Through the Arc of the Rain Forest

by Karen Tei Yamashita

  Plastic surgeons would be quick to recognize the practical uses of Matacão plastic and adapt the new technology for use in facial rebuilds. Complete facial masks could be created and applied permanently to patients because of the Matacão plastic’s novel capability to be breathable. Suddenly, people in all walks of life would appear to be facially younger, glowing with a constantly dewy freshness. Some would also appear to be not at all the way anyone remembered them.

  Matacão plastics in a form harder than steel (some referred to it as flexible steel) could, of course, be immediately applied in housing and civil engineering. Anxious to experiment with this new moldable plastic, architects and engineers were scurrying about to design structures that would spread and jut incredibly into the modern skyline. Bridges, overpasses, skyscrapers, domes, coliseums, hamburger stands, parking lots, shopping malls, tract housing, would all suddenly take on miraculous forms. Bookstores everywhere featured books on Gaudí architecture and the Matacão plastic that was enabling his vision to become a reality.

  In the next few years, Matacão plastic would infiltrate every crevice of modern life—plants, facial and physical remakes and appendages, shoes, clothing, jewelry, toys, cars, every sort of machine from electro-domestic to high-tech, buildings, furniture—in short, the myriad of commercial products with which the civilized world adorns itself. Matacão plastic would even be used to create artificial food (sushi samples, etc.) A few people had mistakenly eaten artificial food samples with no bodily discomfort or detriment; this signified to some researchers that if imitative and satisfying tastes (plus minimum daily requirements of minerals, nutrients and vitamins, less the calories) could be injected into plastic food samples (with the approval of the FDA, of course), plastic food might be touted as healthy, nonfattening, and noncholesteric. Plastic food, of course, could not spoil. One would merely have to brush or wash off the dust and enjoy a juicy steak or chocolate mousse pie injected with only the necessary calories to maintain bodily functions. There was absolutely no risk of ptomaine poisoning, and astronauts could take it into space.

  This new era, which some historians would refer to as the Plastics Age, was all made possible because of me, Kazumasa Ishimaru’s ball, without which new deposits of Matacão plastic could not be found. As J. B. Tweep had suspected, Kazumasa discovered new underground sources of Matacão plastic at several new sites in Pará, Amazonas, Maranhão, Ceará, and Rondônia. The north of Brazil was a gold mine in plastic. Although GGG endeavored to keep the discovery of new sources of plastic a secret, unofficial leaks sent speculators from all over the world flocking to denude the forests. It seemed to be of no consequence that those who uncovered a piece of Matacão plastic in most cases did not have the technology to cut even a splinter of the stuff away from the mother lode. Some people wept at the sight of the shiny stuff, which reflected back a dull image of their happiness. Most people slipped away disconsolately, with only photographs of themselves near an uncovered site. Others remained resolutely camped on their handiwork until the government or GGG, with its laser-chemical-acid system for cutting the Matacão, came along and had to pay these squatters handsomely to leave.

  As advanced as the technology behind Matacão plastics was becoming, the means of discovering new sources of the material eluded scientists. Kazumasa and I, alone, were the key to this incredible source of wealth.

  In this great task of combing the countryside for Matacão plastic, J.B., with his usual thoroughness, sent Kazumasa and me out with a team of specialists, their assistants, and their gofers to map out entire areas—every road, every railway, every waterway, every path through, by, under, and over we must walk, swim, ride, float, or hover—leaving no piece of that portion of Earth unknown to me, the ball. In this, J.B. was ruthless in his expectations, weaving and tossing GGG’s net farther and farther, oblivious to any obstacles in our path: acres of flooded forest—dolphins leaping into the canopy, giant pirarucú waiting in the shallows for dropping fruit; great government hydroelectric dam projects—hundreds of species of plant and animal life bulldozed under, rotting and stinking for miles in every direction; Indian homelands, their populations decimated by influenza. Kazumasa saw, smelled, felt, and tasted everything. He saw the beauty of the land, smelled the stink of its decomposition, felt the heat of the great forest fires, tasted the sweat of human labor. And still we moved on, searching for plastic.

  That Kazumasa and I were the key to Matacão plastic was a secret that even Tweep could not keep under wraps for long. There were spies of every description—a motley and shady crew of CIA, KGB, international and industrial spies—in every corner of the forest, every Bromeliad, every Indian outpost or missionary’s home, every public place, restaurant, men’s room, and hotel lobby that Kazumasa and I ever went to. In the beginning, Kazumasa was mildly aware of these people, and as he was always eager to make new acquaintances in this new home of his, he was openly friendly toward those spies he recognized frequently. J.B. had to step in with his own spies and whisk Kazumasa around to throw everyone off his tracks. There were days when, in order to shake some obstinate tail, Kazumasa and I were checked into and out of a dozen seedy hotels in a dozen towns and outposts, only to be left on some hidden forest runway supposedly known only to smugglers. J.B.’s men, identifiable to Kazumasa by the clips on their lapels and shirt collars, bounced Kazumasa and me around from town to town, dribbling us from hotel to hotel, passing and tossing us in a series of complicated moves to outsmart the opposition. Kazumasa was never sure himself where he was. This sort of moving around was worse than when he traveled the railways; at least, in those days, he could refer to a map and a train schedule. After a while, Kazumasa realized how, once again, he had become a solitary person alone in a busy world, with no one to talk to or trust but his ball. Everyone was after a piece of Matacão plastic, in particular, Kazumasa’s own piece of plastic, me. It was soon apparent to Kazumasa that while many had good intentions, a few of the people who were running after us did not. Life-threatening notes had suggested that some people were not averse to ripping this precious satellite from its orbit, namely, Kazumasa. Greed was a horrible thing. Kazumasa could, if necessary, divest himself of his monetary fortune, but he could not rid himself of me.

