The Gift of Tongues

THE purser of the Ponce de Leon halted as a hand was laid on his arm. ‘Do you see what I see, Mr. Springer?’ inquired one of the passengers from the ship.

The purser laughed. ‘That’s not a bad description for all Porto Rico, and the oftener you come here the more you’ll see that you would n’t believe could happen.’

Riding toward them on the brightest and shiniest of kiddy-cars was a boy about five, clad only in a white jacket which reached not quite to his waist. Against the snowy linen his sunburned body appeared startlingly unclad as he swept joyously past them.

‘Some American got a law passed down here that everyone must wear at least one garment,’explained the purser, ‘but the law was too modest to specify its exact purpose, and a lot of people never guessed. That’s the trouble with some other institutions we’ve tried to introduce here overnight. Probably that boy’s mother has a real thrill of patriotism when she sees him in that jacket; she thinks she’s following American institutions, even if she does n’t understand the process.’ He lifted his hand and signaled to someone down the street. ‘The only thing to expect in Porto Rico is what you don’t expect. I’m looking for a waiter whom we left here at the hospital a couple of months ago. He comes from this district; maybe I ‘ll find him in the next block and maybe I ‘ll ride around until the boat leaves to-morrow without finding a trace of him. Coche! Coche!’

The carriage which he had signaled drew up. ‘Care to come along, Mr. Davis?’ With a rattle of bells they were off.

‘A good boy who can wait on table in all the languages of the Caribbean is worth looking up,’ remarked the purser, as they drove through narrow streets lined with pink and green houses. At St. Luke’s the hospital register showed that José Gonzales had been discharged a few days after his arrival, and that later he had sent word to have any mail forwarded to the general post-office in care of Hermano Paco.

‘A pretty chase now,’ remarked Springer as he returned to the carriage.

Alcaldía! to the driver. ‘Hermano Paco — that means Brother Paco — is one of the unofficial priests, cross between a beggar and a prophet, who go around in the scattered hill-districts where there are n’t any churches. They teach a mixture of Christianity, herb medicine, nature-worship, and law and order. I’ve heard that some of them teach that Christ was an Indian born in Santo Domingo and that the Virgin came from the Virgin Islands. Hermano Paco is the most influential of the lot, and he has some sort of connection with the Mayor — the municipality includes the hill district as well as the city.’

The carriage stopped before the city hall. ‘Come along with me and meet old Don Rafael.’

An obsequious black boy seated them at one end of a long room, the kind of room which the Spaniard learned to build in the tropics, with its high ceiling and long shaded windows and cool checkerboard-marble floor. At the opposite end, behind a monumental carved desk, sat the Mayor, his shrewd kindly face lighted with interest as he talked with his guest. Their voices were subdued, but the pantomime was clear: the visitor, apparently a beggar, was asking some favor. With a jerk Don Rafael stood up. One after another he turned out his pockets and laid on the desk a handkerchief, a key, a penknife, and some papers. His purse he turned inside out, but in vain. In embarrassment the visitor protested; but the Mayor continued his dramatic exposition of poverty. With outstretched arms and with all his pockets displaying their emptiness, Don Rafael stood for a moment, a picture of abject helplessness. Then he glanced down at his visitor’s bare feet.

‘ Pedro!’

The boy who had shown Springer and Davis into the room appeared at a door near the Mayor. A volley of Spanish from Don Rafael and he was gone.

’He has sent the boy to his house for some old carpet-slippers,’ whispered the purser.

Against the protests of his caller, Don Rafael began to remove his shoes, slowly, stopping continually to make expressions and gestures of sympathy. As the Mayor started to pull off his socks the visitor laid a firmly detaining hand on his arm. Don Rafael sat back in his chair, one sock hanging from his left hand. With exclamations and gesticulations of gratitude the guest seized the Mayor’s right hand in both of his, wrung it strenuously, and his ragged figure departed hastily across the marble floor.

