Where Tigers Are at Home (80 page)

“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.

THE WHITMONDAY CELEBRATIONS
passed off perfectly. It was on that occasion that the Supreme Pontiff very clearly expressed his desire to erect an obelisk, the one, to be precise, that had just been unearthed during the works carried out by the Dominicans around the church of Santa-Maria sopra Minerva. Once more Kircher was to collaborate with his sculptor friend on the design of a statue worthy not only of that monument from antiquity but also of the Piazza Minerva, of which it would be the principal ornament.

Cavaliere Bernini had been called to Paris by Louis XIV in order to revise the plans for his Louvre Palace & to sculpt a bust of him at the head of his army. Since he could stand neither the courtiers nor the climate of that city, he returned to Rome at the end of October, the richer by three thousand
louis d’or
& an
annuity of twelve thousand
livres
as a reward for his services. When he arrived at the College to tell us his ideas on the Piazza Minerva monument, Kircher & I were busy with Father Grueber, taking notes on his journey to China.

“Come now,” Kircher said with a smile, “don’t despair! Rome wasn’t built in a day & with God’s help I’m sure we’ll manage to restore the original wisdom of the ancients. And since the matter has cropped up at such an opportune moment, tell me, Lorenzo, what are your suggestions for the Minerva obelisk?”

“Given the small size of the object, I feel it’s impossible to design a majestic monument in the style of the Pamphilius Fountain. Therefore I had the idea of simply placing it on the back of a animal whose symbolic value could match that of the hieroglyphs. That is as far as I’ve gotten, since I don’t know what they contain, though certain animals, for example the tortoise & the armadillo, do fascinate me from an artistic point of view, so that I have started to sketch out some designs using them.”

Kircher looked dubious. “We’ll go into the choice of animal later. Anyway, it’s less important that it corresponds to the teaching of the hieroglyphs carved on the obelisk than to that of the Church & of the Supreme Pontiff, her symbol in this world. But so that you have all the details necessary for your work, I will give you my translation now.”

Athanasius picked up a sheet of paper from the table &, after having cleared his throat, read the following in solemn tones:

“God’s blood!” Bernini exclaimed. “I would have understood just as much if you’d been speaking Iroquois. Your Egyptian priests were better than anyone at jumbling up their little homilies …”

“There were two good reasons for that, the first being the profundity of the mysteries they were expressing, the second as a precaution against heedlessly giving away such sought-after knowledge to ignoramuses. Simple arts, such as music & painting, require a long initiation; much longer & more arduous is that required by knowledge. Pythagoras, remember, enjoined
his disciples to silence so that they would not divulge the sacred mysteries, because one can only learn by meditating, not by speaking.…”

“As for me,” said Bernini, slightly piqued, “I’ll stick to the arts without trying to decipher such recondite allegories …”

“Come now, my friend, don’t misunderstand me. Knowledge requires application alone & you make wonderful use of yours in a field in which you excel. Life is too short, alas, to consider devoting oneself fully to more than a single art. Socrates was a poor sculptor before becoming Socrates; as for Phidias, that maker of divine images, he could well have been dumb for all we know of his philosophy. One acted as a midwife to minds, the other to stones, that’s all!”

“Capital!” Bernini said with a laugh. “How could I fail to be convinced when you compare me to such a master?!”

“I didn’t forget myself, either,” Kircher said in the same tone, “but that was only for the purposes of the analogy, since I would have great difficulty competing with Socrates. If you are incontestably the greatest sculptor of the age, I am nothing but an honest laborer in the field of knowledge. I have nothing else to do, all my time is my own, so that I can concentrate on things for long periods without interruption. That is the only way in which I may call myself a genius. I have learned by long experience how much time such an intellectual task can take & to what extent the mind must be free of all distraction to complete it successfully … But let us return to our obelisk. As I’m sure you will have realized, despite your protestations at its apparent obscurity, this text contains a summary of the Egyptian doctrine regarding the supreme principles governing the world. Replace Mophta by God, Osiris by the Sun and the seven towers of the heavens by the planets & you will see that this doctrine only differs from that of the Church in points of detail. You will therefore, I hope, agree
that the tortoise & the armadillo are hardly suitable symbols for such a complex system.”

