Where Tigers Are at Home (54 page)

On the screen the final battle has started. Davy Crockett starts to retreat under the number of attackers, his companions falling one by one around him. In the burning fort the last barricade gives way under the repeated charges of the cavalry. “Adelante!” With fixed bayonets, a mass of hussars, a white cross on their chests, advances inch by inch, making the screen bristle. “Does that mean what I think it does?” a man gasps as he collapses onto a wounded soldier with a fur hat. “It sure does,” the other replies, looking the man who’s about to finish them off straight in the eye. Leaving the rampart, where he was firing the last cannon, Davy Crockett starts to run toward the powder magazine, his torch in his hand. Before going in, he turns round and a hussar takes advantage of his movement to nail him to the door with his bayonet. He pulls himself free, staggers for a moment … Despite his screams, you can still believe in a miracle, but there’s a large dark patch on his back, identical to the one on the wood of the door, just at the place where he had been. You see him make one last effort and throw his torch on the powder kegs then disappear in the magazine. Everything explodes, but you know very well that John Wayne has died for nothing
.

Without being capable of appreciating the ridiculous nature of the situation, Loredana sensed its absurdity: it was like a nightmare, one of those you get after eating too much or bringing home a bad report. Insidious and hostile, Father Montefiascone’s voice mingled with the tumult of the battle.

Jim Bowie, stiff leg stretched out on his bed in the ruined chapel where the wounded are sheltering. Watching over him is his old black
slave, given his freedom before the attack and whose first gesture as a free man was to face death to defend his liberty. A wave of Mexicans; the two men fire their guns: rifle, blunderbuss and pistols. The bayonets approach Jim Bowie, they’re going to run him through … No! The old slave has thrown himself over his master, the blades sink into this last shield. Body on body … His knife! Entangled with the corpse as he is, Bowie still manages to cut the throat of one more assailant. His face in close-up: the bayonets are stuck in the adobe either side of him. We see those that miss the hero, but we hear those that kill him: the cry of a stuck pig, a gurgling noise, retching, mouth open … Naked death, in all its ugliness
.

The world wasn’t full of sunshine anymore, it was gray, unjust, evil-smelling … a huge conspiracy since the beginning of time to bring about the death of Davy Crockett and his faithful companions. When the time came, Loredana heard herself confessing to a few venial sins then, in a toneless voice, in a silence broken only by the flapping of the flags, to having slept with her father.

The whole Mexican army standing to attention to salute the two survivors of the massacre: a mother and her little daughter riding on a mule, like Mary on the road to Bethlehem. They leave, defeated, pale images of misfortune and reproach, while stupid trumpets are sounding in their honor. When they pass General Santana—despite his cocked hat he’s the spitting image of Father Montefiascone—the mother cannot resist giving him a defiant look. The little girl’s stronger, she ignores him, him and his world. She’s beyond hatred and scorn. Ready for the Red Brigades …

“With your father!” the priest exclaims, turning toward her for the first time. Yes, with my father. Above all, don’t flinch, stand up to the interrogation with grandeur and dignity, ready to die like John Wayne and Richard Widmark. Yes, in his bed … That night when the village policeman’s house was struck by lightning. Yes, my mother was there as well … You’re too big to sleep in your
parents’ bed, Father Montefiascone said, reassured by this willing extension of the sin.
Dominus, abracadabrum sanctus, te absolvo
, it was over. “Sleeping” with your father, and even with your mother was allowed, for all the consequences it had: three
Ave Marias
, so why not, you left washed clean of the worst atrocities, without a glance at the bodies of Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie.

That evening Loredana had learned that man is a creature without shelter, exposed to injustice, suffering and decay. Having died for the first time at the Alamo, she had never afterward seen a monk or a soldier without mentally spitting in his face.

“
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!”

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.”

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.