Chapter 23

23

OMAR BATHED AND DRESSED IN THE FINEST CLOTHES HE OWNED—BLACK TROUSERS and a white cotton shirt—and around his neck he tied a flat black ribbon into a bow. His father glanced up at him as he walked toward the front door. As much as Omar wished he would, his father did not ask why Omar was dressed as he was or where he was going. His father simply looked at him and took another bite of his boiled egg.

Outside, as Omar walked down the dirt road, he wondered in despair when the Reign of Silence would finally end. He could have been the one to speak, he guessed, but no matter what he said, it would be pointless, no? His father would not listen to him. Besides, why should he be the one to say something? He had not done anything wrong. His father was being unreasonable. Of the two of them, his father should obviously be the one to come around first. But would he? He had said nothing even after Omar had been gone for weeks, and by now Omar felt so discouraged about the situation between them that he did not know what to do.

Near the end of the road, Omar passed Do?a Ruiz lying in her hammock. He lifted his hat in greeting and called out, “Buenas, Se?ora,” with the thought that perhaps he could ask her for advice. But from the hammock, Do?a Ruiz raised one hand to wave and replied, “Vaya con Dios,” which he took to mean, Keep walking. Do not bother me , so with his hands in his pockets, Omar did just that.

He was sweating by the time he got to the city. In the newspaper, Omar had read that the funeral was to take place at La Catedral Basílica Santa María la Antigua, and as he headed that way he tugged at his shirt buttons, trying to air himself out. It was no use. Sweat trickled down his back. The benefit of bathing that morning had already been undone. Although at least, he told himself, his attire was more presentable than his muddy work clothes, which is what he had been wearing every time he had seen Ada so far. In the days since learning that she worked at the Oswalds’, he had started taking his after-lunch walks on the hill, back and forth along the base, up partway and back down, hoping to see her. Finally yesterday he had discovered her picking flowers, and together they had stood in the sun. He had told her about his father—she was the only person he had told—and she had not judged either one of them, had not said either of them was wrong. She had simply listened. And then she had told him he could talk to her anytime—which now was exactly what he wanted to do.

Omar had never stepped foot inside a church before. His father, who was not a believer, had never taken him to a Mass. “The sea is my church,” his father liked to say. Or it is what his father used to say back when his father had said anything. When Omar walked into the cathedral, he found a cavernous space packed with people piled into pews and crowded into the side aisles. Omar stood at the back, awed by the rows of stone columns, the arches that soared overhead, the altar that gleamed as though made of gold. He looked for Ada, but nowhere amid the mourners did he see her.

It was not until an hour later, when the Mass was over and four uniformed Marines carried the casket down the center aisle and out into the sun, that he finally laid eyes on her. Mr. Oswald, wearing a black three-piece suit and a high silk hat, walked behind the Marines, and behind him, another dozen or so men in suits, and several paces behind them—Ada. She was carrying the pluma de gallo and wearing the same patchwork dress. Omar stood as still as he could, hoping he might catch her eye, but she simply walked out of the church and by the time he walked out, too, there were so many people crowded out front that he could not see where she had gone.

The plaza was lined with guayacán trees not yet in bloom, and from the buildings surrounding it, children clung to wrought-iron balconies, women leaned out of windows and made the sign of the cross, shopkeepers stood in their doorways and watched. Omar had never seen anything like it before. So much attention paid to one person’s death.

By the time the procession began a few minutes later—as soon as the Marines slid the casket into the rear of the carriage and Mr. Oswald, his face even more sullen than the day Omar had seen him in the Cut, climbed up into the front seat next to the driver, who snapped the reins at the horses to urge them ahead—Omar still had not glimpsed Ada again. Those carrying on toward the cemetery had formed a single line snaking through the cobblestone streets, and Omar fell in at the back. After leaning out to one side a few times, finally he saw Ada up near the front. He wanted to make his way closer to her, but at the moment there was no possibility of doing that without drawing attention to himself.

***

THIS WAS THE sixth funeral he had been to in his life, Pierre noted as he walked with the procession through the cemetery gates. Several months earlier he had gone to a funeral for a parakeet named Sunshine. The wife of one of the doctors here in Panama had taken the bird in as a pet. Pierre had attended an elaborate supper at their house where Sunshine had greeted each guest at the door, cawing, “Come in! Hello! Come in!” Not long after that evening, Sunshine flew into a pot of boiling milk and died. Pierre had then attended an elaborate funeral in which the doctor’s wife placed Sunshine in the dirt beneath a hibiscus tree while her husband earnestly read a lengthy tribute he had prepared. At least thirty people had gathered for that event, which was quite a lot for a bird, but it paled in comparison to the number who today had lined the streets and crowded into the church.

The procession made its way over the green grass dotted with rows of small white crosses until the carriage at the fore halted atop a gently sloping hill. Pierre stood under the blaze of the sun, watching people file in behind him. As he waited, a man wearing an onyx pin in his cravat stepped over to him.

