Where Tigers Are at Home

by Jean-Marie Blas de Robles

  “WE’RE ALL GOING to die,” Soledade said, switching off the television.

  Despite her determination not to give in to emotion, Loredana was hurt by this apparent coldness. Something in her bearing must have alerted Soledade to this, for she went on in gentle tones: the question wasn’t to know when or how we were going to die, but to live at such an intensity that we had no regrets when the time came. She wasn’t saying that out of a lack of compassion. If Loredana was serious, what was she doing here in Brazil, far from her family and friends?

  Since their first meeting, and the time when they had become friends while talking about everything and anything in the kitchen, what Loredana liked about the young mestizo was her total lack of romanticism, a fault she herself had to beware of all the time. The fact that she wrote her love on the walls did not stem from an indulgence in a feeling of abandonment but was an example of sympathetic magic, a relic of her African inheritance that made her eat handfuls of earth when she was sad or turn the little rutting monkey, which Eléazard had placed in a prominent position on one of his shelves, to face the wall.

  “I just don’t know anymore,” she eventually admitted, her voice choking with an irrepressible desire to cry. “I’m afraid of dying.”

  Soledade took her in her arms. “I know what you need,” she said, stroking her hair. “We’ll go and see Mariazinha … She’s a mãe-de-santo, a ‘mother of saints,’ she’s the only person who can help you.” And then, in confidential tones, “I’ve seen her make a lemon tree die, just by looking at it!”

  SÃO LUÍS: Simply a question of the mechanics of banking …

  For months he had only seen Carlotta in her dressing gown and in a state of intoxication that accentuated the slovenliness of her dress, so the Colonel was agreeably surprised that evening to find his wife in a Chanel suit, makeup and jewelry. For a moment he hoped their relationship might be revived, but when she curtly refused to have a glass with him and informed him that they had to talk, he was immediately on his guard.

  “I came across this by chance, the other day,” she said, tossing a file onto the low table in the drawing room.

  Recognizing the shiny cover of the finance plan, Moreira concentrated for a moment on the brown spots disfiguring Carlotta’s hands, noting those freckles that could no longer be explained by overexposure to the sun, and prepared himself for the worst.

  Two hours later he took refuge in his office, on the first floor, his mouth dry from having vainly defended himself; he poured himself a whiskey and spent a long time scratching the little scab on one eyebrow that was irritating him. He had not for one moment imagined that the “worst” could reach such proportions! That his wife should make a scene because he had used her money without her approval was perfectly foreseeable. That she should be in such a huff as to want to cancel the land purchases done in her name was something he would never have imagined. Swindler, crook, unscrupulous developer … he had come in for the whole catalog of insults and accusations. Even at times when she’d threatened to press charges for misusing his power of attorney, she had never abandoned the impressive calm in which he saw the Carlotta of the old days, the one he still loved despite the domestic hell she made him suffer since the business of the photo. A girl he hadn’t even kissed! You had to see the funny side.

  He lit a cigar. Stroking his sideburns, he found a new scar to tease. He was not convinced his wife would see reason after a night to sleep on it; she might just as well persist in her stubborn determination. He’d definitely have to take steps to secure himself once and for all against the danger of such moods. Ownership of those parcels of land was the basis of his enterprise, without them no speculation, no resort, the whole of the financial arrangements would fall through. The simplest solution would be to buy them back. Apart from taking out a second mortgage on all of his own property, he couldn’t see how to obtain the necessary money.

  Moreira opened the little safe concealed, as a matter of form and to give it some style, behind a woodcut by Abrão Batista. He took out a pile of bank files and immersed himself in the figures. For many minutes the only sound was that of papers being turned feverishly. Then a creak of furniture and the governor leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile. The most obvious solutions did not always appear immediately, swamped as they were by the mass of minor details. He read once more the fax containing the key to the problem. Sir, subsequent to our conversation of the … etc., we can confirm that the sum of 200,000 US dollars for the advance financing of your project had been approved.

