Where Tigers Are at Home (63 page)

Finally the man possessed by the god lay motionless, stretched out on his back, a Christ without his cross, a dervish released from his vertigo. They lifted up his body so that the mother of saints could remove his garb. And under the mask there was another mask, that of a man, jaw hanging loose, a blank expression on his face—the face of Alfredo.

Gilda awoke with a start at around three in the morning and listened to the noises of the house. The baby seemed to be whimpering. She waited a little, hoping it would go back to sleep. A persistent wail, the kind that comes with a sudden release after someone has held their breath for a long time, made her sit up in bed.

“What is it?” Nicanor grunted without opening his eyes.

“Nothing,” Gilda said affectionately. “I’ll go see.”

Reassured by his wife’s reply, Nicanor Carneiro immediately went back to sleep. He had been working hard for months without finding the time to rest and the birth of their first child hadn’t helped.

Fully awake now, Gilda disentangled her nightdress and trotted off to the other room. She was worried, Egon had never cried like that before, he must be ill. As she switched on the light, a hand was placed over her mouth, stifling her cry: a man, his face
distorted by a nylon stocking, was beside the cradle, facing her, the baby under his arm and a razor in his right hand.

“Not a sound, bitch,” the one who was holding her from behind whispered. “Do what you’re told and nothing’ll happen to him.”

She started crying with terror and at the sense of her own powerlessness. Her legs gave way. The point of a knife was pressed against her throat: “You understand? Call your husband. Just tell him to come, nothing else.”

She couldn’t utter a sound. The baby, purple, retching, was choking with terror. The man grasped her breast and tightened his grip. “Get on with it, you cunt, or I’ll stick this into you!”

Carneiro came running at his wife’s second scream. He stood there, hair tousled, his nakedness emphasising how skinny he was, looking as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.

“No time for sleeping,” the man in the hood who was holding his wife said, “we’re in a hurry. You’ve ten seconds to put your name to this piece of paper.” His glance indicated the pen and sheet of paper on the table. “You sign and we go; any quibbling and your fucking brat gets it first. Is that clear?”

“Leave them alone,” Nicanor said, his voice hoarse with anger, “I’ll sign.”

The man checked the signature: Nicanor Carneiro, folded the bill of sale and put it in his pocket.

“There, that wasn’t difficult, was it?” he said in satisfied tones. “All right then,” he went on, pushing Gilda toward him, “you can have your old woman back. She’s got terrific tits, you must have a great time, you lucky bugger. C’mon, Pablo, put the kid down, we’re off.”

The silence following this command seemed to stretch on and on. All eyes turned toward the cradle, where the man with the razor was clumsily shaking the inert body of the baby, as if trying to make it work again.

“Frankly, Carlotta,” the Colonel said as he put down his napkin beside his plate, “you’re worrying about nothing.”

They were finishing their breakfast out on the patio. There was a flush of sunlight behind the still-wet foliage of the bougainvillea. Carlotta had hardly slept all night, her pale, bleary face was that of an old woman.

“Mauro’s a big boy now,” Moreira went on, “and from what I understand, he’s with people who know the area. They must have found what they’re looking for and it’s made them forget the rest of the world. You know what they’re like. So no news is good news. If something had happened to them—and I really can’t see what—we’d know by now.” He poured the rest of the coffee into his cup.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Carlotta said, massaging her temples. “I hope upon hope that you’re right. But I can’t set my mind at rest, it’s stronger than me.”

There had been a call from the University of Brazilia the previous afternoon. Not having had any news of the expedition, the Geology Department secretary wanted to know whether Mauro had contacted his parents at all. With the new semester starting in three days’ time, the vice chancellor was getting increasingly concerned about the prolonged absence of his principal lecturers. When Moreira had come home, he had done his best to reassure his wife, his confidence only increased by his belief in the proverbial absentmindedness of scientists. Carlotta had seemed grateful for the effort he made and as a result the switch of the title deeds had gone ahead smoothly. She had even thanked him for the promptness with which he had righted the situation.

“I apologize for the scene I made the other evening,” she had added. “I don’t care about the money myself, but it’s for Mauro, for him alone … You understand?”

OF COURSE HE
understood. The Colonel gave his reflection a self-satisfied smile and patted his cheeks with Yardley lavender water. The “Countess of Alzegul” had apologized to him and the Willis was being delivered that day. It was certainly getting off to the best possible start.

Back in her room Carlotta started when she heard the telephone ring—Mauro! Something had happened to Mauro! But her husband had already answered the phone, so she didn’t say anything, anxious for news of her son.

“The Carneiro business is sorted, Colonel. He’s signed, I have the bill of sale here …”

“Good, very good,” Moreira replied. “I knew I could trust you, Wagner.”

Disappointed, Carlotta was thinking of putting the receiver down when the voice at the other end of the line faltered. “Colonel … How shall I put it … Things went wrong … There was an accident …”

“What do you mean, went wrong? Out with it, Wagner, I’ve got a meeting in half an hour and I’m not dressed yet.”

“The baby … well, from what they told me … the baby choked to death, just like that. When the father saw it, he threw himself on one of my men and managed to pull his hood off … They panicked … It’ll be in the papers tomorrow, Colonel …

“You mean they’ve been …”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence during which Moreira stared blankly at his bedside table, incapable of gathering his thoughts.

