'The Healer'

By J.F. Simpson

In Central America Salomõn Sanchez Perez is performing miracles of healing that resemble the Master Healer from Galilee.

Can an uneducated healer resembling an overfed truck driver be a threat to the Church with his miracles? The authorities thought it best to play it safe so they targeted him for a fall.

The Healer might have disappeared without the help of an unemployed reporter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.F. Simpson
• Release date: Aug 5, 2010
• ISBN: 9780973770643

J.F. Simpson

For many years I have been writing professionally for magazines,newspapers, radio, television and film.Having authored several novels over the past thirty years, two published in print, I am now a believer in the advent of e-books. It is great to be able to make my novels available to the public.I have written several novels recently, based on my experiences living in the tropics, where there is no shortage of material.

Book preview

‘The Healer’

Author: J.F. Simpson

Published by John F. Simpson at Smashwords

Copyright © 2001 by John F. Simpson

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the author.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales is a matter of entire coincidence'

Cover design by Alex M. Sanchez

ISBN: 978-0-9737706-4-3

For my brother who told me about the eternal journey.

No one knows the journey until they have taken it.

Salomõn Sanchez Perez—the Healer

'The Healer'

Chapter 1

Neither the hierarchy of the Catholic church nor the Colegio de Medicos y Cirujanos nor the government of this tiny Central American republic believe that a man by the name of Salomõn Sanchez Perez, who has the shape of a well fed truck driver and the finesse of a cowboy, can have the same divine healing power as the Master teacher, Jesus, had.

With the evidence they have collected they are going to put a stop to the hundreds of patients seeking him out every day. Right now they are plotting to put him in jail—for ten years at least, until public enthusiasm has waned.

Billy Freeser is waiting for him in the shade of a palm tree. He watches Perez cross the open plaza with a small band of neighbors trailing after him. Suddenly he stops, turns around, throws out his arms, palms up, and tries to shoo them away like he would his dog.Hey? Hey?

They laugh.

He shakes his beefy head and carries on with the slightest turn of a smile.

They follow.

Even for Billy Freeser it is hard to believe this awkward looking man can do the things reported in the American Journal of Medical Science. He notices Perez is wearing his strawberry red baseball cap and that his shiny blue polyester pants are again sliding below his avocado shaped torso. There is a bounce to his walk that keeps his hand busy at the pocket of his blue cotton shirt to protect the cheap plastic ball point pens from falling out. It seems to him that Perez is no less uncomfortable under the hot sun in his heavy clothes than the people following him wearing tank tops and shorts.

Some say that Salomõn Sanchez Perez dresses different because he doesn’t know what is normal.

Everyone in the pueblo of Purescal knows he has changed since the accident. People were killed. He was found not guilty, even though they all agreed he drove the mountain roads as if he was in a race.

In a pueblo of three thousand, everyone's life is an open book for their neighbors to read. Everyone, except for Salomõn’s. Something very strange happened to him which neither he, nor his wife, nor their five children, ever talk about.

After the accident, he went away for two years, came back, then went again. He did this for twenty years. Where he went, he never said. He sent money to his family, but it was only enough to buy rice and beans and inexpensive chicken. If there was any money left over he had his wife put it towards the electric and water bills. The vegetables came from the garden he had put in behind the house. Sometimes he would leave one or two sacks of harina to make tortillas. Each time he returned he spent more and more time alone, walking in the mountains, kneeling in the cathedral. He didn't have the look of a pious man or someone doing penance. He just seemed mysterious, as if he was exploring his soul.

His departures and arrivals went on for the best part of twenty years, until one day he arrived home on his forty-fifth birthday and never left. But he was not the same Salomõn Sanchez Perez who had grown up in Purescal.

Today he still has his risqué sense of humor and ready smile, but somehow his explosive temper and big ambitions and mood swings disappeared into the ether. No one asks where they went. A lot of people were whispering he suffered a nervous breakdown; others say he joined a monastery. There isn’t a person in the pueblo who hasn’t noticed a change in him. He still enjoys football but his obsessive passion for it is gone. The biggest change in him, everyone agrees (next to whatever he is doing at the abandoned cantina) is his attitude; nothing seems to disturb him.

God knows he has enough problems.

Salomõn knows people are talking about him. Whenever someone is bold enough to ask how he has been getting on, he says, Take a look—haven’t missed a meal in twenty years.

It isn’t the changes that have taken place within Sal that make him the most talked about citizen in Purescal; it’s what he is doing at the abandoned cantina that has caught their interest. No one believes he can do what is reported in the weekly newspaper. Nor do they pay any attention to Monsignor Fernando’s exhortation not to mix with him. What they believe is this: he has a knack for business; even as a teenager. The local football lottery, the second hand bicycle shop, the used clothing store and taxi and pulperia, were once his. He has ideas. True, most of his enterprises ended in failure, but it wasn’t his ideas that were at fault, it was him. He gave credit to whoever asked for it. At the end of the day he had given his business away.