  We would remind you that this loan will be released to your account on receipt of the various works status reports … etc., etc.

  The previous day the Japanese had released the first tranche of their commitment. The sum was intended to cover the expenses of setting up the project, so that they could go ahead with the construction as soon as possible, once the Brazilian government had given the green light. All he needed to do was to take enough out of it, under some pretext or other, to repay Carlotta. Since he had the power of attorney, he wouldn’t even need to ask her opinion, the title deeds would change hands without any problem. The profit on the sale of the plots of land for the American army would then allow him to make good the withdrawal. It would make a small dent in his personal gain, but that was of no consequence.

  Once the principal of the transfer was established, carrying it out was merely a question of the mechanics of banking and paperwork … The governor picked up the telephone and dialed the home number of his lawyer.

  “Governor?” came the sleepy voice from the other end of the line. “What time is this?”

  “What does that matter?” Moreira said, looking at his watch. “Two in the morning. Time to wake up and pay attention.”

  “Just a moment, I’ll go to the other phone … All right, what is it?”

  “Listen carefully: you must be at Costa’s by the time the offices open. I don’t care how you do it, but don’t leave until you’ve got a work status report equivalent to 100,000 dollars. Tell him to invoice us for clearing the ground, or whatever, I don’t know. He’s the project manager, so he’s to sort it out so that it looks genuine …”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Nothing serious. I’ll tell you about it. As soon as you’ve got the document, you’re to go to the Sugiyama Bank to have that sum credited to my account and go to the palace with the notary public with the title deeds. All the pieces of land have to be in my name by tomorrow morning. We’ll sort it out formally later on.”

  “In your name? Really?”

  “Wake up, for God’s sake! It’s a manner of speaking … Do it so you cover our tracks a bit as usual. It doesn’t really make a lot of difference, but from a political point of view I mustn’t appear in this transaction. OK?”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “Right, then. Get back to sleep. See you tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 18

  In which the fountain of Pamphilius is unveiled & the pleasant conversation on the subject that Athanasius had with Bernini recorded

  THE YEAR 1650, which began at this juncture, saw a further increase in Kircher’s fame, for he published two fundamental books one after the other: the Musurgia Universalis & the Obeliscus Pamphilius. The subtitle of the Musurgia summarized the importance and novelty of this work: The great art of consonance & dissonance, in ten books wherein are treated the entire doctrine & philosophy of sound & the theory as well as the practise of music in all its forms; the admirable powers of consonance & of dissonance in the whole universe are explained therein with numerous & strange examples that are designed for diverse & practical uses, but more particularly in philology, mathematics, physics, mechanics, medicine, politics, metaphysics & theology … Three hundred brothers from our missions, who had come to Rome to take part in the election of the new General of the Society, each returned with a copy of this book, convinced it would be of great use to them in the barbarian countries to which they were going.

/>   As to the Obeliscus Pamphilius, besides numerous explanations of Egyptian symbolism, it gave for the first time the faithful & complete translation of a text written in hieroglyphs! Not long after the appearance of these books, letters of congratulation began to flood in from all parts of the globe.

  All this hustle and bustle was crowned by an unexpected event: the Roman senator, Alfonso Donnino, who had recently died, bequeathed the whole of his collection of curios to the Society of Jesus & to Kircher in particular. This collection, one of the finest of its time, comprised statues, masks, idols, pictures, weapons, tables made of marble or other costly materials, glass & crystal vases, musical instruments, painted dishes & innumerable fragments of stone from antiquity. Some alterations to the third story of the College were thus necessary in order to increase the floor-space of the museum so that this extensive collection could be housed there.

  In the spring of 1650 the Fountain of the Four Rivers was unveiled by the Pamphili family. The greatest names of Rome all gathered in the Forum Agonale together with Kircher & Bernini, the sole creators of this magnificent work. After a long speech on the virtues of his predecessor, Alexander VII, the new Supreme Pontiff, blessed the fountain with great ceremony; the sluice gates were opened & the pure water of the Acqua Felice finally flowed into the immense basin.