“You’ve no need to worry, Colonel, no one saw them. I’ve done the necessary, they’re safe, in my
sitio
, in the country, it’ll be absolutely impossible to link them with me, even less with you … Colonel? Are you still there, Colonel?”

“I’ll see you shortly,” Moreira said in icy tones.

A little later, when he knocked on Carlotta’s door, he was surprised there was no reply. He left without persisting and never realized that a mechanism had been set in motion that would continue inexorably to its final denouement.

THE STORY I
am about to relate is a marvelous example of divine omnipotence & shows how it manifests itself by unfathomable ways in the most virtuous of men.

After my master had knelt at his prie-dieu, he started to murmur in a plaintive & disjointed manner, as if he were answering someone & commenting, although laboriously, on the images flooding into his mind. I went over with the idea of helping him, but also of hearing what Our Lord had chosen to say to him, so that I could testify to it later. Kircher clutched my hand feverishly; his eyes were wide, moist & clouded, as you see on the pictures of saints, but he nevertheless appeared to recognize me.

“Ah, Cosmiel!” he exclaimed with delight, trembling all over. “I am so grateful to you for condescending to come to me …”

“I am merely obeying the All-powerful,” said a low, rumbling voice, grave, distorted & appearing to come from a metal throat.

I was frightened beyond expression, having in the past seen a man possessed through whom Beelzebub expressed himself in the same way. But I immediately recalled the name of Cosmiel & that calmed my fear somewhat: my master was only possessed by angels or, to be more precise, by the most noble & most learned of the heavenly host.

“Prepare yourself, Athanasius,” Cosmiel went on through Kircher’s mouth, “you have been chosen & you will have to show that you are worthy of this favor. For though the journey for which Virgil was the guide existed in Dante’s imagination alone, I have truly been sent by God to lead you forward in the knowledge of the universe created by His will. Come now, it is time to set off for infinite space. Open that window, Athanasius, and cling on where you can, while I spread my wings.”

“I hear & I obey,” Kircher replied in earnest tones.

He stood up & made his way unsteadily toward the window. I was afraid that he might be going to throw himself out—& that if he had done so I would have not held him back, so sure I was that his faith & the presence of the angel would have prevented him from falling, carrying him through the air much better than my artificial wings had carried me all those years ago—but he did nothing more than contemplate the star-studded night, as if transfixed by the vision of the heavens he was traversing together with Cosmiel.

From his repeated exclamations I soon realized that my master had reached the moon. He described it in the most minute detail, flying over its seas & mountains with exclamations all the time about the new things he was seeing.

After the moon Kircher went to the planet Mercury, to Venus, then the Sun, where I really believed he was going to
suffocate, such were his sufferings from the great heat there. After that it was Mars, of which Cosmiel maintained it was an evil planet, responsible for the plague & other epidemics on Earth; Jupiter with its satellites &, finally, Saturn with its rainbow-colored rings.

On each of the planets he visited, something no man had done before, my master was greeted by the angel or archangel governing its influence. Confirming the Scriptures point by point, he met Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel, Raguel, Saraquael & Remiel, who spoke directly to him to tell him about the sphere where he was.

Kircher’s astonishment reached its peak when he came to the Firmament, the region of the fixed stars. Far from being stuck onto a celestial crystal sphere, the innumerable stars moved in the same way as the planets: Aristotle, the prince of philosophers, had been greatly mistaken about the nature of the eighth heaven.

“Yes, Athanasius,” his guardian angel said, “every star has its own governing intelligence, whose task is to keep its movement within its proper orbit, thus preserving the eternal & immutable laws. Like all the creatures of God, the stars are born & die over the centuries. And the Firmament, as you can see, is neither incorruptible, nor solid, nor finite.”

I was trembling at the thought that someone other than I might hear these words. They expressed, without circumlocution, the doctrine of the plurality of worlds and the corruptibility of the heavens, a heresy for which Giordano Bruno had been burned at the stake a few years previously. A horrible torture that old Galileo had only just escaped, & for the same reasons, by agreeing to recant.

Kircher was shaken by long shudders, which even made his beard stand on end, but he did not appear to feel any fear. To be
honest, the longer he continued in the company of the angel, the more his face was radiant with intense happiness.

“Look, Athanasius, look carefully. It is at the very heart of this unfathomable abyss that the mystery of the deity is hidden. The soul alone can understand this mystery; for the moment be content with the immense privilege that has been granted you. Praise & worship God in all his blazing glory. Day is breaking, it is time for me to return to the first Choir of the celestial hierarchy. So until we meet again. You will not fail in your mission, for I will be with you.”

Then it was as if Kircher had been struck by lightning. He fainted and slumped down onto the tiles. I hurriedly shut the window before laying him on his bed & making him inhale some spirits of wine.

When he recovered consciousness, my master was in a high fever. Streaming with sweat, he was delirious for several hours without my being able to catch a word he was saying. I did not dare seek assistance for fear he might start upholding some heresy more dangerous for his health than this strange ailment to which he had fallen prey.

But, thanks be to heaven, after a fit of acute euphoria, Athanasius suddenly calmed down. His breathing became normal again, his eyes closed &, clasping his hands on his chest, he muttered a fable, which he assured me was translated from Coptic, stopping after each sentence, as if he were saying a prayer: