Where Tigers Are at Home (72 page)

Kircher had a mass said in memory of his friend during which he gave a sermon recalling Boym’s numerous works on botany while emphasizing the human qualities of a man who, from that moment on, could be looked upon as a martyr to the faith.

These reflections on the difficulties encountered by Boym in carrying out his mission made it necessary to have a report on developments in China, which Father Roth provided for us quickly, but leaving no doubt as to his familiarity with the material. To spare the reader tiresome details, it is sufficient to recall that the heir to the Ming emperors, his son Constantin & all his faithful followers, among whom was the eunuch Pan Achilles, were exterminated in 1661 by the Tartar armies of Wu San-Kuei in the province of Yunnan, where they had taken refuge. Since 1655 the Tartar Emperor Shun-chih, founder of the Ch’ing dynasty, had made great & ultimately successful efforts to establish his power in a China that had finally been completely conquered. An enlightened sovereign, patron of Chinese arts & letters, he had succeeded in restoring peace to his kingdom & governed with discretion a nation that hardly looked favorably on his race. From invader, he transformed himself into the defender of China &, what was very important for the Church, showed greater favor to our Jesuit missionaries than
any monarch before him, an attitude that allowed us great hope for the progress of the Christian religion in those distant lands.

Grueber, however, modified this idyllic report.

“What distressed me most,” he said, “was to see, while I was traveling upriver on a Dutch boat, the cruelty with which the Tartars treated the Chinese pulling our vessel, which was simply the result of the natural hatred between the two nations. To tell the truth, hatred is nothing but cold, pernicious malice; it’s always sitting on a few serpent’s eggs from which it hatches out an infinite number of disasters &, not content with pouring its venom over particular places & at particular times, goes to the ends of the earth & on to eternity. This teaches us that it is difficult to make a whole empire love a man, as if one were claiming one could start friendships by cannon fire. Don’t keep going on about a Nero, a Caligula, a Tiberius, a Scylla or other Roman emperors, don’t talk to me of the Scythians, the Etruscans & other nations who boasted of their cruelty. I can truly say that I have never seen anything more cruel, nor more perfidious than the behavior of the Tartars toward their wretched captives. I have seen those stony-hearted creatures smile at the terrible groans, even at the death throes of the poor Chinese worn down by hunger, blows & labor. You would say, Father Athanasius, that they were made up of instruments of torture or, rather, demons that had slipped into that beautiful kingdom to make it into a hell on earth. They think that the principal mark of their power is to squeeze the life out of those miserable bodies drop by drop; would it not be more secure & more useful for these proud conquerors to assuage the just rancor of their vanquished subjects, to adopt gentler habits, pleasures without such excesses, splendor without such deviousness & devotion without so many crimes and torments—”

Father Roth protested, accusing his colleague of exaggeration in the picture he had painted, but Kircher intervened to calm them down. “There are, alas, some loves and hates that one cannot put on & take off as easily as a shirt. Anger is more transitory, more specific, more seething & easier to cure, but hate is more deep-rooted, more general, more joyless & irremediable. It has two notable properties, one of which consists of aversion & flight, the other of persecution & harming. These degrees of hatred are so widespread in nature that they can even be found in brute beasts who, no sooner have they been born, than they are pursuing their enmities and wars in the world. A little chicken with its shell still stuck to it has no fear of a horse or an elephant—which ought to seem such frightening animals to those unaware of their natures—but it is already in terror of the sparrow-hawk & as soon as it sees one goes to hide under its mother’s wing. The lion trembles at the crow of the cock; the eagle hates the goose so much that just one of its feathers will burn the whole of a goose’s plumage; the stag persecutes the snake, for by breathing deeply at the entrance to its hole, it pulls it out & devours it. There is also eternal enmity between the eagle & the swan, between the crow & the kite, the mole & the owl, the wolf & the sheep, the panther & the hyena, the scorpion & the tarantula, the rhinoceros & the viper, the mule & the weasel, & between many other animals, plants or even rocks that are repugnant to each other. These harmful contradictions also exist among the idolaters & can be seen, you say, between the Tartars & the Chinese, but God has made it possible for us, in contrast to the rest of the natural world, to overcome these antagonisms & settle differences in a merciful way. And there can be no doubt that the progress of the Christian religion in the land of China will extinguish
these enmities just as thoroughly as water will destroy the immemorial hatred opposing wood to fire.