“I’m happy to grant you that,” Bernini said with a frown, “but I’m sure you will have some other beast to suggest …”

“To tell you the truth, I haven’t thought about it. However, it seems to me that the ox or the rhinoceros would be perfectly suitable: the ox because it warmed Our Savior with its breath, but also because in it the Greeks venerated the Sun & the Moon under the name of Epaphus & the Egyptians the souls of Osiris & of Mophta, under the name of Apis. The rhinoceros, for its part—”

“Out of the question,” Bernini broke in shaking his head, “the French have already used it in that way for the entry of Catherine de Medici to Paris. As for the ox, it’s an interesting symbol, but I can already hear the comments of the good citizens of Rome on such a statue: they’d make a thousand smutty jokes about its horns and its genitals I very much doubt the Supreme Pontiff would appreciate …”

“You are right there. We mustn’t neglect that aspect of the problem.”

Grueber, who until then had listened in respectful silence, suddenly joined in: “What would you say to an elephant, gentlemen?”

“An elephant?!” Bernini said.

“But of course!” my master exclaimed, grasping the sculptor by the shoulders. “
Cerebrum in capite!
The brain is in the head! Don’t you see, Lorenzo? The
Hypnerotomachia
& its obsidian enigma. Why didn’t I think of that sooner? We’ve got our symbol for, in truth, no other beast is as knowledgeable as the elephant!”

Bernini looked as shamefaced as a tomcat being castrated. Caught out, his only comment was, “Huh!”

Elaine had been worried about Mauro every second while he was away. Still under the shock of the horrible vision, he burst out sobbing as he told them what had happened; she was happy to console him when he buried his face in her breast. As well as the genuine sorrow she felt, she was in the grip of a fear that kept her stuck to the bench. Inside her head a compass needle was spinning round and round wildly.

As night fell, the mosquitos arrived.

“When I think that he threw the magazine clip away …” Petersen muttered. He was thinking out loud and, since they expressed the impasse they found themselves in, the odd phrases they didn’t want to hear seemed to deepen the darkness even more.

Dietlev regained consciousness with the name of Elaine on his lips and she immediately replied. As she cleaned his wound, more to give her something to make her forget her fear than out of necessity, she decided to keep the death of Yurupig from him; the infection was taking an alarming turn and he’d need all his strength to cope with it. The Indians had brought the rucksack back … They’d leave in the morning … He just had to hold on … As she talked to him, these white lies turned into their opposite inside her head so that what she heard as she spoke them was the strict truth: Dietlev wouldn’t hold out much longer, they’d perhaps never leave this clearing. Fear and uncertainty condensed in a nasty sweat under her armpits.

“Was there anything missing from the rucksack?” Dietlev asked in a low voice.

“No,” Elaine replied. “That is, yes, there was. The fossil samples have gone. They must have thought they were ordinary stones and chucked them away.”

They heard Petersen sniff noisily in the darkness.

“Him and his coke,” Dietlev said irritatedly.

“Just ignore him, try to sleep.”

The Indians had lit their bonfire. Gleams from the flames turned the interior of their hut red, casting fanciful ideograms over their faces. A strident, repetitive threnody suddenly swelled up with the light; shrill flutes accompanied a plaintive chant: the whole tribe was groaning in rhythm, softly, with unpredictable variations, sudden occlusive surges in which their throats grew hoarse.

The mat over the entrance was raised; the same Indians who had brought them food invited the strangers to leave the hut. Without having time to discuss it, they were led toward the huge bonfire crackling in the middle of the village. Little benches to sit on, platters loaded with food, large calabashes filled with beer … they were being treated as distinguished guests, with the result that Elaine started to hope again.

Still daubed with red, shining like swimmers who had just come out of the water, several Indians were already turning around the blaze. Long macaw tails stuck out of the yellow plumes they wore around their arms, just under their shoulders. Their hair speckled with white down, kingfisher feathers in the lobes of their ears, they were miming something animal or organic. Elaine started back slightly: the shaman had suddenly appeared in front of the little group of strangers. Black snot was dribbling down from his nostrils in two syrupy trickles; it was splattered all over his scrawny chest. Having wiped his nose on himself, he appeared older, more deranged. More savage, Elaine thought, filled with repugnance as he began a long, strangely melodious speech.