Avenue of Mysteries

5. Yielding Under No Winds

The American who landed in Oaxaca that morning — to Juan Diego’s future, he was the most important passenger on that incoming plane — was a scholastic in training to be a priest. He’d been hired to teach at the Jesuit school and orphanage; Brother Pepe had picked him out of a list of applicants. Father Alfonso and Father Octavio, the two old priests at the Templo de la Compañía de Jesús, had expressed their doubts regarding the young American’s command of Spanish. Pepe’s point was that the scholastic was overqualified; he’d been a whale of a student — surely his Spanish would catch up.

Everyone at the Hogar de los Niños Perdidos was expecting him. Except for Sister Gloria, the nuns who watched over the orphans at Lost Children had confided to Pepe that they liked the young teacher’s photograph. Pepe didn’t tell anyone, but he’d found the picture appealing, too. (If it was possible, in a photo, for someone to look zealous — well, this guy did.)

Father Alfonso and Father Octavio had sent Brother Pepe to meet the new missionary’s plane. From the photograph on the American teacher’s dossier, Brother Pepe had been anticipating a bigger, more mature-looking man. It was not only that Edward Bonshaw had recently lost a lot of weight; the young American, who was not yet thirty, hadn’t bought any new clothes since his weight loss. His clothes were huge on him, even clownish, which gave the deeply serious-looking scholastic an aura of childish haphazardness. Edward Bonshaw resembled the youngest kid in a big family — the one who wore the hand-me-downs discarded or outgrown by his older, larger siblings and cousins. The short sleeves of his Hawaiian shirt hung below his elbows; the untucked shirt (a parrots-in-palm-trees theme) drooped to his knees. Upon exiting the plane, young Bonshaw tripped on the cuffs of his sagging trousers.

As usual, the plane, upon landing, had struck one or more of the chickens that chaotically overran the runway. The reddish-brown feathers flew upward in the seemingly random funnels of wind; where the two chains of the Sierra Madre converge, it can be windy. But Edward Bonshaw did not notice that a chicken (or chickens) had been killed; he reacted to the feathers and the wind as if they were a warm greeting, expressly for him.

“Edward?” Brother Pepe started to say, but a chicken feather stuck to his lower lip and made him spit. He simultaneously thought that the young American looked insubstantial, out of place, and unprepared, but Pepe remembered his own insecurity at that age, and his heart went out to young Bonshaw — as if the new missionary were one of the orphans at Lost Children.

The three-year service in preparation for the priesthood was called regency; thereafter, Edward Bonshaw would pursue theological studies for another three years. Ordination followed theology, Pepe was reminding himself as he assessed the young scholastic, who was attempting to wave the chicken feathers away. And after his ordination, Edward Bonshaw then faced a fourth year of theological study — not to mention that the poor guy had already completed a Ph.D. in English literature! (No wonder he’s lost some weight, Brother Pepe considered.)

But Pepe had underestimated the zealous young man, who seemed to be making an unnatural effort to look like a conquering hero in a spiral cloud of chicken feathers. Indeed, Brother Pepe didn’t know that Edward Bonshaw’s ancestors had been a formidable bunch, even by Jesuitical standards.

The Bonshaws had come from the Dumfries area of Scotland, near the English border. Edward’s great-grandfather Andrew had immigrated to the Canadian Maritimes. Edward’s grandfather Duncan had immigrated to the United States — albeit cautiously. (As Duncan Bonshaw had been fond of saying, “Only to Maine, not to the rest of the United States.”) Edward’s father, Graham, had moved farther west — no farther west than Iowa, in fact. Edward Bonshaw was born in Iowa City; until he came to Mexico, he’d never left the Midwest.

As for how the Bonshaws became Catholics, only God and the great-grandfather knew. Like many Scots, Andrew Bonshaw had a Protestant upbringing; he’d sailed from Glasgow a Protestant, but when he disembarked in Halifax, Andrew Bonshaw was closely tied to Rome — he came ashore a Catholic.

A conversion, if not a miracle of a near-death kind, must have occurred onboard that ship; something miraculous had to have happened during the transatlantic crossing, but — even as an old man — Andrew never spoke of it. He took the miracle to his grave. All Andrew ever said about the voyage was that a nun had taught him how to play mah-jongg. Something must have happened during one of their games.

