Heaven Is High (15 page)

“Does your attorney have instructions about how to press your claim on the estate? Is that likely to succeed?”

“Yes. We inherited the British legal system in which protecting property rights is a religion, more highly valued than life itself, it often seems,” she said with some bitterness. “The will is valid and the land and the shipping business were bequeathed to me. The courts will order Julius off the land, and if he resists, he could be arrested and charged with trespass. As soon as I have the deed, and the right to do so, I shall write my own will and set up a foundation to take charge of the estate in the event of my death. I have already discussed the foundation with my attorney, laid the groundwork for it. It will become the farm and the school one way or the other! I shall designate Robert and Patrick as the overseers, managers, and codirectors. Julius will not get that property, if I can manage to stay alive a few more days, possibly a week. Then, when I'm recognized as the owner, with my own resources, then I may be able to help Lavinia. Now, there is nothing I can do.”

Barbara drew back, defeated. She looked at her bag and said, “I have a few more items to give you. The newspaper reports about the piracy. And a journal Binnie wrote over the past three years. As Martin asked questions and she remembered incidents, she wrote them in a journal in no particular order. I have my summary of what she wrote, and a copy of her original writings. You should have them.”

She put the newspaper clippings on the desk, along with her summary and Binnie's journal. She found a packet of tissues in the bag and placed it on the desk also, next to the manila envelope.

“Perhaps you would like to be alone when you read these,” she said. “I can step outside and wait, if you'd like.”

Anaia was gazing fixedly at the papers. She nodded. “I should read them by myself,” she said faintly. “Robert can show you to Patrick's house. You must want lunch.”

Barbara rose and went to the door, where she paused and glanced back at Anaia with pity, remembering how the journal had affected her, and she was just an observer. Anaia was going to go through hell reading about the hell her beloved sister had endured. The same hell, it appeared, that Binnie inevitably would face.

She walked through a short hall to the back door and out into brilliant, blinding sunshine and heat.

14

Barbara was groping in her bag for sunglasses when Robert touched her arm.

“Come,” he said. “It's only a few steps to get out of the sun.”

Shielding her eyes with her hand, Barbara walked the few steps with him and entered a house where Father Patrick met them.

“Isn't Anaia coming?” Father Patrick asked, looking past her.

“She needs a few minutes,” Barbara said.

Father Patrick looked disappointed but he cheered up quickly and, smiling, he said, “Well, come into the kitchen and we'll have lunch. Anaia can catch up when she arrives.”

As Barbara's eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the house she looked about with interest. A crucifix on the wall was only to be expected, she thought, and a stack of comic books on a low table did not seem out of place, since the room she had entered could have been found in myriad modest houses throughout the United States. Comfortable old easy chairs, a very worn sofa with a red woven cover that didn't quite cover it, scuffed bare floors, bookshelves overfilled …

She followed the priest into the kitchen, which was the width of the house with a dining table that could seat a dozen people, a stove, an ancient olive green refrigerator, and a sink at the far side. A few cabinets that needed paint flanked the sink and that was all. On one wall there was a calendar, and on another a beautiful wooden plaque. She moved closer to read what it had painted on it.

The plaque was lacquered, intricately painted in brilliant colors, with gilt scrollwork and the words “Heaven is high, and the emperor is far away.”

“A reminder,” the priest said, busying himself at the stove. “This is a very remote parish, isn't it? In China, it is told, the remote, local officials often made decisions that might not have met with approval of the central authorities. And heaven indeed is very, very high.” He chuckled. “Just a reminder. The original was in silk, but moths ate it.”

“Ms. Holloway,” Robert said, “I imagine you'd like to freshen up a little. Let me show you the way.”

She nodded and followed him through a short hallway to a bathroom. It was spartan, but there was a clean towel and washcloth on a rack, obviously meant for her, and there was running water. It was a relief to let the cool water run over her hands and wrists, and it felt good splashed on her face. When she rejoined Father Patrick and Robert in the kitchen, there were place settings for four, a plate of tortillas, a block of cheese, and bowls of soup waiting.

