see,” Xantes remarked after a moment, “why I am presently at a disadvantage in regard to the Niaruna. I have written for a replacement for the good Fuentes, but the record of the Niaruna does not inspire many volunteers. You will also see why I consider the Niaruna my concern. Why,
all
the jungle peoples, and the mestizos too, and the
patrones
and even Guzmán, our magnificent Comandante—and yes, even yourself, even
yourself
, Señor Quarrier—are my concern. Good day!”
And the little Dominican, bowing, hurried on ahead of Quarrier on the bare path beneath the bare brown sky, his frail body struggling in his heavy cloth, his thin head bobbing.
Q UARRIER spent the morning in the dining room, at work on Huben’s Niaruna dictionary. While he knew that it was important that he do this, he was extremely restless, and was constantly distracted from his work by the random complaints of fat Mercedes and by the thin fatalistic townspeople, pigs, children, vultures and indentured Indians who paused before the window. He was plagued by worry about Billy, about what might befall them in the months ahead, about the stranger who passed her days on the other bed—the stranger for whom, he kept reminding himself, he was responsible. But more often he thought about Andy Huben and the fact that at a time of terrible peril he was sinfully attracted to her. At these times he would groan aloud, causing Mercedes to glare and snigger.
Twice that day Guzmán himself came by to check the hotel accounts. Each time, seeing Quarrier at the table in his salon, he winced and snarled and cleared his throat with violence as if, had it not been his own hotel, he would have liked nothing better than to spit copiously upon the floor.
Quarrier had placed his chair so that he could see the hallway and be sure to intercept Wolfie and Moon when they returned to the hotel. However, he soon fell asleep, doped by the sun and the drone of flies; he awoke sometime later at the roar of a plane and the sound of running feet.
In the street, people were standing in the mud, staring upriver. From out of the haze came the growl of a small airplane, invisible, and then the growl rose to a shriek as the plane plunged toward the earth. For a moment, over the edge of town, a bruise formed in the haze, and then the plane burst through at a dreadful angle, seeming to plunge into the trees upriver. But its roar continued, reverberating wildly in the forest; a few seconds later it rose once more, too steeply, into the overcast, its motor dying to a point no longer audible. Then, incredibly, it dove again. After this dive—the third, according to those in the street—it leveled off and headed for the airport; the people, wringing their small hands, ran out to meet it.
When the fliers appeared at the hotel, Quarrier set himself to question them. But Wolfie looked sick and exhausted, and though Moon’s face was composed, his shirt front and throat were heavily caked with blood. Moon scarcely nodded at him. “Nice country,” he remarked, and went upstairs.
Toward evening Quarrier cornered Wolfie, who was in evil humor. They had not yet attacked the Niaruna villages, Wolfie said, but he refused to say anything else. Moon was already under the effects of
ayahuasca
. “If you got any idea you want to talk to Moon, forget it. Like, don’t
bother
. He drunk enough to turn on a rhinoceros. I seen him flip on this Indian soup before, down in the Beni. It’s like I told him after: Lewis—he don’t like being called Lew, see, only Lewis, which this is some goddamn
family
name or other, so I call him Lewis, for Christ sake—Lewis, I told him after, like make it with
pot
, Lewis, or hash, man, or peyote, you can even
shoot
it if you wanna, jam the needle right inta your miserable
brain
, Lewis, only just lay off this jungle junk, this Hiawatha. I mean, who needs some kind of a
loo
-natic around, who needs it? And you know what he says to me? Lewis, I mean,
all
the jungle peoples, and the mestizos too, and the
patrones
and even Guzmán, our magnificent Comandante—and yes, even yourself, even
yourself
, Señor Quarrier—are my concern. Good day!”
And the little Dominican, bowing, hurried on ahead of Quarrier on the bare path beneath the bare brown sky, his frail body struggling in his heavy cloth, his thin head bobbing.
Q UARRIER spent the morning in the dining room, at work on Huben’s Niaruna dictionary. While he knew that it was important that he do this, he was extremely restless, and was constantly distracted from his work by the random complaints of fat Mercedes and by the thin fatalistic townspeople, pigs, children, vultures and indentured Indians who paused before the window. He was plagued by worry about Billy, about what might befall them in the months ahead, about the stranger who passed her days on the other bed—the stranger for whom, he kept reminding himself, he was responsible. But more often he thought about Andy Huben and the fact that at a time of terrible peril he was sinfully attracted to her. At these times he would groan aloud, causing Mercedes to glare and snigger.
Twice that day Guzmán himself came by to check the hotel accounts. Each time, seeing Quarrier at the table in his salon, he winced and snarled and cleared his throat with violence as if, had it not been his own hotel, he would have liked nothing better than to spit copiously upon the floor.
Quarrier had placed his chair so that he could see the hallway and be sure to intercept Wolfie and Moon when they returned to the hotel. However, he soon fell asleep, doped by the sun and the drone of flies; he awoke sometime later at the roar of a plane and the sound of running feet.
In the street, people were standing in the mud, staring upriver. From out of the haze came the growl of a small airplane, invisible, and then the growl rose to a shriek as the plane plunged toward the earth. For a moment, over the edge of town, a bruise formed in the haze, and then the plane burst through at a dreadful angle, seeming to plunge into the trees upriver. But its roar continued, reverberating wildly in the forest; a few seconds later it rose once more, too steeply, into the overcast, its motor dying to a point no longer audible. Then, incredibly, it dove again. After this dive—the third, according to those in the street—it leveled off and headed for the airport; the people, wringing their small hands, ran out to meet it.
When the fliers appeared at the hotel, Quarrier set himself to question them. But Wolfie looked sick and exhausted, and though Moon’s face was composed, his shirt front and throat were heavily caked with blood. Moon scarcely nodded at him. “Nice country,” he remarked, and went upstairs.
Toward evening Quarrier cornered Wolfie, who was in evil humor. They had not yet attacked the Niaruna villages, Wolfie said, but he refused to say anything else. Moon was already under the effects of
ayahuasca
. “If you got any idea you want to talk to Moon, forget it. Like, don’t
bother
. He drunk enough to turn on a rhinoceros. I seen him flip on this Indian soup before, down in the Beni. It’s like I told him after: Lewis—he don’t like being called Lew, see, only Lewis, which this is some goddamn
family
name or other, so I call him Lewis, for Christ sake—Lewis, I told him after, like make it with
pot
, Lewis, or hash, man, or peyote, you can even
shoot
it if you wanna, jam the needle right inta your miserable
brain
, Lewis, only just lay off this jungle junk, this Hiawatha. I mean, who needs some kind of a
loo
-natic around, who needs it? And you know what he says to me? Lewis, I mean,
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