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THE VIRGIN RAINFOREST along the Potaro River was a birding paradise. Alexandra and her father left the capital at morning’s first light aboard the R.H. Carr. The steamship piloted routine runs down the broad Essequibo River to the bauxite mining areas in Rockstone. There, they switched to a smaller launch and motored onward. Two water patrol officers, a cook, and three porters were at their disposal, all courtesy of Government House.
Archibald pointed out where Alexandra was baptized at age seven. To say she had learned to swim was a stretch but made for better conversation. That day, the boat had struck a branch jutting the surface, jettisoning her over the rail. Left to drown or thrash her arms and legs in a frantic survival dance, she had thrashed away, soliciting interest from a monstrous anaconda too slow to fetch her as a meal.
Like any father, he had orchestrated a furious attempt at rescue, and like most English gentlemen, shared jovial laughter with the local guides once she was plucked out and deemed unharmed.
Sixteen years...
Upon returning from the jungle interior to inspect nesting areas of the elusive cock-of-the-rock, they were greeted by enticing aromas and a lantern-lit table by the river. They took seats and were served pepperpot smothered in cassareep sauce. Vivid starlight and the fitful shadows of howler monkeys running among the broccoli trees made for a perfect canopy. They tallied up their bird sightings, which they configured into a competition by allotting a point system to varied species. Alexandra scored first dibs of a red-capped cardinal, streaked antwren, and an antbird with a long Latin name she simply called a “fergus.” Archibald landed takes in spotting a harpy eagle, tufted coquette, and a silver-beak tanager. It felt like a lavish safari without the gunplay.
These days, it was good to be a Bathenbrook.
“We must discuss your falling out with William,” Alexandra introduced to their stress-free banter.
Archibald leaned back in his foldable campaign chair. “Your Uncle Niles is not long for this world. Perhaps neither am I. The Bathenbrook name cannot fall into the dustbin of history.”
The problem with bloodlines in a longstanding military family was that so many were killed in battle along the way. Alexandra knew Niles had lost all his sons: one to illness, another to war, and the last heir to murder. Her other uncle had passed before marrying, and over generations, Bathenbrook sperm had predominantly swum female.
Alexandra said, “You wish him to marry?”
“I want him to be happy and fruitful,” replied Archibald.
She questioned, “How does one tell a man that beyond his front door exist women willing to feign love, tolerate his wounds, and birth a child for the comforts of his money?”
Archibald sighed. “This matter must be remedied.”
“Balderdash! Divorce and remarry. Even father a bastard.”
Her father took umbrage at her vulgar suggestion. “We will discuss this no further.”
Alexandra finished her wine and laid out the gauntlet. “If you two cannot sort this out, you’ll leave me no choice but to one day bear a son out-of-wedlock to carry on the Bathenbrook name.”
Over the next two days, the jungle trek grew more arduous. They hiked around the waterfalls of Amatuk and Waratuck and required mules and push-poll rafts loaned from an Arawak Indian settlement. The river originated in the Pakaraima Mountains and midway thundered Kaieteur Falls. Alexandra managed well along the steep trail; her feet singing in her father’s gift of high-laced suede boots, custom-made in Venezuela. She felt at the peak of physical health and hungry for the challenge.
Despite the sapping heat, Archibald kept pace.
Natural hazards abounded, but hostile natives were of no concern. Alexandra photographed snakes whose venom incapacitated so quickly, they were nicknamed “two-steps” and colorful poison dart frogs. Tea breaks took a backseat to drinking water hidden within capadulla vines. At some point along the Potaro, Alexandra returned to the Amazon. She had beaten George Dyott, who, according to radio reports, remained in Rio de Janeiro caught up in red tape.
If a telegraph office existed anywhere near, she’d send to him a two-word message: Stuff it!
That night, they camped a mile from the falls—beyond its view, yet within earshot of its thunderous abuse of the earth. They woke before sunrise, wanting to reach their objective in the first glimmers of daylight. They made quick progress along the stony riverbed carrying light packs... and there it stood supreme.
Alexandra freed her Leica-1 camera and looked up in wonderment. The waterfall loomed four times the height of Niagara and twice that of Victoria, measuring out to 750 feet of heavy flow from its single-drop plunge to its first break. Its waters thereafter cascaded over foundation rocks, which lent to a permanent mist and effervescent rainbow spanning over the jungle-laced backdrop. Dozens of Makonaima birds flew into the plunging water to get to their hidden nests.
“Its name comes from the Patamona Indian phrase ‘old-man-fall,’” a guide said. “Legend holds a tribal chief named Kaie saved his people from the Cariban by sailing over its edge in a canoe to placate their foes creator god, Makunaima.”
“Kaie take life not to please Makunaima,” an Arawak porter stated in English. “Kaie take life to scare Kanaima from body.”
The guide related Kanaima was a Carib spirit that possessed people. They all basked in its presence, whatever its true backstory. Alexandra found the waterfall a stunning vision of destiny. They had vowed to one day return and made it so.
The guides offered to take them to its summit, but the ten-hour round trip over difficult terrain lent Alexandra to decline. She would not go alone, and it would be foolish to press her father any further. They were neck to neck in their scorecards, with the prize bird yet spotted. She glimpsed colorful movement in the trees off her left shoulder. Perched on a limb, flaunting its disk-shaped crest that lent semblance to an orange penis, was a cock-of-the-rock.