“I didn't make the soup,” Father Patrick said, holding her chair for her. “One of the women, Margarita, comes in to cook now and then. She thinks I live on whatever is fast and at hand.” He patted his ample stomach, belying whatever Margarita thought, and seated himself opposite Barbara as Robert took the chair at the end of the table.

Robert poured tea, and Barbara waited, thinking the priest might say a blessing, but he began to eat and she did also. The soup was delicious, tomato-based, thick with vegetables and bits of fish.

As they were eating, two little boys came to the screened back door, peered in, and one said, “Papa Pat, we have more comic books.”

“Well, put them on the table with the others,” he said, motioning them in.

They edged around the table, keeping a distance, eyeing Barbara with curiosity, then ran the rest of the way. A few seconds later there came the sound of the front door slamming.

“They're shy,” the priest said.

“They call you Papa Pat?”

He nodded. “I seem to be in charge of a regular lending library,” he said. “I go in to Belize City every few weeks, take all the comic books to a used bookstore and exchange them for a new bunch. The children take very good care of them,” he added. “They know I can't exchange any that get torn or dirty.”

“He takes a box of real books, too,” Robert said. “He and others from the area get together in a book club to discuss them. As he said, he runs a library.” There was affection in his expression as he nodded toward the priest.

“You know what else I miss?” Papa Pat said with a faraway look in his eyes. “A McIntosh apple. A cold, crisp McIntosh.”

“How long have you been here, in this village?” Barbara asked.

“Sixteen years. I came for two, and it's been sixteen. That only seems strange when I say it, not when I live it. It seems funny to think back about how it was when I first arrived here. Arrogant. I was arrogant, young, and so sure I had all the answers.” He laughed. “I learned that I had not yet asked the right questions. Ms. Holloway, would you like more soup?”

“No, thank you. It is wonderful, and very filling. Are the vegetables all local? Is the fish?” Twice during that meal she had heard the howler monkeys, and neither of the men had paid any attention. Was it really something one got used to? she wondered, and remembered how startled her father had been at the sound of trains coupling just a few blocks from her house. She had paid no attention to them.

“Yes, we grow our own vegetables,” Papa Pat said. “And the fish was caught this morning in the river. Not by me, of course. I don't seem to have the knack for it. They feel sorry for me and bring me fish and things.”

He removed the soup bowls and cheese as he talked. Robert poured more tea and in a moment Papa Pat returned with a bowl of fruits, small red bananas, a papaya and a mango, two bloodred oranges. Robert went to the cabinet and brought out small plates, forks, and several sharp knives.

“We peel as we go,” he said with a smile, putting a plate, knife, and fork before Barbara.

“The funniest day,” Papa Pat said, reseating himself, “was when Robert and Anaia came strolling out of the jungle. About the last thing I expected to see just out taking a walk. Peripatetic teachers, no less.” He laughed again and started to peel a mango. He ignored juice running down his hand until he had it peeled and cut into slices that he divided among the plates. “The next one you peel yourselves,” he said with a laugh. He got up again and went to the sink to rinse his hands, talking all the way. “The thing that made me jump out of my skin was the first time I heard the howler monkeys. I'd read about them, but it's not the same thing, is it? Demons? Banshees? Forest spirits? Escaped lunatics? It was hard to associate monkeys with that roaring and howling. Anyway, I never asked for the transfer that could have been mine after two years.”

She glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes after two and still no Anaia. Was she praying? Had she walked back into the jungle, away from the misery Barbara had brought her? Papa Pat returned, cut off the end of a banana, and placed it on her plate.

“The children use the table here for classes,” Papa Pat said. “Not on Saturday, of course, but weekdays. These days I'm learning a little geography.”

He talked on as they ate the fruit. No one mentioned Anaia, and his talk ranged from the village people to the Santos finca and how they planned to farm it.

