Toward That Which is Beautiful

them in the fields, and the little girls have to stay home to tend the babies while their mothers help herd sheep or work the fields. Babies . . . too many!”
Kate wondered at that. Was Sister implying they should use birth control?
“The teachers are always complaining that they have to re-teach everything every two weeks because half the class is usually missing. But Señora Montoya, who grew up in Puno, runs a tight ship and the school has grown over the past three years.”
Sister Josepha hurried across the sunny gravel courtyard as the bell rang for afternoon classes. Kate struggled to keep up with her, her heart hammering fiercely from the effort. She knew Josepha had to be in her sixties; how was she able to move so fast?
“Señora Montoya is from Puno?” Kate asked, puzzled.
“Yes, she’s a graduate of the University of Cuzco. Father Jack stole her from a Maryknoll school in Lima to start his school up here. She knows and understands the culture of the Aymara so well, she is priceless here.”
They entered a one-story concrete building with a long hall. Kate heard the mingled sounds of songs and chants coming from several classrooms. A small woman in a gray suit walked quickly toward them.
Sister Josepha bowed slightly to the woman. “Señora Montoya, this is our new sister, Madre Catalina. She’ll begin teaching the religion classes tomorrow. And Sister, this is our very capable director, Señora Luz Montoya.”
Kate found herself looking down at the woman’s smooth oval face; Señora Montoya stood stiffly erect before giving Kate a slight bow. “Bienvenida, Madre Catalina. We have been waiting for you with much anticipation. Would you like to see the school?”
Kate walked beside her down the hall, trying to adjust her stride to the tiny quick steps of Señora Montoya.
“Please feel free to wander around and sit in on the classes. You will find an interpreter in each room who can speak both Spanish and Aymara, so just talk to them if you have any questions.” Señora Montoya bowed slightly again and walked into her office, motioning to Sister Josepha to follow her.
Kate wandered down the hall and saw that the school was really only four large classrooms and a cafeteria with long tables. At one end of the cafeteria, several women scoured pots and pans while talking and laughing. They quieted when they spotted Kate at the door.
“Buenas tardes, madrecita,” the women called out with smiles. Realizing that they probably spoke only Aymara, Kate simply bowed and smiled. This was going to be so frustrating, she thought. She should have studied Aymara for months instead of a few weeks. Even her Spanish wasn’t very good.
When Kate entered one of the classrooms, the children—rows of them in white coats—stood up and shouted greetings to her in unison. She looked into a sea of dark eyes. These were the youngest children; fifty or so were crammed at tables that reached to the back wall. They had pencils and notebooks in front of them, but no books that Kate could see. At the front of the room was a blackboard, and a map of South America was tacked to the wall. High over the teacher’s desk hung a crucifix, and just below it a picture of a suave, gray-haired white man in a dark suit—President Belaunde, Kate realized. Tomorrow she would be expected to teach this class, as well as classes in the three other rooms. Though an interpreter would be at her side, how would she know what the kids were really thinking and understanding? Her head began to ache.
Later, crossing the courtyard, she ran into Father Jack and a stocky young man dressed in khaki trousers and a blue work shirt. “Ah, it’s the newest addition,” Father Jack said with a grin. “And how did you survive the first night in Juliaca?”
Kate smiled in what she hoped was a sporting way, saying that she had at least survived. She held out her hand to the young man. “You must be Alejandro. I spent the morning with Marta and your son, Tito.”
Alejandro smiled widely, showing fine white teeth that contrasted sharply with his dark face. His eyes crinkled in the same way as his son’s, and his hand was rough in hers.
“Mucho gusto, madrecita. Bienvenida a mi pueblo.” His voice was low and his Spanish very careful. Father Jack had explained yesterday in the jeep that Alejandro was a local boy who, six years earlier, had gone off to school in Arequipa at the suggestion of the priests. They had recognized his intelligence and hoped he would become a leader in the community. He was now an essential part of the parish team, able to teach the ways of his people to the American missionaries and, in turn, skilled at explaining the priests’ teachings to the campesinos.
Kate wondered how he felt as he slipped continually from one world to another. As he walked away, Kate watched him snap his fingers at some boys who were chasing each other around the courtyard. Then he said something to them in Aymara, and they fell in behind him, matching his stride like soldiers.
Kate looked at the crinkled face of Father Jack, noticing the creases around his eyes and mouth for the first time. “I think I feel a little overwhelmed right now,” she confessed.
“Of course, you do,” he replied with New England briskness. “Give yourself time. With a name like O’Neill I know you’re a fighter. Have you seen the clinic yet?” Without waiting for her answer he walked quickly toward a low building beyond the priests’ house on the far side of the compound. As they passed the rectory Kate looked for Father Tom Lynch. But there was no jeep, and she felt oddly disappointed.
Entering the building from the bright midday sun, Kate was momentarily blinded. Then she noticed several women sitting on folding chairs around the room. They all had babies tucked into the shawls slung around their backs. Through an open door