Where Tigers Are at Home

by Jean-Marie Blas de Robles

  “Look at that,” said Herman, putting a huge beer mug under the tap, “it comes from Munich, from the Café Schelling. I got it out specially in your honor. So you’ve got problems, it appears?”

  “And how! You can’t imagine what a mess I’ve got myself into.”

  Elbow on the bar, chin on his hand, Herman listened as Dietlev outlined the situation. He must have once had a fine Nordic face such as people imagine it in Latin countries, with blue eyes, blond hair and pink cheeks. Over the years the alcohol had remodeled his features: lumpy skin, sagging face, puffy in places, and eyes so pale they looked as if they were veiled by cataracts. His white hair, drawn back, seemed to have been combed with a mixture of fat and nicotine, his cheap false teeth gave him a waxworks smile and, apart from a belly like a child suffering from malnutrition, his body was skinny and disappeared inside his wide shorts and a short-sleeved shirt.

  “This fossil you’re talking about,” he asked, “what is it exactly?”

  “The one I’m looking for? A kind of sea urchin, if you like, but without spines.”

  “And all this bother just for a sea urchin? You’re mad, amigo!”

  “You don’t realize, Herman, it’s something no one’s ever seen. There are institutions and collectors who’d pay a fortune just to have one.”

  “A fortune? How much, for example?”

  “I couldn’t really say. It’s simply beyond price. A bit like a stone brought back from the moon. A few of these fossils would finance our research for several years …”

  “And the one you’ve got?”

  “It’s not worth a penny. Without identifying the deposit it comes from we’re left with nothing but assumptions; as with any erratic.”

  “Erratic?”

  “Yes, that is something that’s not in its original site any longer. For example, if you open a pharaoh’s tomb and find some grains of wheat in the sarcophagus, you can deduce that the wheat is at least as old as the mummy, that it has a value in the cult of the dead because it symbolizes rebirth, et cetera. If you find those same grains of wheat out in the desert, or if someone brings them to you, they give you no information at all, not about the grains themselves or about anything else. They’ll be of no interest whatsoever.”

  “I see … And you’re sure this deposit of yours exists?”

  “Absolutely sure. That’s the worst thing about it. I questioned Ayrton at great length, I showed him the satellite maps I’d been able to get: everything agrees. It’s a hill between the junction of the Rio Bento Gomes and that of the Jauru, a bit before you get to Descalvado.”

  “I know it.”

  “What d’you mean, you know it? Have you been there?”

  Wrapped in thought, Herman ignored his question. “And you think you could find the place, even without Ayrton?”

  “I’m convinced I can. Once there I can guarantee I’d manage, I’m used to it. Ayrton would just have helped me save time.”

  Herman looked Dietlev straight in the eye, as if he were weighing the pros and cons one last time. “Good,” he said after his brief reflection, “I think I’m going to give you a second beer.”

  “No thanks. I don’t feel my usual self as it is.”

  Despite that the old German took the two mugs and leaned over toward the pump.

  “No. Please, Herman. I haven’t—”

  “I might have a boat,” Herman said without raising his eyes from the beer running into the mug. “What was that you just said?”

  “You heard. I said I might have a boat, a pilot and everything you need. But it’s likely to cost you. It’s up to you.”

  Dietlev started thinking fast. Just one word and hope was reborn, stronger than ever. Milton wasn’t worried about money, he’d pay anything to make sure the expedition went ahead. As for Herman, it didn’t look as if he was trying to put one over on him.

  “Who will I be dealing with?” he asked with a haste he immediately regretted.

  “With me,” said Herman, placing a full mug in front of Dietlev. “It’s a good boat. I bought it from the State Property Office ten years ago. Ninety-one feet, steel hull, 300 hp engine. And your captain is here before you.”

  “Are you pulling my leg? What would you do with a thing like that?”

  Herman seemed annoyed. “I’m no more stupid than the next man, you know. I can’t keep a wife and three children on what I earn from the bar. There’s lots you can do with a boat around here: take tourists out fishing during the season, transport goods from one fazenda to another, or hire it out … to geologists, for example.”

