Jean-Marie Blas De Robles - Where Tigers Are at Home

On leaving Saint Peter’s she went, still under escort, to the Palazzo Farnese, which the Duke of Parma had put at her disposal for the whole of her stay in Rome. As was the custom to honor the great ones of this world, the entire front was concealed behind a fake façade. Designed by Kircher, it was impressive both for its splendor and for its unusual purpose. For the architecture he had taken his inspiration from the Temple of Music imagined by Robert Fludd & for the content from the famous “theater of memory” of Giulio Camillo, with the result that the façade represented the sum total of human knowledge. Driven by clockwork mechanisms, large wooden wheels, artistically decorated by the best artists of Rome, slowly turned, reproducing the courses of the planets, the sun & the stars. Seven other wheels, equally delightfully decorated with emblems & allegorical figures, were superimposed, but set off from each other: as they turned, Prometheus appeared, then Mercury, Pasiphae, the Gorgons, Plato’s cave, the banquet the Ocean gave for the gods, the Sefiroth &, within those classes, a large number of symbols drawn from mythology, which allowed all branches of knowledge to be gradually encompassed.

When Queen Christina, fascinated by this spectacle, enquired about its maker, Cardinal Barberini sang Kircher’s praises, telling her she would soon have the opportunity of meeting him, since a visit to the Roman College had long been planned for the next day. He added in passing, as if to make fun of the common people who kept commenting on these figures, that this plaster & wood encyclopedia had cost more than five hundred crowns. The paintings were by were Claude Gelée, known as Claude Lorraine, & Poussin; as for the practical details, they had taken sixty-six hundred large nails, & four boilers had been in operation uninterruptedly for two weeks to produce the 130 gallons of glue needed to assemble the various parts of the ephemeral facade.

Christina’s admiration knew no bounds & she immediately sent for Kircher to give him a precious medallion that she gracefully detached from her bracelet.

Waking next to Aynoré’s body, ensconced in the hammock he rented in the lean- to at Dona Zefa’s, Moéma spared a thought for Thaïs. Scraps from her fling with Aynoré, as precise and embarrassing as pornographic pictures, exploded over an image of a sad, accusatory smile. Her forehead felt as if it were being squeezed by a ring of iron, her moist skin gave off a smell of sour wine and her mouth tasted of sawdust — all signs that her remorse was the product of last night’s binge. She just needed to put up with it for a couple of hours and she would be cleansed of this nebulous feeling of shame, which is nothing more than the postbooze horrors.

Aynoré was sleeping like a log, a Gulliver trapped in the fine net of his tattoos. His naked, suntanned body inspired not so much a feeling of tenderness as of respect, a sort of esteem bordering on veneration. All she retained of the things he had said the previous evening was an impression of efflorescence, something like the slow-motion take-off of a parrot, the red and gold traces of a lost paradise.

She suddenly heard a voice above her: “So you couldn’t resist him either?” Marlene’s pale face had an expression of slightly contemptuous surprise. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep silent as the grave. I just hope you haven’t switched over, that’s all.”

“Drop it, will you,” Moéma replied stretching out, totally unconcerned about the fact that she was naked. “And you can tell who you want what you want, I’m past the age of secrets.” She pulled her tousled hair aside, like opening the curtains. “Is it late?”

“Eleven o’clock, time to get up for a joint. They way you look, poor thing! The whole gang of us are off to the beach, are you coming?”

“We’ll be there,” Aynoré said without opening his eyes.

Seeing the quiver that voice sent across Moéma’s skin, Marlene raised his eyebrows in a jokey expression, “Well, well, old girl,” he muttered as he went off, “you haven’t seen the last of your troubles yet. Você vai espumar como siri na lata …”

During the few moments Moéma stayed in the hammock, running her fingers over her lover’s hairless skin, Marlene’s innuendo had time to get its hooks into her. It was no use her telling herself the drag queen’s insinuations were only dictated by jealousy, she couldn’t recover the happiness she’d felt during the night. Added to the feeling of having betrayed Thaïs — it was already clear to her that giving herself to the Indian was not a passing fancy but a commitment with no way back, a deliberate and definitive farewell that she ought to sort out with her friend — were the doubts aroused by Marlene’s acid comments. His “either” had struck home. Given his appeal, Aynoré was bound to attract girls like flies … So what? The feelings that had thrown them into each other’s arms were unique and no one had the right, except out of spite, to say differently. Aynoré had promised to initiate her into all the things in us that modern society was doing its utmost to obliterate and she trusted him to keep his word. You couldn’t tame a wolf, nor was she attempting to do that, she would become a she-wolf herself, worthy of his way of being in the world, of the savageness he put into it.

It sometimes happens that one feels the need to be all the more determined in justifying a dream when it begins to fade; Moéma clung onto this one, trying to secure it by a founding act, a sacrifice that would testify to its legitimacy. As she pondered this vague plan, an image came to mind that brought a victorious smile to her lips. She shook herself, suddenly released from her fears, and climbed carefully out of the hammock.

When, a few minutes later, she gave Aynoré the comb and scissors she’d borrowed from Dona Zefa, the Indian made no difficulty about going along with her request. With the haughty aloofness that astounded Moéma, he started to cut her long hair in the fashion of the women of his tribe: having cut a horizontal fringe, which came down to her eyebrows, he continued along that line at the sides, leaving the full length of her hair over the back of her neck alone. He shaved her temples, to remove all trace of the former growth, and finished by clipping one of the blue-and-red feather earrings he sold in the streets to the lobe of each ear.

“You’re lucky I’m not a Yanomami,” he said as he held a piece of broken mirror in front of her, “you’d have been seeing yourself shaved from your forehead right back to the middle of your skull.”

Moéma didn’t try to recognize herself in the strange reflection he held in his fingers: with the sacrifice of her hair, her dream had finally emerged from limbo, she felt herself put right, inwardly modified after what she saw as an initiation ritual. Strengthened by this rebirth, she started to imitate Aynoré in his haughty bearing. Silent, with economy of movement — like a priestess of the olden days, she thought — she rolled a joint with a mysterious smile. And what she smoked that morning was not maconha but the sacred Caapi, the intercessor between the world of men and that of the gods …

As they went down to the beach, in the dazzling midday brightness, Moéma felt beautiful and in a warlike mood, a killer of men, an eater of flesh, an Amazon. They stopped at Seu Juju’s hut to eat crabs.

Thaïs had gone away toward the sea as soon as she saw their silhouettes appear over the top of the dunes.

WHEN THEY REACHED Marlene’s little group, far along the beach, beyond the promontory shielding the nudists from prying eyes, Moéma would have been happy to continue, but Aynoré took off his shorts and sat down among them without even consulting her.