The old man frowned; the free drink he had received demanded a relative degree of honesty.
“There are many fish,” he admitted, “but they are not to be had near the beach. The garopa you find near, and also the badego, but they will not fight. They net them here and sell them in Paranaguá and Santos. To eat.” He made it sound disgusting. “To find the fish that fight you must go way out …” His arm swept over the counter, pointing to the sea. “For this, of course, one needs a boat.”
“Of course. But a boat must be easily arranged, must it not?” Da Silva asked.
“Oh yes!” The ancient bloodshot eyes studied Wilson, who was sipping his beer quietly and staring incuriously at the rackety buildings along the small street. The old man’s voice dropped. “This American, he speaks Portuguese?”
“No.” Da Silva lifted his head proudly. “But I, you see, have a little English.”
The old man smiled. “You also have a pombo, a pigeon, eh?”
Da Silva lifted his shoulders expressively. “He does not lack for money, if that is what you mean. So that a boat should be no problem.”
“I’ll arrange you a boat,” the old man said. “Ten conto a day.”
“Ten …!”
“Ten to him,” said the old man, nodding toward Wilson’s turned back. He leaned over conspiratorially. “It is actually six, plus two to you and two to me.” He reached for the bottle of pinga after having glanced hastily about to make sure the owner of the bar had not suddenly returned. He poured a shot with shaking hands, sloshed it down his throat, and scooted the bottle back into place.
Da Silva stared at him solemnly. “Three to me and one to you,” he said. “Old one, you have not seen a thousand cruzeiros in one piece in many months. And besides, he is mine. I found him.”
The old man stared at him calculatingly. Da Silva walked to the edge of the street, spat halfway across, and walked back. The old man scratched his chin.
“Two and a half to you, one and a half to me,” the old man said.
Da Silva shoved his cap further back on his head and poured the rest of his beer. And then he looked at the old man with an iciness that almost made the other quail. “Three and one.” He glanced down the street significantly. “I should be greatly surprised if you were the only thief in this town.”
“How long will he stay?”
Da Silva placed the fingers of one hand under his chin and then flicked them outward. “Who knows? He is an American. He may become bored tomorrow, or he may like it and decide to stay a month.”
“Maybe you could tell him eleven conto a day?” There was pleading in the old voice. “He would never know the difference.”
Da Silva looked at him; the old man swallowed. “I would not do that. What type do you think I am?”
“Three and one,” said the old man hopelessly. He wiped the bar mechanically.
“Old man,” Da Silva said with admiration, “you are an actor. You should be on the television. If I were not big-hearted, you would have been most happy with five hundred cruzeiros.” He turned to Wilson. “Meester,” he said in terrible English, “we got us boat. Ten conto the one day only.”
“Good,” Wilson said. He came back to the bar. “And what about a place to stay?”
Da Silva turned back to the old man. “And does this village have a pension where a man will not be eaten alive by the bugs?”
“Pension?” The old man was shocked. “We have a hotel!” He pointed down the road, leaning over the bar, his hat almost tangling with the coffee machine, his breath flooding them with the stench of the pinga. “There. Where it says ‘Hotel.’”
“And your percentage there?”
“My percentage?” The old man was honestly regretful. “I have no percentage there. I have nothing to do with the hotel.”
“Which I seriously doubt,” Da Silva said coldly, and pushed his glass away. He put some money on the bar and tapped his client on the arm. “Go?” he asked. Wilson started out to the car and Da Silva turned back. “When can we see this boat?”
“This afternoon? Tomorrow morning? When you like.”
Da Silva appeared to think about it. “I’ll drop back this afternoon and let you know,” he said. The old man nodded, wiping steadily against the polished bar top. The tall Brazilian straightened his cap and sauntered out to the cab. “Ciao,” he called back. The old man nodded happily.
“Zé,” Wilson said from the corner of his mouth as they pulled away, “you are a crook. Taking a cut off the top from your best friend, not to mention the friendly government that pays his expenses!”