Edward Bonshaw was suspicious of most miracles; however, he was preternaturally interested in the miraculous. Yet Edward had not once questioned his Catholicism — nor even his great-grandfather’s unexplained conversion. Naturally, all the Bonshaws had learned to play mah-jongg.

“It seems there is often a contradiction that can’t be, or simply isn’t, explained in the lives of the most ardent believers,” Juan Diego had written in his India novel, A Story Set in Motion by the Virgin Mary. Though that novel was about a fictional missionary, perhaps Juan Diego had specific qualities of Edward Bonshaw in mind.

“Edward?” Brother Pepe asked again — only slightly less tentatively than before. “Eduardo?” Pepe then tried. (Pepe lacked confidence in his English; he wondered if he’d mispronounced “Edward” in some way.)

“Aha!” young Edward Bonshaw cried; for no apparent reason, the scholastic then resorted to Latin. “Haud ullis labentia ventis!” he proclaimed to Pepe.

Brother Pepe’s Latin was beginner-level. Pepe thought he’d heard the word for wind, or possibly the plural; he assumed that Edward Bonshaw was showing off his superior education, which included his mastery of Latin, and that he was probably not making a joke about the chicken feathers blowing in the wind. In fact, young Bonshaw was reciting his family crest — a Scottish thing. The Bonshaws had an identifying plaid — a tartan thing. The Latin words on this family crest were what Edward recited to himself when he felt nervous or insecure.

Haud ullis labentia ventis meant “Yielding under no winds.”

My dear Lord, what have we here? Brother Pepe marveled; poor Pepe believed the content of the Latin was religious. Pepe had met those Jesuits who too fanatically patterned their behavior on the life of Saint Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Jesuit order — the Society of Jesus. It was in Rome where Saint Ignatius had announced that he would sacrifice his life if he could prevent the sins of a single prostitute on a single night. Brother Pepe had lived in Mexico City and Oaxaca all his life; Pepe knew just how crazy Saint Ignatius Loyola must have been to ever propose such a thing as sacrificing his life to prevent the sins of a single prostitute on a single night.

Even a pilgrimage can be a fool’s errand when undertaken by a fool, Brother Pepe reminded himself as he stepped forward on the feather-strewn tarmac to greet the young American missionary.

“Edward — Edward Bonshaw,” Pepe said to the scholastic.

“I liked the Eduardo. It’s new — I love it!” Edward Bonshaw said, startling Brother Pepe with a fierce embrace. Pepe was awfully pleased to be hugged; he liked how expressive the eager American was. And Edward (or Eduardo) immediately launched into an explanation of his Latin proclamation. Pepe was surprised to learn that “Yielding under no winds” was a Scottish dictum, not a religious one — not unless it was of Protestant origin, Brother Pepe speculated.

The young midwesterner was definitely a positive person and an outgoing personality — a joyful presence, Brother Pepe decided. But what will the others think of him? Pepe was wondering to himself. In Pepe’s opinion, the others were a joyless lot. He was thinking of Father Alfonso and Father Octavio, but also, perhaps especially, of Sister Gloria. Oh, how they will be unnerved by the hugs—not to mention the parrots-in-palm-trees theme of the hysterical Hawaiian shirt! Brother Pepe thought; he was happy about it.

Then Eduardo — as the Iowan preferred — wanted Pepe to see how his bags had been abused when he had passed through customs in Mexico City.

“Look what a mess they made of my things!” the excited American cried; he was opening his suitcases so that Pepe could see. It didn’t matter to the passionate new teacher that the passersby at the Oaxaca airport could see his strewn belongings.

In Mexico City, the examining customs officer must have torn through the colorfully dressed missionary’s bags with a vengeance — finding more of the same unsuitable and oversize clothes, Pepe observed.

“So understated — must be the new papal issue!” Brother Pepe had said to young Bonshaw, indicating (in a small, disheveled suitcase) more Hawaiian shirts.

“It’s all the rage in Iowa City,” Edward Bonshaw said; maybe this was a joke.

