoned his collar.

“Open your mouth, Don Jaime!”

Mrs. Wickersham looked into his mouth, gave a moan, and recoiled with horror. “All the saints in heaven defend us!” She whispered two words to Captain Rui, who blanched and crossed himself. She called into the hall—“Tomás! Run at once to Dr. Martínez! Tell him to come here!—Get up off the ground, Mr. Bristow. You will have time to go down on your knees in the ‘coffee bin'!”

Ashley was borne through the streets and left in the shed for desperate cases. At noon all was over. The chapel bell tolled; the blind girls asked to be led in prayer; the sisters could scarcely find their way among the beds.

At noon Mrs. Wickersham visited the shed. He must have some “papers” for his new life. She brought a collection of old and new birth certificates, citizenship papers, and passports. They had been assembled from undertakers' offices, from innkeepers, and even from pawnbrokers. They described men of all ages, and sorts—men with twelve teeth missing, with scars on their backs and moles on their chests, with hernias and hemorrhoids and cloven palates. She brought also some penknives, bottles of ink and of acid. Ashley was in his element. They experimented with various forms of erasure, alteration, and clerical penmanship. Finally, they produced a certificate—stained by weather and perspiration, barely legible—for “Carlos Céspedes Rojas, born in Santiago de Chile, on March 7 or 9, 1862, blue eyes, brown hair, medium height, sound teeth, bearing a scar on his right jaw, bachelor, field worker.”

At midnight she returned with an old man Esteban and five mules. His journey was to Tiburones. The road was over two hundred miles—one hundred and twenty, as the bird flies, if a bird had ever flown it. Few drops of rain fell on it in a century. It crossed old nitrate beds that had been abandoned since the railroad was built. It was said to be haunted by the ghosts of the many fugitives who had died there. Water bags hung from the mules like great wasps' nests; hay was piled on their backs. There was bread, fruit, and wine for the men. Esteban held a second wide-brimmed hat like his own.