“An inselberg,” Elaine murmured, amazed at the contrast between the barren sides and the luxuriance of the summit.
“That’s right, it is like an island,” Petersen said, a bit surprised to have understood what she had said. “I’ve never heard of anything like this.”
She sighed, her eyes screwed up, her mind elsewhere. “You can’t even see the river.”
“But at least we can get our bearings at last,” Herman said, his eyes fixed on his watch. Turning his wrist so that the 12 was pointing toward the sun, he drew an imaginary line between that and the hour hand: “North’s over there, which means the River Paraguay must be more or less in that direction.”
He pointed to a line of foliage that was just a little darker, very far away to the southeast. “At a rough guess, I’d say we’re to the east of Cáceres. I’m not even sure we’re still in Brazil …”
“You’re right,” said Mauro after having scrutinized the landscape all around. “If there was a mission in the area we’d at least see smoke or something … God knows where they’re taking us.”
It was a statement, not a question, and there was no answer, but he could read the unavoidable conclusion in Petersen’s blue eyes: God Himself had no idea.
They continued to climb the steep slope of the mountain. The line proceeded in zigzags, as if they were ascending the ramps of a Tower of Babel. Elaine remained fascinated by the sea of vegetation spreading wider and wider below them. Truly, they were on an island in the middle of the forest, a geographical anomaly that had perhaps been located by satellite but which, she was convinced, no Westerner had ever explored.
After three exhausting hours of climb, they entered the summit jungle, which once more made them lose their bearings. Elaine felt frustrated at having enjoyed the open air and the sun for such a short time. It was Mauro who first noticed the change in the composition of the forest; the surrounding flora was unusual, a veritable botanical garden with a considerable number of strange insects and animals. Scarlet mushrooms, frogs with gaudy colors like fish in an aquarium, tree ferns with their bishop’s croziers unfurling aggressively above their heads—almost nothing of what they could see corresponded to what they had been seeing up to that point. Gathering her memories out loud, Elaine explained the curious phenomenon:
“There’s the same thing in French Guyana, a peak that’s sufficiently isolated to have its own ecosystem. The sort of thing Darwin used to confirm his theory. Natural selection has taken place, but it has developed in isolation, rather as it would on an atoll. Certain rainforest species have evolved differently in this bubble, away from the upheavals affecting the plains.”
She told them to imagine a Noah’s Ark continuing to float for thousands of years without ever reaching dry land. The species on this biological Flying Dutchman would be more or less similar to those that had gone on board at the beginning; some would have changed to adapt to life on the ship while others would not have survived …
“It’s wonderful!” said Mauro, picking up a huge beetle bristling with horns. “It’s like an earthly paradise.”
“You’re going to have plenty of time to admire all this shit,” said Petersen contemptuously. “We’ve arrived.”
INDEED, THE WHOLE tribe was settling down on the edge of the bush, on a bare plateau that was attached to one side of the sugarloaf hill and ended, on the other, in a precipitous cliff. Unlike the last few days, the Indians took great care over setting up their camp. After a supply of water had been collected and the usual harvest of grubs, palm marrow and other products of the forest gathered, the women started to soak manioc in the large oiled baskets in which the beer was brewed. A band of young men cheerfully set off to hunt; stacks of firewood piled up … Everything suggested that this stop on the summit of the inselberg was not a simple halt, but the end of the journey.
“Surely we’re not going to stay here?” Mauro asked in a tone of voice that gave a hint of his fear.
“You can go and ask them, if you like,” Petersen replied, undoing his cocaine belt.
Elaine had sat down on her hammock. One clear thought emerged from the depths of her exhaustion: nothing, not even passive expectation, was going to influence the course things would take. She couldn’t stop herself thinking of Dietlev’s body as it had appeared to her, haloed in light, in majesty. His death was gradually taking root in that part of herself where, one wound after another, life unhurriedly weaves its own disappearance. She was no longer afraid.
