City of the Beasts

by Isabel Allende

  From that moment, the journey went from bad to worse. The vegetation became much more dense and they saw the sun only when traveling in the middle of the river. It was so close and uncomfortable that they could not sleep on the boats and, despite the danger represented by Indians and wild animals, they had to camp onshore. César Santos distributed the food, organized the hunting and fishing parties, and assigned shifts among the men to stand guard at night. He excluded Professor Leblanc; it was obvious that the least sound set his nerves on edge. Kate and Dr. Omayra Torres demanded to take part in the guard duty; it seemed insulting to be excluded because they were females. Then the two young people insisted on being accepted, too—in part because they wanted to keep an eye on Karakawe. They had seen him put handfuls of bullets into his pockets and watched him hang around the radio equipment, which from time to time César Santos was able to use to communicate, though with great difficulty, to report their location on the map to the operator at Santa María de la Lluvia. The leafy dome of the jungle acted like an umbrella, blocking the radio frequency.

  “Which is worse, the Indians or the Beast?” Alex asked Ludovic Leblanc jokingly.

  “The Indians, boy. They are cannibals; they not only eat their enemies, they eat the dead of their own tribe,” the professor replied emphatically.

  “Oh, really? I’d never heard that,” Dr. Omayra Torres said sarcastically.

  “Read my book, Señorita Torres.”

  “Doctor,” she corrected for the umpteenth time.

  “These Indians kill to get women,” he assured her.

  “You might kill for that reason, Professor, but not the Indians,” the doctor replied. “They don’t need more women; the fact is, they have more than enough.”

  “I have seen it with my own eyes; they attack other shabonos and steal the women.”

  “As far as I am aware,” César Santos interrupted, “they cannot oblige girls to stay with them against their will. If they want, they can leave. When there is war between two shabonos, it is because one has used magic to harm the other, or out of revenge, or sometimes there are ceremonial battles in which they club each other, but not with the intention of killing anyone.”

  “You are mistaken, Santos. See the documentary of Ludovic Leblanc and you will understand my theory,” Leblanc assured him.

  “I understand that you handed out machetes and knives to one shabono and promised the Indians you would give them more gifts if they acted for the cameras according to your instructions,” the guide continued.

  “That is a lie! According to my theory—”

  “Other anthropologists and journalists have come to the Amazon with ideas about the Indians. There was one who filmed a documentary in which the boys went around dressed like women, wore makeup, and used deodorant,” César Santos added.

  “Ah. That colleague was known for rather strange ideas . . . ,” the professor admitted.

  The guide showed Alex and Nadia how to load and fire the pistols. The girl did not show any great skill or interest; she seemed unable to hit a target three feet away. Alex, on the other hand, was fascinated. The weight of the pistol in his hand gave him a sensation of invincible power; for the first time, he understood the obsession so many people feel with firearms.

  “My parents do not tolerate guns. If they saw me with this, they would faint,” he commented.

  “They won’t see you,” his grandmother assured him as she took his picture.

  Alex crouched down and pretended to shoot, as he had when he had played as a little boy.

  “The sure technique for missing your shot is to aim and fire in haste,” said Kate. “If we are attacked, that is exactly what you will do, Alexander, but don’t worry, because no one will be watching you. Most likely, by then we will all be dead.”

  “You don’t trust me to defend you, do you?”

  “No, but I would rather be murdered by Indians in the Amazon than die of old age in New York,” his grandmother replied.

  “You’re one of a kind, Kate!” Alex said, and smiled.

  “We all are, Alexander.”

  • • •

  On the third day, they caught sight of a family of deer in a small clearing. The animals, accustomed to the safety of the forest, did not seem disturbed by the presence of the boats. César Santos ordered a halt, and shot one deer with his rifle as the rest fled in terror. That night the party would dine very well; venison was greatly appreciated in spite of its stringy texture, and it would be a feast after so many days of the same diet of fish. Matuwe had brought a poison used by the Indians in his tribe to paralyze fish; when the poison was thrown into the river, a hunter could impale them easily with a spear or an arrow tied to a liana. The poison left no trace in the flesh of the fish or in the water, and the remaining fish recovered within minutes.

