Each cheek is slashed thrice vertically, and above each set of slashes are three raised dots. The woman must have been born in Africa, the scarring rituals of her heathen religion being forbidden in Catholic Brazil. Yet Mrs. Austen must surmise the crone arrived while still very young, for it is clear she recognizes Fuegia Basket as native to American shores, and the Indians of this part of Brazil have been killed long since.
Fuegia fingers the buttons of her cut-down habit, unaware of the old crone’s scrutiny. Mrs. Austen is now struck by the odd trajectory of the child’s life, which begins on frigid austral shores, where her people live naked, and brings her to this tropical summit, where she is over-clothed. The girl must surely have expected to live out her life in her canoe, with its warming fire guarded at the centre, yet she has been taken to England, even summoned to an audience at the Palace, where Queen Adelaide made her the present of a purse, which King William filled with gold.
Mrs. Austen presents Fuegia with a handkerchief, and loosens the strings of her bonnet. She means by this to apologize to the crone; for she is certain now that what holds the ancient woman’s gaze is the great fracture of her own life, repeated in Fuegia Basket. Indeed, Mrs. Austen now understands that her own life has been irretrievably broken by her removal to Brazil. Home will never seem the same again, and she feels a sudden anguish; a premonition of endless loss. Is that what she has come here to find?
Somewhere nearby Captain FitzRoy laughs. The sound echoes across the morro, and the English Consul’s wife is seized by a wish to demand that he free young Fuegia so they may live together. And the old slave as well? Child, adult, crone: the three ages of woman patched together to make a whole. Mrs. Austen thinks she can find safety here, and reaches for the girl. Fuegia smiles, for she is an affectionate child with a responsive, biddable nature. Yet in looking up, the girl has chanced to see the crone, and now turns fully to meet her gaze, threatening to loose something Mrs. Austen cannot control.
With the persistence of a growing plant, the old one rises to a crouch. Should the Brazilian or the Captain glance that way, they will think her merely resting on her haunches. They will not see the gathering strength of her legs, nor the power of her scarified face, which is turned on Fuegia Basket. Only the observant Mr. Darwin looks up mildly, as if the wind has changed.
Then suddenly the old crone springs. Springs far out onto the cultivated field, running so swiftly her feet scarce touch the soil she has pampered, crying as she runs, “Follow me, follow me,” flying over the bristly crops, flying, flying off the cliff, over the morro, airborne, shrieking, free at last, on red Brazilian ground.
“As it was growing dark,” Darwin writes, “we passed under one of the massive, bare, and steep hills of granite which are so common in this country. This spot is notorious from having been, for a long time, the residence of some runaway slaves, who, by cultivating a little ground near the top, contrived to eke out a subsistence. At length they were discovered, and a party of soldiers being sent, the whole were seized with the exception of one old woman, who, sooner than again be led into slavery, dashed herself to pieces from the summit of the mountain. In a Roman matron this would have been called the noble love of freedom: in a poor negress it is mere brutal obstinacy.”
Holly mutters the words over and over. “Roman matron,” she says. “Mere brutal obstinacy.” She also seems to be cutting a water colour wash of those interesting skin diseases into the shape of a morro. She is making a collage, pasting the morro onto a sheet of such varying blue it is liquid, shimmering behind the stubborn rock. Then women. She draws women flying off the mountain. Black women, aboriginal women, pale women with grey beating veins in their wrists — all fly like angels into the sky.
Yet at the base of the morro she must also draw a man in antique naval uniform holding his hand to his slit throat. Look at him: he’s been leaving bloody handprints all over the morro.
She’s drawn down there. Pulled up here. As her soaring angels drink the sky.
“You must listen to the advice I gave my hasty son George,” Darwin tells her. It is the whitebeard Darwin speaking, an old man now, long returned to England’s shires. “You must listen:
“Pause, pause, pause.”
