Through the Arc of the Rain Forest

by Karen Tei Yamashita

  Along with Chico Paco’s preparations for the inauguration of Chicolándia, bands, samba schools, costume contest organizers, famous singers, and announcers flooded onto the Matacão to add to the long list of twenty-four-hour, four-day entertainment planned. Chico Paco’s proclamation of a new era had spurred thousands of survivors into a flurry of creativity, song, and dance. Now there was the constant beat of the congas flowing over the Matacão while people walked and bounced to its rhythm. Occasionally, the trio elétrico, a truck strung with enormous speakers and a band of balancing musicians, rolled along the Matacão, everything blaring at maximum volume. The trio elétrico was surrounded and trailed by an enthusiastic crowd of jumping people, sweat streaming from their bodies, everyone bounding after the truck in one agitated mass. Gilberto would hear the music from the twentieth floor and scramble down all the flights of stairs to join the excitement, but Chico Paco, watching from above, would often see a funeral procession solemnly passing the trio elétrico in the opposite direction, and in and among the dancers, there were always people with the rash-ridden signs of the inevitable disease. Many people would dance their last dance, drink their last drink, suffer their last hangover.

  Still, Chico Paco insisted on the answered prayers. As the day of the inauguration approached, Chico Paco himself walked a pilgrimage for a little boy saved from the ravages of the disease. Chico Paco and the foundation planned for his triumphant arrival on the Matacão on the inaugural opening of Chicolándia and first day of the Carnival festivities. Radio Chico purposely hailed Chico Paco’s historic walk, speaking of his prayers for a new era. People clung to their radios and the message from Radio Chico as if it were their last piece of salvation. Many people claimed that if it were not for Chico Paco, more people would be dead, as if Chico Paco, himself, were more than a messenger, more than a simple angel of good news.

  But many people at Radio Chico and the foundation, not to mention the personnel who now administered Chicolándia, were beginning to gossip openly about Chico Paco and the former invalid, Gilberto. Some pilgrims were secretly envious of Gilberto and the special attentions Chico Paco, they said, showered on that frivolous child. The guards were more than aware of Chico Paco’s obsession with Gilberto. What if, they thought, we fail to save Gilberto from himself? What miracle, what pilgrimage could possibly save Gilberto from falling off a roller coaster or drowning inside a sea lion suit? If things continued like this, Gilberto might send everything and everyone flying off together on that roller coaster. Perhaps, Chico Paco needed to be saved from Gilberto. For the moment, the gossip was fettered by an undercurrent of guilt. Chico Paco was a sort of saint, an angel, was he not? He was the very salvation of thousands of believers. So what if he were gay. So what if he were gay?

  But these speculations were strangely unknown to Chico Paco, who had inherited from his mother a certain obliviousness. It had never occurred to him that his affection for Gilberto might be interpreted as sinful, even though more than one of his pilgrims had walked to the Matacão for so-called reformed homosexuals. “Praise the Lord,” the letters had proclaimed. “My son is normal.” Normal. Chico Paco had never thought much about what was normal. Miracles. Answered prayers. The lucky 10 percent. There was more to Chico Paco’s life than normality. And Chico Paco had never been happier in his life. He walked briskly toward the Matacão, thinking of Gilberto, praying that Gilberto was keeping his promise to stay out of trouble, and imagined the glow of childish surprise on Gilberto’s face under the spectacle of fireworks slated for the grand opening.

  Despite the intense arrangements for the opening of Chicolándia and Carnival, Lourdes had not lost hope that Kazumasa would somehow hear her call for help. Kazumasa and I saw the writing on the wall while waiting at a stoplight. Kazumasa’s name was scrawled in big letters on the side of a building. So was, for that matter, my name, “The Ball.” Kazumasa memorized the telephone numbers as our car sped off.