’The old boy’s been mayor for eight years,’ remarked Springer, as they gave Don Rafael time to replace his shoes. ‘They call him the Little Brother of the Poor. When he has any money he gives it away, and when he has n’t any he offers his shoes. He is commonly credited with offering his shoes to at least one person a day since he’s been in office.’

‘Faker?’ queried Davis.

Springer shook his head. ‘ You can’t be so quick to say “Faker.” Latin, yes — old-time Porto Rican. It’s the dramatic way of saying that you’re sorry, that’s all. Nobody ever accepts his shoes, of course, but it’s a brotherly gesture, even if you know he’s offered them a thousand times before. Now they ‘ll both be happy the rest of the day.’

Without reference to the scene they had witnessed Springer made the inquiries of politeness and came to his errand. ‘Don Rafael, is it possible for you to tell me where I might find Hermano Paco?’

The wrinkles around the Mayor’s eyes contracted into a searching glance, as he shook his head slowly. ‘The holy man is in the hills, I think. When he comes to the city he gives me his benediction; he was here a week ago; perhaps in a month he will return.’ Don Rafael shook his head again.

‘If you would like to take a ride in the hills and would like also to meet Hermano Paco, if possible, in which direction would you go?' inquired Springer. ‘Dos Palmas?’

‘Who knows?’ — and Don Rafael shrugged his shoulders with the gesture which inevitably accompanies ‘Quien sabe?’ ‘I would ask at Dos Palmas — yes. And it is a beautiful road, señor.’

‘Which means,’ remarked Springer when they had taken their departure, ‘that we are not very likely to encounter Hermano Paco at Dos Palmas. We’ll try the road to Rincon.’

Abandoning the carriage with its jingling bells for a motor, they left behind them the picturesque streets of Ponce. The hills rose abruptly into mountains, the city vanished, and only little thatched huts dotted here and there on the hillsides told of human habitation. A few miles along the highway they turned off into a narrow road which threaded its way into the less accessible parts of the district. About them everywhere were hills covered with trees in whose protecting shade grew coffee bushes, now studded with ripening berries.

Suddenly Davis touched Springer’s arm. His finger pointed to a black flag hanging from a near-by hut, and involuntarily he placed his handkerchief to his nose as they drove past. ‘Plague?’ he asked, in a voice which he tried to make sound unalarmed.

‘Don’t know. We’ve had no notice of any epidemic on the island,’ replied the purser, ‘but there’s another black flag, with two white crosses on it!’ He laid his hand on the chauffeur’s shoulder and pointed to the black cloth flapping ominously against the hut. The man shook his head, at first apparently in ignorance and then with obvious apprehension.

As they drove on, one after another of the scattered huts bore the same mysterious flags, some with white crosses and some without. At the approach of the car the inhabitants would disappear hastily, almost in panic. Around a curve in the road they came sharply on a man on foot, and Springer leaped from the car and grasped the man’s arm as he asked him the meaning of the signs. The man shook off Springer’s hand and abruptly refused to answer any questions.

‘Something’s decidedly wrong,’ said the purser as he jumped back into the car. ‘I’ve never been told before in Porto Rico to mind my own business.’

The chauffeur was plainly alarmed, and Springer and Davis exchanged uneasy glances as more flags appeared on the huts. The road turned again on a hairpin curve. Before them lay a little settlement, every hut draped in black!

Past the settlement shot the car. Without asking permission the man turned the machine about and drove back to the city. His eyes were bloodshot with fear and speed as he deposited his charges at the hotel.

The Department of Health disclaimed any knowledge of epidemic in the hills, but Davis and Springer reeked from their antiseptic baths as they departed from the hotel room.

‘I’ll ask Martina,’ said Springer, as they walked down the corridor. ‘She’s been here at the hotel forever and she has the most amazing way of knowing everything that anyone is even thinking on this whole side of the island.’ At the turn in the L-shaped corridor sat the old colored woman, where she could watch the progress of the chambermaids. ‘I’ll join you in the lobby.’

‘Good afternoon, Martina.’ Springer stooped and shook hands with her. ‘Don’t move,’ as she showed signs of an intention to raise her huge bulk. ‘Wonderful day!’

