Where Tigers Are at Home (51 page)

The eighth and last ancestor was the priest. And he came out of the water with his book in his hand, and he was as sterile as a castrated pig. So the Creator commanded him to stay with the Whites, and that is why we knew nothing of the existence of the priests until they came with you from the East. At the fifty-seventh house the men were grown up and they could start to shorten the rites. Thus the twins continued to people the rivers until the sixty-seventh house, down toward Peru, then returned to the fifty-sixth, the one from which men had first appeared on earth
.

“You, the Whites,” Aynoré went on, “you go into your churches and you talk about your lousy god for an hour; we, the Indians, go into the jungle and talk
with
ours, with all our gods, for whole days …”

By carrying out the ceremonial rites, each house had its own function and each could finally occupy the world, just as the armadillo fills its shell
.

That is the way our ancestors spoke. But the work of the Creator did not go on forever, for there were three great disasters: two fires and a flood. And each time Ngnoaman had to start again from scratch. After the flood he established a fourth mankind, the one we are part of, and declared, “It’s too much work for me to redo everything each time. From now on, I will leave men in peace, they’re plenty big enough to punish themselves … And that is the story of the great start, the origin of the first beginnings.”

Moéma couldn’t think anymore, so vivid were the colors lighting up her night. The Garden of Eden really had existed, somewhere between the tropics and the equator. “You are the whirling woman of the whirlwinds, you are the woman who rumbles, the woman who rings, the spider, the toucan and the hummingbird …” She didn’t know whether Aynoré said that or simply
thought it, but when they made love on the deck of the jangada, among the stench of brine and fish, their bare skin spattered with sand, and she concentrated on the elastic center of their yoked genitals, she thought she could grasp all the words of this flowing language, of this constant murmur that finally reconciled her with men:
Nitio oatarara, irara. Mamoaùpe, jandaia, saci peirerê?
We have time, honey-eater … Where do you come from, little yellow parrot, nocturnal sprite?”

At the same moment, up in the bluish semidark of the cabin, Thaïs leaned out of her hammock to be sick.

Zé had brought him back to the favela very early, before setting off on a delivery trip that would last three days. By seven in the morning Nelson was already at his post where the Avenue Duque de Caxias and the Avenue Luciano Carneiro crossed. Impervious to the nauseating stench of the exhaust fumes—fuel made from cane-sugar alcohol, on the contrary, used by a considerable number of cars, left a pleasant scent in his nostrils, as if all the inhabitants had taken part in a massive booze-up the previous evening and were exuding
cachaça
from every pore—deaf to the cacophony of horns and the roar of the engines, Nelson went about his begging with the casual assurance of a true specialist. Toward nine, when the stream of motorists going to work was replaced by taxis and vans, he went to the
beira-mar
to work on the tourists who were starting to venture out of their hotels. His feelings for them were a mixture of contempt and pity: contempt for their arrogance of holidaymakers with nothing better to do than to waste their dough on pointless purchases, and pity for the palefaces, flayed alive by the scorching sun, making them look like people
with third-degree burns rather bewildered at finding themselves without their bandages. Unlike the lepers, whom hardly anyone went near out of instinctive repugnance and fear of contagion, or even the legless cripples and the blind who were less mobile than he was, his handicap was useful: just as it allowed him to attack cars, it made it possible for him to storm the entrances of luxury hotels, and even if he did have to use a bit of cunning not to get thrown out by the commissionaires—some of whom turned a blind eye to his game for a percentage of his takings—it was rare for tourists, taken by surprise as they left the Imperial Orthon Palace or the Colonial, not to quickly give a few coppers to blot out this disturbing piece of bad taste in a day devoted to pleasure.

It was almost midday when Nelson decided to take the bus to Aldeota, the posh district of the town. Not that there was any chance of getting a single cruzeiro there—the rich were barricaded in their fortress-like villas and it was teeming with vigilantes, often more dangerous than the cops themselves—but Zé had finally given him the address of the garage that had acquired the Willis. He intended to ferret around a bit up there.

At the José de Alcanar Garage Nelson observed an employee half-heartedly polishing a radiator grille; taking advantage of his inattention, he slipped under one of the cars parked inside the garage building. A Mercedes agent, the owner had specialized in classic cars. Nelson’s eye was caught by a splendid front-wheel-drive Citroën whose polished chrome parts seemed to him as beautiful as monstrances. Crawling under the cars with the litheness of a Sioux, he reached the shelter of the Citroën without mishap and, stretched out on his back, his nose glued to the rear axle, closed his eyes the better to savor the smells of oil and rubber.

He couldn’t have said how much time had passed when he was roused from his half sleep by loud claps. “Hello! Is anyone there?” said a deep, imperious voice.

“
Sim senhor
. I’ll be right with you,” the garage-hand replied.

“I’m
Deputado
Jefferson Vasconscelos. Go and fetch your boss, I want to see his old cars.”

“Right away, sir. Have a look around, he’ll be here in a moment.”

Nelson heard the garage-hand run off and, a few seconds later, the steps of the garage-owner hurrying to see his customer.

“Floriano Duarte, at your service, sir. Pleased to meet you,
senhor deputado
.”

“Yes, yes …” came the irritated voice of the member of parliament. “To put it briefly, I’m in a great hurry. I promised to buy my son a car for his eighteenth birthday and he’s taken it into his head to ask for an old model instead of the Golf I was going to give him, and I can’t get him to change his mind …”

“I know how it is, sir. It’s impossible to go against fashion and young people are crazy about those cars and, with all due respect, I think they’re right. And I’m not saying that just because I sell them, mind you, since I also sell Mercedes. Modern cars look like suppositories or, at best, like bars of soap: bathroom design, no imagination, no beauty. It’s as if all the manufacturers are in it together. Whereas in the old days they used to deck them out like carriages, like cathedral altars! And I’m not just talking about your Hispano-Suizas, your Delahayes or Bugattis, mind you—look at the Plymouths, the Hotchkisses, the Chryslers. People pamper them, exhibit them in museums like works of art while they’re still working, often better than lots of others! This model, for example. Please, come and have a look.”