  Hiroshi had inserted into the radio station’s telephone system a message which would be understood by anyone speaking Japanese, most hopefully by Kazumasa, if he happened to call. The kidnappers had set a deadline for receiving the goods (Kazumasa and me) in exchange for Gislaine and Rubens, and time was running out. The exchange was to be made on the Saturday of Carnival at 9 PM on the Matacão. The reason for choosing the Matacão was that the kidnappers assumed that my attraction to the great slab would be proof of Kazumasa’s authenticity. Hiroshi was himself ready to go to the Matacão on the intended Saturday evening and to press a replica of me and his own forehead into the Matacão, in hopes of saving Gislaine and Rubens. As it happened, Kazumasa made that call.

  Kazumasa and I walked away from that phone with a sense of mission. We would not allow Gislaine and Rubens to come to any harm. We did not consider the danger to our own lives. We were tired of hiding and running. And all Kazumasa could think of lately was Lourdes. If he could see her again, he would embrace her, dance with her, sing with her, laugh, kiss, and love her. Yes, he admitted to himself, he loved Lourdes. He promised himself, if he lived to see her again, he would tell her everything, but she must not lose her children on his account.

  But there was treachery all around us, and even as we walked away from the telephone booth, an undercover bodyguard with a clip slipped into the booth and surreptitiously removed a small electronic device hidden in the mouthpiece of the receiver. Someone would be watching us every step of the way.

  As the days approached for Chico Paco’s triumphant arrival on the Matacão, Gilberto thought about a genuine surprise for Chico Paco. He had once seen in a magic show how the magician had been stuffed into a gigantic cannon and fired out to a spot behind the audience. He imagined himself being fired out of such a cannon into the clear night air above Chicolándia and miraculously wafting down to the Matacão to personally greet Chico Paco. Such a cannon was secretly arranged with the help of the guards, whom Gilberto thought had been hired to tape his escapades for Chico Paco’s delight. “This will be the greatest thrill of his life,” Gilberto sighed, racing around to put together a suitable costume for such an appearance. He settled on a glittering silver spacesuit with matching boots and helmet, all of which glowed in the dark. The parachute would also be a glittering phosphorescent silver. He planned his spectacular arrival, rehearsing over and over in his mind the details without ever questioning whether a trick like this was even feasible. The guards shrugged their shoulders innocently. They were only there to protect and humor Gilberto. The thing wasn’t supposed to work anyway, they thought.

  On Saturday, the first day of Carnival, people began milling around on the Matacão early in the morning. Batista had released thousands of Djapan pigeons into the skies to hail the opening ceremonies. The trio elétricos rumbled up and down the Matacão, and several samba schools had already demonstrated a certain amount of frenzy, even in those early hours. By nightfall, things were getting hot. Chico Paco supporters were pacing the Matacão with ghetto blasters, the Radio Chico deejay’s voice crashing into its own voice in a myriad of stereo reports. The costumed carousers were beginning to arrive as well. There were dozens of people sporting my replica, the “Kazumasa ball,” secured by transparent headbands. Some had even cut and dyed their hair jet black to imitate Kazumasa’s. And there were also dozens of people with third arms or third breasts, not to mention people with third eyes or third legs and so forth. Then there were the usual crowd of masqueraders, pirates, clowns, Arabs, Indians, cartoon characters, Hawaiians, gypsies, Candomblé priestesses and gods, Carmen Mirandas, malandros, transvestites, and many who simply sported skimpy attire. Breasts and buttocks, in big demand as always at Carnival, were in abundance on the Matacão.

  Lourdes and Hiroshi, also sporting my ridiculous replica and ready at any moment to smash his head into the great slab, marched through the revelers with determination. Behind them, following first at a distance and then more closely as the crowds grew, were two people Kazumasa might have recognized. But Kazumasa and I, t
oo, were being watched and followed. We were used to this and had rather lost track of the number of people who surrounded but never really befriended us in a way Kazumasa would have appreciated.

  We, too, were intent on keeping this appointment. Kazumasa did not consider that it might in fact be a trap. He promised himself that only when he saw Gislaine and Rubens safely in Lourdes’s arms would he give himself and me up. Kazumasa did not have to ask my forgiveness for deciding my fate in this way, but he did so anyway. “Forgive me,” he said, “but it is for a good cause.”

  Together, Kazumasa and I ran among the crowds in the streets, trying to confuse those agents J.B. had trailing us everywhere. Luckily, there were so many odd representations of us on the streets, the agents found themselves spread out everywhere chasing mirages of the Japanese with the ball.