The purser paused, bracing himself to catch her reply. Martina had four modes of speech: English with and without teeth, and the corresponding varieties of Spanish. The fact that she was addressed in English was no indication that she would reply in the same tongue, and no rule existed as to when she might be expected to wear her teeth. Her English had the peculiar flat intonation which the Danes taught the blacks in St. Thomas, from which island she had originally come. Spoken with teeth, it was strange but intelligible; without teeth, the consonants dropped out and with the utmost difficulty one tried to pick distinguishing landmarks on the ocean of liquid sounds. Her Spanish had none of the Virgin Island flatness. Spoken with teeth, it was well articulated, although it suffered at times from lapses into the patois French of her Haitian husband; but without teeth Springer was hopelessly lost.

Martina opened her mouth slightly, but without revealing whether or not she had her teeth. A moment she hesitated. ‘Beautiful.’

Springer breathed more easily. She was speaking English, with teeth.

‘I have been driving in your beautiful hills,’ he began cautiously, and gradually worked his way around to the subject of the black flags. ‘Why do they have those black flags, Martina?’ he asked, but not betraying too much interest. She looked him over thoughtfully, in evident doubt as to answering his question. ‘You know everything, Teeny,’ — he used the diminutive when he wished to coax her, but never without astonishment that anyone so huge could respond, without malice, to such a name, — ‘and of course you know about the flags!’

She nodded. Vanity of looks in youth had yielded to vanity of accomplishment in maturity, and that in turn to vanity of knowledge. ‘You know Hermano Paco?’

The purser nodded.

‘The flags are for Hermano Paco!’

‘Dead?’ asked Springer. ‘Hermano Paco dead?’

Mysteriously she shook her head. She leaned forward and laid her hand on Springer’s fingers. ‘Hermano Paco has gone to Heaven,’ she whispered, — she paused dramatically, — ‘but Hermano Paco did not die!’ She leaned back, rocking her head, with evident thrill in the miracle and in her revelation of it. After a moment she went on: ‘The flags are for Hermano Paco. The people pray for him. They do not work; they will not speak; they pray. If they pray enough he will come back and lead them again; he will come back from Heaven with the word which will make the souls of men free!’

Don Rafael was at the dock when the ship left Ponce. Springer made his way to the Mayor’s side. ‘We did n’t find Hermano Paco,’ he remarked casually.

Don Rafael lifted his hands and shoulders in a gesture which conveyed regret, ignorance, helplessness. ‘Hermano Paco is a Little Brother of the Poor, and I also am their Little Brother, He has always given me his benediction before the elections and I hope for it this year also. That is a month from now. Your ship returns again in three weeks? Good. Perhaps he will be here then.’

Three weeks later found Springer making his way on a little native pony toward the valley of Rincon. He had brought Martina some cottons from New York. After thanking him with exclamatory gratitude she placed her finger significantly on his hand and, waiting until the long corridors were clear of possible listeners, she whispered mysteriously that the hill folk were expecting Hermano Paco to reappear from Heaven at dawn on the following day. ‘To-morrow is Sunday,’ she finished earnestly. ‘The hill people have prayed faithfully; Hermano Paco should return from Heaven, and he should return on a Sunday!’ Springer thanked her casually, but as he left the hotel for the familiar, picturesque streets of Ponce a sudden resolution came to him to see for himself the miracle.

Dusty and tired, he jogged down the road toward Rincon. The moon had set, leaving the shaded road in obscurity. The usual silence of the deserted night was broken by the movement of phantom groups going in the same direction, but no one spoke. When Hermano Paco had left them he had vanished in the night from their midst; at dawn they had caught a glimpse of his thin figure in its simple brown robe, outlined against the sunrise from the peak of the mountain. It was seen for a few moments and then swallowed up in the light of day. The conviction had spread that in the same manner he would return. Silently the straggling groups gathered about an elevation backed by a semicircle of trees, which formed a natural platform from which Hermano Paco in the past had frequently addressed them.

