The continuation of Johan Grueber’s report on Chinese medicine
THERE WERE EXCLAMATIONS and grimaces of disgust all around the table. Bernini swore by all the gods that he would never go to China for fear of falling ill & having to be treated there. Kircher nodded, invoking Galen & Discorides; as for myself, I prayed to God that this wonderful evening would never end, so delighted I was by the conversation.
“Bottoms up!” I was slightly surprised to hear myself saying. “To liquid excrement & to the wonderful virtues of diarrhea!”
“Bottoms up!” My companions replied before emptying their glasses.
“Now what would you say,” Father Grueber went on, “to looking at bone disease? A little concentrated urine from a three-year-old girl will get rid of it instantly. Diabetes? Make your patient drink a full cup of the same liquid from a public urinal! Loss of blood? The same, but eight pints! A dead fetus to be expelled? Two pints will suffice. Body odor? Apply to the armpits, several times a day.”
“Good Lord!” said Kircher, pinching his nose.
“Everything can be used, I tell you. And you’ve heard nothing yet. You should know that the Emperor T’ou Tsung used to cut his own whiskers to treat his dear Li Hsün, the ‘Great Scholar for the Exaltation of Poetic Writing,’ for their ashes are good for abscesses … A snake has bitten you & you have no snakestone, what can you do? Do not fear, twelve pubic hairs sucked for a long time will prevent the venom from spreading through your entrails. A wife is having a difficult birth? No matter, make her swallow fourteen other hairs mixed with bacon fat and she will have a swift delivery—”
“What’s all this you’re trying to tell us!” Kircher exclaimed, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. “If you didn’t inspire me with absolute confidence, I wouldn’t believe a single word of what you’re saying.”
“And you would be wrong, for all I am doing here is repeating things that are common knowledge among all Chinese physicians.”
“If Father Roth could hear you!” Kircher chuckled. Then, putting on an angry look, he pointed a threatening finger at Bernini, he said, “Oh, how wise those pagans were who had a law forbidding a man of fifty to consult a doctor, saying it showed too great an attachment to life! Among the Chinese, as among the Christians, you will find some men of eighty who won’t hear a word of the other world, as if they hadn’t had a moment’s leisure to see this one. Do you not know that life was given to Cain, the most evil man that ever there was, as punishment for his crime? And you want it to be a reward for you?!”
“But one has to live, see the world,” Bernini replied, joining in the playacting, like a character who already knew his defense was weak.
“What is living, apart from getting dressed & undressed, getting up, going to bed, drinking, eating & sleeping, playing, jesting, haggling, selling, buying, masoning, joinering, quarreling, quibbling, traveling & roaming in a labyrinth of actions that are constantly retracing their steps & always being the prisoner of a body, be it a child’s, an invalid’s, a madman’s?”
“You’re forgetting something important, Father, something that would on its own justify my existence …”
“Vade retro, Satanas!” Kircher bellowed, his eyes sparkling with laughter. “One must see the world, you say, & live among the living. But if you should spend your whole life locked up in a prison & only observe this world through a little grille, you would have seen enough of it! What can one see in the streets apart from men, houses, horses, mules, carriages—”
“And women, Reverend Father … Fine-looking girls, nice little chickens that revive your appetite for meat.”
“Little hussies who stink of rotten fish! And courtesans who walk the streets like drunken fish and whose only virtue is often the pox, which sends you to the other world. O God, how empty our lives are! Is it for this that we are unfaithful to & break with the Lord, that we try to live for all those years that consist of nothing but foolishness, work & misery? Oh, my fellow Christians, be not like those babes that cry when they emerge from the blood and excrement to see the daylight & despite that do not want to return to the place whence they came!”
“Although—” Bernini murmured in ribald tones.
“Please!” I begged, red with embarrassment.
My three companions gave me mocking but affectionate looks. “Come on, Caspar,” my master said, “we’re only joking & I can assure you there’s nothing wrong in that. If we scoff at everything, poor Scarron said, it’s because there’s another side to everything. Laugh in the devil’s face & you’ll see him turn tail at once, for he knows very well he has no hold over those who can see the grotesque side of his nature.”
“But since the subject has cropped up,” Grueber whispered, turning to Bernini, “I will make no secret of the fact that there is a proven method of combating old age, at least from what my Chinese informant said. Man is in the air, he told me, & the air is in man, thus expressing the prime importance of the breath of life. Since this principle dwindles with age, it is, according to him, advisable to regenerate it by the addition of breath that is still young. To that end he regularly hired the services of a maiden or a youth to insufflate their surplus vitality into his nostrils, navel and male organ!”