The shaman had waited, motionless, facing the mountain, for the Indians to build him a hut. He disappeared into it for a few minutes, just long enough to hide the instruments of his office from sight. Having done that, he gave the tribe a long sermon then set off alone toward the peak. The Indians watched him leave until he was out of sight, then returned to their various activities.
“They’re preparing another celebration for when he comes back,” Petersen said.
His remark, which later turned out to be relevant, did not elicit a single comment. Professora Von Wogau was lying down, exhausted, staring into space. As for Mauro, he couldn’t stop going into raptures about the bugs he was unearthing all over the place. Herman sniffed a pinch of powder and stretched out to think things over. A warning siren was wailing inside his head, telling him to clear off as quickly as possible, get away from these unpredictable savages; but even if he did manage to slip away during the night and to put enough distance between the Indians and himself, his chances of survival in the jungle were close to nil. The rainy season was approaching; the more time passed, the more difficult it would be to feed himself in the forest. And even allowing that he could get his bearings without a compass, it would take days, even weeks, of walking and the painful cramp in his weary legs was enough to make him scream … He was angry with himself, blaming himself for having, like the others, given way to hope; they should have made off as soon as the Indians appeared instead of counting on the cannibals to take them back to civilization. He clenched his fists in fury at the memory of Dietlev and the rifle rendered unusable.
HAVING REACHED THE highest point of the mountain, the shaman of the Apapoçuvas sat down cross-legged on a flat rock and waited. Nothing in the surroundings, neither the source of sacred stones—the womb known only to him, the secret belly in which grew the embryos of everything that would one day come into existence—nor the beauty of the panoramic view could drive away his anguish. The soul of Qüyririche was flying around him, filling the air with the heavy beat of its wings, but it obstinately refused to speak to him. I have gathered your people together where the signs commanded, I have shunned women, the flesh of the agouti and of the great anteater; every night since you left it I have kept company with your body without sparing either my chants or my saliva … Qüyririche, Qüriri cherub! Why do you deprive me of the help of your words? He had obeyed and the god with the white skin remained silent! The invisible armadillo had taken advantage of that to slip into his stomach, as if into its burrow, and now the shaman felt ill, weakened. The animal was eating him up from inside, it was freezing his blood.
Years ago, when he was just a youth, he had almost died from the same illness. His father had passed away and the invisible armadillo had gone into his son’s entrails. They had put his father in his usual place in the house, sitting up, with his bow and arrow, his beer gourd and his toucan whistle. And then the men had built a second house around him, a very close palisade of young heveas, leaving an aperture opposite his navel, after which they had pushed his father’s blowpipe in through the hole until it went into his stomach. And he, Raypoty, had stayed in the forest, all alone, without drinking, without eating, without daring to approach. In the middle of the night the invisible armadillo had bitten his heart, so hard he thought he was on the point of dying. And he had submitted. Terrified by the deep darkness, begging the mercy of the wandering souls that were breathing in his ears, he had set off toward his father’s house. He had gone into his father’s house, even though he
could not see his hand in front of his face. And, by feeling his way, he had eventually found the blowpipe and had followed it until his finger touched the navel where it was stuck. At the same moment he had said, “Father, I am your son,” and his heart had started to pound, as if he had been running after a wounded jaguar, and a ball of fire had rolled into his head and the invisible armadillo had rushed out of his entrails.
After the time it takes for a bunch of bananas to ripen, the surucucu snake had bitten him on the heel without managing to take his life, proof that he himself was pajé, the heir to his father’s occult power, worthy to succeed him.
Raypoty knew what he must do: fast, chew datura and wait there, on that rock for the ball of fire to appear. Qüyririche would speak to him once more, would tell him how to find the “Land-with-no-evil.” He would rather die than admit to the members of his tribe that his whole life had been a failure. Qüyririche, Qüriricherub! The messenger of Tupan, the Great Vulture.