  “OK, OK. Sorry. It’s just so unexpected … But out with it now, this story of crocodile hunters, it’s a load of nonsense, isn’t it.”

  “Not at all, they weren’t lying.”

  “But you’re not afraid?”

  “With me it’s different. You see, I do a bit of business with them. I take fresh supplies to them from time to time. They’re not so bad if you leave them in peace. But that’s my business. You know nothing, see nothing, and there’ll be no problem.”

  “How much do you want?”

  “Ah, now that’s the question,” Herman said, baring all his false teeth in a laugh. Becoming serious again, he went on, “I want 400,000 cruzeiros and … 30 percent commission on the sale of the first fossils.”

  Dietlev was struck dumb by the enormity of his demands, less because of the sum of money he wanted, they could always come to an agreement on that, but the crazy idea of a commission.

  “It seems to me you haven’t quite understood, Herman,” he said, trying to remain calm. “It’s not gold nuggets I’m looking for. If I do find these bloody fossils, if my hypothesis isn’t mistaken and if foreign scientists are interested in them, then we might perhaps think of selling some. But in that case it will be the department that deals with it and all the money will revert to the university. To the u-ni-ver-si-ty! I won’t get anything at all out of the business.”

  “There’s always ways and means, aren’t there? There must be a trick somewhere. You’re not going to get me to believe …”

  “But I’m telling you it’s impossible, Herman. Unthinkable even.”

  “Then it’s no, amigo. Find yourself another boat.”

  “You can’t do that to me, Herman. Just think a little about what I’ve told you. I’m happy with the 400,000 cruzeiros and that’s one hell of a good deal, isn’t it? As for the fossils, we don’t even know if they exist. What you’re basing your demand on is nothing but thin air. If everything goes as planned you’ll be the only person to know where they are and there’ll be nothing to stop you going back and helping yourself. The only thing I could promise is to send collectors to you …”

  Herman sipped at his beer, a vacant look on his face. He was about to reply when Elaine came in, followed by Mauro and Milton.

  Dietlev made the introductions as the little group settled at the bar. Captivated by the charms of Elaine, Herman’s smile returned. She had been back to the hotel to shower and change. In a plain, almond-green cotton dress, her hair still damp, she exuded freshness.

  “What are you drinking?” Dietlev asked.

  “I don’t like beer,” Elaine said, seeing the empty mugs. “Would it be possible to have some wine?”

  “But of course! Herman Petersen has everything, especially for a pretty girl like you. Here, try this, you’ll like it,” he said, taking a bottle from under the bar. “Valderrobles red. It’s Bolivian and, just between ourselves, a cut above the stuff you find in Brazil.”

  Mauro having asked for wine as well, Milton decided he would join them.

  “How did it go?” Dietlev asked Elaine.

  “Not bad. Mauro and I found three excellent examples of Corumbella. The impression is very clear, we’ll get some nice casts.”

  “But it was Mauro who found the most interesting one,” Milton interrupted in a sugary voice. “The boy has talent.”

  Turning his back on Milton, Mauro raised his eyes heavenwar
d to show Dietlev how irritating he found this obsequious solicitude.

  “A truly auspicious start to our expedition!” Milton added, rubbing his hands. “So when do we leave, Dietlev?”

  Elaine saw a glint of panic in her colleague’s eyes. He turned to Petersen, who had just finished pouring the wine. He put down the bottle and said, smiling at Elaine, “Whenever you want.” He spoke slowly, as if replying to a question from her. “I’m at your service.”

  Relieved, Dietlev held out his hand to thank him for his decision. “The day after tomorrow, that OK?”

  “The day after tomorrow’s OK, amigo,” Herman said, shaking his hand warmly over the bar. His insistent look said: we’re in agreement on the conditions, aren’t we? Reading a positive reply in Dietlev’s wink, he added, “I think it’s your turn to buy me a beer.”

  “To buy us all a beer,” said Dietlev. “That calls for a celebration.”

  “Excellent!” Milton exclaimed. “I’m keen to get on to the serious business.”