  “This fountain is absolutely worthy of praise,” the Pope said as he approached our little group, Kircher, Bernini and me, “& I salute you as men who deserve to be as greatly honored by our age as Michelangelo & Marsilio Ficino were in theirs.”

  Bernini visibly swelled with pride, my master having, out of humility, emphasized the modest nature of his own contribution.

  “Is it true what they say,” the Pope went on, turning to Bernini, “that this rock with the pipe through it, this lion & this horse only required a few weeks’ work?”

  “A few months, your Holiness,” Bernini corrected, piqued by the insinuation. “The rest of the work presented no major difficulty & would have taken more time than I had at my disposal.”

  “I know, I know,” the Pope replied in honeyed tones, looking demonstratively at the statue of the Nile, “but no one could maintain that this fountain would have been equally majestic if you had sculpted it entirely with your own hands …”

  There was no mystery about the fact that Bernini himself had only worked on the three figures mentioned by the Pope & that for the other parts of the fountain he had been happy to supervise the best pupils in his studio. It was due, moreover, less to a decision on his part than to the time limits imposed by the late Innocent X. But even if the Supreme Pontiff’s irony was merely intended to tease Bernini in his too obvious vanity, it still seemed very unfair to me. Seeing the sculptor roll his mastiff eyes & aware of his impulsive nature, Kircher stepped in: ‘Doubtless it sometimes happens that pupils surpass their teachers—Tristo è quel discepolo che non avanza il suo maestro,1 is he not? Nevertheless, that is rare & in this case it is to the one who has taught them everything that the credit is due.”

  “But tell me, Reverend,” the Pope asked without appearing to have noticed Kircher’s interjection, “is there not a contradiction in placing this stone idol at the center of a monument dedicated to our religion? I have not yet had time to look at your book, which I am told is fascinating, & I would be interested to know by what magic you manage to justify the unjustifiable …”

  Athanasius threw me a quick glance in which I could see his surprise: the Pope was attacking him for having supported Bernini against his irony! The sculptor gave my master a little shrug as if to apologize for having landed him in such an awkward position.

  “There is no need of magic,” Kircher replied, “to explain the presence of this obelisk at the very heart of the Eternal City. Your predecessor, the late Pope Innocent X, since it was his wish that his name & that of his ancestors should be forever associated with this monument, was quite right to place it here. Although the product of one of the most ancient of peoples, but also of the one most worthy to be compared with ours, this obelisk remains a pagan symbol; it is for that reason that it is surmounted by the dove of the Holy Ghost, indicating the superiority of our religion over paganism. Thus the divine light, victorious over all idolatrous religions & descending from the eternal heavens, spreads its blessings over the four continents of the Earth represented by the Nile, the Ganges, the Danube & the Plate, the four splendid rivers from which Africa, India, Europe and the Americas draw their sustenance. The Nile is masked because no one has yet found its sources; as for the others, they are each represented by emblems corresponding to their nature.”

  “Very interesting …” Pope Alexander said. “From what you say, then, it is a monument to the propagation of the faith that we owe to the generosity of Innocent X & to your genius … I didn’t see it from that point of view. Especially after the dispute the Franciscans had with you not long ago …”

  “I insist,” Kircher said, ignoring the dig at him, “that this fountain is a stone symbol of the glory of the Church & of all the missionaries who serve our holy cause. But it is more than that, & if I may—”

  “That will be enough for today, Reverend Father, other duties call. But I will be happy to listen to your … ‘stories’ some other time.”

  That was the first & last time I saw my master turn scarlet with indignation. I was afraid he would direct one of the quips he always had up is sleeve at the Pope, but he contained himself & bent humbly to kiss the ring Alexander held out to him. “Tamen amabit semper,”2 he said between his teeth, as the rules of our Society commanded him. Bernini & I did the same, then the Pope turned his back on us without further ado.

