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

“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.

It was a celebration in honor of Qüyririche, a celebration in which they had prepared all the food they possessed for the Messenger and his divine relatives. The manioc beer was ready, they would blow a lot of epena, clouds of magic powder, again and again, until they went up into the invisible clouds where the destiny of the worlds was woven. He, Raypoty, had been able to interpret the signs: he knew the source of the fish-stones! For many years he had searched for the opening of the universe elsewhere, the secret fissure through which his people could finally escape, like an asshole suddenly relaxed in the mortal belly of the forest. But now the god himself had come to open his eyes. There was no need to plant nor to hunt anymore, they would depart at dawn, leaving behind everything that might weigh them down and prevent their final take-off for the Land-with-no-evil .

He finished with a few occult words designed to attract the favors of the Messenger so that he would continue to guide him and his people.

“ Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi ,” Mauro immediately translated, “ miserere nobis . It’s crazy! If we ever get out of here I’m going to spend the rest of my life inventing a universal language. It’s as if he’s decided not to understand a word of what we’re saying. If he won’t make an effort, all our attempts to communicate with him will get us nowhere. It’s just too stupid!”

“That’s not the problem,” Dietlev said, his voice affected by his fever. “I think he believes we can understand him. We need to try and talk to someone else in the tribe.”

“We’ve got to get out of here, that’s what,” Petersen growled. “I’ve an uneasy feeling about these loonies.”

The shaman took a long tube of bark as thin as a blowpipe, put a pinch of black powder in one of the ends which he handed to an Indian squatting down. Squatting down himself, he put the other end to his nostrils. Holding the tube between his index and middle fingers, the Indian breathed in and blew the dose of epena high up into the shaman’s mucous membrane.

“See, I’m not the only one!” Petersen gloated. He’d already observed the same practice among the Yanomami and knew they were witnessing a ritual taking of drugs.

Eyes closed, his face screwed up in pain, the shaman prepared the tube then blew the powder into the nostrils of the one who had just helped him. The Indian stayed on his heels, transfixed, prey to what looked like insupportable pain. He nose began to drip black fluid onto his chin, sinuous trails of snot, which the Indian suddenly made spray out with an abrupt exhalation. Thus he was splashed with the blood of the true world, drawing on his chest a horoscope that the shaman alone could interpret.

It was like a signal; all the Indians in the tribe started to breathe in the magic substance. Between each pinch they quenched their thirst with beer and greedily dug into any food within reach. After the third or fourth inhalation, a man would start howling, waving his arms, then he would stand up for an unmoving dance that made him shake on the spot like a soul in torment. Eventually he would faint and collapse, overcome by the visions. The women would then drag him off a little way, while the one who had blown the drug into his nostrils had it done to himself by someone else.