Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates

by Tom Robbins

  What Inti had done instead, however, was to return the little ocelot to Fer-de-lance (for the first time Switters now noticed a lidded, jiggling basket off to one side) and demand his pisco back. Fer-de-lance was having none of that, if for no other reason than that the bulk of the brandy had already met its brandy fate, which was to say, it had been sucked into that black hole that yawns at the gates of human yearning.

  Switters finally settled the matter by convincing the strange mestizo to return a single bottle of pisco to reward Inti for his trouble and save his face, while he, Switters, would assume custody of the ocelot. The idea wasn’t to smuggle the cub home for Suzy, although that thought crossed his mind, but to release it on his way to the colpa to free the parrot. Ah yes. The Switters Pet Liberation Service.

  That concluded, he stepped over to the gently rocking basket and stooped to lift its lid, intending to ascertain that the cub was not overheating in there, wondering, at the same time, if it might grow up with some animal memory of Suzy’s amateur brassiere. The instant he touched the woven top, however, there was a rude cry, and Fer-de-lance seized his arm, gripping it in fingers as strong as steel pincers.

  “Shit,” Switters muttered. “I should’ve known it wasn’t going to be that easy.” He tried to relax his muscles and clear his mind, as he’d been trained to do in martial arts. “Here goes my glad morning. Here goes my nice fresh suit.” Then, in one liquid motion, he sprang to his feet, whirled, pak saoed Fer-de-lance’s hand away from his arm, and unleashed a punch.

  The punch was not as fast as it might have been (he was as far out of practice as he was out of shape), and before it could land, an amazingly agile Inti blocked it. Inti then grabbed Switters’s right arm, and Fer-de-lance reestablished his steely claim on the left one. Solicitously, they turned Switters around. The basket, upended in the action, lay on its side—and from it there slowly slithered, flexing and reflexing, an anvil-headed snake as black and glistening as evil itself, death rays fairly shooting from its slitty chartreuse eyes.

  The crowd cleared. Inti pulled Switters away. He pointed toward a second basket that sat in the shadow of a thatched overhang a few yards distant. He commenced to snort, hiss, and stomp, much as he had when Switters had been startled by the spider. “Yeah, I get the picture,” Switters grumbled. “And I suppose a pathological sense of humor is better than no sense of humor.” By the time he looked around, Fer-de-lance had somehow steered the viper back into its container.

  “Okay, pal, your sleazy business deals have wasted a good half hour and nearly got me snake-bit. Let’s get this circus on the road. Where the hell’s our tour guide to the parrot spa?” Naturally, he had to rephrase the question. When he made his query intelligible to Inti, the skipper—ocelot basket (the correct basket) in his arms, pisco bottle stuck in his waistband like a pistola—assured him that his juvenile playmates had been sent to procure the finest guide available and would be showing up with that esteemed colpa connoisseur at any moment.

  “Good. It’s getting late. And it’s getting hot.”

  Indeed, though it was not yet midmorning, the sun was looking down on them like the bad eye of a billy goat, jaundiced and shot with blood; and beneath its baleful glare, every living cell in every living thing seemed to slump like a Dalí watch. Switters felt his protoplasm turning into dry-cleaning fluid, and his suit, which soon enough would need a good cleaning, was glued to his body like a poster to a wall. The load of perspiration seemed to double his weight.

  Breathing slowly, shallowly, as if the steamy air might choke him, he lagged several feet behind Inti while they traversed the marketplace. They hadn’t gotten far before he became aware of another commotion of sorts. This one was occurring around Sailor’s cage.

  The pyramid cage was surrounded by a group of male Indians, five or six in number. Switters identified them as Indians not so much by their painted faces (geometrically arranged dabs of berry pulp), their features (long, flaring noses, chiseled cheekbones, sorrowful dark eyes), or their clothing (thorn-ripped cotton shorts and not much else) as by their haircuts.

  Among the forest tribes of South America, countless languages were spoken, countless differing customs practiced. The one thing virtually all of them had in common was the unisex pageboy hairdo. It was as if in dim antiquity, back before time had really got its motor going, some primordial deity—the Great God Buster Brown, perhaps—had swept through the immense Amazonian woodlands with a clay bowl and a dull knife and administered to every early mortal the same bad coif. Hardly a unifying element—tribes that traditionally attacked each other on sight sported identical bangs—it nevertheless had persisted and prevailed. What Gaia the Hairdresser hath styled, let no man shear asunder.