“If there’s one thing I hate more than being taken by a foreigner,” Da Silva said bitterly, “it’s being taken by a Brazilian! Can you imagine the nerve of that old miserável? Two and a half, one and a half?”
He sounded quite sincere in his disgust. Wilson stared at him. Thirty minutes in this little town of the provinces and he could have sworn that his friend had reverted completely. I wonder if I’ll ever get to really understand you, Wilson thought.
The hotel was typical of the provinces. Cement floors and rooms that boasted a bed made with a straw mattress laid over wooden boards, a plain table, a chair, and one drinking glass. Nails on the doors served as a wardrobe; the bathroom was at one end of the hall and had a shower connected with an overhead concrete water box and a toilet whose flush box took hours to fill. But, as is true more often than not, the place was spotlessly clean. The floors were washed each day by a barefooted maid who sloshed about with broom and water, sweeping the debris first into the hall and thence throughout the length of the hotel to the dusty street. The sheets were rough cotton, frayed from the constant beatings against rocks they endured during their weekly washings. The lack of rugs or drapes or blankets removed the greatest incentive for insects to remain. Both Da Silva and Wilson were more than satisfied, although, as Wilson pointed out, the fact that the open windows fronted on a small alley at street level left something to be desired in the way of privacy.
“Privacy?” Da Silva asked. “Why?”
“Well,” Wilson said defensively. “After all, a rich American! What if somebody decides to sneak in the window and relieve this rich tourist of some of his many millions?”
Da Silva laughed. “My friend,” he said, “you’ve been here a long time, but you still have plenty to learn. They’ll rob you, don’t worry, but not by sneaking in your window. Why go to all that trouble and take a chance of getting caught—or shot—and also stay up that late at night when they can get everything you have by simply charging you outlandish prices for everything you buy?”
“Someone may want it who doesn’t come in for a percentage,” Wilson pointed out.
“Everybody comes in for a percentage one way or another,” Da Silva said positively. “These places have gotten communal living down to a commercial formula.”
They took turns showering, a slow and chilly process, and then dressed and met in Da Silva’s room. “E agora?” Wilson asked.
Da Silva finished putting on his dirty clothing and turned to Wilson with a serious frown. “And now,” he said quietly, “you will forget you speak Portuguese. Completely. Or we may both end up in the soup, and it won’t be for your many millions, either.”
“Sorry,” Wilson said, and then repeated himself in English. “And now?”
“Now we arrange a boat.” Da Silva swung the door shut; there was no lock or latch. “We get ourselves another beer and arrange the boat. And you continue to look rich and stupid.”
“Not stupid. Uninformed,” Wilson objected.
“Uninformed, then. Ready? Let’s go.”
Life had begun to appear on the main street of the small village; some of the fishing boats were in and nets were being spread to dry along the yellow sand of the beach. Some women had appeared from somewhere—the houses on the hill, in all probability—and were standing about the mercadinho, pinching vegetables in feminine fashion the world over. A group came up from the direc
tion of the jetty; the men in the group were dressed in typical yachting clothes à la Hollywood, with striped pullovers and ornate sea caps; their women seemed able to hide their femininity behind the massiveness of their tight slacks and nautical kerchiefs. Da Silva grimaced. Two horses, hitched to an iron railing, were nuzzling the curb in search of sustenance; both wore the standard dyed sheepskin that serves as a saddle in these parts. Urubuapá. was booming.
The bar was no longer deserted; the rewards for the day’s toil were in the process of being collected. The old man bustled about; his hat had been laid aside and the sleeves of his patterned shirt were rolled to the elbows. He saw Da Silva and the pombo come in and seat themselves at a small table near the bar; he hustled over and leaned on their table.
“About the boat,” he began.
“First, two beers,” Da Silva said.
The old man quickly sidled over to the refrigerator, pulled out two bottles, and came back hurriedly to set them on the table. “Now, about the boat …” he began again; but Da Silva was staring at the stringy bare arms that were leaning down from above, supported on their table. Wilson, sitting there with the bored expression of one who does not understand the conversation, was suddenly aware that Da Silva, under his frozen mask of indifference, was unusually tense.