“Good Lord!” Bernini exclaimed, highly amused, “if that’s all that’s needed, I can assure you that I have been obeying his prescription for a long time & without having noticed any other effect than an excess of weakness …”
The conversation between Grueber & Bernini continued in that tone, but I paid less attention; my master had a faraway look in his eye & appeared to be gathering his thoughts. I presumed he was a little weary, which would have been quite natural at that late hour. His attitude seemed to confirm this, since he soon left the table and went to a neighboring room. After some time, since he did not return, I went to him, walking with care so as not to give way to the dizziness that had seized me as I stood up. My master was standing by a bookshelf, apparently putting some books away, but when I came closer, I saw that he was aligning the spines meticulously. Despite my own confused state, it was something so unusual in him that I was immediately worried; a quick glance around the room only served to confirm my concern: in the grip of a strange obsession, Kircher had carefully grouped in decreasing order of size all the objects amenable to that kind of classification. Goose feathers, inkwells, sticks of wax, manuscripts—in a word, everything that could be found in a study—had been arranged in that order, an oddity that caused me profound uneasiness. You will understand my real anxiety, dear reader, when I tell you that my master, turning round slowly, looked at me glassy-eyed!
“The mind, Caspar,” he said in a toneless, faraway voice, “will always be superior to matter. That has to be the way things are, whether we like it or not, until the end of the world. You do understand, don’t you? Tell me you understand …”
To be honest, I was in such a state I would have understood much more difficult statements, so I hastened to reassure Kircher, while encouraging him to get some sleep. He allowed himself to be put to bed without resisting & I went back to join our two visitors in the other room.
“… that the Incas, the emperors of Peru,” I heard Grueber saying, “conferred the order of knighthood by piercing the men’s ears. I will say nothing of the women’s, since at all times & in all places that has been one of their greatest vanities. Which explains Seneca’s complaint that they had two or three times their inheritance hanging from each ear. But what invective would he have aimed at the Lolo women of Yunnan province, who pierce the extremities of their most intimate parts to attach gold rings, which they can remove or replace as they see fit?! And the truth is that the men do not show greater modesty, for they wear little bells, made of different metals, tied to their male organ or stuck between the flesh and the foreskin, and make them ring in the streets when they see a woman they like. Some take this invention as cure for sodomy, which is common in all areas, but I fail to see how it could prevent them from indulging in it.”
I took advantage of the pause to inform Cavaliere Bernini & his drinking companion of what had happened to my master. Grueber was not surprised for one moment; with a smile on his lips, he explained that the Quey herb sometimes produced this kind of confused state, but that it was not at all serious, it would have disappeared by the next day. The two of them apologized for having kept me up so late and left, wishing me a good night.
Their wishes, alas, had no effect. I had such nightmares that the harshness of my hair shirt was powerless to stop the succubae from paying me their shameful visits.
The next day, as Grueber had predicted, my master woke refreshed & full of energy. Mentioning the Quey herb, he assured me it had had no effect on him. Anyway, he told me, this remedy & those like it dispelled less our low spirits than our reason; that being the case, he could see no excuse for using them, neither for healthy minds, which ought to endeavor to increase the divine clarity within themselves rather than to reduce it, nor for madmen who already lacked it. Recalling the hellish dreams of the night that had just passed, I concurred in this condemnation with all my heart.
We returned to our studies while continuing to see fathers Roth & Grueber in order to collect their thoughts about China.
In the appearance of the comet, which we observed with the astronomers Lana-Terzi & Riccioli, we had cause to see an auspicious sign for the destiny of my master’s works and an ill omen for the infidels & other peoples of the Levant: the Mundus Subterraneus had just arrived from Amsterdam. This book, which scholars had been waiting for with as much impatience as they had in the past his Œdipus Ægyptiacus, prompted an extraordinarily enthusiastic response.
This thunderbolt was followed in June by the printing of his Arithmologia, the work my master had started immediately after his Polygraphia. Apart from an immense historical section devoted to the significance of numbers & their use in Greece & Egypt, it contained a clear and definitive account of the Jewish Cabbala, which he had learned from Rabbi Naphtali Herz ben Jacob, with whom he had assiduously studied the Sefer Yetzirah & the Zohar, the books containing that knowledge. His perfect knowledge of Hebrew & Aramaic had rendered easy for him a task that was well beyond my feeble abilities & I was pleased finally to understand what was concealed within that magnificent body of knowledge.
Finally, when the effect produced by those two books had not yet abated, the Historia Eustachio Mariana also appeared, in which my master recounted the circumstances under which we had discovered the Church of Our Lady of Mentorella & proved, step by step, that this church was indeed a place of miracles. Thanks to the contributions of numerous patrons who had interested themselves in the project, the work of restoring & refurbishing the church was completed in the same month. Desiring a worthy inauguration for this new place of pilgrimage, Kircher decided it should take place on Whitsunday with all due pomp and reverence. Pope Alexander VII having promised to go there to consecrate the church & give his blessing to the congregation, the whole of Roman society was feverishly preparing to accompany him on the journey.
