Where Tigers Are at Home

by Jean-Marie Blas de Robles

  He spoke deliberately, and with his crew cut and suntanned face his warmth and frankness were contagious. To anyone but Eléazard, Euclides’s obstinacy would have seemed the height of discourtesy. “That is reassuring,” he said in feigned casual tones. “For a moment I thought you were here because of this business about a military base on the peninsula.”

  “A military base? That’s a new one on me. As you can see, you know a lot more than I do. D’you know anything about that, Matt?”

  “First I’ve heard of it,” the other said with a shrug. “Sounds interesting. May we know what it’s all about?”

  “It’s a rumor,” said Eléazard, “a vague project the United States is said to be associated with; I read about it in one of the tracts distributed by a Workers’ Party candidate. Some are talking about a base for strategic missiles, others about an arms factory, neither backed up with any evidence. Disinformation for electoral purposes probably …”

  “More anti-American propaganda,” said McDouglas, a smile on his lips. “Fair enough, but it’s starting to get tedious, you know. Those clowns are playing with fire: the day our economy crashes I wouldn’t give much for Brazil’s prospects, nor those of South America or even the West in general. Do you think the socialists have a chance in the coming elections?”

  “You certainly stick to your guns,” Eléazard quipped. “To answer your question: no, practically none at all. They may well have one or two federal deputies, but then … Moreira will be reelected governor of Maranhão and everything will continue as before.”

  “You sound disappointed by that …”

  “And you’re not, from what I see,” said Eléazard a touch aggressively. “Personally, my weakness is that I still believe in certain old-fashioned values. I remain convinced, for example, that corruption, nepotism, the enrichment of a few at the expense of all the rest are not normal, even though there are ten thousand years of history to suggest they are. I believe that poverty is not fate but a phenomenon that is deliberately maintained, managed, an abject state that is necessary solely for the prosperity of a small group with no scruples … We tend to forget—everything is designed so that we do—that it is always an individual who changes the course of events, by his decision at a particular moment or his refusal to act. That is what power is, without that no one would be interested in it, as you well know. And it is those men, I mean those men in power, whom I hold responsible for what happens.”

  “Well, well,” the American mocked, “I’m beginning to see why you’re not exactly popular with the governor.”

  “It’s mutual, I assure you.”

  “You really think that someone else could do better in Moreira’s place?”

  “You don’t understand. People aren’t interchangeable, ever. If a man of good will should appear, someone who’s neither a technocrat, nor a number cruncher, nor even a saint or some guru, such a man would achieve more on his own than generations of professional politicians. That may seem all pie in the sky to you, but there are righteous men—or madmen if you prefer—people who are quite simply honest, who refuse to ‘adapt’ to the ‘real world,’ who act in such a way that the real world adjusts to their madness …”

  He stopped when he saw the mechanics hurrying back to their places. A few seconds later, just at the moment when the purr of its engine became audible, the Panhard came into the garage and parked in the exact spot it had set out from.

  Moreira appeared with the frosty expression of a man who was just managing to control his anger. A few seconds later he was taking it out on the unfortunate mechanic who had dashed forward, clutching a cloth, to deal with the splashes on the windscreen: the car was pulling to the left a little and a strange whistling noise could be heard as soon as he was doing more than ninety; they’d better sort those problems out, and quick, he wasn’t paying them to sit there twiddling their thumbs and he was fed up with all these stupid mulattos …

  “So what was it like?” McDouglas asked Loredana, less out of interest than to hide his embarrassment at the Colonel’s boorish outburst.

  “Not bad,” she said with a cold smile, “but the car was pulling to the left a little and there was a strange whistling noise when we went a bit too fast …”

  Moreira looked at her with a murderous expression, but Loredana merely stared at him with a feigned air of surprise, lips pursed, as if she had no idea what had got into him. Euclides took advantage of the situation to say he’d like to go home now. He was in the habit of rising with the lark and felt exhausted at having stayed up so late.