Part Two
6
Holly sat in the bow of the boat, the boys and Todd behind her. On either side was Amazon forest — scrubby here, all out-of-focus green, like paint seen too closely on a canvas. Bright flashes streaked the green, startling yellows and reds that Todd said were toucans taking nervous flight, although Holly couldn’t hear their cries above the deep bass roar of the outboard.
The boatman ran them full throttle up the blackwater river. Their speed raised a cool breeze, and the spray felt like fog on Holly’s bare arms. She shivered, mostly with relief to be out of Rio. Finally, a week’s vacation. Holly had tracked Todd down after Larkin’s visit, convincing him that she and the boys should join him in the Amazon. They all needed a break, herself especially. Not that she’d mentioned the way Larkin had dropped into her studio. Todd was so angry when she told him about the morro that Holly decided not to take it any further, saying the strain Todd heard in her voice came from the endless heat of a summer that was lingering far too long. She was suffering from fatigue, she said.
Which was probably as good a word for it as any.
The river was maybe forty feet wide, a tributary of a tributary of one of the great branches of the Amazon. It ran swiftly against them, the water a dark rippling mirror that reflected the confusion of forest. Grey-green, blue-green, shockingly emerald, the trees pushed right to the river’s edge, with only the occasional crescent of sandy beach a few feet long and a few feet wide to subtle down the colours.
They’d begun their trip the previous morning, spending a day flying and a night in the cheap hotel where Todd had been waiting, a noisy place on the banks of the wide and polluted river into which the tributary flowed. The boatman had met them at the dock very early the next morning, running them downstream for an hour before heading up the blackwater river toward the nature preserve where they would spend the week. Todd had never been to the nature camp, but said there was supposed to be swimming off the dock. They’d go hiking, canoeing, fishing; play badminton and volleyball with the boys. Holly looked forward to tiring herself out, never thinking beyond the moment. In the past, she’d emerged from vacations like this with her confusion dissipated, her troubles calmed, and her direction firmly set; a largely subconscious process she was counting on now.
They arrived at the camp without much warning, rounding a hairpin bend in the river to see a high dock — a deck, really, or outdoor bar, with its patio tables shaded by umbrellas. Nodding to himself, the boatman turned and headed for a muddy clearing downstream from the dock. As they nosed in, he cut his motor abruptly, and Holly was startled by the intensity of the whirring and cawing that instantly replaced the motor’s roar. Cicadas, parakeets, chattering monkeys. She was surprised to hear the soft scrape of the boat on mud as they hit shore; surprised she could still hear it. Todd jumped out and pulled them in, quickly followed by Evan. Conor hung back, getting his bearings, but bullish Evan led the way past some overturned canoes, making for a trail that led, through roots and stones, up the river’s low, muddy bank.
At the head of the trail was a wide lawn planted with flowering trees and shrubs. Holly pulled Conor up the final incline, then paused with him to look around. The lawn sloped down to the dock they’d seen from the river, with its tables and umbrellas. Toward the rear, facing the river, was a large log cabin. The front of the cabin was open, though screened against the insects, and Holly could see it was filled with picnic tables. On either side of this main building was a pair of smaller, screened cabins. Bunkhouses, hung with rows of brightly-coloured hammocks. One had a sign saying, “Damas.” It was like a children’s camp — girls in one bunkhouse, boys in the other.
Holly walked a few step
s forward, searching for a cabin she and Todd might share. Nothing. Holly glanced at Todd in despair. They so seldom made love any more. He travelled half the time, and when he got home — frequently ill, always exhausted — he didn’t seem to realize how often he turned away from her at night, too tense and agitated to sleep quickly, but also wanting to be left alone, off duty, sex having becoming one of too many demands, almost another chore. On those nights, Holly lay awake even longer than Todd, sometimes hearing the galling sounds of lovemaking from apartments down the road; cries carried through the open windows on the breezes and queer, clear, bell-like silences that preceded the summer storms. Todd had always been such a sweet lover; courtly, sometimes pleading, arching over her like a splendid bridge. It had been so good for both of them that Holly had never imagined it would end.