If Eléazard had ever wondered whether Moreira was unworthy of the position of governor, the papers entrusted to him by his wife would have been enough to convince him. He could already feel the task he had accepted as weighing heavily on his shoulders—it’s sometimes a fine difference, he told himself, that separates a common informer from a righter of wrongs—but he had become too involved in this country and its inhabitants, too much of a fighter against all kinds of corruption and shady deals, to refuse the challenge. He would follow his conscience, without compunction and without hesitation. To see justice was done … Yes, but how? he wondered as he strode toward the Caravela Hotel.
“There’s something new,” he said to Alfredo when he ran into him in the vestibule. “We have to talk, all three of us. Where’s Loredana?”
“In her room. She almost fainted. Socorró told me she ate nothing for lunch.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t really know but she certainly doesn’t seem too well.”
Eléazard couldn’t say what was the real reason, but he felt it was essential to let her in on the secret. He sensed that the feeling of rebellion was stronger in her than in him but, paradoxically, more controlled. So he took the risk of disturbing her, going up to her room with Alfredo.
Loredana was just finishing putting on her makeup. Happy to hear Eléazard’s voice, she invited them in at once.
“You don’t look great, you seem—”
“I overdid the cachaça a bit, yesterday evening,” she said, “but I feel a lot better now.”
“Well hold on tight,” Eléazard said, putting Countess Carlotta’s photocopies on the bed. “Council of war! We’ve got the means to bring Moreira down.”
Two days ago the idea would have filled Loredana with enthusiasm but her world had been so completely turned upside down that she listened dispassionately to what Eléazard had to say.
“What a shit!” Alfredo said when Eléazard had finished going through the dossier. “We’ll get him for that. But we mustn’t mess up.”
“That’s precisely why I wanted to ask you two your opinion. It’s not that simple finding the best way to proceed.”
“We just have to go to the police with all those papers,” Alfredo said, immediately realizing he’d said something stupid. “Well perhaps not the police, you never know with them … How about the newspapers? We could tell them it’s his own wife the information comes from and …”
“And what?” Loredana asked quietly. “If the business is made public, they’ll have plenty of time to cover their tracks and kick up a fuss about a smear campaign. You don’t seem to know what they’re like …”
“If we can’t get our hands on the guys who committed the murders,” Eléazard said, “anything we can do won’t add up to much.”
“That’s better,” Loredana said. “Aim at the mulberry tree to get the locust tree …”
“Sorry?”
“Stratagem number twenty-six for battles of union and annexation. It’s a Chinese ploy, but what it comes down to is that we have to get at the governor through his lawyer. We have to start with his henchmen and since we have a good idea where they are …”
“I’ll make sure they talk, if that’s what you want,” Alfredo said in macho tones.
‘Please stop talking nonsense. You don’t happen to know a state prosecutor or a judge we can trust, I mean someone who isn’t in his pocket? That would make things easier.”
“There is Waldemar de Oliviera,” Eléazard said. “A young prosecutor in Santa Inês. I’ve interviewed him two or three times about cases, he’s an upright guy, he has a reputation of being incorruptible. But it doesn’t really fall within his remit …”
“He’ll do, at least to start the ball rolling. Now this is what I suggest …”
ONCE ALFREDO HAD left the hotel to inform his Maoist pals in the Communist Party, Eléazard and Loredana went back to Eléazard’s house. There they spent a few hours compiling several reports designed to reveal what had been going on; in them they exposed, with much supporting detail, Moreira’s speculation, divulged the series of events that had led to the murder of the Carneiro family and accused Wagner Cascudo by name of sheltering the perpetrators in his country cottage. The journalists were going to have a field day.
“What’s wrong with you?” Eléazard asked when they’d finished correcting the final version of the letter to the lawyer on the computer.
“Nothing, I’m just tired,” Loredana replied, pouring herself a glass of cachaça. “Black thoughts, it happens sometimes … You don’t get fed up of living in this country, do you?”
“Not really, no. I like the people here. With them, everything’s possible. They’re not carrying a lot of baggage, as they do in Europe. What have they got behind them, four, five hundred years of history? You’re going to find this very naive, but seeing them, I’m always reminded of Stefan Zweig’s little book: Brazil: Land of the Future … You’ve read it?”
“Yes, it’s not bad. Though having said that, I find it odd that a guy could write that of a country where he’d decided to commit suicide.”
“Actually, he died because of Europe, not because of Brazil. A bit like Walter Benjamin. They’re both men whose horror of fascism drove them to the breaking point. The people of their own countries sent them into depths of despair we can hardly imagine.”