  They were at a calm place where the river formed a small lake, perfect for stopping for a couple of hours to eat and regain their strength. César Santos warned them to be cautious because the water was dark and they had seen caimans several hours before, but they were all hot and thirsty. The soldiers used poles to stir the water, and since they did not see any sign of caimans, they decided to bathe—except for Professor Ludovic Leblanc, who would not get in the river for any reason. Borobá was not fond of bathing, but Nadia forced him to get wet from time to time to chase off the fleas. Perched on the top of his owner’s head, the little creature squealed with pure fright every time a drop of water splashed him. The members of the expedition paddled around for a while as César Santos and two of the men dressed the deer and built a fire to roast it.

  Alex watched as his grandmother took off her trousers and shirt to swim in her underwear, with absolutely no trace of embarrassment, although once she was wet she looked almost naked. He tried not to look at her, but soon he realized that there in the midst of nature, and so far from the familiar world, there was no place for shame about the body. He had grown up around his mother and his sisters, and he was used to the company of the opposite sex at school, but recently anything connected with girls or women attracted him like a remote and forbidden mystery. He knew the reason: hormones churning around, not letting him think in peace. Adolescence was the pits, the worst of the worst, he decided. They ought to invent a machine with laser beams where you could walk in for a minute, and zap! come out an adult. He was carrying a hurricane inside; sometimes he was euphoric, king of the world, ready to take on a lion; other times he was as wimpy as a tadpole. From the moment he had begun this journey, however, he hadn’t given a thought to hormones; nor had he had time to consider whether it was worth the effort to go on living, a doubt he used to have at least once a day. Now here he was comparing his grandmother’s body—wiry, knotty, leathery skin—to the smooth golden curves of Dr. Omayra Torres, who was wearing a discreet black bathing suit, and to the still childish grace of Nadia. He thought about how the body changes at different stages, and decided that the three women were equally beautiful, each in her own way. He smiled at that idea. He had never dreamed, two weeks before, that he could consider his own grandmother an attractive person. Were his hormones cooking his brain?

  A bloodcurdling scream jerked Alex from these important musings. The cry had come from Joel González, one of the photographers, who was struggling desperately in the muddy water along the riverbank. At first, no one knew what was happening; all they could see were the man’s arms thrashing in the air and his head disappearing and reappearing. Alex, who was a member of his school swim team, was the first to reach him with two or three strong strokes. As he came near, he saw with absolute horror that a snake as thick as a swollen fire hose was wrapped around the photographer’s body. Alex seized González by one arm and tried to drag him toward land, but the weight of the man and the reptile was too much for him. With both hands, and pulling with all his strength, he tried to separate the serpent, but its coils merely tightened around its victim. He remembered the hair-raising experience with the surucucú that had curled around
his leg a few nights before. This was a thousand times worse. The photographer was not struggling now, or screaming; he was unconscious.

  “Papa! Papa! An anaconda!” Nadia yelled, adding her cries to those of Alex.

  By then Kate, Timothy Bruce, and two of the soldiers had reached them, and were struggling to uncoil the powerful snake from the body of the unfortunate González. The tussle stirred up the mud from the bottom of the lake, turning the water as dark and thick as chocolate. In the confusion, they couldn’t see what was happening; each was tugging and shouting instructions without result. The effort seemed futile until César Santos arrived with the knife he was using to dress the deer. He did not dare wield the knife blindly, for fear of wounding Joel González or one of the others trying to subdue the reptile. He had to wait for the precise moment the head of the anaconda thrust up from the mud to decapitate it with one well-aimed slash. Blood gushed out, turning the water the color of rust. It took five minutes more to free the photographer, because even after death the constricting coils continued to squeeze.