She hadn’t expected to make it to the Amazon, either. Holly took a long breath, looking up at the tall forest surrounding the clearing. For the first time, she was seeing true canopy forest, higher and richer than the scrub along the river. She concentrated on the mingled green — the same green as the river scrub, though spattered here with yellow and scarlet flowering trees that flung into the upper canopy like fountains. She could see herself painting that. She’d bring out her water-colours, brushes, the sketchbooks she’d packed, making the most of what she had.
Ahead, Todd stood talking with Evan in the middle of the clearing. Conor had been watching them, and finding Holly inclined to linger at the edge of the lawn, he shook free of her hand and ran toward them. Holly watched his sweet skinny knees lift high. She watched him brush a bush that was bright with yellow flowers.
It burst. Holly cried out as the bush threw off colour, its flowers growing, glowing, fragmenting in the humid air. Conor tripped and landed on his knees, surrounded by yellow fragments, lemon snowflakes spiralling upwards, torn paper lifted in a whirlwind towards the deep blue of the morning sky.
Butterflies. It was butterflies, a flock of yellow butterflies lifting from the bush. Conor raised his hands as they gathered, fluttering, above his head, then moved in one great clumsy wavering body across the grassy clearing. Holly stood transfixed, as happy as she’d ever been, watching the butterflies land on a pathway leading into the forest. Their wings were fanning to and fro against the reddish earth as if the wings themselves were breathing.
Then they exploded for a second time. Two men were coming toward them down the path, an old one and a man Todd’s age. The boys ran across the grass, chasing the butterflies around the smiling men as they walked into the clearing.
“Mr. Austen. You’ve arrived,” the older one said.
“Doutor Eduardo,” Todd replied.
It took Holly a while before she remembered where she’d heard that name before. In the meantime, she watched the younger one put a fatherly hand on Conor’s head, and for some reason, that was what she didn’t like.
“I can’t believe you’ve brought us to a place owned by someone you don’t trust. This is the man who wanted to look you over in the bar? The coronel? And now you bring your children? Why Todd? So he could get a look at them, too?”
“I wouldn’t have brought you if I hadn’t thought it would be fine. Most of the other Amazon camps are touristed out. The animals have left. You don’t see anything any more. Then I heard about this place. It’s new, he’s just opened it. And look at it, Holly. Look around. The place is gorgeous.”
“And you had no idea he would be here?”
“I heard he’s been spending a lot of time up here, so I thought he’d probably be around. And yes, I wanted a chance to talk with him. As a bonus. Listen to me, a bonus. It was an impulse mainly, but I thought it would be all right.”
“I don’t believe you have impulses anymore.”
Holly looked at her hammock with distaste. She had called Todd into the women’s bunkhouse after settling Evan and Conor. It appeared she was to stay here, while Todd and the boys were across the clearing with Powell, the man who had walked out of the forest with Doutor Eduardo. Powell was the only other tourist here, and somehow his lone presence made everything that much worse. He would want to tag along with them, burning his knees even redder above his Boy Scout socks. His blue eyes already turned doggish when he looked at her, and Holly didn’t believe him when he said he was a pilot. Powell looked competent — a bandy-legged little man with hard calves. But his welcome was over-enthusiastic and he struck her as sad. She hoped to persuade him to go canoeing and leave them to themselves.
“You don’t want to spend a week alone with us,” she said. “You want more. You really want to talk to that horrible doutor. Why can’t you ever stop working any more?”
Todd sat down heavily in an old white wicker chair. “Do you want to leave?”
“After taking nearly two days to get here?”
Holly began pacing the large room, her fists burrowed into her armpits.
“You back people into corners, don’t you? That’s how you operate. But I’m not a job. Your children aren’t jobs. That isn’t how you’re supposed to treat us.”