“You were the doctor?” the man asked.

“I am a doctor, yes.”

“You were her doctor, though?”

Pierre nodded.

“Tell me,” the man said, “was it really so bad?”

Pierre tightened his jaw. He thought he detected some skepticism in the question, as if Marian Oswald ought to have been saved and Pierre ought to have been the one to save her. Once, some years after Pierre had begun practicing medicine, a panicked mother brought in her infant who was boiling with fever and covered with a frightful rash. Pierre’s partner had rushed to take the child from her arms and, upon examination, diagnosed the child with scarlet fever. But, the mother protested, she had seen scarlet fever before and it had looked nothing like this. Pierre had listened as the two argued back and forth. When it was clear they were getting nowhere, Pierre walked around the curtain partition and asked if he might examine the baby himself. Upon observing the small, bright red spots all over the child’s body, Pierre had said, “It is scarlatinal rubella.” It was a new diagnosis, one Pierre had read about in a medical journal. “Scarlatinal rubella?” his partner had asked. “You’re familiar with it?” Displeased that his partner was calling into question his expertise, Pierre said firmly, “It is scarlatinal rubella. I am certain of it.” Seared into his memory was the look of relief that washed over the widow’s face. Confidence and authority were what mattered in the end. Even when the sediment of doubt lay underneath, one had to project certainty.

“In fact it was,” Pierre said now to the man on the hill. “It was among the worst cases I have ever encountered. A typical progression would be in the range of five to eight days. It is highly unusual to see pneumonia last beyond eleven days, as this did. If for no other reason than that, I would classify it as extreme.”

“So is there a different kind of pneumonia here?” the man asked. “A tropical type new to us?”

Again, Pierre bristled at the implication that perhaps he did not know what he was doing, that he was not versed in the full spectrum of pneumatic possibility.

“I can tell you that no matter the type, every case of pneumonia is serious. And I will tell you, too, that I did everything I could have possibly done for her, and there is not a physician in all creation who could have done more.” It was what he would choose from then on to believe. What had happened was in no way his fault.

The man nodded. “George,” he called to another of the gentlemen standing nearby. “Come meet the good doctor.” One by one, the men walked over to shake Pierre’s hand and say a word of condolence or thanks. Several of them Pierre recognized, and he was pleased to be in their company, even under the circumstances. Even when the conversation turned to baseball, a sport about which Pierre knew very little. There was a popular American league that had been formed in the zone, and the man with the onyx pin asked whether any of them had seen the home run that Lucky Brewster had hit to give Culebra their win over Empire.

A man with a rather large nose said, “I’m afraid I didn’t go to that game.”

“Didn’t go? Land sakes, Richard! What kind of patriot are you?”

“The kind who works during the day,” he replied, and all the men laughed.

“Don’t tell me I’m the only one down here enjoying myself on Uncle Sam’s dime!” the man with the onyx pin said.

“If you would enjoy yourself less, Hugh, we might finish sooner.”

“Who wants to finish? We have hotels and clubhouses and good food and tropical breezes at night. We’re in paradise here.”

In a low voice, another man said, “We’re at a funeral, Hugh.”

That shifted the mood and the men stood around then with nothing to say. Pierre rubbed his stone.

“Do you know who that is?” one of the men finally said, breaking the silence, and all of them turned to watch an olive-skinned boy, alone by the looks of it, walking up the hill, rounding out the tail end of the processional march.

Pierre thought the boy looked familiar somehow. He squinted and stared, but he could not make the connection, and he decided it was nothing after all. Hired help, perhaps. Who could say? There were thousands of boys who looked like him here, and certainly he could not be expected to tell one from the next.

***

AS OMAR WALKED up the grassy incline, he arrived just in time to see the Marines remove the casket from the carriage and place it on the ground. Sweat prickled his back. He walked to the edge of the crowd and respectfully took off his hat. Ada was at the front, still clutching the pluma de gallo, and though he wanted to stand next to her, he was uncertain whether he should. What was he doing? He did not know how to have friends. In his solitary life with his father, he’d had almost no practice at it. Perhaps if his mother had been alive, it would have been different. Perhaps she would have taught him about things that for a hundred years his father would not teach him about. Perhaps his mother would have taken him out, visited people, thrown parties. Perhaps within the walls of the house there might have been more music or laughter or conversation—more life.

***

THE CHAPLAIN, A short man from Pennsylvania, walked forward to deliver a prayer. He had gotten wind that Marian Oswald had a typical female fondness for flowers, so he made a point to recite Bible verses such as, “The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle-dove is heard in our land,” which was from Song of Solomon, and “The grass withereth, the flower fadeth; but the word of our God shall stand forever,” which was from the prophet Isaiah. He delivered myriad burial sermons each year, each one the same as the last, the words so familiar he could recite them in his sleep. He did not usually make the effort to include anything personal in those sermons, but given the importance of this one, he had.

