by Will Forest
It was indeed a long way. It is said that she rode... an animal.
No, not a horse. There were no horses to be seen here at that time. What is it called… A tapir, Your Grace.
It is not common to ride such an animal, Your Grace. But, as you have heard, Amana was definitely not a common...
It could have been so, Your Grace. Perhaps she rescued the tapir when it was young, and tamed it. They say these animals can be trained when young… Perhaps Your Grace wishes to know more?
Yes, it was the same woman, Amana, who I am talking about. Her fame as a healer and midwife had grown. She received much respect but also fear from the people who knew her as the one who had birthed the Inca twins and then escaped from their mountain fortress. Your Grace must consider that Amana, unlike so many other kinds of people, never wore clothes. And she bore certain marks on her skin that anyone could see: a cluster of small dark spots above her buttocks and more on her neck.
No, nobody among us can know for certain. But if Your Grace will consent to hear the rest of what I can tell of her, he will most likely be convinced that I speak of one woman—one and the same.
Zé was about to turn the page when I stopped him. “Who do you think is telling this story about Amana?”
“I don’t know. Someone who seemed to know her.”
I smiled. “I like how we have to imagine what the priest’s questions were, just from her sassy answers.”
He laughed. “Yes, the priest is scandalized hearing about this naked lady running around all over the place, getting the better of people. You know, there’s no question that Amana is like Sun Prince. They are both naturist ancestors. And it’s interesting, because the Muisca—these people mentioned here where we stopped reading—they were the ones known for the El Dorado ritual…”
Zé’s phone interrupted him. “Fala... Nelson? Estamos aqui com a estória da Amana… muito interessante mesmo… O que?? Assaltado?... Saqueado… E você acaba de chegar lá. ‘Tô vendo… Sim, diga para ele. Estamos em contato.”
I clutched the back of a chair. “That didn’t sound good.”
Zé set his jaw. “Nelson stayed at a friend’s house last night, and he didn’t get back to his place until just a few minutes ago. He opened the door… and saw his apartment had been broken into and searched. His stuff was thrown all over the place.”
“Uh oh…”
“Exactly, uh oh. They stole his laptop with his files, including the rest of Amana’s story. He told me he’s going to call my brother, because the translation was Pedro’s order, after all.”
I blinked a few times. “Who would… Do you think someone was after this Amana story?’
“I don’t know, but whoever did it left everything else. His TV, his stereo, a fancy globe… they only took his laptop. They didn’t even take the scroll. That was the first thing he looked for, and he found it still where he had tucked it away for safekeeping.”
“Who else knew about this story, about the scroll?”
“I don’t think he told anyone else.”
“Could it be, I don’t know… the police? Maybe the police in Lisbon tracked him to Rio and sent an alert…”
“Duvido muito. I really doubt it. The Rio police are… well, infamous. I wouldn’t put it past them to break in, but if they had, they would have taken everything, not just a laptop.”
“The police are that bad, huh?”
“I guess you never heard that Chico Buarque song, ‘Acorda Amor.”
“Is it a recent song?”
“Não… who knows—maybe things are changing. I don’t live here anymore, so what do I know? Actually I hear that the police are trying to get their act together for the World Cup and Olympics in the coming years.”
“Do we need to go help Nelson?”
Zé laughed. “He’s going to the police station! Good luck, right? But what else can he do? I guess I would do the same.”
“So let’s keep reading.”
Chapter 18: Bodies of Water
Jota brought us some Portuguese vinho verde and a bowl of seasoned Brazil nuts. Zé became motivated to put on that Chico Buarque album with the song he had mentioned, to listen to while we continued reading. Then we jumped back into Amana’s story.
The Muisca, as I say, dwell high in the mountains, and so once again Amana lived among a people who found her strange because she would not cover herself. So she lived her home outside their settlement, near a lake, where she provided for herself by fishing and diving, tasks for which the Muisca were more willing to believe that she would live in that way.
‘Naked’—this word means ‘fishing’?
I was not familiar with the idea, Your Grace, that you designate a word to mean ‘without clothes.’ But yes, ‘naked,’ then, is the way she lived, with no adornment other than flowers, sometimes, in her hair, or dyes, sometimes, on her skin. She knew how to catch several different kinds of fish, each with its own way of being caught, and how to dive for the reeds that can be dried and used for basket-making.
She was alone. There are breaks in the story – I don’t know exactly why she went there. I do know she frequently had to move, because of her insistence on living alone, and on living... naked.
I agree, Your Grace, that she was not an ordinary woman. In fact it was often with other, ordinary, women with whom she fought the most. The Muisca women, for example, would not allow their men to buy from her at the market. It was because the men were curious to look on her and the women coveted their men’s curiosity for themselves. So only the women would buy from Amana, because she always had good fish and sturdy baskets. They would buy from her, but they would chide her to cover herself. She did not speak their language, although she quickly learned what she could of it. She always learned quickly. And if they did chide her stridently, she would defend herself.