Holly stopped and glared at Todd. He dropped his eyes and his face sagged, but she saw no sign he felt in any way at fault. She knew he was thinking that she’d wanted to come to Brazil far more than he had, pressing him to take the unexpected job offer, seizing her chance to paint. He’d been intrigued by the opportunity as well, of course, but he’d said from the start that the job was badly defined. There were too many members of the sponsor coalition who would make too many demands. He’d predicted that he’d end up having to work all the time to accomplish even half of what they’d ask.
Of course, he could have done what she did all the time. Agree to anything, then decide what you want to do and convince them it’s their idea. But Todd couldn’t operate like that. He couldn’t take on less than everything. Despite the cynical face he showed people like Larkin, Todd was trying to save the world, and he would tolerate neither compromise nor delay.
One day he might recognize the irony of trying to save the world by using the same hard-driving, competitive, male tactics that had got them in trouble in the first place. Then again, he might not.
Holly sighed and rubbed her forehead more gently on the screen, knowing without turning that Todd was still sitting slumped in his chair, staring at his loosely clasped hands.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” she said. “It’s an equation. If you give everything you’ve got to your job, there’s nothing left for your family.”
“Then I won’t talk to him, all right? We’ll go canoeing, swimming.”
“That isn’t the point, either. You didn’t want to spend a week with us. You’re owed a vacation, and if anyone had objected, you could have pointed out how much you obviously need a rest.”
“And how does that sound, Holly? To say I’m not really up to the job.”
“I would say at the moment it has the ring of truth.”
Todd looked worried as Holly walked across the bunkhouse, stopping in front of him.
“I can’t not talk to the man,” Todd said. “He’d start to wonder why I was up here, and that could really cause problems.”
“Todd, I need your help here. I need a partner. I need you to focus on us.”
“Life is complicated, Holly. One way to contribute to your family is to make sure you keep your job.”
Holly closed her eyes. Outside, she heard Evan squeal happily, and realized the boys had been squealing steadily behind her argument with Todd. Opening her eyes, looking outside, she gradually made out the figure of Powell twirling in the bright sun. When she narrowed her eyes, she saw Powell swinging Evan by an arm and a leg — swinging him far too close to a heavy wooden picnic table.
“Put him down!” she called, and ran out the door. “That isn’t safe. Put him down right now.” She heard a hysterical note in her voice. Powell let Evan down, and stood beside the t
wo boys with an abashed, reproachful look on his face identical to theirs. He’d been kind to the boys and this was how she treated him. Holly didn’t care. She wanted Powell away from her children for reasons she knew were almost certainly unfair, having far too much to do with the sight of his awkward sunburned knees. Forcing a false, bright note into her voice, she told the boys, “Come on, let’s go for a walk in the forest.”
A predictable chorus of protest followed.
“There’s a path I saw,” Holly coaxed. “Maybe it has monkeys.”
“Where’s Daddy?” Conor asked.
“Daddy’s busy.” Holly raised her voice. “We’ll leave Daddy to his work.”
She pictured Todd first rising, then sinking back into his chair.
“Come on,” she said, feeling half ashamed of herself. “We’ll have an adventure.”
“Just watch for snakes where there’s a rocky outcrop,” Powell told her. He smiled helpfully. “You come across it suddenly when the path takes a turn about halfway back.”
Holly felt as if she was trapped in a room that was getting smaller and smaller. “Come on, then,” she told Powell ungraciously, and they headed into the forest.
7
Powell wasn’t so bad, Holly decided. He was an unattractive and lonely man who kept trying to meet her eyes as he shepherded the boys down the path. Yet his warning about ticks and snakes was given with enough casual authority to keep even wayward Evan from wandering. He knew the names of all the trees — the perna de moça, young girl’s leg, with its virginal beige bark; the sapling you cut to get hearts-of-palm. He cut one ten-foot tree nearly in half to give the boys a taste of the cool, crisp heart. Taking a piece from Powell’s knife, Holly realized Todd would never cut down a tree. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips against the lids, wanting to blur the image of Todd waiting back at the camp, slumped in his white wicker chair.
Drink the Sky Page 7