Springer tethered his pony in a little clump of palms, safely apart. He had no fear of bodily injury if discovered, but he had no wish to be caught intruding at a ceremonial to which he had not been bidden. He nodded. He must have slept.

Through the valley ran a shout. With the first streak of dawn, on the peak of the mountain stood Hermano Paco! The staff with which he had walked the roads through all the years was in his right hand. His left hand rested on something else. The minutes sped by. As the red of sunrise faded into the light of day Hermano Paco was seen to move along the path. What his hand had rested upon rose and followed him in the guise of a man.

Over the hillsides and through the little valleys raced the word that Hermano Paco had returned from Heaven. Springer stayed in the distance in his clump of trees. He saw Hermano Paco and the disciple come down the path of the mountain, to be surrounded by the eager throng. From his shelter he could still gather the sense of awed excitement pervading the throng on the elevation, as they prepared the food which they had brought for the blessing and refreshment of Hermano Paco. The feast was followed by a silence in which Springer saw the people lying down to rest. The night’s vigil had been tiring; the morning was still early. Springer changed his pony’s tether and again fell asleep.

He woke to find the sun nearly straight overhead. The crowed had moved in among the trees so that they were sheltered from its direct rays. Springer pulled the native hat he was wearing still farther down over his face as he fell in unobserved at the edge of the gathering.

Hermano Paco was speaking. His patriarchal beard fell over his brown tunic nearly to his waist. His eyes had fire, but the arms which he raised to emphasize his words were thin and old. He spoke in the dialect of the jibaros, the Spanish of the seventeenth century, which the forefathers of the hill folk had preserved from the time when they took the places of the vanishing Indians. Only a word here and there could Springer catch, but from the gestures with which Hermano Paco placed his hands upon the head of his kneeling companion the purser gathered that Heaven had sent an assistant to the old priest. At length Hermano Paco placed his fingers beneath the arm of his disciple and raised him to his feet. It was José Gonzales. With a gesture Hermano Paco presented him to the gathering and a hum of approval went through the throng. Hermano Paco touched his finger to his lips and lifted his hand to the sky. The thrill of the miraculous passed through the crowd. Springer caught the words, ‘the gift of tongues.’ The gift of tongues had descended upon the disciple of Hermano Paco!

In breathless excitement the crowd waited. The old priest stepped aside and José, raising himself to his full height, held up his hand for silence. The dramatic stillness was broken by his rich, slow tones: —

‘Consommé, mulligatawny, julienne!’ His voice rose in exhortation: ‘Purée de pois, purée de bœuf, purée de champignon!’ He paused. His right hand outstretched, he accented the solemn syllables: ‘Boiled eggs, poached eggs, scrambled eggs, eggs à la Turque!’ Again he waited. The crowd was with him. His voice was oracular and the repetition of the strange syllables was poetry: ‘Bluefish meunière, swordfish Parmentière, codfish Parisienne!’ Slowly he raised both hands, the palms toward the throng: ‘Roas’ beef! Roas’ lamb! Roas’ chicken!’ His hands dropped and his voice sank to a tone of consolation: ‘Mashed potatoes, buttered beets, petits pois, cauliflower au gratin.’ The eyes of the country folk were transfixed. On one who sorrowed with the sufferings of the world had descended the gift of tongues, but comfort and strength came back into the voice of José Gonzales: ‘Salade printanière, salad of vegetables, salad of prunes and cheese!’ With both arms outstretched came his benediction: ‘Ice cream, marmalade, biscuit Tortoni,’ and with a ringing ‘Demi-tasse!’ his arms fell.

Once again José Gonzales sat at the feet of Hermano Paco. A hush of expectancy hung over the throng. The gift of tongues in his disciple was the proof of the message from Heaven which the old priest was to give them. Hermano Paco rose, slowly lifting his arms. Dramatically brief was his message: Heaven had sent them an opportunity to serve its ends. In a few days would be held the election. The children of the poor would vote for the Little Brother of the Poor.

Silently Springer made his way back to his pony. Lost forever to the diningroom of the Ponce de Leon were the polyglot services of José Gonzales.