  Mixed blood South Americans tended to style their locks according to European fashion, allying in that manner with their countrymen of pure Spanish or Portuguese ancestry. In Lima, though, Switters had observed that certain of the youngish blancos—Hector Sumac and that girl, Gloria, at the club, for example—had begun to wear their hair in refined, upscale versions of the Indian crop. Switters wondered if there was a standardized Amazonian name for the style, if it had a different name in each tribal language or if it was something so taken for granted that it had no name at all other than each tribe’s word for hair. Momentarily, he was tempted to ask Inti what he called his haircut, but on the off chance that the boatman might answer “Arthur,” as George Harrison had responded to the same question in A Hard Day’s Night, he held his tongue. There was some trouble even a troubleshooter didn’t go looking for.

  Little or no trouble, it turned out, was brewing at the beer stall. The group of Indians wasn’t angry or rowdy, it was simply intrigued for some reason by Sailor Boy, excited just enough so that its members had transcended their usual reserve and were milling about his cage, pointing scarred brown fingers and stopping passersby to question them, or so it seemed, about the parrot inside. That was a bit bewildering because Sailor, while a handsome bird, even in advanced maturity, was by no means a rare or exceptional specimen. And just bringing a pet parrot to this part of the world was probably akin to bringing a Miller Lite to Bavaria.

  “They shopping for antiques or something? The warranty on this cracker-burner expired years ago.” Switters asked Inti, as best he could, what the attraction was, but Inti didn’t know nor could he find out in any appreciable detail, for although Inti and the Boquichicos bunch both spoke varieties of Campa, the dialects lacked sufficient vocabulary in common to permit any but the most rudimentary exchange. And since Inti and Switters didn’t have a lot of words in common, either, the most Switters could determine was that the Indians weren’t actually interested in Sailor Boy, they were interested in his cage.

  “Perfect,” said Switters. “Can you inform your country cousins that this unique, custom-built aviary is about to be vacated in the next couple of hours and I’m prepared to make them a real sweet deal. What do they have to trade? A diamond bracelet, maybe?” Aware that rough diamonds were occasionally found in the gravel riverbeds thereabouts, he was thinking of Maestra.

  The three-way language barrier proved insurmountable, however, and though the Indians’ curiosity about Sailor’s portable prison not only persisted but intensified now that its owner had appeared, Switters’s interest flagged, and he began looking about for signs of the Pucallpa boys and the colpa guide. “They must be getting that guide from a mail-order catalogue,” he complained, fanning himself with his hat.

  When they did finally appear, the lads were accompanied not by a local tracker but by R. Potney Smithe.

  “Hallo again,” called the anthropologist brightly. Vapors of gin preceded him. “The news about town is that you’re in requirement of a chap to lead you to the parrot wallow.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  Smithe chuckled. “Hardly, old man. The trailhead’s just behind the church over there. A straight shot, more or less, all the way. Follows the river. Unless you’re achingly keen on contribut
ing to the indigenous economy, you really shouldn’t be wanting a guide. I’d be happy to tag along, though, if you feel the need for companionship.”

  “Ain’t no shortage of that,” said Switters, gesturing to indicate the captain and crew of the Virgin as well as the contingent of local Indians.

  “I see.” When Smithe acknowledged the Indians around the birdcage, they closed in and buttonholed him, speaking respectfully, although all at once. To Switters’s surprise, the Englishman spoke back to them in their own language, and for a few minutes they carried on a conversation, often looking deliberately, meaningfully, from the parrot cage to the jungle and back again.

  Smithe turned to Switters. “Blokes have a fascination with this bloody cage.”

  “Obviously. Why?”

  Smithe pulled thoughtfully at first one of his fleshy cheeks and then the other. His jowls glistened in the heat and humidity like burst melons. “Symbolism,” he said. “Homoimagistic identification or some such rot. Never mind that. It’s simple, really. This is only the second, um, pyramid shape the Nacanaca have ever seen.”

  “The first one must have been a doozy.”

  “Quite.” Nodding his big head, Smithe smiled mysteriously. “Assuming that doozy can be construed to mean ‘impressive’ or ‘outstanding,’ it was—and is—rather a doozy.”

