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

Mauro switched off his Walkman at once and took out his earphones. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear. What did you say?”

“It’s not important,” she said with a smile, touched by Mauro’s worried expression. He was sweet with his dishevelled hair and the embarrassed look of a child caught in the act. “Look,” she went on, pointing out of the window, “there are geologists who come from all over the world to see that.”

Mauro glanced at the lunar landscape moving almost imperceptibly across the window frame; bizarre lumps of red sandstone looking as if they’d been dropped there, haphazardly, by some gigantic creature. “Precambrian ruiniform reliefs, highly eroded,” he said with a slight frown, as if reciting a lesson.

“Not bad … But you could have added, ‘A magnificent prospect with a savage beauty that gives humans a sense of their fragility here on Earth.’ Unfortunately that’s never in the geology manuals, not even in another form.”

“You’re just making fun of me, as usual,” Mauro sighed. “You know very well that I’m sensitive to that aspect of landscape; otherwise I’d have chosen history or math. To tell the truth, I’m starting to get tired.”

“Me too, I have to admit. This journey’s interminable, but remember that we’re going back to Brazilia by plane. The Department hasn’t a lot of money, so we had to come to a compromise. Having said that, I’m not at all unhappy that we’re taking this train, it’s something I’ve been dreaming about for ages. A bit in the same way as I dream of going on the Trans-Siberian Railway some day.”

“The Death Train!” said Mauro in funereal tones. “The only train in the world where you never know if it’s going to arrive …”

“Oh, don’t start that, Mauro,” Elaine said with a laugh. “You’ll bring us bad luck.”

The Death Train, so called because there were always accidents happening or an armed attack, linked Campo Grande with Santa Cruz in Bolivia. Just before the border it stopped at Corumbá, the small town where the two travellers were to meet up with the rest of the team, two professors from the University of Brazilia: Dietlev H. G. Walde, a specialist in palaeozoology, and Milton Tavares, Jr., head of the Department of Geology. To economize on cost, Elaine and Mauro had gone by van to Campo Grande, the last town accessible by road before the Mato Grosso. They had left the van in a garage — Dietlev and Milton, who had done the first stage by plane, were to pick it up on the way back — and waited at the station until dawn. The train was a veritable antique on wheels, with a steam engine worthy of the Far West, slatted-wood carriages in faded colors and arched windows. The compartments resembled ships’ cabins with their mahogany veneer and a tiny cubicle with a little washbasin in pink marble. In one corner there was even a nickel-plated steel fan mounted on a universal joint, which at the time it was built must have been the height of luxury. Now the tap, eaten away by rust, merely managed a hint of moisture, the handle for opening the window went round and round without engaging, the wires of the fan seemed to have been torn off years ago and there was so much grime everywhere, and the felt of the seats was so badly torn it was impossible to imagine at what distant time in the past all this could have been the very latest in up-to-date comfort.

The heat was starting to get uncomfortable; Elaine wiped her forehead and unscrewed her water bottle. Under Mauro’s amiable gaze she was trying to avoid spilling water over herself every time the train jolted when they heard angry shouts from the corridor. Drowning out the racket from the axles, a woman’s voice seemed to be trying to rouse the whole world. They saw several people rush toward the rear of the train, followed by an obese conductor, uniform unbuttoned, cap askew, who stopped for a moment, panting, by the open door of their compartment. The shouts continued even louder, until they were cut off abruptly by two dull thuds that shook the partition and made the window and the fan vibrate.

“I’ll go and have a look,” Mauro said, getting up.

He pushed his way through the luggage blocking the corridor and came to a small group of people around the conductor. Armed with a little ax—“only to be used in case of fire”—he was trying to wreck the carriage, starting with the lavatory door.

“What’s going on?” Mauro asked one of the peasants watching the scene impassively.

“Nothing. Just a desgraçado who’s robbed a woman. He’s shut himself in there and refuses to come out.”

For a good ten minutes the conductor continued to attack the locked door. He took a step back, struck the door a powerful blow with the ax, sending an aftershock through the fat of his double chin, paused a moment to catch his breath, then continued. Mauro was dumbfounded by the profound serenity of the violence and, even more, by the appreciative nods of the audience.

When the door had finally been broken down, they saw a poor drunk asleep on the lavatory, a wallet on his knees. After having checked then pocketed the stolen item, the conductor set about extracting the sleeper from his hideout. With the help of one of the passengers, he carried him out onto the open platform at the end of the carriage, waited a few seconds, then pushed him off. Mauro gasped as he saw the body fall onto the embankment like a sandbag. The man turned on his side, as if making himself more comfortable, put his hand over his face and continued to sleep.

“If I could only get my hands on the bastard who stole my passkey!” the conductor muttered as he replaced the ax. Then, turning to Mauro, he said, “It was a good door, solid, they don’t make them like that anymore.”

Querido, Papa!

Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious. On the contrary. But I need a little extra this month, just two thousand dollars. (Write me a check, you know I can exchange it at unofficial rates thanks to my Greek in Rio …) The thing is, my friend Thaïs and I have had the idea of opening a nice little bar not far from the beach. A young place with music ao vivo every night (Thaïs knows all the musicians in the town!) and with an ambience that will enable us to attract both students and artists. If it goes as planned we’re even thinking of having poetry evenings and exhibitions of paintings. Brilliant, don’t you think?

To set ourselves up in the place I’ve found we need precisely the sum I’m asking, half for the first month’s rent, the rest for tables, chairs, drinks, etc. Given the enthusiastic response of everyone we’ve told about it, after that the bar will pay its way, no problem. What’s more, I read the tarot pack three times and three times in a row the Chariot turned up. So there you are!

I can already hear you grumbling that it’ll affect my studies … Don’t worry, I’ve got into the second year of ethnology and since we’ll take turns at the bar, Thaïs and I, I’ll have all the time I need for classes when the new semester starts .

I had a letter from Mama saying she was off to the Pantanal to search for some fossil or other. I’m really envious of her!

I hope you’re better and that you’re managing all right — you know what I mean. I’ll try to come over and see you some time, promise!

How’s Heidegger?

Love and kisses, beijo, beijo, beijo!

Moéma

All the visible space outside the French window in the living room was filled by the royal-blue night, which had a strong smell of ozone and jasmine. Sitting, naked, on the large straw mat that covered the floor, Moéma’s teeth chattered as she reread her letter. Sudden shivers ran down her spine; she was sweating copiously. She’d have to do something about that pretty quick. She put the letter in an envelope, stuck on a stamp then wrote her father’s address, forcing herself not to tremble. Going back into the bedroom, she stopped on the threshold a moment to look at Thaïs stretched out, naked as well, on the sheets. Her eyes were closed and her full figure was prey to the same icy waves that were making Moéma’s own skin contract from time to time. Through the Persian blinds, the moon cast soothing stripes over her body.