“Where have you gotten with Kircher?”
“I’ve almost finished. The first draft, of course. But it’s getting difficult—things that can’t be verified, others for which I haven’t got sufficient material. The worst is that I’m starting to wonder what the point of all this work is …”
Reflectively he chewed away at the inside of his cheek.
“Stop that,” Loredana said, imitating him. “I’m sorry, but it’s irritating. What work, yours or Schott’s biography?”
“Both,” Eléazard replied, disturbed by her comment and by the effort he had to make to prevent himself from starting to chew his cheek again. “It’s a lot more complicated than I thought. How can you annotate a biography—above all, one that is so lacking in objectivity as Schott’s—without establishing another biography? If I want to piece together the real nature of the relationship between Peiresc and Kircher, for example, I can’t restrict myself to one or two comments taken from the correspondence of the former with Gassendi or Cassiano dal Pozzo. There’s no a priori reason to trust him rather than Schott or Kircher himself. To take it any farther I need to know the most minor features of their relationship, which means studying Peiresc’s biography as scrupulously as Kircher’s, then Gassendi’s, then Cassanio’s, et cetera, et cetera. There’s no end to it!”
“In the Chuang-tzu there’s a little story that puts what you’re saying in a nutshell: an emperor asks to have a very precise map of China drawn. All his cartographers take up their brushes apart from one, who sits quietly in his studio. Two months later, when he’s asked for the fruits of his labor, he just points to the view out of his window: his map is so precise because it’s on the scale of one to one, it’s China itself.”
“Borges mentions that too,” Eléazard said with a smile. “It’s a nice paradox, but what does it say? That there’s no point in doing anything? That you can’t write a biography of Kircher without being Kircher and all the others as well?”
“For me it’s clear,” Loredana said. “If it’s the truth that’s at stake, then that’s the price of precision. But a map, a biography or notes on a biography, perché no, the real question is: what is its purpose? If it’s a map—to go where? To invade which province? If it’s your notes—to prove what? That Kircher was an incompetent, a genius, or simply that you know a lot more about the subject than most of us? As you well know, it’s not the erudition that counts, it’s what it aims to show. A simple note a few lines long can hit the mark better than eight hundred pages devoted to the same individual.”
“Effectiveness as always, eh? You really are astonishing. I must admit I was very impressed just now: ‘we’ll do this, we’ll do that.’ Did you see the expression on Alfredo’s face? It could have been Eva Perón he was listening to!”
“People aren’t as stupid as you like to believe. Alfredo’s bright enough to be taken in, but he’s a more complicated person than he seems. The day you realize that, you’ll perhaps have fewer problems with Kircher … All right, I have to go back. I’m exhausted. You too, it would be a good idea if you went to bed early if you want to be in form tomorrow morning. You’ve got to go to Santa Inês, don’t forget …”
“You’re sure you don’t want to stay?”
Gently but firmly Loredana took Eléazard’s hand off her shoulder. “Absolutely sure, caro. As I said, I’m not feeling well.”
“Another of your Chinese stratagems, I suppose?” Eléazard said with a sad smile. “What number is that one?”
“Stop that, will you? You’re wrong—about me, about Kircher, about almost everything. A strategy is what’s left when morality’s no longer possible. And morality’s no longer possible when absolute values are missing. If you believe in a god or something like that, it makes everything so much easier.”
“You don’t think it’s enough to believe in man?”
“As an absolute value?! Every man has his own definition of Humanity, and with a capital H, if you please. In life, if you insist, in the totality of living things, but not in man, not in the one being capable of killing just for fun.”
“Also the one with awareness? At least as far as we know … What do you think of reason?”
“Awareness of what? Of himself, of his complete freedom, of the relative nature of good and evil? There’s not a single concept that can stand up to the fact that we have to die, and if there’s nothing after that, as we’ve come to believe, then everything’s allowed. Reason doesn’t produce any kind of hope, it’s hardly even able to give a name to our despair.”
“You’re taking a pessimistic view of things. I’m certain that—”
“I can’t go on,” Loredana broke in. “Another time, OK?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll see you back.”
On the way to the hotel Loredana stopped for a moment to watch the mist of fireflies lighting up the rectangles of a façade open to the night.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “It’s as if someone’s lit candles for a celebration.”