  Briefly Switters entertained a vision of some lost pyramid, a ruin of ancient architecture hidden in the jungle out there. It would have had to have been Incan, though, and he knew that Incan pyramids bore but a passing resemblance to the Egyptian structures after which Sailor’s cage was modeled. He scowled at the anthropologist, as if demanding that he continue, and Smithe appeared about to oblige when a sudden squawked command caused everyone within earshot to act for a split second as if they were shaking invisible martinis.

  “Peeple of zee wurl, relax!” is what they heard. Just like that. Loud. Out of nowhere.

  “Bloody hell!” Smithe swore.

  “Aheee!” exclaimed Inti.

  “Send in the clowns,” muttered Switters, for reasons that were not entirely clear.

  Although intimately accustomed to raucous bird cries, the Nacanaca had jumped more comically than any of them. When they recovered, they asked Smithe what the “magic” parrot had said, for they were convinced it had made a pronouncement, quite likely with supernatural implications. Smithe conferred with Switters, who replied, “You heard it right, Potney. The ol’ green featherduster has bade us chill out, calm down, and lighten up; which, if you can forgive the parade of conflicting prepositions, is as sage a piece of advice as we’re likely to get in this life—especially from an erstwhile housepet.”

  When Smithe succeeded in conveying the essence of Sailor’s favorite saying, the Nacanaca’s fascination seemed to escalate. They jabbered to Smithe and among themselves, going on at such length that Switters lost patience and broke in to announce that he was leaving at once for the clay lick. He motioned for one of the crew to carry the cage, since Inti was toting the ocelot and he, himself, was going to be occupied with taping atmospheric footage on the camcorder. Maestra might as well get a good show out of this.

  Before the little safari could successfully embark, however, Potney Smithe halted it. “I say, Switters. I say. . . .” But he didn’t say. He stammered indistinctly, searching for the correct wordage. He had the coloration of a conch shell and the bulk of a bear, so that a fanciful person could imagine him the offspring of a mermaid and a panda. “I say. I have something, I may have something, of consequence to impart.”

  “Then impart or depart,” said Switters. “It’s hotter than the soles of Dante’s loafers out here.” Immediately he regretted the remark, for he heard himself starting to sound like one of the petty mopers who wasted untold priceless moments of their brief stay on this planet complaining about its weather. Unless it was about to cause you bodily harm, rot your rhubarb on the stalk, or carry off your children, weather ought either to be celebrated or ignored, he felt, one or the other; although at times such as this, when it was steaming one’s brain like a Chinese dumpling, it failed to inspire much in the way of celebration, while not thinking about it was even more difficult than not thinking about . . . Suzy.

  Switters softened his tone. “I read somewhere that each second, four-point-three pounds of sunlight hit the earth. That figure strikes me as kind of low. What about you, Potney?” He mopped his brow. “I mean, I realize that sunlight is, well, light, but don’t you suppose they meant four-point-three tons?”

  Smithe smiled indulgently and wagged his cigarette. “You aren’t exactly dressed for trekking in the torrid zone, old boy; now are you?”

  “Why, that depends on—”

  “Although I must say, the boots are sensible.” He glanced at the chèvresque sky. “It’s going to be raining soon.”

  Switters also glanced skyward. It didn’t look like rain to him. He’d bet his bottom dollar it wasn’t going to rain. “So what’s your story, Pot? My little operation here is falling way behind schedule.”

  “You have your errand to run.”

  “That I do. You’ve hit the nail on the head.”

  Smithe cleared his throat vigorously, sending droplets of sweat flying off his Adam’s apple. “A Yank in a business suit ‘running an errand’ in the Peruvian bush. A bit west of here, one would automatically think ‘cocaine,’ but there’s precious little if any coca refined in the immediate vicinity, and the mineral wealth is negligible as well. Yes. Um. If it’s exotic birds you’re after . . .”

  “Listen, pal . . .”

  “None of my bleeding business, is it? No. None. However, if your errand at the colpa is such that it might endure a nominal delay, well, there’s been a development.” Switters tried to interrupt, but Smithe waved him off. “These Nacanaca blokes, you see, would like to borrow your parrot for a bit. They want to take it—and its cage, obviously—into the jungle a ways. Alarmed, are you? Of course you are. But you see, they’ll bring it back. They only want to show it to a Kandakandero chap. A most remarkable chap, I assure you. The Nacanaca believe that this great Kandakandero witchman will be sufficiently impressed to grant you an audience.”