Two pairs of feet came up to the car under which Nelson was hiding. He immediately identified those of the
deputado
by the perfect cut of his trousers over his polished casuals. He could touch them if he stretched out his hand.

“A 1953 front-wheel-drive Citroën. Look at this little jewel! Six cylinders, fifteen hp, floating engine with wet-lined cylinders,
eighty miles an hour in twenty-seven seconds! What do you say to that? Come closer, no need to be afraid! Now tell me honestly: doesn’t that scream class, style? Look at the curve of those wings, of the bumper. A Volkswagen and a marvel of engineering like that—there’s simply no comparison! It’s more than just a car, it’s a symbol, a way of life—”

“I’m sure you’re right,” the
deputado
said, the nervous tapping of his foot indicating his irritation, “but I’ve not come here to buy a symbol, I just want a car that will keep going without breaking down every five minutes. You see what I’m getting at, don’t you?”

“Do you know what this model was called,
senhor deputado
?” Duarte said, in offended tones. “ ‘The Queen of the Road’! I don’t know if you realize what that means. During the last war the Germans requisitioned all of them; believe me, they did thousands of miles without the slightest hiccup. May I remind you that it’s engines like this that did the
Croisière Jaune
from Beirut to Peking or crossed Africa.”

“Precisely,
senhor—
What did you say your name was?”

“Duarte, Floriano Duarte.”

“Precisely,
Senhor
Duarte, precisely. All these engines have done far too much. How many miles does this marvel of engineering have on the clock?”

“None,” Duarte replied proudly.

“What d’you mean, none? Are you putting me on?”

“Not at all,
senhor deputado
, I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ve completely rebuilt the engine using a batch of original parts: this car might well be old, but its engine is as
new
as if it was straight out of the factory. Your son can drive to Belém and back, if he feels like it, and I will guarantee he’ll have no problems. Not to mention the comfort,” he said, opening the door, “velvet interior trim, rebuilt suspension, plenty of room in the trunk. It’s a little gem,
senhor deputado
. Get in and see for yourself.”

Realizing his legs might be trapped if someone got in the car, Nelson twisted around so he would be able to escape at the last moment.

“I haven’t the time,” the other replied. “Let’s get down to the painful part: how much does it cost?”

“The same as a Golf,
senhor deputado
. Exactly the amount you intended to pay for that car.”

“The same as a Golf? For this pile of scrap metal? What do you take me for?”

“For a man who wants to buy his son a car while getting a bargain at the same time. I will guarantee this Citroën for three years, labor and parts included, and I promise to find you a buyer at the same price if you should decide to sell it. As you know as well as I do, a new car loses something of its value with every day that passes. With quality old models it’s exactly the opposite. Instead of squandering your money on a simple whim, you would be making a very good investment. And you should note that I’m doing you a personal favor with my guarantee: true collectors don’t demand anything like that, I can assure you. Only last week I sold a 1930 Willis without even seeing the purchaser. And it cost twice as much as the Citroën! It was Colonel José de Moreira who bought it from me, I’m sure you know him …”

“The governor of Maranhão?”

“The very same,
senhor deputado
. Not a man who was born yesterday as far as classic cars are concerned, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

Nelson almost cried out. That name above all names, held in such contempt he could hardly bring himself to speak it, associated with the Willis, hit him like an electric shock. His expression froze and the tears suddenly poured down in absurd, mechanical spurts. His hatred swelled until it enveloped the whole world in its inky whorls until even he was blinded by its opacity. For a
brief moment he saw himself as an octopus, a mollusk lurking in its shell of black metal, a shapeless beast throwing its tentacles around the legs of the garage-owner, drawing him into the morass of rancor that would reduce him to a pulp underneath the car. His limbs jerked convulsively, flecks of foam gathered at the corners of his mouth. When he came to himself again, just a few seconds later, there was only one thing in his mind: the name had been spoken, it was like a sign of his justification, a final exhortation to carry out the punishment.

There was no one around the car anymore so that Nelson could emerge from his hiding place unmolested. Risking a glance over the hood, he saw the garage owner and the
deputado
in deep discussion behind the glass door of the office. Reassured, he went to the part of the garage used as a workshop, rummaged through a toolbox beside a car that was being repaired and swiped a file before leaving. He had no trouble getting back out to the heat of the pavement and the comforting feeling of the softened asphalt under his fingers.

The sight was a shock for the wealthy lady with the elaborate makeup who passed him at that moment; she froze in front of him. The miniature dog she had on a lead started to yap, baring its teeth and bristling. With a vicious punch on its muzzle, Nelson transformed its hysterical barking into a high-pitched wail.

“
Não sou cobra, mas ando todo envenenando
,” he said menacingly, jutting out his chin at the woman.

As she ran off, clutching her dog, he burst out laughing and had a long pee, out there in the street, in the sunshine.

THE FAIR MEI-LI
greeted her husband by prostrating herself in the manner of the Chinese but the alchemist paid her no attention. Hardly had he entered the laboratory than he started to frown & pace up & down from one pentacle to the other, a concerned look on his face. He was going past the altar when an invisible force appeared to stop him going any farther, as if he could tell that the place had been the scene of a shameful act. He turned slowly around to face his wife & Sinibaldus.