  Chico Paco was already met several miles before the Matacão by a crowd of supporters all grasping candles, marching alongside the living angel in the decisive and fervent expression of an earthly but sacred mission. People wept openly, fell to the ground and wrung their hands, as Chico Paco passed.

  From his private helicopter above, J.B. could see over the dark land a river of tiny lights approaching the Matacão. As Chico Paco’s feet touched the Matacão, fireworks broke into the night sky.

  Under the lights of that suddenly radiant sky, Lourdes could see the outline of her two children, Gislaine and Rubens, propped ominously between two large men. Lourdes and the children all cried out together in recognition, but their cries were muffled by the thundering sky and the blaring music. Hiroshi sensed Lourdes’s tension and saw the men and the children as well. He made ready to throw himself onto the Matacão, but a hand grabbed his shoulder. Lourdes looked around and exclaimed, “Seu Kazumasa!”

  Kazumasa and I walked forward. Kazumasa stopped and smiled at the children. He motioned to the men, who could see immediately that this was the real and true Kazumasa, that there could be no mistake. I was always very impressive in person. Hiroshi’s idea about pressing his replica ball and head into the Matacão was nonsense when confronted with the truth of my existence. I could see that the men themselves were quite astounded. They relaxed their grip on the children, who scuffled away as best they could and fell tearfully into Lourdes’s awaiting arms. When Kazumasa could see that the children were safe, he and I walked toward the men who readied their weapons with a certain fear of me. They did not know what a ball might be capable of.

  Kazumasa had seen J.B.’s paper-clipped agents following Lourdes and Hiroshi. We could also sense their presence, and Kazumasa knew that they would not give up their assignment just because Kazumasa and I wanted to get involved in a little heroics.

  At the same time, Chico Paco was trying to move forward into the oppressive crowd. His walk was joyous and purposeful as he saw the skies lit above Chicolándia. He felt, however, a passing touch of sadness. Where was Gilberto? Why hadn’t he come to meet him? Chico Paco pushed aside his sense of abandonment amid the glorious reception surrounding him. People were cheering, dancing, chanting. Confetti poured. Flowers were strewn.

  Suddenly, Chico Paco sensed a vibration near his heart, the insistent buzz of his beeper in his shirt pocket, the warning signal of approaching danger. Chico Paco’s stomach churned, waves crashing in his inner ear, his knees wobbling at the thought of another episode in Gilberto’s continuing saga of mad escapades. The monitoring room. He must get there. What was that crazy former invalid up to now? Chico Paco pressed forward frantically.

  Kazumasa and I were shoved aside by the approaching crowds. Chico Paco himself was only a few paces away. We tried to stand our ground yet another moment, hoping that Hiroshi was dragging Lourdes and the children as far away from danger as possible. The armed men approached us impatiently, but suddenly, the glint of a silver clip caught Kazumasa’s eye. Just as the agent withdrew his gun, Kazumasa whirled with me to the ground, tumbling across Chico Paco’s path. A shot was muffled under the sound of drums. One kidnapper fell away clutching some part of his wounded body, but the second kidnapper aimed for Kazumasa’s head. Kazumasa rolled under a three-legged masquerader, avoiding the bullet that pierced the heart of the great pilgrim.

  Chico Paco clutched the beeper over his heart, the iridescence of his eyes flashing unspeakable panic. Blood poured from his heart, flooding the shattered beeper, as he sank to his knees on the Matacão. The crowd caught the kidnapper and pounced relentlessly on him, smashing every part of his body into the Matacão. Confetti dripping from his golden head, Chico Paco lifted his hand as if to protest the massacre, but it was to wave at the sight of a distant glow, the silken silver wings of an angel emerging among the crack and spray of a sky lit by gunpowder.

  CHAPTER 29:

  Rain of Feathers

  Among the bodies that continued mysteriously to fall out of the sky were found the charred remains of Gilberto. The silver phosphorescent parachute, made of Matacão plastic, was nonflammable and it alone remained intact, its bulbous billowy form sailing out across the shimmering night skies with a human candle. It had risen to an incredible altitude, much higher than Gilberto himself might have imagined being shot from a cannon, fueled by the rising heat of its burning traveler. When the scarcity of oxygen at that height squelched the flame, Gilberto had become, perhaps, the very angel of Chico Paco’s last vision.