ONCE IN HER room, Loredana stretched out on the double bed, which hadn’t been made yet. Her hope of getting some sleep vanished almost immediately. She thought back to the ruins of Apollonia and to the magnificent moment when she had wanted to die, even though she had felt better than she did now. She had travelled to Cyrenaica with the avowed intent of going back to her earliest childhood for one last time. The Libyans who used to work with her father had aged, true, but less than her, to all appearances, for she had recognized them immediately while they had some difficulty putting the name of a boisterous little girl to this woman with the awkwardness of an adult. On the heights, Casa Parisi had now disappeared behind the eucalyptus trees, the same ones with which she used to amuse herself by pulling their trunks down so she could see them shake themselves in the sun when she let go. The modern town of Shahhat had deteriorated, as if it were in a hurry to match the ruins, to follow the dark voices of Cyrene and of the ancient necropolis on which it was founded. This tendency toward the vestigial was particularly noticeable in Marsa Susa, of which the Italian quarter, already dilapidated in her memory, seemed to have suffered a veritable bombardment. The customs building, the harbormaster’s office, the Hotel Italia, the cafés and restaurants with their shady terraces … all of that had vanished, or almost: inside the shells of the buildings—occasionally identified by a flaking syllable on the façade—herds of goats were capering, rummaging through the rubbish. There were wrecked cars or trucks everywhere, already half-buried in sand, apparently determined to become part of a dubious posterity. On the shore, all around the port, scraps of plastic bags were stuck to the ribcages of boats, standing, faded, on the shore like humpback whales in a museum. High up in its last dry dock a tug, perforated by rust, dominated the wharf. Young Arabs were enjoying themselves diving from the superstructure of a landing craft and three huge barges shipwrecked in the docks. Compared with this junkyard, the archaeological site of Apollonia seemed a model of town planning, of cleanliness: visible beyond the cemetery gate that closed off the port, just below the beacon, the shafts of Byzantine columns proclaimed a sort of Garden of Eden where she hastily took refuge. Although he had spent most of his time in Cyrene, at the works on the agora, it was in this haven of peace that she had her most pleasurable and moving memories of her father. The family came here every Friday, by the old road that snaked down between the sarcophaguses and tombs, now just loose stones in the thickets, to wind for a short while across the panther skin of Jebel Akhdar before suddenly plunging down, right at the bottom, toward the promise of the sea. In her mind’s eye she could see herself running over the beach with the smell of fresh bread in her nostrils, the joy of being alive that emanated from the sand and the sun, and which the call of the muezzin sometimes made swell to the very limit of what was bearable. In her clinging, white-satin bathing suit, suntanned like a movie star, her mother was reading under a hat shaped like a lampshade, and she just had to lift her head to see her father, sitting on the half-buried capital of a column or squatting down to clear out one of those mysterious foundations that would appear, as if by magic, under his trowel. Professor Goodchild would come over to say hello. He’d show his Italian colleague the progress made in his own excavation and always ended up inviting him to have a glass of bourbon in the old redoubt where the American archaeological team was based.
Nothing had really changed, except that her father wasn’t there anymore, nor Goodchild, nor the others, and that profoundly modified her view of things. Only the ruins had remained faithful to the child she had been, with that unfailing faithfulness shown by dogs and tombs.
She had waited for Friday before revisiting the site, waited with the same impatience, the same painful desire that had taken hold of her in her childhood when they’d been loading her mask and her flippers in the back of the jeep. The track of the narrow-gauge railway could still be seen, here and there, between the red earth of the molehills. Seen from a distance with their regular lines of columns, the three basilicas had made those “poky little holes” appear over the horizon, those poky little holes that had made Professor Goodchild frown:
“Poky little holes! My basilica’s poky little holes! Well, really. You good-for-nothing child, I’ll tell Miss Reynolds when she comes, you know, and what will you do then?”
The one memory alone had made all the rigors of the journey worthwhile.
When she came to the old theater at the far end of the site, she sat down for a moment on the top tier, at the very same place her father preferred. Down below, just beyond the stage, the sea was so calm, so transparent that one could clearly make out the geometrical shapes of the submerged ruins. To the right of the stalls, a bushy palm tree had found room to grow between the blocks of stone. Quite close to her, on the dazzling limestone, a tiny chameleon was regarding her with magnificent disdain. Looking at it, she had told herself there would never be a more fitting occasion: now, on the point of noon, it was time to bow out, to cut her wrists and wait quietly until she resembled that little animal that seemed to concentrate the whole of the sun’s heat in itself.
She would die far from her home town, far from Rome, so pleasant in the spring when sudden warmth finally releases your drowsy body. When you stop hearing the din of the vehicles going around the Coliseum and the ill-tempered whistles of the carabinieri. With every step a bud is revealed, then another, and another. Young street vendors get drunk on their broken voices. The alleys resound with the amazement of sparrows. On Piazza Navona the water beneath the Nile is singing …
Yes, she had thought, as she made one of the most beautiful sentences ever written her own, that was what she wanted, to die slowly and attentively, in the same way as a baby sucks at its mother’s breast.
