From Chapter 5

When it was dark enough so that a few stars were visible in the sky, five of us, Choice and another Indian, the cowboy from Manchester, myself, and Madou, passed underneath the banner over the entrance to the carnival. Choice wore a top hat very much like my own, except that two braids came from beneath it. We were a moving Tower of Babel: Madou knew a few words of the Indians' language and was fluent in English; I could speak fluent German, especially when the topic was infectious diseases and neurological lesions; the other Indian with the flowing hair and no hat spoke his own language, some French, and a little English; the cowboy spoke English and French; Choice spoke mainly in his own language when he did speak, which was infrequently. But I sensed, especially after I got to know the man better, that he understood much more than others assumed. Choice, I believe, was fond of letting other people make ignorant assumptions; it amused him and allowed him to observe without having to participate. I understood this well.

Madou led us to the Café du Palais, an uncrowded place where there were mainly government workers and university students wanting a simple glass of wine and stew.

"You can get your egg pudding here," she said to me. And this did cheer me up, a consolation for suddenly feeling like an eel among trout.

The patrons of the café, including a wife here and a sister there, marveled openly at the spectacle of the indigenous men. And Madou's defiantly drab colors and riding skirt didn't conform well to this middle class clientele. The stout waiter with a bulbous nose indicated a somewhat insulting amusement at the party we all made. The Indians themselves behaved with thorough familiarity with everything but the language. They had been in Europe, it turned out, for over a year. The rotund little server pretended not to understand the one Indian's French, which was clear enough to me. But even insults seemed to be funny to Choice and his comrade. Madou was smiling and reached out and held her man's wrist. He patted the side of her hand; I noted that he seemed fatherly toward her, though he was not much older than she.

Choice was the least talkative of our party, and yet I constantly felt that he was more present than anyone.
This was only one of the confusing impressions I had. At this time in my life, perhaps less so than when I was a student, I greatly disliked being confused, especially by my own emotions. I wanted simplicity and order. Madou whispered to me that Choice liked me. And whenever I looked at him, his eyes were already on me and he nodded and smiled. Madou was sitting straight, mostly looking at the space in front of her, at nothing in particular. She could have been mistaken for someone on morphine were her posture not so stiff. Occasionally, she leaned toward me and said something softly, such as, “He and his friend were left behind by another show, that performed for Queen Victoria’s Jubilee.” She pulled herself back up and in a few minutes bent toward me again and added,“He’s been to Mount Vesuvius and Germany.”

The cowboy from Manchester was pontificating loudly about what a rogue this Mexican Joe fellow was, paying one dollar a day, which was more than the other fellow paid, but one had to buy one’s own food, for the most part, so it was impossible to save a dime.

Choice listened, his back so straight that his upper torso seemed to be leaning back a bit. He was perhaps ten years younger than I and barely taller than Madou. His lips were full and curved below a rather prominent nose. He had close-set eyes, almost seeming crossed at times. I was grateful that he had taken off his hat and hung it on one of the hooks in the column beside our table. By wearing it, he seemed to make fun of me and my whole society. He clearly had a mischievous humor evident in his expressions and gestures.

He spoke to his friend with the free-flowing hair, who then spoke to the cowboy, who then said to me, “Choice here would like to know if you are, as his lady friend has told him, a man of medicine.”

I looked at the source of the inquiry, whose face suddenly looked as old as my grandfather’s, and I said, “Yes,” thinking that he meant to ask my help on some pain or affliction he was suffering. But instead he put his hand on his chest, his fingers splayed, and nodded once.

“He’s supposed to be a healer among his people—a medicine man,” the cowboy from Manchester said.

“What do you mean ‘supposed to be’?” I asked.

Madou answered. “He is not fully trained yet. That’s part of why he wants to return so badly. He says his people need him there to heal them.”

“What’s wrong with his people?” I asked. There was a bitter, scornful edge to my voice. Choice said something to his friend, who then said in broken French, so that I wondered if the words were correct, “The sickness is the white man.” And then Choice kindly said to me, “Not all.”

An uncomfortable cacophony of thoughts went through my mind, including the scoffing opinions that my colleagues and teachers would have of whatever primitive and superstitious healing this Indian was referring
to. My neck grew hot, and I discovered that my eyes and his were locked, neither one of us looking away until he nodded and put out his hand for me to shake.