“Those scars,” Da Silva said easily, looking up at the old man calmly. “Where on earth did you ever get those?”
“Those?” The old man blinked and then stared down at his arms, almost as if surprised to find them there. “Oh, those! Those are from the snakes.” He lifted his head a bit with pride. “I was once a snake hunter. But too many bites, too many injections …” He sighed. “It is bad for the heart. And I began to get old and slow. One cannot be slow when one hunts the snake.”
“A snake hunter?” Da Silva sounded surprised. “Who hunts snakes? And why?”
The old man chuckled at the ignorance of the city dweller. “It is a good business. Butantan pays well. And this is one of the best places in the world for snakes. Some of those islands out there have nothing but snakes, thousands of them. Thousands? Millions! They make the serum from them, and it goes all over the world.” He sighed again. “But one gets old …”
Da Silva shuddered and it was not all acting. “It’s no business for me! I should imagine there aren’t many snake hunters. Who would want to earn his living picking up live snakes?”
“True.” The old man remembered the beer. He opened the bottles and poured. “But it pays well, and for money one does many things.”
“I’ll stay with my taxi,” Da Silva said positively.
The old man shrugged, dismissing the subject. “Now, about the boat …”
Da Silva looked rueful. “I’m afraid we will not be able to use the boat tomorrow.” He shrugged. “The American has decided he needs to do some shopping; he wishes to go into Santos in the morning. But we shall be back in the afternoon. We are holding our space at the hotel.” He looked at the old man and shook his head sadly. “In all probability it is some foolish errand, like buying American cigarettes.”
“But I arranged the boat!” the old man objected. It was obvious that he thought a better deal had been made elsewhere. “It is the Valente; it is the finest boat in the harbor!”
A call came from the owner of the bar, directing the old man to serve another table. He looked up, caught between the order and his unwillingness to leave the business of the boat unfinished. “Handle them and come back,” Da Silva said. “And do not worry so much. We still want the boat.”
The old man hesitated a second and then rushed off. Da Silva and Wilson drank their beer; the old man rushed back. “Now …” he began.
“Calma.” Da Silva turned to Wilson. “Meester. Got money?”
Wilson dug into his filled wallet and brought out a fistful of conto notes. Da Silva reached over and took them, counted out ten, and returned the rest. “Here,” he said, thrusting them at the old man. “But for after tomorrow, not tomorrow.” The old man reached for them eagerly. “And do not forget where three of these are to end up.” The old man nodded and turned back to his work, stuffing the bills into his pocket.
“Meester,” Da Silva said. “We go?”
They left the bar, turned into the main street, and strolled toward the beach without speaking. Nets were being unrolled on the sand; barebacked and bronzed fishermen with their trouser legs rolled above their knees were tugging at the rough edges of the huge mesh, pulling them straight, weighing down the corners with stones. Children ran about, chasing each other, and small dogs cheerfully chased the children. Alongside the jetty several smaller fishing boats bobbed evenly; men were busy washing down the small decks and the slatted fish lockers. At the end of the jetty an old hand-type gasoline pump leaned drunkenly askew, the glass top pitted from the salt air. Esso, Da Silva thought; that’s what I should have looked for when I was lost above the Tapajós, an Esso sign. I’d probably have found one, too.
The two men lit cigarettes idly. When they spoke it was quietly and without moving their lips; from a few yards away they appeared to be standing in silent contemplation of the fishermen and the children and the beautiful calm restlessness of the ocean.
“What’s the story, Zé?” Wilson looked out to sea. “Why Santos tomorrow instead of taking the boat out?”
“The scars,” Da Silva said quietly. He also turned his head, gazing out at the hazy outline of the islands against the horizon. “I didn’t mention it before, but the man in the morgue had the same kind of scars on his arms. And he came from here.…”
“Maybe the old man in the bar would recognize his picture.”