  Without mentioning their negotiations or the crocodile hunters, Dietlev introduced Herman as a member of the team. The next day would be devoted to stocking the boat and making their final preparations.

  “What kind of boat will we be going on?” Mauro asked.

  “The finest boat in the whole of the Pantanal! Come and have a look, it’s moored just outside,” said Herman setting off for the door. “Look, it’s the Mensageiro da Fé. The one next to the Customs launch.”

  “That one!” Mauro exclaimed, recognizing the old gunship he’d seen from his bedroom window.

  “That one,” said Petersen, ignoring the disparaging tone. “It’s not much to look at, true, but it’s a marvelous little boat. And with me at the helm you’ll be quite safe, trust me.”

  “The Messenger of the Faith … it’s a nice name,” said Elaine with a smile.

  “I wanted to call it the Siegfried but my wife was against it. Oh, and that reminds me, I must warn her—you’re staying to eat here, aren’t you? You’ll see, she cooks piranhas like no one else.”

  Dietlev having indicated his agreement, they went back in and sat down at the bar again while Herman shouted for Theresa at the top of his voice.

  Eléazard’s notebooks

  WITTGENSTEIN: “In philosophy a question is treated like a disease.” Which means starting out by looking for all the symptoms that would allow diagnosis. Use this framework to deal with the “Kircher” question?

  ONE COULD SAY of his books what Rivarol said of Court de Gébelin’s Monde primitif: “It is a work that is out of proportion with the shortness of life and that demands a summary from the very first page.”

  MOÉMA’S LETTER … The magnificent arrogance of youth, the beautiful, hip-swaying, unconcerned freedom of those whose future still lies ahead. Something so obvious it makes, as if inadvertently, the old ones get off the pavement, where they no longer have a place.

  REGARDING THE TRACKS OF FOSSIL FOOTPRINTS overlapping each other that have been found on the Eyasi Plateau in Tanzania: they show that in the Pliocene, three million years ago, a young woman amused herself by walking in the footsteps of the male who was going in front of her. Elaine saw it as reassuring proof that the hominids of the distant period already resembled us. The fact that I, on the contrary, saw it as a sign of a depressing sameness of our species, was something she found irritating.

  NEVER, PERHAPS, has the transition from one century to the next been so lackluster, so drearily full of its own self-importance.

  LOREDANA … When she speaks she makes the pleasant murmuring of an onion roux in the frying pan.

  TRUTH is neither a path through the fields nor even the clearing where the light mingles with the darkness. It is the jungle itself with its murky profusion, its impenetrability. For a long time now I haven’t been looking for a way out of the forest anymore but rather trying not to get lost in its depths.

  NOTHING IS SACRED that managed, if only once, to breed intolerance.

  WRITE A SENTENCE with sugar water on a white sheet of paper, put it down by an ant-hill and film it as it appears, with the deviations in form and perhaps in meaning the insects make it undergo.

  FOR THE INFORMATION OF ELAINE, last night, from a deep sleep: “You are requested never to speak to me, not even in my dreams.”

  PIRANHA: etymologically “gate of the clitoris.” In Amazonia its teeth are used to make scissors. Doubtless that would have struck a chord with Dr. Sigmund, but I cannot believe for one moment that such images can be explained by the “castration anxiety.” I prefer to think that when it came to naming things, mankind instinctively chose the most bizarre, the most poetic expressions.

  THE WAY I SEE HIM, Kircher is fairly close to the character of that name in Heimito von Doderer’s novel Ein Umweg: a mandarin imprisoned within his own indiscriminate erudition, a mere compiler full of his own importance and his authority, a man still believing in the existence of dragons … in short, a kind of dinosaur whose disciple the young hero of the novel quite rightly refuses to become.

  KIRCHER FASCINATES ME because he’s a crank, a veritable artist at failure, at sham. His curiosity was exemplary but it took him to the very edge of fraud … How could Peiresc continue to trust him? (Write to Malbois to check details on Mersenne, etc.)