  “No, no, no, no, no. Thanks but no thanks. My social calendar is filled to the brim right now. Next time I’m in town, perhaps.” He looked to Inti. “Let’s round ’em up and head ’em out.”

  “Oh, righto. Absolutely spot on.” Smithe had gone from pink to crimson. “I’ve boiled my pudding in this bleeding hole for five bleeding months, petitioning, pleading, flattering, bribing, doing everything short of dropping on all fours and cavorting like a Staffordshire bull terrier to win another interview with End of Time, and you come along on your bleeding errand, oblivious, unmindful, not caring a fiddler’s fuck, and fall into it, just bloody stumble into it, roses and whistles; and, of course, it’s not your cup of tea, it means nothing divided by zero to a bloke like you, you’re wanting none of it. Well, brilliant, that’s brilliant. Just my lot, isn’t it? My brilliant bleeding lot.”

  Switters regarded him with astonishment. “Easy,” he cautioned. “Easy, pal. Heed the counsel of our Sailor Boy over there. Relax. You’re acting like I’m some sort of spoilsport, and I don’t have an L.A.P.D. clue what sport I’m spoiling. I’m only—”

  “Oh, it’s not your fault. Really. Sorry about that. It’s just my bloody—”

  “Stop whining, Potney. Whining’s unattractive, even when your whine sounds like Kenneth Branagh eating frozen strawberries with a silver fork. Just tell me specifically what’s on your burner. What’s this ‘end of time’ stuff? ‘Interviewing the end of time’? Sun got to you? Sun and gin? Mad dogs and Englishmen syndrome?”

  Gradually Smithe was returning to his natural hue. A weariness moved into his smooth, shiny face like a retired midwestern farmer moving into a flamingo beach hotel. He shrugged his ursine shoulders and flicked, halfheartedly, his cigarette into the bug-gnawed weeds. “Never mind.” He sighed. “Load of flapdoodle, that.”<
br />
  “Flapdoodle?!” Switters grinned incredulously, and with a kind of sarcastic delight.

  “Yes. Bosh. Nonsense,” explained Smithe. His tone was defensive.

  “I know what flapdoodle means. I just wasn’t aware that anybody under the age of ninety-five still used the term. Even in Merry Olde.”

  “Don’t mock.”

  “So, flapdoodle, is it? Why didn’t you say so in the first place? I happen to have a soft spot for flapdoodle. And if you toss in a pinch of the old codswallop or balderdash, why, you could get me really enthralled.”

  “Don’t mock.”

  “Not mocking, Pot. Maybe we should find a patch of shade someplace and talk this over.”

  “If you’re serious.”

  Switters was humoring the ethnographer, catering to his agitation, but at the same time he was a wee bit intrigued, he couldn’t help himself. “Flapdoodle,” he practically sang, as they made their way to the covered side entrance of the nearby infirmary. “Makes the world go ‘round.”

  The Boquichicos infirmary’s side entrance functioned, somewhat arbitrarily, as an emergency entrance. Bodies emptying from machete wounds or inflating from snakebite were admitted through it. The front or main entrance was reserved for those with aches, coughs, fevers, or one or more of the thirty or so parasites that could bore, burrow, squirm, swim, or wriggle into the human organism in a place such as this, and that contributed substantially to the region’s reputation for vivid superfluity. (A time was approaching when there would be an argument over exactly which one of those entrances, side or front, was the proper one through which to admit an immobilized Switters, but that unpleasant quandary was still a few days away.)

  A short path of flagstones led, from nowhere in particular, to the side door. Above the walkway was a narrow, thatched roof, supported by whitewashed poles. It was beneath that roof that Switters and Smithe took refuge, at first from the sun and, no more than five minutes later, from the rain; for scarcely had Smithe commenced to expound upon the Nacanaca, the Kandakandero chap, and the request to borrow Maestra’s parrot, than a few guppy-sized waterdrops began to dash themselves against the dusty earth or splat with a timid thump against the platterlike leaves of thick green plants. Quickly there was a population explosion such as was entirely appropriate in a Catholic country, and the progenitor drops multiplied and geometrized into a blinding, deafening horde.