“But tell me,” he went on with a smile, “haven’t you brought back any curios from China that might help to lessen my ignorance about that realm and what there is there?”

Father Roth nodded his agreement, took a handful of dried plants out of his bag, handed them to Kircher. “Even though this herb, which they call
cha
or
tea
, exists in numerous locations in China, it grows better in some places than in others. They make a beverage with it that they drink very hot & its beneficial properties are widely known, since not only all the inhabitants of the great empire, but also those of India, of Tartary, of Tibet, of Mogor & all the regions of the Orient take it up to twice a day—”

Kircher gestured him to stop. “There is no need to go on,” he said in friendly tones, “for I already know this remarkable herb. I would never have believed it had so many beneficial properties if the late lamented Father Boym had not made me try it some years ago. As I have been taking it regularly since then, I can tell you that, having a purgative quality, it opens up the kidneys marvelously so that their ducts become very wide & allow urine, sand & stones to pass through; it similarly purges the brain & prevents smoky vapors from troubling it, so that there is not a more effective restorative for scholars & men who are so overloaded with business they are constantly compelled to burn the midnight oil: taking this herb not only helps them to bear their work & relieves their weariness, providing the strength necessary to go without sleep, it also gives so much pleasure to one’s taste buds that once one has accustomed oneself to its acrid & slightly insipid taste, one cannot stop oneself taking as much as one can. What we can say is that the
coffee
of the Turks & the
cocolat
or
chocolate
of the Mexicans, which seem to have the same effect, do not do so to the same extent, since
cha
has
a more temperate quality than the two others; we have noticed that
cocolat
is too warming in summer &
coffee
excites the bile to an extraordinary degree, which is not the case with
cha
, since one can take it at all times & with benefit, even if one were to take it a hundred times a day.”

Father Roth could not conceal his disappointment at not having been able to provide a surprise for my master. He still congratulated him and gave him the
cha
he had brought from India so that he could compare its flavor and properties with that of China, a present for which Kircher expressed his great satisfaction.

“I thought of you as well,” said Grueber, taking a little package out of his cassock. “Here is a paste made out of a certain herb of the province of Kashgar. It is called
Quey
or ‘the herb that banishes sorrow’ & possesses, as its name indicates, the quality of producing joy & laughter in those who have taken it. Even better, it is a tonic and stimulates the heart, a quality I have observed myself on numerous occasions when I was eating it to help me climb the steep slopes of Tibet.”

“It could be,” Kircher replied, “that we have a similar herb here, namely
Apiorisus
, & I would have no difficulty believing such a plant was to be found in that country, if it was said to be poisonous; but you say it is one of the cardiac plants that promote good health, which I cannot understand and will not subscribe to until I have tried it.”

“If you insist, Reverend, but you will have to mix it with jam or honey, since by itself it is unpleasant to the palate.”

At a sign from my master I was about to do the necessary when the gong sounded. By the communication tube the porter announced that Cavaliere Bernini was requesting an interview. Kircher had him sent up immediately, delighted at the thought of seeing his old friend again.

“To work! To work!” Bernini cried when he appeared on the threshold of the library. “Alexander has need of us.”

Kircher went over to him, not without apologizing to those present for the sculptor’s impetuous nature. “So,” he said, “could you tell me the reason for this deafening entry?”

“Of course, Reverend, nothing simpler. I have just heard, from a very reliable source, that the Supreme Pontiff, in imitation of the late Pamphilius, wants to erect an obelisk in Piazza della Minerva & has seen fit to involve us once more in the design of the project. I therefore came as quickly as I could to give you the news, knowing you would be as delighted as I am.”

“I am, indeed, very pleased, but are you absolutely sure of what you say?”

Bernini went up to my master and whispered a few words in his ear.

