this crazy Lewis says,
I
need it; it allows me to
see
. You’re outa your fuckin mind, I told him.”
To Quarrier, Wolfie’s idiom was so outlandish that he might as well have listened to a savage; the waving hands, the cries and grunts made the problem very similar. Although he got the gist of the speech before it ended, he was wincing and frowning so violently in his concentration that Wolfie himself recoiled in alarm.
“Look out! Back up!” he cried. “What’s the matter, you gonna puke or what?” He started away, then turned back, furious. “Jesus, here I’m tryna tell you somethin which this is for your own good, and what do you do—you gawk at me like it was
me
that was the lunatic, not you guys.” He stomped into the bar, still shouting. “You’re livin in Nutsville, Pancho, take it from me,” he told the bar man, who crouched back in terror against the bottles; Wolfie, who claimed to be incapable of telling foreigners apart, had forgotten that he had tried to kill this boy the night before. “Another nut!” He smote his brow. “Another one!”
Quarrier looked up to see Hazel, drawn from her room by Wolfie’s uproar, staring at him in horror from the stairwell. She looked like an old woman.
“You’re laughing,” she cried. “How can you laugh? Are you insane?”
7
T HEY PICKED UP THE R ÍO E SPÍRITU AT R EMATE , AND FOLLOWED IT north and east. By airplane the distance was not great, for Moon did not follow the serpentine river but swung across the bends. They crossed several Tiro villages; some of the Indians scattered into the forest while others ran out into the yard between the huts to stare at the terrible bird. Then for a long time there were no signs of life, only the dark green of the canopy and the glisten of black water in the swamps and wormy creeks. Soon the Espíritu itself was no more than a creek, and now an unmapped river came into view, unwinding eastward; the headwaters of the rivers were no more than three miles apart, though they flowed in opposite directions. On the bank of the unnamed river, back a little distance from the bank, there appeared a deserted village.
Moon swung over it in a low glide. The village had not been abandoned but evacuated: a wisp of smoke and the Indian dog that scurried across the open yard confirmed this. One small incendiary, he thought, will take care of this whole outfit.
They circled back to the Espíritu and this time found the mission settlement: two large huts and a wooden cross. They must have passed right over it, and it was easy to see why they had missed it, for in the short time since Huben left, the jungle had reclaimed it. The huts were smudged by vines and leaves, their outlines blending with shadows, and the yard itself was a tumult of green strands and infestations. The wooden cross had been seized by a thick liana and was tilted crazily, about to topple. A damp miasmic heat seeped through the plane each time they neared the ground, and the ground steamed softly in the morning light, as if the earth were cooling still in some primordial gray morning.
The scene was so infernal that even Wolfie, startled from his doze by Moon’s maneuvers, spoke in horror. “Whatta these Indians
got?
” He coughed, in pain. “Some kind of a emotional
involvement
with this place?” At a loss as to where to spit, he swallowed, wincing. “Oo,” he said. “Like, I’m dyin, man.” He reached behind him to unstrap the crate that held small incendiary and fragmentation bombs. “This ain’t gonna be no bombin, man. This is what you might call
pest
control.”
“Go back to sleep,” Moon said. “There’s nothing to bomb yet.”
Wolfie settled back, clasping his hands on his gut as he closed his eyes; he blew a loud sigh through his lips. “There ain’t, huh? Well, if I had bombs and time enough, I’d bomb this miserable jungle from end to end. I mean it. It gives me the creeps, I don’t even like to look at it even.” He sat
I
need it; it allows me to
see
. You’re outa your fuckin mind, I told him.”
To Quarrier, Wolfie’s idiom was so outlandish that he might as well have listened to a savage; the waving hands, the cries and grunts made the problem very similar. Although he got the gist of the speech before it ended, he was wincing and frowning so violently in his concentration that Wolfie himself recoiled in alarm.
“Look out! Back up!” he cried. “What’s the matter, you gonna puke or what?” He started away, then turned back, furious. “Jesus, here I’m tryna tell you somethin which this is for your own good, and what do you do—you gawk at me like it was
me
that was the lunatic, not you guys.” He stomped into the bar, still shouting. “You’re livin in Nutsville, Pancho, take it from me,” he told the bar man, who crouched back in terror against the bottles; Wolfie, who claimed to be incapable of telling foreigners apart, had forgotten that he had tried to kill this boy the night before. “Another nut!” He smote his brow. “Another one!”
Quarrier looked up to see Hazel, drawn from her room by Wolfie’s uproar, staring at him in horror from the stairwell. She looked like an old woman.
“You’re laughing,” she cried. “How can you laugh? Are you insane?”
7
T HEY PICKED UP THE R ÍO E SPÍRITU AT R EMATE , AND FOLLOWED IT north and east. By airplane the distance was not great, for Moon did not follow the serpentine river but swung across the bends. They crossed several Tiro villages; some of the Indians scattered into the forest while others ran out into the yard between the huts to stare at the terrible bird. Then for a long time there were no signs of life, only the dark green of the canopy and the glisten of black water in the swamps and wormy creeks. Soon the Espíritu itself was no more than a creek, and now an unmapped river came into view, unwinding eastward; the headwaters of the rivers were no more than three miles apart, though they flowed in opposite directions. On the bank of the unnamed river, back a little distance from the bank, there appeared a deserted village.
Moon swung over it in a low glide. The village had not been abandoned but evacuated: a wisp of smoke and the Indian dog that scurried across the open yard confirmed this. One small incendiary, he thought, will take care of this whole outfit.
They circled back to the Espíritu and this time found the mission settlement: two large huts and a wooden cross. They must have passed right over it, and it was easy to see why they had missed it, for in the short time since Huben left, the jungle had reclaimed it. The huts were smudged by vines and leaves, their outlines blending with shadows, and the yard itself was a tumult of green strands and infestations. The wooden cross had been seized by a thick liana and was tilted crazily, about to topple. A damp miasmic heat seeped through the plane each time they neared the ground, and the ground steamed softly in the morning light, as if the earth were cooling still in some primordial gray morning.
The scene was so infernal that even Wolfie, startled from his doze by Moon’s maneuvers, spoke in horror. “Whatta these Indians
got?
” He coughed, in pain. “Some kind of a emotional
involvement
with this place?” At a loss as to where to spit, he swallowed, wincing. “Oo,” he said. “Like, I’m dyin, man.” He reached behind him to unstrap the crate that held small incendiary and fragmentation bombs. “This ain’t gonna be no bombin, man. This is what you might call
pest
control.”
“Go back to sleep,” Moon said. “There’s nothing to bomb yet.”
Wolfie settled back, clasping his hands on his gut as he closed his eyes; he blew a loud sigh through his lips. “There ain’t, huh? Well, if I had bombs and time enough, I’d bomb this miserable jungle from end to end. I mean it. It gives me the creeps, I don’t even like to look at it even.” He sat
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