  Kazumasa telephoned back to São Paulo on a line that J.B. had scrambled and rerouted in several impossible directions. Tia Carolina could barely hear Kazumasa through the entangled connection. “Seu Kazumasa? Is that you?” she yelled.

  “Lourdes?” Kazumasa could barely hear. He thought he was talking to Lourdes. He repeated over and over again, “Saudades, saudades, saudades.”

  “Seu Kazumasa!” Tia Carolina screamed. “Where are you? Lourdes is looking for you! She went to the Matacão to look for you. Seu Hiroshi too. Everyone is looking for you!” It was true. Secret agents and journalists and inquisitive people had been there; they had slipped past the apartment house guards and had come up to the fourteenth floor and asked so many questions. Tia Carolina didn’t know what to say. She kept Rubens and Gislaine upstairs and instructed them to talk to no one. She called Lourdes at Radio Chico, and they both agreed that Seu Kazumasa must be in some deep trouble. Tia Carolina screamed into the phone, “Seu Kazumasa, you’re alive! Call Radio Chico! R-A-D-I-O C-H-I-C-O, and pray!” Suddenly, of course, the line went dead.

  Radio Chico? Kazumasa wondered what this could mean.

  In the meantime, Hiroshi had himself begun to wonder what had happened to Kazumasa. He received a repetition of happy postcards scribbled with short notes about seeing more of Brazil, but the postcard photos never matched the places from where the cards themselves were mailed. The months passed, and there were only postcards. He could trace his cousin up to the moment when Kazumasa reached GGG Enterprises, but everyone, including the president of the company who had graciously met and shook Kazumasa’s hand during his VIP stockholder’s tour, could only report that, to their knowledge, Kazumasa had returned home to São Paulo. Hiroshi did not want to start a panic. He
had found Lourdes working at Radio Chico, but he did not want to confirm her worries. He knew that from time to time, Chico Paco asked the faithful over the radio if anyone had seen the Japanese with the ball. Despite Hiroshi’s efforts to keep his suspicions to himself, newspapers and magazines began to pick up the story about the disappearance of the Japanese Santa Claus. There were newpaper articles headlined in bold letters: WHERE IS THE JAPANESE WITH THE BALL? The articles surmised that he may have been kidnapped or that he had had a nervous breakdown and returned to Japan.

  After all, people had been waiting in line for months, having been told that Kazumasa was sure to return within a few days. A message telling the throng to wait just one more day nearly caused a small riot on the street. Some wept that they had traveled hundreds of miles for nothing. Others raged against the cruel fate of being only second or third in line. Finally, people dwindled reluctantly away, a few remaining vigilant and praying for Kazumasa’s return.

  Hiroshi began to wait for some sort of ransom note or telephone call. Not a few unscrupulous people thought that Kazumasa’s very disappearance should prove lucrative in itself. These people called Hiroshi saying that they had information about the missing Japanese, which they would be able to divulge for a small price. Hiroshi hopelessly paid everyone for this useless information. He met the most preposterous kidnappers in every dark corner of his karaoke bars, but no one could produce the Japanese with the ball. At one point Hiroshi paid an unheard-of amount for the key to an airport locker where, the informant told him, he would find clear evidence of Kazumasa’s whereabouts. Having obtained the key, Hiroshi rushed feverishly to the airport and tore open the appointed locker. Inside the locker was a note and a small box. The note said: “If you want to see the rest of the Japanese alive, leave one million dollars in cash in this locker by next Tuesday.” When Hiroshi opened the small box, he jumped in horror. There inside were the lifeless remains of my purported form, having spun to a dead stop. Hiroshi cried out in anguish, his worst fears having come to life, but closer examination revealed, of course, that the ball in the box was a mere imitation, a clever but flawed replica.

  Ironically, at the same moment, in another place near the Matacao, industrial spies were meeting surreptitiously, gloating over the contents of another small box. Unknown to the buyers, the contents of this box were as fake as the one Hiroshi was horrified to find. “What about the Japanese?” the buyer asked, slipping a thin feather past his ear.

  “You only asked for the ball,” was the answer.

  “You mean—?” asked the buyer.

  There was no response.

  “I see,” said the buyer. “But how will I know if this is really the ball?”

  The spy produced a photograph of a dead Japanese.