“A possible monkey wrench in the ointment for Father Alfonso,” Pepe cautioned the scholastic. That didn’t sound right; he’d meant a possible fly in the ointment, of course — or perhaps he should have said, “Those shirts will look like monkey business to Father Alfonso.” Yet Edward Bonshaw had understood him.

“Father Alfonso is a little conservative, is he?” the young American asked.

“An underdescription,” Brother Pepe said.

“An understatement,” Edward Bonshaw corrected him.

“My English has rusted a small size,” Pepe admitted.

“I’ll spare you my Spanish, for the moment,” Edward said.

Pepe was shown how the customs officer had found the first whip, then the second. “Instruments of torture?” the officer had asked young Bonshaw — first in Spanish, then in English.

“Instruments of devotion,” Edward (or Eduardo) had answered. Brother Pepe was thinking, Oh, my merciful Lord — we have a poor soul who flagellates himself when what we wanted was an English teacher!

The second suitcase in upheaval was full of books. “More instruments of torture,” the customs officer had continued, in Spanish and English.

“Of further devotion,” Edward Bonshaw had corrected the officer. (At least the flagellant reads, Pepe was thinking.)

“The sisters at the orphanage — among them, a few of your fellow teachers — were quite taken with your photograph,” Brother Pepe told the scholastic, who was struggling to repack his violated bags.

“Aha! But I’ve lost a lot of weight since then,” the young missionary said.

“Apparently — you’ve not been ill, I hope,” Pepe ventured.

“Denial, denial — denial is good,” Edward Bonshaw explained. “I stopped smoking, I stopped drinking — I think the zero-alcohol factor has curtailed my appetite. I’m just not as hungry as I used to be,” the zealot said.

“Aha!” Brother Pepe said. (Now he has me saying it! Pepe marveled to himself.) He’d never had any alcohol — not a drop. The “zero-alcohol factor” had not once curtailed Brother Pepe’s appetite.

“Clothes, whips, reading material,” the customs officer had summarized, in Spanish and English, to the young American.

“Just the bare essentials!” Edward Bonshaw had declared.

Merciful Lord, spare his soul! Pepe was thinking, as if the scholastic’s remaining days on this mortal earth were already numbered.

The customs officer in Mexico City had also questioned the American’s visa, which had a temporary delimitation.

“You’re intending to stay for how long?” the officer had asked.

“If everything goes well, three years,” the young Iowan had replied.

The prospects of the pioneer before him struck Brother Pepe as poor. Edward Bonshaw seemed an unlikely survivor of a mere six months of the missionary life. The Iowan would need more clothes — ones that fit him. He would run out of books to read, and the two whips wouldn’t suffice — not for the number of times the doomed zealot would feel inclined to flagellate himself.

“Brother Pepe, you drive a VW Beetle!” Edward Bonshaw exclaimed, as the two Jesuits made their way to the dusty red car in the parking lot.

“Just Pepe, please — the Brother part is not necessary,” Pepe said. He was wondering if all Americans made exclamations about the obvious, but he quite liked the young scholastic’s enthusiasm for everything.

Who else would those smart Jesuits have chosen to run their school, if not a man like Pepe, who both embodied and admired enthusiasm? Who else would the Jesuits have put in charge of Niños Perdidos? You don’t add an orphanage to a successful school, and call it “Lost Children,” without a good-hearted worrier like Brother Pepe to oversee everything.

But worriers, including the good-hearted ones, can be distracted drivers. Perhaps Pepe was thinking about the dump reader; maybe Pepe was imagining that he was bringing more books to Guerrero. For whatever reason, Pepe turned the wrong way when he left the airport — instead of turning toward Oaxaca, and back to town, he headed to the basurero. By the time Brother Pepe realized his mistake, he was already in Guerrero.

Pepe wasn’t all that familiar with the area. In looking for a safe place to turn around, he chose the dirt road to the dump. It was a wide road, and only those smelly trucks — moving slowly to or from the basurero — usually traveled there.

Naturally, once Pepe had stopped the little VW and managed to turn it around, the two Jesuits were enveloped in the black plumes of smoke from the dump; the mountains of smoldering garbage and trash towered above the road. Scavenging children could be seen; they scrambled up and down the reeking mounds. A driver had to be wary of the scavengers — both the ragamuffin children and the dump dogs. The smell, borne by the smoke, made the young American missionary gag.