  The Americans took leave of the doctor and his companions with exquisite politeness, unlike the Colonel, who made no attempt to conceal his bad mood.

  “What on earth got into you, for God’s sake?” Eléazard suddenly cried as they were heading back to the Ford.

  With a reproachful glance for his impertinence and in detached tones that say that a problem has been solved and there’s no point in dwelling on it, Loredana declared, “I wanted to have the chance to slap the guy. I’ve had it. Period.”

  And while Eléazard pulled up short, his eyes almost popping out of his head, Euclides gave one of those little giggles in which he expressed his absolute joy at women’s intelligence.

  A FEW HOURS later, after the last guests had finally left, while the servants were still busy restoring order to the fazenda, the governor had shut himself in his study to smoke one last cigar. Delightfully tipsy, with dark rings under his eyes from fatigue, he finally had the time to examine the model that had been delivered that afternoon. Crafted in meticulous detail, it represented on a scale of 1/1,000 the project of a vast seaside resort Moreira had been working on for months. Like a little boy with his nose pressed against a shop window at Christmas, he did not tire of examining his dream, of admiring its scope, its spectacular prospect. Surrounded by coconut trees, the eighteen stories of an immense, crescent-shaped building towered up facing the Atlantic: freshwater and seawater swimming pools, tennis courts, a golf course, catamarans, a helicopter pad, nothing had been forgotten to transform this expanse of jungle into a first-rate tourist destination. As well as the five restaurants and the luxury shops on the ground floor, there was even a beauty salon, a health spa and an ultramodern center for thalassotherapy. The Californian architect, who had been charged with giving shape to his desires, had produced something well beyond his expectations, sculpting the tropical forest so that all that was left were a few civilized patches of greenery, among which the bungalows and sports installations were arranged harmoniously. The golf course alone would have justified the huge advance that had already been paid to him: it would be one of the finest on the international circuit and definitely the most exotic. Clearly all that would cost a fortune—twenty-five million dollars at the lowest estimate—but the first hurdle had been overcome: just before the festivities that evening to celebrate this three-dimensional fantasy, the banks had undertaken to guarantee three-quarters of that sum, with the result that they could start clearing the ground in a fortnight’s time, as soon as the funds were released.

  Entirely absorbed in his rapture, the governor was indulging in visions of a happy future. The region would enjoy an unparalleled revival: several hundred jobs created immediately, not to mention the subsequent spin-off from all those rich tourists who would have nothing better to do than deluge the Sertão in a shower of dollars more effective than any rainfall. It was a godsend that would finally allow them to restore the old baroque districts of São Luís, transform Alcântara into a jewel of colonial architecture and attract even more visitors to this out-of-the-way place. Yes, everything was possible, and all thanks to his creative imagination! There would be a certain amount of friction because of the launching base, some whining from ecologists desperate for a sit-in outside the Palacio Estaudal, but eventually reason would prevail: these two projects, his and that of the Americans, were a rare opportunity for Maranhão, the only one which would allow it to escape its congenital poverty.
r />   That he should make a lot of money out of the projects was only fair. The influx of American technical and military staff would not have been sufficient on its own to give the region the shock treatment it needed. It would owe its revival to its governor’s presence of mind alone, to his managerial and entrepreneurial skills. In our lives we encounter certain combinations of circumstances to fail to exploit which would be an insult to destiny. When he heard—from the lips of Alvarez Neto and under the seal of secrecy—of the existence of these negotiations, the whole process, which had just been completed, had immediately appeared to him with blinding clarity. On the very evening of his interview with the minister he had started to buy up the land provisionally selected by the Americans for the installation of their experimental missiles, as well as all the parcels surrounding them, so that he could sell them on at a high price when the time came; the aim of this speculation was not merely to make a fantastic profit, but to underwrite his real-estate project. Contacting the architect, meeting him in Palo Alto, setting up the financial arrangements had not been easy, far from it! The small landowners needed a lot of persuading to sell their patches of land, the architect took ages to send him his plans, then the banking pool had done its bit, criticizing his valuations, demanding more guarantees to the point where he had had to agree to mortgage the fazenda and his collection of cars, the only assets of which he was sole owner. Everything else belonged to Carlotta: the steelworks in Minas Gerais, the seafront apartments in Bahia, the 35 percent of Brazilian Petroleum … a fortune he managed for her and which their son would one day inherit. The Alzegul inheritance! What a load of nonsense. He never thought of Mauro without falling into a kind of impotent, bitter rage, rather as if he had fathered a legless cripple or a child with an atrophied brain. An intellectual crammed full of books, an Alzegul through and through, incapable of distinguishing between a balance sheet and a working account. Yes, disabled, with no knowledge of reality apart from his petrified memory, ancient, sterile, outside human time, outside his own life … A paleontologist! And since it summed up all his disappointment and misfortune as a father, the word twisted his lips, as if it were an insult. All that money lying idle. For what, for whom? If only they would allow him to pump the money into business enterprises! That and that alone would have a profound effect on the world. His son, his wife, all those who were always making speeches but never got their hands dirty—nothing but a load of jerk-offs who never produced anything, who only made ripples by spitting in the water! But the Earth went on turning without them and would consign them to oblivion in its slow metamorphosis.