“We'll section off the marijuana acres,” he said, “start clearing the plants and burn them, then spread the ashes over the ground and cover it all with heavy layer of green matter for mulch. After a few months we'll plant leguminous trees, and as soon as they achieve enough height, plant coffee trees. In time that entire acreage, a thousand we think, will be in coffee. The market is turbulent at times, but there is always a market, and for shade-grown coffee it is a very good market. That will be the major cash crop.”

Startled by his words, his apparent assumption that she had known about the marijuana, she glanced at Robert, who was watching her. He nodded slightly, as if to say it's all right if you know about that.

“The idea is to never let the ground be exposed to direct sunlight and the pounding rains we get for months at a time,” Robert said. “The reason the forest grows so luxuriantly is that there is a constantly renewed mulch being put down and the ground itself is never disturbed, never plowed, and never left idle and bare. We will emulate that process.”

“Of course,” Papa Pat said, as if there had been no interruption, “there is still sugar being grown there, and we'll keep it, even though with sugar so heavily subsidized elsewhere, it has small value as an additional cash crop.”

As he talked about plans for the farm, he sounded as fervent as Anaia had sounded when she declared that the finca would be a productive farm. It was surreal, Barbara thought, this red-faced priest with his thick Brooklyn accent, howler monkeys in the distance, stifling heat, giggling children not far away, oranges that looked as if they had been dipped in red paint.

Papa Pat went off into another direction abruptly. “I've learned a lot here, Ms. Holloway. I went from a know-it-all to an ignoramus in my first two years, and for fourteen years now I've been in continuing education classes. Six ethnic groups here, you know, and maybe a dozen different approaches to spirituality. Paganism, animism, my own Catholicism, the Mennonites, some mixture of voodooism and mysticism … It's all here. Many paths to the same destination is how I've come to think of it all. Many paths. I've learned,” he said, “that the path is less important than the arrival, and seeking the right destination more important than adhering to a predetermined path not visible to others.”

This was starting to feel like the Mad Hatter's tea party, Barbara thought, and sipped her tea. Perhaps she should suggest that she go back to make certain Anaia was all right, that she would join them eventually. And how long should she wait before asking to be taken back to Belize City? She did not want to be on any road through the jungle after dark, with Robert or not.

“Speaking of paths,” she said to Robert, “when you first met Father Patrick did you and Anaia really come through the jungle on foot?”

“Yes. We often find it faster and easier than keeping to the roads. During the rainy season many of the roads are under water, marked on the map as seasonal.”

She heard the front door open and close at that moment, and both Robert and Papa Pat stood up. Anaia came into the kitchen.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and slightly bloodshot, and her nose was reddened.

“Anaia!” Father Patrick said in an agonized voice, “You're ill! You've been crying!” He gave Barbara an accusatory look and hurried around the table to Anaia.

“I'm very well,” Anaia said in a firm voice. “And yes, I have been crying. Barbara brought me news today that was overwhelming.” She nodded to Barbara, who was surprised by the use of her given name since they had been so formal before.

“She told me,” Anaia said, “with proof, that my sister and my child were not killed when the ship they were on was seized by pirates twenty-one years ago. My daughter is alive and well in Oregon.”

15

No one moved. Outside sounds that Barbara had previously ignored, filtered out, became audible: children's voices, a woman's laughter, distant howling monkeys, a rustle in palm fronds, and inside, a silent moment frozen in time. Then Anaia touched Papa Pat's hand on her arm, patted it. She pulled out the chair at the head of the table, sat down, and put the manila envelope on the table. Looking at Papa Pat, she asked, “Is there any tea left?”

“Tea,” Papa Pat said. “Tea. Of course. I'll put on water. Fresh tea.” He almost snatched up the teapot and hurried across the kitchen.

Barbara replaced on her plate the segment of orange she had been holding, marveling at how red it was, inside and out, and Robert sat down again without a word.

“I told you about Barbara's phone call the day before yesterday,” Anaia said. “Her message that Shala died only three years ago. I didn't believe her. I was suspicious, fearful that she had been sent by Julius with a fantastic story to lure me out of hiding, or even that she herself was an assassin. She said she had proof, and she told me a few things that made me decide to talk with her.”