Then a flight of pink flamingos had crossed the sky above some islands, a truly pink cluster of those large, gangling birds. The splendor had been like an electric shock to her. Something had been scrawled on the horizon ordering her to wait longer, to watch these performances life had in store for her to the very end.
Instead of cutting her wrists, she had gone down to the center of the stage and, facing the terracing, had declaimed the only poem she knew by heart:
In questo giorno perfetto
In cui tutto matura
E non l’uva sola s’indora,
Un raggio di sole è caduto sulla mia vita:
Ho guardato dietro a me,
Ho guardato fuori,
Nè mai ho visto tante et cosi buone cose in una volta …
Loredana opened her eyes and looked at her watch: more than five hours till daybreak. She felt guilty about Eléazard. The thought of having to explain herself had made her withdraw at the last moment, but she’d been close to telling him she was going to take the first flight to Rome. She wondered what memories he would have of her brief intrusion in his life. Four years ago she would have tried to make a go of it with him. He was reassuring, solid, even in his way of questioning things …
AFTER A CLOSER analysis of the terms used, Wagner put the anonymous letter in his personal safe. The letter might be just a friendly warning, but it still represented a threat: that someone could know so much about his implication in the triple murder, which was its main topic, came as a shock. As his unknown informant advised him, it was time to take steps before his complicity became general knowledge.
Leaving a secretary to look after the office, Wagner Cascudo jumped into his car. During the drive he kept asking himself what he should do with the hired men who were holed up in his country cottage. Those two cretins had dropped him in it and right up to the neck! The thought that the police might find them made him break out in a cold sweat. He’d just told them to lean on Carneiro to get him to sign the deed of sale, at worst he was looking at a charge of collusion. Unless those morons took it into their heads to accuse him to save their own skins … He had to get them out of his cottage as quickly as possible. What could he have been thinking? And he’d thought himself so clever to hide them in the sitio … He’d stick them on the first bus to Belém and then they’d see. And as soon as he was back in Fortaleza he’d ring the governor. He’d be very surprised if he didn’t manage to sidestep the issue, perhaps he’d even be able to stop the newspapers publishing the devastating article the letter had mentioned …
When, two hours later, he reached the sitio de la Pitombera, he’d almost persuaded himself he had things under control again. When he pushed open the door of the little cottage that, unknown to his wife, he only used for amorous escapades, he found Manuel and Pablo sitting at the table with a bottle of wine.
“Get your stuff together,” he said immediately, “we’re leaving —” It was only after he’d spoken that sentence, which he’d repeated over and over to himself during the last few miles of the journey, that he realized from their evasive looks that something was wrong. At that same moment armed police burst into the room.
OF ALL THE things that happened following this, the only one that Loredana doubtless hadn’t foreseen was the local population’s reaction to the three Americans in the Caravela Hotel. On the day when she came back from São Luís with the ticket for her flight confirmed by Varig Airlines, she met Eléazard and Soledade to attend the funeral of the Carneiro family. It was a rainy morning, making the sad occasion even more dismal. Hundreds of people had come to join the procession organized by the priest of Alcantâra. As it passed, people opened their doors and windows to allow free access to the souls of the dead.
“Give them rest eternal!” a relative or friend would cry. “And light perpetual, O Glorious One. Help them to die!”
And they dropped everything to come out and join the funeral cortege.
“Come, brother of their souls!” the crowd would repeat to welcome the one who’d just joined them.
No one was crying, so as not to make the wings of the little corpse wet and thus stop him from entering paradise. Nicanor! Gilda! Egon! They called on the dead by their Christian names to make them feel lighter in their deal coffins. Lamentations of grief to help the deceased to die, lamentations in the hour of death, lamentations at the moment the cock crowed for the last time, lamentations on the dawn in which the inert parts of the body and every item of clothing are chanted: songs of mourning and litanies flow in one single lament, the echo reverberating from the ruined façades of the town. A long, ochre groan, rust tarnishing the steel of the sky. The men were getting drunk, a drummer was summoning the rain.
Eléazard suspected Alfredo was behind what happened when they got back from the cemetery. Rumors went from mouth to mouth, excitement took over. Like a shoal of fish responding to the strange magnetism governing their least movement, the whole crowd gathered in the square, outside the Caravela Hotel. “Yankees out! Death to the CIA!” An almost mystical frenzy twisted their lips, raised their fists. They thought the three Americans had barricaded themselves in their room, but Alfredo saw them coming back from a bar and approaching the mob with no idea that they themselves were the cause of the commotion. A stone flew, immediately followed by dozens of other projectiles. The man put his hand to his face and stared in amazement at the blood on his fingers. Hardly restrained by the priest, who was exhorting them to remain calm, the people of Alcântara advanced toward the object of their fury. Instinctively the Americans drew back, then started to run, panic-stricken, toward the landing stage. The Dragão do mar was preparing to cast off and the people let them take refuge on board without pursuing them further. Hurrying to the scene, those who had gone into the hotel threw the foreigners’ suitcases toward the boat—not properly closed, they burst open before they reached it. The sea was covered with female clothes and items of underwear, which sent the kids clustering the bank into howls of laughter.