Despite his experience as a shaman and his stock of magic darts, he felt as terrified as he had as a youth, He felt he had no courage, no courage at all …
IT WAS IN a soft but strained voice that Mauro told them the news: they had buried Dietlev … For a brief moment Elaine looked as if she were truly going mad, her eyes went wild, trying to cling on to objects.
“What … what have they done?” she managed to say, her throat tight with emotion.
Mauro took her in his arms. He was close to tears himself, the memory of the burial still weighing heavy on him. The fetal position of the body, crouching in the pit like an animal in its cage, the branch put through his armpits so as to bring up his hands on either side of his face, the mats, the black earth on top of them and the circle of spears, so small, so slim they looked like a trap for some terrible prey … The Indians had done it very quickly, touching the body as little as possible because of the stench and the decomposition. “It’s over, Elaine, it’s all over,” he said, rocking to and fro himself as he cradled her.
That night she came to his hammock and they made love, to comfort each other, panic-stricken at the proximity of death. Petersen was having a bad dream, they heard him groaning beside them several times.
ON THE EVENING of the third day, the shaman reappeared on the side of the mountain. He came down the slope, his arms full of stones, as the whole tribe looked on, stupefied. As soon as he reached the camp he headed straight for the little group of Palefaces and put his unusual burden down in front of them. With an imperious gesture, he invited them to examine the strange nodules from the womb of the mother of all mountains. Among the various fossil birds and fish, Elaine immediately recognized the samples Dietlev had taken. She picked up a flatter fragment and immediately fell on her knees with an exclamation of surprise; before her was an assortment of the things they had come to look for in the Mato Grosso: complete and perfectly preserved specimens of a fossil earlier than Corumbella!
“This is it, all right,” she said, her face radiant with happiness, “even with the peduncle, but a lot more secondary polyps. The chitin is different, coarser … And look at the structure of the sclerenchymas. We must learn their language and get out of here, Mauro! You realize what we’ve found?”
Already she was thinking about naming the object she held in her hand, running her fingers over the imprint. This fossil would be a stele to the memory of Dietlev. Tomorrow they’d go and have a look at the top of the mountain, there was a good chance they’d find other new species. Paleontology was going to take a leap of several thousand years back toward the beginnings of life!
“So this’s the thing that’s worth so much?” Petersen muttered, his attention suddenly gripped by this turn of events. There must be some way, he thought, of hoodwinking the Indians into carrying as many of these bits of stone as possible through the forest …
Satisfied with their reaction, Raypoty sketched something resembling a smile. He had interpreted the signs correctly, the god’s companion was satisfied. Qüyririche had appeared to him while he was handling the sacred stones on the mountain, identical to the ones one could see of the aracanóa bequeathed by his ancestors. The ball of fire had appeared as well, as it had in his childhood, and the Messenger had spoken distinctly inside his head: Maëperese-kar? What are you looking for? Marapereico? What are you asking? Ageroure omano toupan? I am asking: How is it that god can be dead? When will we too fly as high as the urubu? What must be said to the jaguar to stop him pissing on the forest? And Qüyririche had answered each of his questions clearly. The invisible armadillo would never come back. All was in order among the things, each object, each being in its respective place. That night they would fly off to the Land-with-no-evil, would finally reach that dark junction where the universe fitted together, closed on itself like the shell of an armadillo. Qüyririche had gone on ahead to prepare their mat under the great canopy of the sky. He was waiting for them. His life as a shaman would not have been in vain; his people were finally going to leave the circle of suffering and solitude in which history had enclosed them. He had invoked the god correctly, forced him to speak to him. That evening the people of the Apapoçuva would go back to the very beginning, to that moment when all things were equal because all were equally possible, and it would be, oh god!, as if we had never chosen to be what we were …
“Etegosi xalta,” he said, turning to Elaine, “fuera terrominia tramad mipisom!”
Mauro raised his eyebrows as he recognized the shaman’s ecclesiastical intonation. After a moment’s reflection to separate the syllables and put them together again in their correct order, he translated, “And I, when I am raised up from the earth, will take unto myself the whole of the world—but I’ve no idea where he got that from!”