One time she responded by hooking one of her fingers over the cloth right between the breasts of the woman scolding her, and pulling down the cloth to expose her. The woman shrieked, trying to cover herself, and Amana laughed. She eventually calmed the woman and explained that, by the way the women covered themselves, they drew the men’s eyes to the crease between their breasts.
It was not the work of the devil, Your Grace; it was the work of the women, some of whom desired their men to look at them in this way. But when Amana showed them they would have greater freedom of movement if they would unbind themselves, they replied that only young girls could leave their chests unbound like the men and boys.
I do not know, Your Grace, that it had to do with what you call shame as much as it did with custom. But what is certain is that fixed ways are hard to change. Even though Amana was a skilled midwife in addition to being a good fisher and basket-weaver, these women did not trust her services in midwifery, although they bought her fish and baskets.
But Amana did take on a few apprentices. Usually they were orphans or outcasts, young women and young men both, and like her they would refrain from wearing clothing, even at the markets. She taught them diving and fishing, and hunting and trapping—the women as well as the men. They had to learn to swim well, and to climb and stretch and bear loads well, to keep up with her. She taught them—not just the women—how to make the muiraquitã from the clay at the bottom of the lake, whether as frog or fish or caiman or turtle, and how to choose whom to receive it. She taught them many new songs and dances, rhythms of breathing and of moving the body. And she taught them about the enjoyment of their bodies, about the making of babies and how to bring babies into the world. In fact, she taught them all the best ways to enjoy their bodies, and many other things as well. But this angered those Muisca who found out about it, and they sought a hearing with their cacique.
Truly I am not astonished that Your Grace holds the same opinion as the cacique did—he ordered her into exile. When her apprentices learned this, they wanted to follow her, but she insisted they stay at the lake. There were two of them, in particular, who loved her as their mother—Yari and
her younger brother Zahua. They had been orphaned during one of the many attacks by the Panche, a tribe of enemies to the Muisca. When the cacique exiled Amana, this sister and brother were fearful, because they were not quite independent, and wanted to go with her. But she knew they had already grown, and had learned much. They had become strong and swift. She wanted them to stay at the lake.
On this matter they were arguing on the night before Amana would leave, when Zahua heard Panche warriors approaching through the forest to attack the Muisca. Then he saw them moving past the lake. He and Yari, their hearts large and tender from the memory of their dead parents, led the other apprentices in a defense they had already rehearsed. They had practiced dancings that were really fightings, and they had prepared plants for trappings. So they quickly, silently hid themselves in the areas they knew well and attacked from behind with their movements like the jaguar, like the anaconda, like the eagle, like the howler monkey. They struck and stunned their enemies, quickly trapping them with vines, one by one, and tying them to trees.
The attackers could not cry out in warning because Amana kept prepared, and they used that night, a plant mixture that, when held under the nose of the enemy, makes him fall asleep. Zahua had learned to attack and tie with the vines, and Yari had learned to make and use the mixture.
You must understand, Your Grace, that the Panche, the Muisca, the Pijao, the Sutagao, and many others—all the peoples of that area are familiar with poison darts. But this was a special mixture that Amana invented and taught only to Yari. I do not know how to make it. It is like a poison, but it does not kill. It puts to sleep.
When the cacique learned of this, and saw the seven captives only beginning to wake up the next morning, still tied to the trees, he wanted to kill them. Zahua said that he had wanted to kill them too, to avenge his parents, but that Amana had taught him that all life is sacred. The cacique listened to Zahua but had his men kill the captives anyway. Nevertheless, he changed his mind about my mother. He ordered Amana not only to stay at the lake, but to take on more apprentices.
Yes, she was remarkable. She kept her own fire, her own hearth, as we say. And her fire was very big, very bright. Another way she kept her fire was by the light of bees. Always near her home she kept homes for bees, and she collected their light to trade. This is another skill she taught the youth.
The bees’ light is the shine that they make. It is sweet to the tongue and a salve on the skin.
No, she was never stung. And remember, she wore no clothes, nor did the youth she trained. And this was because there is a kind of bee that has no sting. This was the kind she tended. And she was skilled also at harvesting the bees’ net, where they make the honey.
It is called wax? That is good to know. The crafters of gold, Your Grace, were the ones who traded for wax. The gold circle I wore around my neck that excited you—it could not have been made without this wax from the bees.
Yes. She had that circle made for her, Your Grace. She gave it to me personally, and this is why I am sad, I am confused, that you have taken it from me. You have not asked me how to use it, and I do not think you know. Why do you not wish to know how to use it?
What I learned from my mother is how to know with the necklace. What I learned from my mother is how to bring
“What? That’s where he ran out of paper? Ai, Nelson, que besteira.”
I could imagine besteira was not a flattering term. “It seems like the person telling the story is Amana’s daughter.”
Zé looked at me with his eyebrows up. “Com certeza. But I don’t know how any of this helps me, or even how it helps Pedro. The Muisca lands were in what is now central Colombia—too far away.”
I sighed. “Patience, querido. This story is not over yet.” I winked at him, and raised my muiraquitã from behind my blouse. “I liked reading about this kind of amulet you gave me.”
He wrapped his hand around mine, enclosing the little golden frog. “Yes, that’s true. That’s a bond we share now with this woman, Amana.”