Watching the boat disappear, Loredana said, with a sigh of resignation, “I suppose it was bound to end like that …”
“It’s nice to see, all the same,” said Eléazard, misinterpreting what she had said. “Anyway, they got away, though it was a close shave. Did you see all those panties?”
“I saw them,” she said with a smile. “To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten those clowns …”
Eléazard looked at her, slightly surprised. Her expression showed the kind of embarrassment, tinged with a feeling of unease and vulnerability, that precedes a confession. Later on, when he was going through his memories, he would regret not having embraced her at that moment. It would doubtless have changed the course of events.
“So what were you going to say?” he asked gently.
“It’s not because of the suitcases,” was her enigmatic reply. “There’s not much left of a story when it’s finished. Stuff floating on the sea, like after a shipwreck …”
Still not looking at him, she felt for his hand and took it in hers in a way that was quite natural.
“We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“More than that,” Eléazard said, trying to conceal his emotion, “you know very well …”
“If one day I need you … I mean, if I call for help, from the depths of … You’ll be there?”
Eléazard took this unusual request with the seriousness it deserved. He gave Loredana’s hand a squeeze to let her know he would answer her call, whatever happened. Overjoyed to finally see her with her defenses down, he didn’t realize that that was the very moment when she needed him. Perhaps it would have taken no more than that flash of understanding to keep her there, to stop her from turning those moments of silence on the planks of the landing stage into a farewell. Perhaps she wouldn’t have changed her decision, but how can one know? He was afraid of offending her if he took her in his arms, afraid of appearing indiscreet if he asked about the reason for her sadness, afraid of irritating her if he told her that her anxieties were not worth the bother and that life was there and he loved her.
Together they waited for night to fall over the sea. Then she felt cold, because of the drizzle, and said she wanted to go back. Hand in hand they walked toward the square. Neither of them said a word, they were so choked with emotion and sure they would burst out sobbing. As they parted, she kissed him on the lips; Eléazard watched her go to the hotel without for a moment suspecting that they would never see each other again.
Going up the steps to the Palacio Estadual, Colonel José Moreira noted the sheepish expressions of the porters who stood at attention to salute him. Everyone knew already … Rats leaving the sinking ship! But surely they didn’t think he was going to let them go ahead without taking countermeasures. Quick enough when asking for handouts, but when it came to defending their boss, there was no one there … OK, that was the way the game was played, as he knew better than anyone. I’m going to show them, he told himself as he forced himself to smile at all and sundry, that people don’t defy me and get away with it. When he entered his office, briefcase under his arm, even Anna was favored with a pat on the rump. Good thing he hadn’t waited until he got to the palace to read the papers! At least he’d been alone when he’d received the shock, in the rear of his car, with no need to put a bold face on it for these hyenas. He’d also had enough time to work out a strategy for a counterattack. Having said that, the bastards who’d compiled the dossier against him had done an excellent job. Certain details were only known to a very limited number of people, they couldn’t have come out without collusion from someone close to him. You could never be too cautious … One day the guy who’d done this to him would be on his knees, begging for mercy.
“The press review is on your desk, sir,” his secretary said, trying to sound businesslike but unable to restrain a note of satisfaction. “The minister of justice, Edson Barbosa, Jr., called and asked you to call back as a matter of urgency. There’s also a news team from TV Globo asking for an interview. I’ve put the journalist’s card in your diary.”
“Thanks, Anna,” he said, placing both hands flat on his desk. “Cancel all my meetings for this morning, I don’t want to see anyone. Tell Jodinha and Santos to come here as soon as they arrive.”
“They’re already here, Governor.”
“Good.” Moreira looked at his watch, yes, even those two were in early today. “I’ll see them at ten, I’ve a few telephone calls to make and I don’t want to be disturbed before then. For anything that doesn’t concern merely administrative matters—you see what I mean, don’t you?—you’ll steer them toward the press secretary.”
“What shall I say to the television people?”
Moreira’s first impulse was to send them away, but then he thought it would be a good idea to issue an official denial of the accusations. “Eleven o’clock, after the meeting. They can set up in the meeting room now if that suits them.”