Da Silva drew heavily on his cigarette, studied the glowing point for a minute, and then flipped it away. “A cab driver asking questions about a dead man hardly fits into our sketch. I want to go to São Paulo tomorrow, to the Butantan Institute. If he was a snake hunter, they’ll certainly know him.”
“And you want me to go along?”
“No. I thought you might talk to the people at Santos customs; you know them. I’d like to know if they’ve had any experience with smugglers or smuggling around here. I’ll drop you off and we can arrange to meet there; I’ll pick you up on the way back. All right?”
“Fine,” Wilson said. He looked out at the softly undulating waves of the harbor and the small dancing boats. He sighed. “I was really looking forward to fishing tomorrow, though.”
“So was I,” Da Silva said. “But the more bait we can arrange beforehand, the better the catch may be.”
They turned and strolled back into town.
The Institute Butantan on the western outskirts of São Paulo is probably the most famous of its type in the world. All known types of snakes are gathered here, kept in tree-lined pits, studied under all conditions; and here their venom is extracted, injected in horses in small amounts, and the blood of these horses is then drawn off to produce anti-snake-bite serum. This, in turn, finds its way around the world. Mountain folk in Peru have been saved by the magic fluid from Butantan, as well as natives of Siam and the raftsmen along the Congo River. The small ampule marked Butantan lying alongside the sharp needle in a battered tin box in almost every out-of-the-way place in the world is, to many people, their most important arm against the terrors of the jungle that bar the way to exploration or development.
Da Silva, seated in the director’s office, had a view of the huge grounds through the large window. Visitors were following white-jacketed guides through the formal parks that made up the main area of the Instituto; the large smooth-walled pits were plainly visible, each holding a small tree that seemed to be alive with its squirming, venomous cargo. Beyond the confines of the grassed park were the laboratories and the buildings holding the caged spiders and scorpions, for Butantan also produces the serum against the fatality of bites from these horrors. Da Silva shivered and brought his eyes back to the serious face across the desk from him.
“Yes,” said the director heavily. He pushed
the picture back across the desk and folded his hands on the blotter before him. “He was one of our people, a snake hunter. His name was Armando de Mattos.” He shook his head sadly. “Very good in his work. A shame. We hadn’t had a shipment from him for several weeks or more; we were beginning to worry. Catching snakes in isolated places … But we never imagined anything like this.”
Da Silva pocketed the picture and marked the name down in his little book. “And he was working around Urubuapá?”
The director arose and walked over to a large wall map that covered over half of the largest wall in the room. It was a map of Brazil, and colored pins noted the snake concentrations throughout the country, both as to numbers found and type. His finger slid down the coast below Santos to the islands bunched some sixty-odd miles south.
“Off Urubuapá,” he said. “The last shipment we had from him came from here. The Ilha das Cobras.”
Da Silva came and stood beside him. “Ilha das Cobras?”
“Here.” The finger pointed out a small dot, one of many, about twelve miles from the coast. The voice became scholarly. “One of the true rarities of the world, an island completely inhabited by snakes. They have been untouched since the formation of the island, thousands—maybe millions—of years ago. They tell me it is a solid mass of snakes.” He looked at his visitor, not seeing him at all at the moment, only seeing the writhing serpents on the Ilha das Cobras.
“We have always wanted to tap this source, ever since we first heard stories from fishermen about it. It’s an odd place, you know.” His eyes became almost dreamy. “The jararaca there, for example, has venom almost twenty times as powerful and dangerous as the same snake on the mainland. We do not know why. But it has been difficult to get people to go there. Even the best of the hunters are nervous about the Ilha.”
“But this Armando went?”
The director nodded. “He went. Of course, he’d known about it for a long time, and I also heard that he spent vacations near there and felt he was more familiar with it. But it was only about four weeks ago that he sent his first cage back. I had expected to hear from him before this; he has … had … money coming. But now …” He shrugged.
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