  They dragged Joel González to the riverbank, where he lay like a dead man. Professor Leblanc was so agitated that, from a place of safety, he was firing shots into the air, contributing to the confusion and general upheaval until Kate took the pistol from him and commanded him to be still. While the others had been struggling in the water with the anaconda, Dr. Omayra Torres had gone back to the boat to look for her medical kit, and now she was kneeling beside the unconscious man with a syringe in her hand. She acted calmly, without speaking, as if the attack of an anaconda were a perfectly normal event in her life. She gave an injection of adrenaline to González, and once she was sure he was breathing, proceeded to examine him.

  “He has several broken ribs, and he is in shock,” she said. “We have to hope he didn’t suffer a punctured lung, or a broken neck. We must immobilize him.”

  “How shall we do that?” asked César Santos.

  “The Indians use tree bark and mud and vines,” said Nadia, still trembling from what she had witnessed.

  “Very good, Nadia,” the doctor said approvingly.

  The guide issued the necessary instructions and soon the doctor, helped by Kate and Nadia, had wrapped the injured man’s torso in cloths soaked in cool mud, covered that with long strips of bark, and bound the whole with lianas. As the mud dried, that primitive cast would act like a modern orthopedic corset. Joel González, stunned and in pain, still had no idea what had happened, but he was conscious and was able to speak a few words.

  “We must take Joel back to Santa María de la Lluvia. Immediately! From there, they can use Mauro Carías’s plane to get him to a hospital,” the doctor directed.

  “This is a dreadful inconvenience,” protested Professor Leblanc. “We have only two boats. We cannot send one back.”

  “Why not? Yesterday you wanted to use a craft to get out of here, and now you do not want to send one with my grievously injured friend?” asked Timothy Bruce, doing his best to keep calm.

  “Without the proper attention, Joel can die,” the doctor explained.

  “Do not exaggerate, my good woman. This man is not seriously hurt, merely frightened. With a little rest, he will be himself in a day or two,” said Leblanc.

  “Very considerate on your part, dear Professor,” muttered Bruce, closing his fists.

  “Enough, señores! Tomorrow we will come to a decision. It is too late to start now; it will be dark soon. We must camp here,” was César Santos’s conclusion.

  Dr. Omayra Torres ordered a fire to be built near the injured man, to keep him dry and warm during the night, for nights were always cool. For his pain, she gave him morphine, and to prevent infection, she began a course of antibiotics. She mixed a few teaspoons of sugar and a little salt in a bottle of water and instructed Timothy Bruce to give the liquid by spoonfuls to his friend, to help keep him from getting dehydrated, since it was clear that he would not be able to swallow solid food for the next few days. The English photographer, whose face usually suggested a placid draft horse, was openly worried, and he obeyed the orders with the solicitude of a mother. Even the bad-tempered Professor Leblanc had to admit to himself that the presence of the doctor was indispensable on an adventure like this.

  In the meantime, three of the soldiers and Karakawe had dragged the body of the anaconda up on the bank. When they measured it, they found that it was nearly eighteen feet long. Professor Leblanc insisted on being photographed with the anaconda coiled around his body in such a way that it was not apparent the head had been cut off. Afterward, the soldiers skinned the reptile and nailed the skin on a trunk to dry; that technique increased the length by twenty percent, and there were tourists who would pay a good price for it. They did not have to take it back to town, however, because Professor Leblanc offered to buy it on the spot, once he was certain he could not acquire it gratis. Kate whispered nastily into her grandson’s ear that she bet that within a few weeks the anthropologist would be exhibiting the anaconda as a trophy in his lectures, telling how he had killed it with his own hands. That was how he had won a hero’s reputation among anthropology students, who were fascinated with the theory that killers had twice as many women and three times as many sons as peaceful men. Leblanc’s theory on the advantages of the dominant male, able to commit any act of brutality in order to transmit his genes, was like a stimulant to bored students condemned to living tame lives in the lap of civilization.