“It’s crazy,” Elaine said as she watched the shaman walking away. “I can’t get over it. Here we are in the back of beyond with guys naked as nature intended, who’ve never seen any whites, and they speak Latin and give us the fossils we’ve come to find. It’s enough to give you a fit of the giggles!”
“It’s not really the moment for it,” said Mauro, trying to control his own mirth. Even Petersen, full of his dreams of wealth, was smiling.
The shaman came back to see them, accompanied by a few Indians this time. His frightening appearance, the black snot spattering his chest, both suggested he had just taken another dose of epena. Without hesitation he placed the ends of the pipes through which the ritual powder was insufflated in Mauro’s and Petersen’s hands. Herman tried to refuse, but the shaman seemed so unhappy at this that he immediately complied. Mauro had not even considered it; still full of the desire to laugh, he had decided to take the absurdity to its limit and go along with everything. They were given one dose in each nostril. The violence of the effect left them both stunned. Heads in their hands, they groaned, their sinuses white-hot, their brains dazzled with explosions of light.
Elaine was delighted at having been spared the honor done to her companions. The flutes had started up their shrill laments again, torches of copal resin were lit as night began to fall.
“That really clears out your head!” Mauro said, wiping away the thick mucus that was running down onto his lips. “It’s unbelievable!”
The drug had disturbed his vision. The things around him were slightly fuzzy, blurred, accentuating the effects of the chemicals in the depths of his brain cells. It was as if a pair of 3D glasses had been put inside his head, he told Elaine in an attempt to explain what was happening to him, the kind used to look at anaglyphs. He was seeing everything in red and green, with distortions, overlap-pings that he kept on describing amid gales of laughter. Petersen was similarly euphoric, though less outgoing than Mauro; he was happy to laugh to himself, in long, silent spasms.
“And it gives you a hard-on as well!” Mauro exclaimed, placing Elaine’s hand between his legs as naturally as one would get someone to feel a bruise. “You should try it, I swear you should.”
She drew her hand away sharply. Mauro had lo
st all restraint, becoming more and more grotesque. His facial muscles twitching uncontrollably, he became bolder and bolder, desperately trying to touch her breasts.
She was glad when the shaman interrupted them. “Join the birds,” he said, shaking toucan and kingfisher skins, “lighten your body to lighten your spirit.”
When Mauro realized the Indians wanted to make him like them, he undressed without embarrassment and let them paint his body with annatto and genipa juice. Long tufts of feathers were tied to his shoulders, his hair was coated with some sticky matter and had white down scattered over it. Finally a bark lace around the foreskin tied his penis to his lower abdomen. Petersen could feel his limbs growing numb; incapable of thinking or reacting, he allowed himself to be disguised without making a fuss. Putty in their hands, he watched unmoved as one of his packets of cocaine was squashed beneath the foot of the Indian who was dolling him up.
“It’s great!” Mauro exclaimed when Petersen’s transformation was complete. “You look like an old parrot, Herman! An old, plucked macaw!” And he slapped his thighs, so pleased he was with his metaphor.
The shaman placed a kind of large bundle wrapped in plant fibers at Elaine’s feet. He spoke to her earnestly for several minutes, interspersing his speech with singing, clucks and gusts of fetid breath.
He was handing the aracanóa, that smoke-cured dream, the proof, the guarantee of the Other World, back to her. Its contents were mysterious, its antiquity acknowledged. By a miracle known to Tupan alone, the whole of the world was shown in it. Not a blade of grass had been omitted, not an insect. Everything in it was indecipherable, apart from the stone eggs waiting for the rainy season to hatch out in the rivers. It was up to her, the great sister of Qüyririche, to take it. She must see how his fathers and he himself had taken care of it. Men, men and more men had died so that this magnificent thing should live. She must know, she must realize herself.
Where Tigers Are at Home Page 69