“Behold, I tell you a mystery: We all shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.”

Someone in the crowd began to cry.

The chaplain thundered, “For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality.”

He thought that even if John Oswald had not noticed the parts about the flowers, the fact that he had brought at least one person to tears meant he had done his job.

Antoinette stood in the glow of the sun and silently thanked God for letting the light shine through today. He was an almighty God, capable of doing anything He pleased, and as if to prove it, that very week He had taken Mrs. Oswald up to His side. One had to believe He had a plan, for if not, it would be hard to make sense of all this. She did wonder if God’s plan included Ada leaving the house now that there was no reason for her to stay, no reason anymore for her to be strutting about, eliciting stares from everyone from the coroner to the mail boy, living free of charge in a room that no one had ever thought to offer Antoinette, refusing to so much as deliver a plate when she’d been asked. It had been days since Mr. Oswald had inquired whether Ada had indeed left the house on the afternoon Mrs. Oswald passed, and Antoinette had of course told him yes. And yet somehow Mr. Oswald had not sent the girl on her way. Antoinette had faith in God’s plans, but Mr. Oswald’s plans were a different matter. It could be Mr. Oswald had too much on his mind, and dismissing the girl was just one more thing that he intended to do. Well, if that was the case, maybe she could assist in speeding things along. All the better if Mr. Oswald believed that Antoinette, ever dutiful, had only been trying to help.

Pierre put up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. It was the brightest day he could remember, not a drop of rain to be found. Too bright, perhaps. Pierre blinked. There was nothing for him here, he suddenly thought. Not the rain or the sun or the lowliest hospital ward or a revered role as a personal physician—none of it made him happy, and he blamed that not on himself but on Panama. All at once, he felt he should leave. Ten years later, Dr. Pierre Renaud, at age forty-eight, would find himself assailed by a similar feeling. He would by then be back in France, one of hundreds of civilian physicians swept up in the Great War. On that mild morning as Pierre rode with the ambulance unit, he would reach for his stone and find a hole in his pocket instead. Pierre would have an idea, a fanciful idea, that the stone had somehow traveled back to the Indrois and nestled itself among the other stones lining the bank, returning to the spot where Pierre had found it one cool day. The idea made him think it was time for him to go back to where he came from, too—to the Val de Loire, where the air smelled of roses and bread. Two hours after having that thought, Pierre Renaud would be dead. He would be shot by an incoming round of artillery while kneeling on the battlefield, wrapping another man’s wounds. It would not be the way he imagined it, but he would go home.

Ada stood in the cemetery, trying her best not to listen to anything the chaplain said. She did not want to think about buryings, wanted no part of them, not this one or any other. She feared that even by being at one, she was in some way taunting God, and she thought that at least if she did not listen, if she did not know how a burying was supposed to transpire, then He would not think she was ready for another. She wanted Him to know she was not. She stood holding the flowers she had picked the day before, and as the chaplain spoke, she stared at the tips of her boots poking out from beneath the skirt of her dress. Since the moment she had first stepped off the train at Empire almost three weeks ago, those poor boots had never been truly clean. She had scraped them and wiped them, but the mud in Panama was everywhere, it seemed.

When the chaplain finished, Ada watched Mr. Oswald walk up to the casket and bow his head. After a minute, he stepped away. One by one, other people did the same. Silently, Ada walked up to the casket and laid the flowers on top of it, letting go of them at last. When she turned to walk back to the spot where she had been, she saw Omar at the outskirts of the crowd. The shock of seeing him stopped her for the duration of exactly five heartbeats, long enough to see him nod as they caught each other’s eye.

***

OMAR REMAINED WHERE he was even after the casket had been lowered and Mr. Oswald climbed back into the carriage and rode off. The sound of low conversation filled the air as people began to disperse. Ada walked over to him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He told her the truth. “I came to see you.”

She smiled. “Same as before.”

“You said I could come talk to you anytime.”

“Something happen with your father?”

“No,” Omar said, embarrassed that he did not have anything in particular to say. He had simply wanted to see her again, to talk about anything under the sun. But swept up by that thought, it seemed he had chosen the wrong moment, the completely wrong day. “I am sorry again about Mrs. Oswald,” he said.

Ada cast her gaze down and squeezed one hand in the other.

“It is not what will happen to your sister,” he said quickly, trying to dispel the clouds that he knew had settled upon her thoughts.

She looked back up. “I’ve been waiting for a letter, but I have yet to hear anything. I did send money, so maybe they used it. I don’t know. I just hate being so far from them now. Sometimes I wonder whether I did the wrong thing coming here.”

“You are trying to help.”

“But what if it isn’t enough?”

He felt a kinship with her, both of them carrying around their own private heartache over someone they loved. He smiled. “You saved me on the street, Ada,” he said. “If anyone can save your sister, I believe it is you.”