I liked feeling his hand, but I didn’t want to give our handholding too much importance. I asked, “So you were saying that the Muisca were the ones with the El Dorado ritual?”
“Sim. You know, the body-painted skinny-dipper king. Did you ever hear that legend? He’d float out on a raft in a lake, and make offerings of gold and jewels to the lake before diving in himself and washing off the gold dust.”
“I remember now. It sounds like a purification ritual, or a rebirth…”
Zé looked suddenly hopeful. “And the name El Dorado—Golden One—it’s something like Sun Prince, right?”
“But there’s nothing in here about an El Dorado or a Sun Prince, at least not yet.”
“Marisol, we’ve got to go meet Pedro at the property. I want to be there for the surveying. And I have a contact in Manaus I want to ask about a…”
“Filho! Não seja um cretino!” We were interrupted by Dora scolding her son for keeping me cooped up inside. She wanted to get me out of the house, to go with her to run some errands. When we walked out of the windowless study, we saw it had started raining.
“Não se preocupe, Zé,” Dora said. “You know Jota is a very careful driver. We’re going to see the PUC campus, Shopping da Gávea, you know, that area. See you later this evening!’
“‘Tá bom, mãe, mas não dá para subir no Cristo, ouviu? It’s too rainy to see anything from the Christ Statue.”
“I agree,” she said, and then she turned to me and added, “We’ll just have to go some other day, won’t we?”
Zé gave me a kiss and told me he would find out what was going on with Nelson. He was also going to confirm our travel and lodging, among other arrangements, for the next day. We would be flying to Manaus, where we would rendezvous with Filo and Bill, and then fly from there to the eco-lodge on the remote land that Pedro had purchased in the Queluz company name.
So I spent the afternoon getting to know Rio in the rain, chatting mostly with Dora, and a little with Jota—just enough to learn that he’s third-generation Japanese-Brazilian, and his grandparents had been part of a wave of Japanese immigration to São Paulo in the 1920s. While Jota waited in the car, Dora and I toured the verdant campus of PUC (Pontifical Catholic University) under a pair of big golden yellow umbrellas with the family company logo—a stylized blue Q with a ray of white light coming out the tail of the letter. When I remarked that the campus was like a botanical garden, Dora told me I was exactly right, and that we were going to see the official botanical garden later. But we ended up spending more time than we anticipated at the huge Shopping da Gávea mall, where I noticed that even though Dora was a naturist, she was very particular about her clothing. She purchased a few items at one of her favorite stores, where she chatted and joked with all the staff, and helped me select a few blouses and skirts, too.
We were hungry by that point, but instead of eating at the “Shopping,” Jota took us up the avenue past the Botanical Garden to Parque Lage, where there was a stately old colonial mansion that housed an art school and café. We walked in, and I was immediately enchanted by the beautiful setting—a patio surrounded by a colonnade, with a rectangular pool in the middle. Beyond the building were the beginnings of a sheer wall of lush vegetation that disappeared above us into the low clouds. Dora told me we were at the foot of Corcovado Mountain where the famous Christ the Redeemer statue stands.
We found the last open table in the crowded café, a few feet underneath the colonnade ceiling, away from the rain.
“This place always reminds me of Lisbeth,” Dora said. “She did a photoshoot here once, bikini modeling in and out of this pool.” I must have given her a blank stare, because then she added, “Oh—you haven’t met her yet. Pedro’s wife. She is a former beauty queen.”
“This is a lovely spot,” I said. “On a sunny day, I bet it would be a very good choice for a photoshoot. Is she also a naturist?”
“De jeito nenhum! No way! She’s very concerne
d about her body as an asset—you know, something that she thinks she can’t go around showing all of it to just anybody. She thinks if she were to do a nude shoot, it would cheapen her image. She thinks it would eat into any income she might still be able to make before she gets much older.”
“But the difference between a bikini and nothing… isn’t all that much, is it?”
“Exato, especially when it’s the fio dental kind of skimpy bikini she still models sometimes. I tell her, look at Marilyn Monroe, look at Gisele Bundchen—they posed nude and didn’t harm their incomes. If anything, a little nudity helped increase their fame.”
“Posing nude for money? That’s definitely not naturism.”
“Não. You’re right. And besides, Lisbeth is certainly not interested in being any kind of spokesperson for naturism. Pedro is not, either. Nudity is scandalous to him. Now, Zé, on the other hand, since he was a little boy, he was always taking his clothes off and running around all over the place. And then when he was older and found out about naturism, as a movement and lifestyle, he ended up convincing me to try it. But, that was after my husband had died. He was very serious, my husband—Pedro is much more like him than Zé is—and probably wouldn’t have tolerated it from me. He was always telling Zé that he did not approve of his interest in being naked.”
I was beginning to get a better sense of the dynamics behind Zé’s ‘exile’ in Texas. But I didn’t anticipate what she told me next.
“Back to Lisbeth. Look, I think you and Zé like each other, and you make a good couple. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. So… I want you to know that Lisbeth was Zé’s girlfriend before she married Pedro.”