It's different this time and everyone knows it. They'd have to be blind not to see the taxis and cars and chartered buses rolling into town filled with pilgrims from the cities of the central valley and even from countries far beyond their own. They come, day after day. Multitudes line up in front of the old cantina waiting for Salomõn to perform his magic.

Most people in town laugh behind closed doors at the naiveté of the strangers. Who, they ask, would cross the street to ask Sally to perform a miracle? But what a gift from God, they say, that all these people are converging on their pueblo. Business has never been better. Everyone is making money.

Everyone is making money, except Perez. He still has his piddling security job at the Water Works office. He works there from 6 am to 11am. From noon to late in the night he attends to the infirm at the cantina. He’s the kind of person, his neighbors like to think, that doesn’t need sleep.

Today is the second meeting between Salomõn Sanchez Perez and Billy Freeser. Yesterday, Billy was in the cantina most of the afternoon watching. Salomõn had been so busy he hadn’t time to say more than this: First you should observe and then we will meet on the plaza at twelve o`clock tomorrow.

Yes, first I would like to observe.

He calls for his first patient to come forward but before the patient arrives; Salomõn says to him, Did you know I am a product of Immaculate Conception?

Billy Freeser doesn’t wince; instead he nods his head and with his large brown eyes open, watches. For the first time, here they are, shaking hands.

The two men stand under the palm tree, turn their backs to the eaves-droppers and talk in whispered tones, or at least Billy does. Sal has a strong voice; it isn’t shrill, it’s booming. Ever since his return, he’s more introspective, less verbose, but still talks loud. Some people think his volume switch is broken.

Their conversation does not flow easily as neither can speak the other’s language with clarity. But there is enough Spanish and English mixed together for the rat pack, standing a few feet away, to piece together the ideas they are trying to convey.

Billy is whispering this: What do I call you? Sal, Salomõn, Sally?

You can if you want. It’s my name.

Different, isn’t it?

I’ve gotten used to it. My brother’s name is Socrates. I think my papa was looking for wisdom in the wrong place.

Billy looks down at his dusty tennis shoes and chuckles. After a moment he says, I think I can help you with your problem."

Salomõn tips back slightly to look up into his face. He wonders if his color isn’t a permanent shade of red just beneath his sunburn. It’s a face well lived in, even projects a certain amount of inner harmony despite the wrinkles around the eyes and what appears to be a broken nose. After a moment he turns his gaze beyond the other man to the green mountains looming in the background. So you know about the problem, he says, his thoughts somewhere else.

I read about them in the report.

Is that why you are here? He searches his eyes; they are large, deep brown and secretive.

Billy thinks of all the answers he can give. He feels a hot flush in his cheeks. Not exactly.

The healer looks up at the soaring frigate birds, suspended, floating on mountain air currents, their split tail moving up and down and sideways the way a tightrope walker uses his pole for balance, their heads turned down, observing them. He waits for the other man to elaborate.

I thought maybe I could help you with your problem. He knows why he came to find Salomõn but is feeling insecure and confused about his reason.

What makes you think I need your help?

I think that if—umm, the facts were to get out—well, in the early days I did what they call investigative journalism. I mean, I have contacts with television networks in North America. He fumbles about in his mind, searching for a point of entry to his story. It’s my opinion that those opposing you might change their attitude if it became an international story.

You came here for that? He sounds disappointed, almost like he wants to go to sleep.

No.

So then it was by chance—?

I don’t believe anything happens by chance. Billy fingers the pack of cigarettes in his pocket which he is tempted to take out even though he knows that smoking is one of the things that Sal has a bad attitude towards.

Then what? Without moving his head, Salomõn has shifted his gaze to meet his eyes.

Maybe, maybe you are the person destined to be my teacher.

He turns away. I have nothing to teach. You need look to someone else for that.

Then I suppose providence, serendipity, whatever. He wants to keep his reasons private. Does it matter?

You don’t know?"

I promised a friend.

Sal nods his head and waits for Billy to elaborate. The North American looks away. They stand in silence until Perez says, So you have another reason?

I told her I would come and see if what they say about you is true. Maybe you can help.

Where is your friend?

It's not for her—it's for her friend.

You are losing me, Senor.

She has this friend, you see, and now she has no time for—life. Her time is consumed with this guy—a wealthy guy who has been ready for God knows how long to die. She says it's a contract she made with God and the guy has nothing to do with it. But he's not dying.