“In that case,” Kircher said, a joyful look on his face, “there is no doubt at all; I am delighted at your good fortune as well as at the trust the Holy Father has shown us. But let me introduce Father Roth & Father Grueber to you, they have just returned from China & I cannot hear enough of their adventures there …”

They’d been trotting along for two hours, escorted by the Indians who were following the trail marked by Yurupig. Elaine forced herself to talk to Dietlev; she sensed he was worried because of his continuing high temperature and tried to reassure him: “It’s almost over now, they must know the forest inside out, they’ll get us back much more quickly than we could by ourselves. There might even be a mission somewhere around here.”

Dietlev looked skeptical. “I’d give my right hand …” He paused, confused by the unintended relevance of the expression. “Well, perhaps not,” he went on with an apologetic smile. “Let’s say I would swear these people have never had contact with Whites.”

“Oh come on, that’s just not possible. Not round here, at least. What makes you say that?”

“In the reservations, and even in the forest, there are always some the missionaries have persuaded to wear shorts. But above all it’s the way they behave, the way they look at us … Did you see the way the machete caught their eye?”

Elaine was shaken by his argument. “You think they’re the ones who stole the rucksack?”

“There’s a strong chance they were,” Dietlev agreed. “They must have been watching us for a good while. Herman, have you any idea what tribe they might belong to?”

Petersen shook his head. “Not the least,
amigo
. They don’t look like anything I’ve seen in this part of Amazonia. I don’t know where they might’ve come from; if they’ve already seen a white man it’s so long ago they’ve forgotten.”

“When I think what some ethnologists would pay to be in our place!” Mauro said. “And your daughter would be one of the first, wouldn’t she?”

“That’s for sure,” said Elaine, turning toward him. “I wonder how she would have reacted? They scared the pants off me. Did you see the color of their mouths?”

“They chew tobacco.” Petersen said, “even the kids. It’s general among the Indians.”

“Well at least they seem to know where they’re going,” Mauro said. “That’s something to be grateful for.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Herman grunted, “it’s ages since I saw one of Yurupig’s marks.”

Carried away by the conviction that everything would be all right now, Elaine had paid no attention to the way they were going. She realized, at the same time as Mauro and Dietlev, that none of them could have said whether they were still going in the right direction.

“And it’s not even worth bothering trying to get our bearings,” said Dietlev in disgust.

“We should have kept the compass,” Petersen said in vaguely reproachful tones. “They’re taking us for a walk, that’s all.”

“You always look on the dark side,” Mauro said. “At least things can’t be any worse than before they turned up. They could have killed us ten times over if they’d wanted …”

That idea had never occurred to Elaine, even during the first moments of their encounter with the Indians. Now, when even Dietlev fully agreed with Mauro, pointing out how quickly they’d taken charge of the stretcher, Elaine was suddenly seized with retrospective fear that she could not overcome.

Ignoring their conversation, the Indians continued at a rapid pace, gathering herbs as they passed or collecting a handful of caterpillars, which they ate belching copiously and clicking their tongues.

No one had spoken for an hour when they entered a clearing where smoke was rising from a few huts made of palm leaves and branches. There were women, children and other Indians there who froze at the sight of the strangers, mouth open, their wad of tobacco almost falling out. They looked, unable to believe their eyes, at these unnatural animals the hunters had brought back from their expedition in the forest. A long murmuring was heard, then an imperious yap that made all eyes turn to one of the huts: the emaciated body of a very old man appeared in the entrance. A feathered maraca in one hand, his wad of tobacco stuck between his teeth and his lower lip, he walked in dignified fashion over to
the stretcher, while the warriors made a circle around him. Once there, he pulled at Dietlev’s beard, as if to make sure it wasn’t false, and stepped back with clear signs of satisfaction: his scouts had not lied, God’s Messenger had come, as his father had told him, as the father of his father had always affirmed, as had been predicted since time immemorial. The prophecy was fulfilled at last. Why did the Messenger only have one leg? Why did he say incomprehensible things instead of using the language of the gods, those ageless words he sang to his son as his father had sung them to him all those years ago? It was something he was not yet allowed to understand. But it did have meaning.