  It was discovered that many of the fallen bodies, whose demise could not be traced to feather worshiping, were those of people who had been experimenting with the use of a new feather made of Matacão plastic. Further investigation revealed that the natural magnetism of the Matacão plastic could in certain circumstances, feather rubbing being primary, produce hallucinations. This would, scientists said, account for the rising number of people who claimed spiritual encounters during self-flagellation on the Matacão or the inordinate number of crazed individuals who had, emergency room records insisted, overdosed on four days of frenzied dancing on the Matacão. People were calling it the “red shoes syndrome”; Carnival revelers on the Matacão had actually been unable to stop dancing. Doctors testified to treating the physically exhausted dancers—their feet still kicking and their bodies twitching under the sheets to an inaudible beat for days after.

  But the music had stopped long ago. Batista Djapan’s weekly pigeon messages had themselves forecast the end. “Look for the charcoal angel in the sky,” one read ominously. “Escape the rain of feathers,” the next warned. Batista himself did not know what the messages meant. He would only know when reality itself had deciphered the meaning. What was it he or anyone else must glean from such a message? Batista was always puzzled by the messages, but lately he had felt a growing sense of fear.

  Where was Tania Aparecida when he needed her? She would know what the messages meant. She would be able to interpret his fear. “Tania Cidinha!” he would call out. “Come home. I need to talk to you!”

  “I’m just a pigeon call away,” she would say.

  “Where are you? I’m coming to get you myself!”

  “I’m right here, darling. I’ll be here for the next hour. If it’s urgent, you can fax it to me at the following number . . .”

  Batista groaned. He did not know what he felt any longer. He did not think it was jealousy, as Tania Aparecida insisted. But then, just when he was beginning to fear that he was losing his memory of her, that he would not recognize her if he saw her, that the memory of her face was only of the photographs she had sent him, he would catch a whiff of some scent, some odd perfume in the air that could only belong to Tania Aparecida. Then the memories would flood back in rushing torrents, his heart heaving, a deep moan cupped in his throat. He often thought that it would be easier if Tania Aparecida were dead, but then he knew that it would be worse. He wanted to tell her that it was no longer jealousy, but a terrible longing, a painful necessity. He would never be jealous again if only she would stay awhile.

  But Batista’s emotions were left simmering with the onslaught of a more immediate threat: ty
phus. It was not so much that the disease had virtually decimated the workforce of his pigeon operation, causing a general stagnation in the usually prompt service the Djapans had been known for; people were so depressed by the typhus crisis that they no longer got very excited about slow service, and if it were bad news, people would rather hear it later than sooner. Neither had typhus really made a significant dent in the pigeon message business; while festive sorts of pigeon messages were practically nil these days, messages of sympathy and death filled the airways. Batista had continued to supply the Foundation for Votive Pilgrimages with pigeon pilgrims, and that service had hardly slackened with the typhus crisis. The true threat of typhus was in its cause: rickettsia.

  Rickettsia were microorganisms that traveled via a minute species of lice, which in turn traveled via feathers, which, of course, traveled via birds and, of late, humans. The lice that transmitted rickettsia were practically invisible to the naked eye, but they were the nasty creatures that invaded the pores in the ears and around the neck and sucked the skin into a rash.

  The first thing to go were the feathers. Plastic feathers had already been outlawed for their severe hallucinatory effects, but now the natural feathers—from the cheap chicken-feather imitations of the rare feathers to very expensive rare feathers themselves—were all dumped with extreme disgust and loathing into incinerators. Feathers burned night and day all around the Matacao. Some people gave up the feather habit with easy distaste, like some passing fad gone sour, but others found their dependency on that soft, light object had grown beyond their expectations. Many people experienced a weight gain. Others returned to smoking cigarettes. A number of stressed-out executives actually jumped out of their office buildings. Some had to be treated for shock and withdrawal.