Salomõn gives no indication he is interested in the story. Indeed, he is having a hard time remembering the plot. He asks: So, she told you to come here?

No—well, it was sort of my idea. But now I would like to help you. It is not lost on Billy that Perez has a tenacious character.

You want to help me and you want me to help you. Is that right?

Sure.

It cannot be done.

Why?

Because you have not spoken the truth.

Before Billy can object, Sal silences him with the slightest motion of his hand.

So what is the truth? It is this: do you really want this man to live?

That little smile that had turned on Salomõn's face when he was crossing the plaza is there again. His question takes Billy's breath away. He searches inside himself, shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He gazes off into space as a glut of questions cross his mind. Pushing his fingers through his long graying hair he brings his attention back to Perez and says: I love this woman very much.

It sounds like he is apologizing for his feelings.

Yes, I would like to see him die. He looks Perez directly in the eyes. Or at least get better.

Finish or get off the pot. Salomõn's subtle smile is now an open grin. Is that what you mean?

I guess so.

And you're experiencing jealousy?

I suppose. I don't like it though. I thought I had seen through that stuff years ago.

You cannot rush through uncharted waters.

Billy has a smile on his face; it is a relief to admit what he has been covering up to himself. He is sick of hearing a chorus of praise from his friends about what a wonderful thing Luz is doing. A Mother Teresa! He agrees with them but in his heart he feels different. What he feels is quite black. He has doubts, serious doubts. He cannot help wondering about the purity of her motives. No one would criticize him if he said his thoughts out loud, but he never utters them; he wants to be above judgment and condemnation; maybe others assume he is, but in his heart he knows he is not. He cannot dismiss his suspicions; is Luz doing this only for the guy's money? Yes, she is always befriending someone, but this case is different. He is her ex lover and he has money, and he probably still loves her because most men do, and because of this, Billy cannot hold back the wave of black thoughts that fill him with doubt. It is not in his character to be so open, yet he feels no pain in admitting to Perez what he had kept secret for so long.

Yes, that's the name of it, he says, nodding his head, jealousy, attachment. I guess l love her too much.

Of course you know, says Salomõn, grinning, that it is as dangerous to your health to love too much, as it is to hate too much.

Billy shrugs. I know that.

Perez's dark round eyes are brilliant with life as he stares into Freeser's sunburned face. We all know that—don't we? What does it say in the Book? 'Stop putting your faith in man whose breath is in his nostrils—he can't be accountable for anything.' It's the spirit of man that we have to look to.

Billy turns away to hide his inner struggle. With his gaze averted he says, almost with a look of pain, Appearances can be a tough nut to crack.

Tough? They can be a bitch! Salomõn leans even closer. It's one thing to memorize a truth; it's another to discern it.

When he talks, he likes to touch. No one is surprised when he reaches up and puts his thick stubby hand on Freeser’s bony shoulder like a survivor pulling his shipwrecked friend onto his raft. Billy is surprised. He has cultivated the habit of keeping a distance between himself and others; it is his defense against getting too involved. On this occasion his defenses are down.

Never met anyone who said it was easy, says Billy with his crooked smile. He is being careful to keep his voice low so the others can't hear. They both know how people love to jump in and squabble whenever there is a conversation about the principles of life.

Well, don't waste your time trying to walk on water, Sally laughs. Billy laughs. It is infectious. Those standing around straining to hear their conversation start to laugh. Salomõn glances over at them and shakes his arms.

Hey? he shouts at them. That's the truth about truth.

The eaves-droppers clap their hands in gratitude that he is acknowledging them. Sal dismisses them with a grandiose shrug. He has no opinion about this tall North American who calls himself, Billy Freeser. If he has been sent to help with the problem, then so be it. What he is certain of is this: he has not arrived by accident. As he starts to turn away he notices the pilgrims assembling in front of the old cantina on the north side of the plaza. He frowns. When it comes to his work, he presents another face, one that is serious, committed, that has no time for intrigue.

Perez knows that his eaves-dropping neighbors are only interested in his comings and goings in order to get an inside tip on how to do business with the tourists. They have no interest in what he is doing, other than to make themselves money. Whenever an outsider visits him they follow to hear if there is going to be problems; they worry about investing too heavily in the tourist business. He loves them enough, but when he has patients to care for, he wishes they would attend to their own affairs. They are like a pack of dogs waiting for him to throw them a bone.

The neighbors prefer to laugh with, Don Salomõn, rather than at him. They have grown up with his humor. How are they supposed to take serious a man whom they remember as a happy kid who loved to imitate famous singers? Some people thought he might have had a future as a professional soccer player when he was young, but the old men in town, who really know the game, said that his frame was all wrong—too stocky, too short, too prone to the inevitable pear shape of his father. They were right.