  As soon as he could do so without danger of being noticed, Bernini burst out into open, infectious laughter. “You see what it costs to take the side of a stonemason,” he said, placing his hand on Kircher’s shoulder. “Welcome to the brotherhood of actors, Father Athanasius, for you have just been promoted to the ranks of storytellers …”

  “How dare he?!” Kircher exclaimed, still rather somber. “Years of work to decipher the hieroglyphs, the key sought by men for centuries & that all at once can give us the whole of the science & philosophy of the ancients! All that dismissed with a wave of the hand, like an irritating fly! Why is God punishing me like this? Do I still have too much pride?”

  “No, no,” said Bernini in soothing tones, “only a few days ago that Pope was merely Cardinal Fabio Chigi, well known for … let’s say his lack of judgment & his patrician smugness. If it is true that the function creates the organ, it’ll take quite some time with that fellow.”

  The thought drew a smile from Kircher, accompanied by a pseudoreproachful frown. I could have kissed Bernini for that! Especially since he now invited us, with all the warmth of an old friend, to accompany him to his house.

  “Carpe diem, my friends. Let us forget that ass & go & empty a few bottles of French wine that I have been keeping for this occasion. For myself, I prefer to drink that to the water of the rivers, even if they were those of the Garden of Eden.”

  His house was not far from where we were. There we met several of his pupils who had played a part in the erection of the fountain and had preceded us to their master’s house after the unveiling. There were also several ragged creatures who lived there to serve as models for Bernini & his pupils, but also to act as servants &, from what I thought I could tell from the liberties they allowed these gentlemen, as other things as well … Good girls, all the same, cheerful & in some cases even cultured, who behaved in a seemly manner while we were there.

  We all sat around the common table in the studio surrounded by the clay models, blocks of stone and drawings cluttering up the room. Large white sheets hung underneath the glass roof allowed a soft light to filter through; the wine in the copper goblets was deliciously cool, we were in high spirits & Kircher quickly recovered his good humor.

  Bernini went on & on about his set- to with the Pope & how my master had backed him up & suffe
red for it. He did a marvelous imitation of Alexander’s curt, arrogant voice, prompting general hilarity. It was nothing to make a fuss about & my master laughed as much as the others at the biting satire, though taking care not to join in it himself.

  Once we had finished the second bottle of white wine from Ay, our host had several chickens killed and sent to be roasted at a neighboring eating-house. It was therefore with mouths full of perfectly cooked meat that we started to discuss the fountain again. One of the young women sitting at the table asked if we had to believe that all the animals carved on the obelisk told a story.

  “And what a story, my lovely!” Bernini exclaimed, tearing a chicken leg apart. “You can trust Father Kircher, he can read hieroglyphs as if he’d drawn them himself. Is that not true, Reverend Father?” he added with a wink.

  “We mustn’t exaggerate,” said my master, “it’s a bit more complicated than that; our good Caspar, who helps me in my work, will confirm how much labor the translation of each line demands. The priests of ancient Egypt took their time making this secret language complicated in order to keep their knowledge inaccessible to the profane; the centuries have shown how successful they were in this.”

  “And what is the story these figures tell?” the young woman asked.

  “A beautiful story, one I’m sure you’ll enjoy,” Bernini said, taking over from Kircher, “the story of the love of Isis & Osiris. Listen, my girl, and don’t let me die of thirst: a certain Râ of Egypt, the sun god of his land, had the misfortune to have four children—two daughters: Isis & Nephtys, & two sons: Typhon & Osiris. These brothers & sisters married each other, as was the charming custom among the powerful. Isis became the wife of Osiris & Nephtys that of Typhon. Since their father was becoming a little decrepit, he put the administration of the kingdom into the hands of Osiris, the one who was more worthy to exercise that power. Under him Egypt thrived; aided by his wife, he taught the people how to cultivate wheat & the vine, introduced the religious cults & built large and beautiful cities, thus ensuring the happiness of the nation. But then Typhon, jealous of the power & fame of Osiris, decided to conspire against his brother. Drawing him into a cleverly laid trap, he killed him, cut him up into tiny pieces and threw him into the Nile.