  ST. AUGUSTINE’S VORTEX: “I do not fear the arguments of the philosophers of the Academy who say, ‘But what if you are mistaken?’ If I am mistaken, I exist. Anyone who does not exist cannot be mistaken, therefore if I am mistaken, I must exist. And since being mistaken proves that I exist, how can I be mistaken in believing that I exist, since it is certain that I exist if I am mistaken … Since, therefore, I must exist in order to be mistaken, then even if I am mistaken, I am not mistaken in knowing that I exist.” (Saint Augustine: The City of God) As complicated, Soledade would put it, as making love standing up in a hammock …

  CHAPTER 4

  In which we hear how Kircher made the acquaintance of an Italian who carried his wife’s corpse around for four years …

  AS GERMANY WAS too risky for people of our order, it was decided we should go to Austria via northern Italy. We therefore set off for Marseilles where we embarked on a fragile vessel that hugged the coast as it sailed for Genoa. Having been blown off course by storms, we only managed to reach Civita Vecchia. Since we felt sick at the very idea of going back to sea, we did the sixty leagues to Rome on foot.

  A big surprise was awaiting Kircher there. By the strangest of coincidences, since our presence in Rome was due to the vagaries of the wind alone, the superiors of the Society were not at all surprised to see Athanasius when we presented ourselves at the Roman College. On the contrary, they welcomed him as one impatiently expected. During our eventful journey, Peiresc’s efforts had finally borne fruit & Kircher had been appointed to the chair of mathematics at the College, in place of Christoph Scheiner, who had left for Vienna to take over Kepler’s position. As well as teaching mathematics, it was specified that Athanasius was to devote himself to the study of hieroglyphs, a requirement in which it was easy to see the good offices of his Provençal colleague.

  It is difficult to describe Kircher’s satisfaction on hearing this news: at the age of thirty he had a personal chair at the most renowned Jesuit college & could treat the most learned men of his time, those he had admired since he began his studies, as equals.

  When we arrived in Rome in November 1633 Galileo had just been imprisoned for the first year of his incarceration; my master took it upon himself to go and see him whenever his work allowed.

  With the room he had been given on the top floor of the Roman College Athanasius Kircher had a unique view of the city. Down below he could see the teeming population of Rome—which at the time had more than a hundred and twenty thousand inhabitants!—he could view the domes or capitals of the most beautiful buildings ever raised &, above all, he could make out some of the tall obelisks Pope Sixtus V had started to restore.

  On Peiresc’s advic
e he struck up a friendship with Pietro della Valle, the celebrated owner of the Coptic-Arabic dictionary, translated by Saumaise. Between 1611 & 1626 this indefatigable traveller had scoured the Indies & the Levant. From his investigations of the tombs of the pharaohs he had brought back a number of mummies, objects & manuscripts that could be found nowhere else, not counting the valuable information an educated traveller can harvest during such journeys. He was best known for having seen the ruins of the Tower of Babel from which he had brought back a fine granite stone, which he later gave to Athanasius.

  Father Giovanni Battista Riccioli, who had been present at his return from the Indies, never tired of recounting his exploits. “You must know,” he said, “that in 1623 della Valle had married a Persian woman, a Christian according to the Eastern Rite. Sitti Maani Gioreida, as she was called, combined within her all the beauty of a woman & of the East but only a few months after their marriage she died following a miscarriage. To his despair at losing his young companion was added that of having to bury her in unconsecrated ground & Pietro della Valle decided to have her embalmed by the most reliable methods, in order to bring her back to Rome. For four years he travelled accompanied by the mummy of his wife & as soon as he arrived back, he organized a magnificent funeral ceremony for her. A funeral that was perhaps excessive for a simple Persian woman, but certainly reflected the love he felt for her. The funeral car was pulled by twenty-four white horses and on it was a catafalque with four pedestals bearing statues of Conjugal Love, Concord, Magnanimity & Patience. Each of the statues had one hand pointing to the glass coffin of Sitti Maani & in the other they held a cypress to which were attached the poems that all the Academicians of Rome had written on the death of the lady.”