They knew him when he was a good bicycle mechanic, before he opened his losing bar and restaurant with his thief of a cousin.

How can they take him serious when most of them don't know for certain if he is doing what the priest at the cathedral says he is doing? They have their own doctors. They trust them. Their doctors have university degrees hanging on their office walls. How are they supposed to take Sal serious? They went to school with him. Everybody knows the family. Besides, the priest has forbade them to visit the cantina. No one in town, other than the friends of Monsignor Fernando, want to see his new enterprise fail, but what are they to think when he never tells them what is going on? And now that he is in demand, he has no time to visit the bar for a beer, which could loosen his tongue.

His more enterprising neighbors shun the idea of following him. They go directly to his house under the guise of a friendly coffee visit with his wife, Maria. But they soon tire of that when Maria tells them she has neither time for coffee nor interest in her husband's affairs.

I don't know what he does over there, Maria tells them. All know is that it has caused us nothing but problems. He's gone all the time, we don't have any money, other than the little we can save from his stealing cousin's hand at the restaurant, and the piddling salary he gets from the Water Works. With five children, who has time to sit down and have a cup of coffee?

Most of the residents of Purescal have decided to keep their investment in the tourist business at a minimum, considering the unstable situation. Last year, when some of them overheard him talking about a team of doctors arriving from North America to investigate his work, they moved their children to grandparents, cleaned the rooms of their houses and entered the bed and breakfast business. But even fewer were prepared to take a risk like the Delgado family, who traveled by bus to Guatemala to buy a thousand towels and T-shirts to sell to the pilgrims. The neighbors said they were crazy: waited for them to fall on their face. Within three weeks they sold everything. There are people who are jealous, maybe even envious, but aside from that, they admit that opportunities are still there; nothing big, mind you, but one can still make a dollar. Nevertheless, until the authorities are finished investigating Sally's business, most of them have decided to hold on to their jobs picking coffee beans.

While Perez tries to estimate the number of people waiting for him, Billy toys with the cigarette package in his pocket. It was not his intention to move in the direction events are steering him. He thought he would stay the night and leave the following day. Now he is filled with uncertainty. It feels like he is being propelled by a strong current to God knows where. He is tempted to light up a cigarette but suspects it is an inappropriate time. He fingers the packet to relieve the urge while the other man's attention is diverted. He is uncomfortably aware of the people in front of the cantina watching them, waiting for him to release the source of their hope. When Perez finally turns to face him, Billy empties his pockets of his hands and points over at the line of people.

What about them? Don't you love too much?

I want nothing from them. I don't own what comes through me, it's a gift.

Well, of course I don't have your gift, says Billy, uncertain as to how he can describe it, even after watching Salomõn work.

Everyone has a gift to offer, says Sal with his big smile. You are a writer. You too must have a unique gift to offer.

Not anymore, Billy interrupts with a mumble.

Not what?

Not anymore a writer.

Sal throws his big hands into the air with a look of disgust. What's this? A man learns to drive a truck, later on he decides to grow oranges, is he supposed to believe he doesn't know how to drive a truck? His dark eyes are chastising and impatient. What you are aware of is always there; it cannot be taken away. It's part of your consciousness. Would you not agree?

Tall, skinny Billy Freeser, with his pony-tail hair, stirs uncomfortably under the other man's forceful gaze. The palms of his hands have started to sweat like they used to when he did on-camera appearances. They called it stress. He does not want to think about writing another book, or another movie. No one is interested in what he has to say. What the world wants is more of what it is already getting. He responds with his characteristic shrug.

Sal raises his black eyebrows with a smile. He is not particularly interested in soliciting a response; in his own heart there is only one answer. He takes off his strawberry colored baseball cap and wipes the sweat from his forehead. The people gathering in front of the old cantina occupy his thoughts. There is a look of impatience on his face when he estimates the crowd to be in the vicinity of one hundred or more. He sweeps his gaze around the plaza; past the teenage lovers, the young children playing soccer with an empty plastic coke bottle, beyond the drunk sleeping on the pigeon's favorite park bench, turning a complete arc until he spots his assistant, Hector. He is with the eaves-droppers.

Hector! Perez calls out sharply. Why aren't you organizing the patients?

You didn't tell me.

How could I tell you when I didn't know where you were?

I was here.

I didn't see you.

You looked right at me.

I don't always see what I'm looking at.

I smiled at you. Didn't you see me smile at you?

Salomõn heaves a sigh. Hector— please.

Si, Senor. Right away. The young man with the handsome face starts across the plaza towards the waiting patients when he abruptly