Archibald remained unaware. There comes a time in every child’s life when they are the ones throwing the games for their parents. To bring it to her father’s attention, Alexandra removed her slouch hat and shook out her hair. “I’ve made a muck of all the hard work put into me. How bad does it look, Father?”
“You’re as spry as the morning,” he said. His eyes burst wide, and he lifted his field glasses. “And I’m afraid you’ve fallen a close second to your old man.”
“Bravo!” She primed her camera. “A battle well-fought and won.”
After pictures of the bird and members of the party posing amidst such a magnificent backdrop, the guides went downriver to catch fish for dinner. Alexandra walked closer to the pooled basin, dropped her rucksack, and removed her boots. She hopped across the final slick rocks to bathe in cooling mist. The roar was deafening. She returned to her father, a cleansed and saturated daughter, at peace with life.
“Shall we try next for Everest?” Toweling off, she quipped, “When I post these photographs in my office and people ask why, I shan’t need to answer, ‘Because it’s there.’”
“I viewed Everest while in Tibet,” Archibald recollected, removing his pith helmet to wipe clean his brow and neckline. “Those were days when I was still in fine fettle, before you were born.”
“Yes, 1904...” Alexandra stopped drying her hair. She’d never quite found the opportunity to finagle confirmation he had returned to Montana by December of that year. She had convinced herself it to be true, but... Archibald looked to be in a panic.
“Are you truly my father?”
He held no need to respond. The resignation on his face and forlorn silence was telling enough. “I should have told you long ago, but how does one find the courage?”
Alexandra wavered in her stance, devastated. “As I never found it to ask, and you never found it to tell, white feathers all around.”
Ernest Hemingway had shared that upon being hit by shrapnel, he sensed his spirit leave him, only to return. Alexandra felt her own flee, but her identity failed to survive the round trip. People abandoned their names, yet what to do when the name deserted you?
“No need to get into the thick of it just now. I have loved you as my own and cherish that you see in me someone worthy to emulate.”
“If I were to bear a son, he won’t be a Bathenbrook.” Alexandra lifted her eyes to him. “Just as we have, we can pretend. It has all been pretend.”
—‡—
IT HAD BEEN A LONG, silent return to Woodbine House. Alexandra had punished Archibald with indifference, nothing more, and even she pitied him for having to endure such a callous reproach. The sun patio in the evening was her own. Oliver Martin had sent telegrams from London, and Alexandra started to overview them to plot out her travels. Guiana was not a busy steamer terminus, and though desirous to depart, she’d not fall to temptation and set sail in any which direction just to get away. She was already adrift.
The United Press wanted her to go to Nicaragua to cover the American military’s skirmishes with Sandinista rebels; one of many Central America entanglements that the newspapers termed “Banana Wars.” The International Olympic Committee was so impressed with her work in St. Moritz that they were offering an opportunity for her to photograph the upcoming summer games in Amsterdam.
“May I join you?” To her non-reply, Archibald took a seat. “Your mother married me to be free of her family. We shared many good years of traveling. You’re not the reason our marriage came undone.”
Alexandra lifted her eyes, not wanting it to linger any further. “Do you know who my father is?”
“Yes. Your late uncle, Gaspard de Chantraine. Your mother was engaged to him when we eloped. To return to her family, honor needed to be satisfied. Your Aunt Adelaide is barren. She craved a child with pure Monvoisin bloodlines. Your mother served as a surrogate, but when the time came, Adelaide no longer wished to be a parent. So, all our wealth is because of you. I’ve long since forgiven Larisa, as she has pardoned my many dalliances.”
Alexandra lit a cigarette. She had never met her uncle, but portraits had revealed a tall, fair-haired man of noble lineage.
“So, what port-of-call awaits you, Archibald?”
“You are not a cruel person. It is unbecoming.”
“I no longer know what sort of person I am.” She sighed. “Since leaving Mother, I’ve found my footing. My anxieties have lessened. I’ve improved my bladder control and rarely stammer. I’ve built a purpose to see the world beyond mere escape from everyday life. You have been my lone pillar since Thomas died, and the last person I expected to kick my legs out from under me.”
“Then it is my duty, my highest privilege, to help Alexandra Illyria Bathenbrook back to her feet.” He extended his hand. “With all the love and shared hopes of a father to his daughter.”
She accepted the lifeline. “You never returned for me.”
“I should have,” he acknowledged, “but your mother made it clear she would announce in the court proceedings you were not mine to take. She so wants to be a baroness, but I ask that you forgive her neglectful manner. She had a much harsher upbringing than you.”
“I stand by my advice to divorce. Find a woman that can give you a son and true happiness, but don’t you dare have another daughter.”
The waitstaff returned, holding a tray with further telegrams on it. Alexandra moved aside the table’s lantern and took them in hand after thanking the man.
Alexandra opened the first of the three to read...
Request you meet party in Cuiabá before 25, May. — G. Dyott
“They want me to go to Brazil!” she breathlessly shared. She ripped open the second and third.
Stipend forwarded to join Fawcett Expedition. — NANA
Steamer Georgetown to São Paulo. 23, April. — O. Martin
“The North American Newspaper Alliance is sponsoring me. A ship leaves in two days!” Alexandra looked at Archibald, her face aglow and spirit reignited. “Whatever should I do, Father?”
He did not share her enthusiasm but smiled for her. “We’ll discuss what jungle provisions you’ll need over tea and scones at the polo match tomorrow.”
She rubbed his hand. “Sounds smashing!”