  It had taken no great effort for Moreira to overcome his scruples and use part of these savings to acquire the land he wanted. After all, the title deeds were in his wife’s name and were a much more profitable investment than ordinary stocks and shares. The fact that this subterfuge meant that his own name appeared nowhere in the long chain leading to the Alcântara International Resort was a pretty neat trick as well.

  Entirely taken up with his blissful thoughts until that moment, he was completely unprepared as the shadow of Loredana returned to haunt him. His excursion with her passed before his inner eye in a succession of disjointed shots, like a film botched during editing.

  Her shameless invitation had made him drunk with pride, a feeling of euphoria due less to the prospect of a probable affair with the woman than to the pleasure of whisking her away before the very eyes of her hack admirer. So he’d driven off, foot down, on the long straight road through the fields of sugar cane. Because of their protective grilles—an innovation at the time—the Panhard’s headlights only lit up the strict minimum so that the car seemed absorbed into the night as it sped forward. One of the advantages of the Dynamic—“A real car for the ladies’ man,” he often said, “just imagine yourself driving with a girl on either side. Mãe de Deus!”—was that the central steering wheel reduced the distance between the driver and the door, favoring all sorts of maneuvers; there was no need to imagine a bend to feel Loredana’s shoulder against his own. Determined not to take the initiative, savoring every moment of the sensual pressure, Moreira was quivering, every nerve straining toward a body he was sure he was going to possess very soon.

  He turned off onto a country lane, bumped along in neutral for a hundred yards and stopped by an isolated chapel. The headlights lit up a beautiful portal with baroque ornamentation over it, a mixture of angels and skulls. “I wanted to show you this little jewel,” he said in a warm voice. “The end of the seventeenth century …” This ploy always worked with women. Loredana seemed very taken with it, she admired the bas-reliefs, asked questions: were they still on his land? So this chapel belonged to him? To him, yes, like the hamlet they’d just passed through, like the wells or the hill you could make out over there, like the whole of the Alcântara peninsula. At first in order to impress her, then simply because he got carried away, he found himself telling her about his projects for Maranhão, the tourist complex, the sums he’d invested … And then, quite naturally, as if to get her to share in his vision, to associate her with it more closely, he’d put his hand on her thigh … His cheek was still stinging.

  She could go to hell, her and her stupid frog! And Euclides as well, for having brought along a couple of leftie fanatics like that! Any woman but her would not have got away with it, but afterward she had looked at him with such disdainful calm—as if, without giving it a further thought, she had squashed an irritating fly—that he had simply started the car again, turned and driven back.