“What is this place? A vision of Hades, with a matching odor! What terrible rite of passage do these poor children undertake here?” the dramatic young Bonshaw asked.

How will we endure this lovable lunatic? Brother Pepe asked himself; that the zealot was well-meaning would not impress Oaxaca. But all Pepe said was: “It’s just the city dump. The smell comes from burning the dead dogs, among other things. Our mission has reached out to two children here — dos pepenadores, two scavengers.”

“Scavengers!” Edward Bonshaw cried.

“Los niños de la basura,” Pepe said softly, hoping to create some separation between the scavenging children and the scavenging dogs.

Just then, a begrimed boy of indeterminable age — definitely a dump kid; you could tell by his too-big boots — thrust a small, shivering dog in the passenger-side window of Brother Pepe’s VW Beetle.

“No, thank you,” Edward Bonshaw politely said — more to the foul-smelling little dog than to the dump kid, who bluntly stated that the starving creature was free. (Dump kids weren’t beggars.)

“You shouldn’t touch that dog!” Pepe shouted at the dump kid in Spanish. “You could be bitten!” Pepe told the urchin.

“I know about rabies!” the dirty kid cried; he withdrew the cringing dog from the window. “I know about the shots!” the little scavenger yelled at Brother Pepe.

“What a beautiful language!” Edward Bonshaw remarked.

Dearest Lord — the scholastic doesn’t understand Spanish at all! Pepe surmised. A film of ash had coated the windshield of the VW Beetle, and Pepe discovered that the wipers only served to smear the ashes — further obscuring his view of the road out of the basurero. It was because he had to get out of his car to clean the windshield with an old cloth that Brother Pepe told the new missionary about Juan Diego, the dump reader; perhaps Pepe should have said a little more about the boy’s younger sister — specifically, Lupe’s apparent mind-reading ability and the girl’s unintelligible speech. But, given the optimist and the enthusiast that he was, Brother Pepe tended to focus his attention on the positive and the uncomplicated.

The girl, Lupe, was somewhat disturbing, whereas the boy—well, Juan Diego was simply wonderful. There was nothing contradictory about a fourteen-year-old, born and raised in the basurero, who’d taught himself to read in two languages!

“Thank you, Jesus,” Edward Bonshaw said, when the two Jesuits were under way again — headed in the right direction, back to Oaxaca.

Thanks for what? Pepe was wondering, when the young American continued his oh-so-earnest prayer. “Thank you for my total immersion in where I am most needed,” the scholastic said.

“It’s just the city dump,” Brother Pepe said, again. “Dump kids are pretty well looked after. Trust me, Edward — you are not needed in the basurero.”

“Eduardo,” the young American corrected him.

“Sí, Eduardo,” was all Pepe managed to say. For years, he’d stood alone against Father Alfonso and Father Octavio; those priests were older and more theologically informed than Brother Pepe. Father Alfonso and Father Octavio could make Pepe feel as if he were a betrayer of the Catholic faith — as if he were a raving secular humanist, or worse. (Could there be anyone worse, from a Jesuitical perspective?) Father Alfonso and Father Octavio knew their Catholic dogma by rote; while the two priests talked circles around Brother Pepe, and they made Pepe feel inadequate in his belief, they were irreparably doctrinaire.

In Edward Bonshaw, perhaps Pepe had found a worthy opponent for those two old Jesuit priests — a crazy but daring combatant, one who might challenge the very nature of the mission at Niños Perdidos.

Had the young scholastic actually thanked the dear Lord for what he called his “total immersion” in the need to save two dump kids? Did the American really believe the dump kids were candidates for salvation?

“I’m sorry for not properly welcoming you, Señor Eduardo,” Brother Pepe now said. “Lo siento — bienvenido,” Pepe added admiringly.

“¡Gracias!” the zealot cried. Through the ash-bleared windshield, they could both discern a small obstacle in the rotary ahead; the traffic was veering away from something. “Road kill?” Edward Bonshaw asked.

A quarrelsome contingent of dogs and crows competed over the unseen dead; as the red VW Beetle came closer, Brother Pepe blew his horn. The crows took flight; the dogs scattered. All that remained in the road was a smear of blood. The road kill, if that’s what had spilled the blood, was gone.