  The soldiers looked in the lake for the head of the anaconda but couldn’t find it; it had either sunk into the mud on the bottom or the current had carried it off. They didn’t dare probe around too much, because those reptiles were known to travel in pairs, and no one was inclined to chance another confrontation. Dr. Omayra Torres explained that Indians and caboclos both attributed curative and prophetic powers to serpents. They dried the head, ground it up, and used the powder to treat tuberculosis, baldness, and bone disease, as well as using it as an aid for interpreting dreams. A head that size would be greatly prized, she assured them, it was a shame it had been lost.

  The men cut up the flesh of the anaconda, salted it, and then roasted it on sticks. Alex, who up till then had refused to taste pirarucú, anteater, toucan, monkey, or tapir, was struck with a sudden curiosity to know how that enormous water snake would taste. He was particularly aware of how his prestige with Cecilia Burns and his friends in California would balloon when they learned he had eaten anaconda in the middle of an Amazon jungle. He posed in front of the serpent’s skin, with a piece of its flesh in his hand, and asked his grandmother to provide photographic evidence. The serpent, roasted to a cinder, since none of the crew was a good cook, turned out to have the texture of chicken and a slight taste of tuna fish. Compared to venison, it was rather bland, but Alex decided that in any case it was better than the rubbery pancakes his father prepared. A sudden recollection of his family hit him like a fist. He stood holding the chunk of burned anaconda on a stick, gazing into the night, thoughtful.

  “What do you see?” Nadia asked in a whisper.

  “I see my mother,” Alex replied, and could not hold back a sob.

  “How is she?”

  “Ill, very ill,” he replied.

  “Your mother is ill in her body, mine is ill in her soul.”

  “Can you see her?” Alex asked.

  “Sometimes,” she answered.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever seen someone this way,” Alex explained. “I had a strange sensation: I was seeing my mother as clear as day, but I wasn’t able to touch her or speak to her.”

  “It’s just a matter of practice, Jaguar. You can learn to see with your heart. Shamans like Walimai can touch and speak, too. From afar, with the heart.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  People of the Mist

  THAT NIGHT THEY hung their hammocks between trees and César Santos assigned turns of two-hour shifts to stand guard and keep the fire going. Following the death of the man struck by the arrow, and
Joel González’s accident, there were now ten adults and the two younger members of the party—Leblanc didn’t count for anything—to cover the eight hours of darkness. Ludovic Leblanc thought of himself as the leader of the expedition, and as such had to “stay fresh.” Without a good night’s sleep, he argued, he would not be clearheaded enough to make decisions. The others were relieved, because, in truth, none of them wanted to stand guard with a man who panicked at the sight of a squirrel. The first shift, which normally was the easiest, because people were still alert and it wasn’t as yet cold, was assigned to Dr. Omayra Torres, a coboclo, and Timothy Bruce, who was inconsolable about what had happened to his colleague. Bruce and González had worked together over the years and felt like brothers.

  The second shift went to Alex, Kate, and another soldier, the third to Matuwe, César Santos, and his daughter, Nadia. The dawn shift was assigned to two soldiers and Karakawe.

  It was difficult for everyone to fall asleep because of the moans of the unfortunate Joel González and, additionally, a strange and persistent odor that seemed to saturate the forest. They had heard about the stench that all sources said was characteristic of the Beast. César Santos explained that they had probably set up camp near a family of iraras, a kind of weasel with a very sweet face but a smell similar to that of a skunk. That interpretation did not make anyone feel easier.

  “It makes me dizzy, and nauseated,” Alex said. He looked pale.

  “If the smell doesn’t kill you, it will make you strong,” said Kate, who was the only one unaffected by the stink.

  “It’s awful!”

  “Let’s say that it’s different. Senses are subjective, Alexander. Something that you find revolting may be attractive to someone else. Maybe the Beast emits that smell as his love song to call to his mate.” Kate smiled.

  “Phew! It smells like a dead rat mixed with elephant urine, rotten food, and—”