  “And if this ball does not work?” asked the buyer.

  “That is no concern of mine. We made a deal.”

  Back on the Matacão at Radio Chico, similar false leads were called in. Lourdes contacted Hiroshi as soon as she heard anything, but “the Japanese with the ball” that someone had seen in some remote backwoods town was usually one of those persons who had become attached to one of those imitation satellite headbands or some other such visual mistake. In fact, people had seen Kazumasa and me and had truthfully reported this to Radio Chico, but J.B.’s undercover agents skillfully shoved us out of sight, stopping any and all pursuers, sending out false scents and confusion in our wake. Also, Kazumasa was made to wear a headband with a wire poking obviously from the band and pointing at me. This, for some reason, worked rather well.

  In the beginning, searching for new deposits of Matacão plastic had been a kind of challenge for Kazumasa. Kazumasa had become tired of the charity business; he realized that his usefulness as a disperser of funds was limited by imagination and reality and that many people were too hungry and too poor to have much imagination or even much hold on reality. He realized further that his pleasure in granting any wish was as ephemeral as the wish itself: a woman who received a washing machine had no plumbing to run water to it; a family with a new refrigerator had no food to store in it; wheelchairs broke down without oil and repair; medical facilities had no personnel to run them.

  Kazumasa was familiar with the technical challenge of scrutinizing railroad track wear; he did not miss that business, but he wondered if I did. He thought that searching for new deposits of Matacão plastic was a scientific venture, that he and I would be contributing to science and progress and the future. So he agreed to J.B.’s strictures on secrecy and went forth for the greater good of society, abandoning his family (Hiroshi) and friend (Lourdes), thinking that he would be able to explain everything to them in due time.

  But lately, Kazumasa missed karaoke. He missed singing with abandon in his specially built karaoke shower at home. When he sang in hotel showers, he was asked to keep the volume down because it might arouse suspicion, all this singing of popular Japanese songs. And then, he missed Lourdes with a passion he was utterly unfamiliar with. The Brazilians called the longing for someone or something saudades, and Kazumasa thought that this must be what he was feeling for Lourdes. He heaved great sighs, and I shuddered sadly for him.

  Lourdes, for her part, kept busy at Radio Chico, supervising calls for telephone pilgrims and always keeping an ear out for any news that Kazumasa had been found. When Tia Carolina called the toll-free Radio Chico number, Lourdes’s heart lifted with joy. At least, she thought, Kazumasa was alive, he was alive somewhere.

  In fact, contrary to many rumors, Kazumasa and I were quite alive. Kazumasa wondered now how he had ever gotten into this secretive business and when, like the funds in his checking account, the sources of Matacão plastic would simply dry up. He would simply tell J.B. Tweep and GGG Enterprises that this was it. Matacão plastic was a finite resource, and they would have to do with what they had. Kazumasa did not know that J.B. had plans to send us to Greenland, central Australia, and Antarctica, not to mention every pocket of virgin tropical forest within twenty degrees latitude of the equator. I knew myself that Kazumasa and I would not be released from our duties so simply. J.B. had posted his undercover agents with their clipped lapels and shirt collars at every door and window, behind every tree, at the arc of every rainbow. No one could find us, nor could we escape. And so Kazumasa slept fitfully in strange beds in hotels that had all begun to look the same, dreaming the same dream night after night—dancing with goblins in plastic jungles.

  CHAPTER 23:

  Remote Control

  Dr. Mané Pena (recently conferred an honorary degree by the Matacão University) walked barefoot away from the podium and sat down amid a chorus of cheers and lingering applause. Mané’s insistence that he owed all of his fame to his secretary, Carlos, was taken as so much false modesty. He was known throughout the world as the Father of Featherology. Thanks to Carlos, Mané Pena was the author and coauthor of numerous books and articles on featherology, none of which he himself could read, including the introduction to the famous ten-volume, leather-bound Encyclopedia of Feathers. His videotaped courses in featherology were translated into several languages and distributed to schools all over the world. He had been interviewed nationally and internationally. He was considered the foremost authority on feathers, corresponding with researchers from all over the world, heading seminars and commissions, directing the university research institute, dedicating his life to feathers. For reasons Mané Pena could not explain, his life had changed.

  Mané’s wife Angustia and the younger of their many children had long since moved back to the small town where Angustia had been born. One day, Dona Angustia got tired of feather talk, the buzzer on Mané’s fancy watch, autograph parties for books she could not read, photographs of old Mané on the Matacão at sunset and the constant crowd of pushy interviewers and researchers. She was afraid of the telephone machine and always spoke before the beep. She was embarrassed to answer questions in interviews, pulling at the hems of her short cotton-print dresses and curling her toes
into the rubber thongs to hide her rough feet. Mané Pena had stepped, barefoot, into a strange world where Angustia could not follow. She wondered where the old Mané Pena had disappeared to, longed for the old days when she could send one of their youngsters to the open café to fetch her husband for dinner. She took the embroidered lace towels off the tables and the TV, hauled off the sofa she had brought with her from her first marriage, packed the young ones up and left.