“The dogs and the crows ate it,” Edward Bonshaw said. More exclamations about the obvious, Brother Pepe was thinking, but that was when Juan Diego spoke — instantly waking himself from his long sleep, his dream, which wasn’t strictly a dream. (It was more like dreams manipulated by memories, or the other way around; it was what he’d been missing since the beta-blockers had stolen his childhood and his all-important early adolescence.)

“No — it’s not road kill,” Juan Diego said. “It’s my blood. It dripped from Rivera’s truck — Diablo didn’t lick up every drop.”

“Were you writing?” Miriam, the imperious mother, asked Juan Diego.

“It sounds like a gruesome story,” the daughter, Dorothy, said.

Their two less-than-angelic faces peered down at him; he was aware that they’d both been to the lavatory and had brushed their teeth — their breath, but not his, was very fresh. The flight attendants were fussing about the first-class cabin.

Cathay Pacific 841 was descending to Hong Kong; a foreign but welcome smell was in the air, definitely not the Oaxaca basurero.

“We were about to wake you, when you woke up,” Miriam told him.

“You don’t want to miss the green-tea muffins — they’re almost as good as sex,” Dorothy said.

“Sex, sex, sex — enough sex, Dorothy,” her mother said.

Juan Diego, aware of how bad his breath must be, gave the two women a tight-lipped smile. He was slowly realizing where he was, and who these two attractive women were. Oh, yes — I skipped the beta-blockers, he was remembering. I was briefly back where I belong! he was thinking; how his heart ached to be back there.

And what was this? He had an erection in his comical Cathay Pacific sleeping suit, his clownish trans-Pacific pajamas. And he hadn’t taken even half of one Viagra — his gray-blue Viagra tablets, together with the beta-blockers, were in his checked bag.

Juan Diego had slept for more than fifteen hours of what was a flight lasting sixteen hours and ten minutes. He limped off to the lavatory with noticeably quicker, lighter steps. His self-appointed angels (if not quite in the guardian category) watched him go; both mother and daughter seemed to regard him fondly.

“He’s darling, isn’t he?” Miriam asked her daughter.

“He’s cute, all right,” Dorothy said.

“Thank goodness we found him — he would be utterly lost without us!” the mother remarked.

“Thank goodness,” Dorothy repeated; the goodness word escaped somewhat unnaturally from the young woman’s overripe lips.

“He was writing, I think — imagine writing in your sleep!” Miriam exclaimed.

“About blood dripping from a truck!” Dorothy said. “Doesn’t diablo mean ‘the devil’?” she asked her mom, who just shrugged.

“Honestly, Dorothy — you do go on and on about green-tea muffins. It’s just a muffin, for Christ’s sake,” Miriam told her daughter. “Eating a muffin isn’t remotely the same as having sex!”

Dorothy rolled her eyes and sighed; her body had a permanent aspect of slouching about it, whether she sat or stood. (One could best imagine her lying down.)

Juan Diego emerged from the lavatory, smiling to the oh-so-engaging mother and daughter. He’d managed to extricate himself from the crazy Cathay Pacific pajamas, which he handed to one of the flight attendants; he was looking forward to having a green-tea muffin, if not quite as much as Dorothy apparently did.

Juan Diego’s erection had only slightly subsided, and he was very aware of it; after all, he’d missed having erections. Normally, he needed to take half a Viagra to have one — until now.

His maimed foot always throbbed a little after he’d been asleep and had just woken up, but the foot was throbbing in a new and different way — or so Juan Diego imagined. In his mind, he was fourteen again, and Rivera’s truck had just flattened his right foot. He could feel the warmth of Lupe’s lap against his neck and the back of his head. The Guadalupe doll, on Rivera’s dashboard, jiggled this way and that — the way women often seemed to be promising something unspoken and unacknowledged, which was the way Miriam and her daughter, Dorothy, presented themselves to Juan Diego right now. (Not that their hips jiggled!)

But the writer could not speak; Juan Diego’s teeth were clenched, his lips tightly sealed, as if he were still making an effort not to scream in pain and thrash his head from side to side in his long-departed sister’s lap.