The governor waited until she had closed the door before he dialed the first number, that of the state’s Department of Political and Social Order. “Is that Superintendent Frazão? Moreira da Rocha here … Yes, Superintendent, yes … I was one of the last to hear about it and I’m not very happy about that. How could such a blunder have been made? You have good reason to make yourself agreeable to me, if I remember rightly … No, no excuses, it’s facts I want, Superintendent, facts! Who’s responsible for this fucking mess?… What was that? Waldemar de Oliveira …” He noted the name down to remind himself. “Where’s he been all the time? OK, OK, I understand … And my lawyer, Wagner Cascudo?… But what do you expect him to say, for God’s sake? He’s done nothing wrong … How much has bail been set at? Two hundred thousand?… Yes, I’m listening … I’ll do the necessary … But of course I’m counting on you, Superintendent, and it’s in your own interest to tell me precisely what happens … I made you and I can unmake you whenever it suits me. Just remember that, Franzão.”
He slammed the receiver down and lit a cigarette. Whoever had set this up hadn’t pulled his punches. And he’d been so quick, for Christ’s sake! It was hard to believe … He had to get Wagner out of prison before the stupid bugger turned informer …
He called Vicente Bilunquinha, a young lawyer who owed him, amongst other little sweeteners, his membership in the Lions Club. “Good morning … Yes, a nice election stunt, they’re pulling out all the stops this time but they won’t get away with it, you’ll see … But while we’re on the subject, could you attend to our friend Wagner Cascudo? You’d be doing me a great service. I have complete confidence in you, you know that … Yes … I’ll send you the amount for bail by special courier … Exactly. Call me back as soon as he’s out and keep him snug. Be sure to tell him I’ll see to everything, he needn’t worry … A thousand thanks, Vivente, I’ll pay you back for this … With pleasure, of course. I’ll discuss it with my wife and get back to you … Ciao, Vicente, ciao. Ciao. To your wife as well, ciao …”
He’d hardly replaced the receiver when he started as the phone rang:
“Moreira here. Who’s that? Oh, it’s you, Edson … I was just about to call you … I know, yes, I know, but they’ve nothing they can use against me. It’s our political opponents, they’re just bluffing. It’ll all die down in a few days.… Don’t worry, I tell you, I’ve got things well in hand. I’m going to make a statement on Globo in an hour or so, just to clarify matters … There’s nothing in it, I assure you. It’s a complete fabrication. You know me, I wouldn’t do something like that … The speculation? That does exist, of course, Edson … As far as I’m aware we haven’t made a law against making a profit yet. On that point, forgive me for reminding you, but you’re hardly in a position to lecture others … That’s not what I meant, Edson, but if anyone comes looking for trouble, they’ll get it. Neither you, nor I, nor the Party stand to gain anything from all this fuss. Let me remind you that the elections take place in three weeks’ time, so I’d be grateful if you could have a look into this business. It’s in all our interest, as you very well know … Yes … De Oliveira, Waldemar de Oliveira … A little shit-stirrer from Santa Inês. I don’t know how he did it, but he’s managed to bypass all my officials here … That would be perfect, Edson. I’m delighted we speak the same language … OK, I’ll see to it and I’ll keep you up to date …”
Moreira threw himself back in his chair and exhaled slowly. A smile on his lips, he took deep breaths, like an athlete after a race. He’d got out of that nicely, and no mistake! If the minister of justice himself was going to look into the question then that Oliveira wasn’t going to have much of a future … He’d find himself in Manaus in no time at all! The counteroffensive had started, all that was left was to close off his links to Wagner and put any compromising documents in a safe place.… There was nothing sensitive about the resort project in itself. The reason he’d kept it secret so far was merely a matter of expedience. First and foremost he had to control the media; he was going to have to grease quite a few palms, but he could use the secret funds put aside for that very purpose. A couple of favorable editorials, get that prosecutor involved in a juicy sex scandal—he’d have to speak to Santos and Jodinha, surely his advisers could find some druggie to claim he shagged little boys—and by the time the guy had managed to extricate himself from the tissue of lies he’d be back in the saddle for another term … The governor felt he was growing claws. For the first time that morning he was optimistic about the future again.
“Moreira,” he said as he lifted the receiver. “Oh, it’s you, darling …” Suddenly he felt a hot flush down the back of his neck. “You’re not going to believe everything they say in the newspapers? Not you, surely? I swear to you I’ve nothing to … Carlotta! There’s no question of that, I refuse, d’you hear? I … Carlotta! Carlotta?”
For a moment he considered calling straight back. But it was better to give her time to calm down. He’d see that evening, at the fazenda. It really would be the last straw if she joined in … The fact that Mauro was missing was almost driving her crazy … A twinge in the region of the sternum told him he wasn’t going to be able to get her to change her mind. Not this time. For a moment he imagined life without Carlotta, then dismissed the thought, he found it such an insult to his sense of order and symmetry.