  Relighting his cigar, he suddenly found it odd that even the memory of that fiasco had not managed to mar his joy.

  CHAPTER 15

  Which follows the preceding chapter & in which Kircher contrives an astonishing pedagogical surprise for Caspar …

  “JUST IMAGINE, CASPAR, how easily the idolators will recognize their errors if we show them that we speak the same language! For us as for them the Sun is the universal source of light, it is the work of the ‘Most High,’ the dwelling place of God. As for the world, it is never more than the shadow of the divinity, its distorted image. ‘Give me a place to stand,’ Archimedes said to Hieron of Syracuse, ‘& I will move the Earth,’ & I say, ‘Give me the right mirror & I will show you the face of Christ, restored in His perfection & wholeness.’ This mirror, which eliminates outward perversions and transforms the monstrosity of forms into pure beauty, I have in my hands, Caspar: it is analogy. Make the effort to reflect the totality of worlds in it & like me you will see, clear and resplendent at the very heart of darkness, the sole image of God.”

  Athanasius fell silent & was lost in thought for a moment. I could have listened to him for hours on end, especially since the Burgundy was beginning to have its effect; I felt that I understood better than ever the importance of his mission.

  “There’s nothing like an experiment,” he said in decisive tones. “Come on, off we go, discipulus, I am going to show you something few people have had the opportunity to see. Provided, that is, that you agree to allow yourself, when the time comes, to be led without being able to see a thing.”

  I agreed jubilantly, enticed by this condition, like something out of a romance.

  We left the College & set off to walk into the town. It was clammy, the heat oppressive & in the sky there were some of those little coppery clouds announcing a storm. We chatted as we walked, Kircher untiringly commenting on all the monuments of Ancient Rome we passed on our way. Just as we turned into the street of St. John Lateran, leaving the Coliseum behind us, Kircher stopped.

  “This is where you have to accept the little formality necessary for my experiment. I’m going to ask you to accompany me for several minutes without seeing anything. Not as a precaution, for there’s nothing you mustn’t see, but to ensure the maximum effectiveness of my experiment. So close your eyes & don’t open them again until I tell you to.”

  I happily obeyed & my master led me by the shoulder, as if I were blind. After about fifty paces w
e entered a shady alley—I realized that from the welcome absence of the sun on the back of my neck—& quickly turned off two or three times. Then we started to go down some never-ending steps. What was odd was that there was now no noise to be heard. This complete silence was certainly frightening & I started to tremble with apprehension as much as with cold. From time to time we took several paces on the level, twisting and turning, as if we were in a labyrinth. Finally, after about thirty paces along a path so narrow we had difficulty walking side by side, Kircher stopped.

  “Here we are,” he said gravely. “We have only gone some twenty paces down into the depths of the ground, but in so doing we have passed through the ages! Just use your imagination: not far from here the gladiators of Publius Gracchus are training to die; Tertullian is still drowning his sorrows in the outskirts of Carthage, Marcus Aurelius is slowly dying on the distant banks of the Danube & Rome is already nothing more than the indolent capital of a rickety, moribund empire. It is the year of Our Lord 180, in the villa of an idolator rich enough to have set up in his own house a shrine to the god of his heart. Open your eyes, Caspar, & contemplate the God Mithras, prince of the shades & of light.

  I obeyed my master & could not prevent myself from shrinking back at the spectacle awaiting me. We were in a sort of little cave hewn out of the very rock; two oil lamps cast a weak light on a stele roughed out into panels but with a very delicately sculpted bas-relief on one of its faces. It showed the god Mithras as an ephebe in a Phrygian cap cutting the throat of an enormous bull. The surface of the stone and the walls of the grotto were soiled with splashes of dried blood. I crossed myself as I spoke the name of Jesus.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Kircher said calmly, “the only danger we are exposed to here would be to catch a cold. Help me light these torches, we’ll be able to see better & it will warm up the unhealthy air in this place a little.”