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

“It’s a real mess down there,” he said, showing her his soaking trousers. There’s water up to the berths, I’ll have to go and tell Petersen …”

“OK,” she said, opening the bag Dietlev had prepared in Brazilia.

To think she’d made fun of the obsessive care with which he’d gone about choosing and organizing the contents … That thing’s a real Pandora’s box! We’ll be in a pretty bad way when we get back even if only a hundredth of the mishaps you’re preparing for happen … Now then, don’t be negative, he’d replied with a laugh. God is great, as they say in Brazil, but the forest’s even greater. I’ll remind you of that, when the time comes. You’ll be glad you can find what you’re looking for, even if it’s only for a scratch …

She knew the procedure more or less; all those pages on first aid were perhaps going to be some use after all. Nervously tearing open several envelopes with sterile compresses, she moistened them with antiseptic and bent over the wound. Clean it, find the artery, bind with a ligature, don’t touch the nerves … At the first contact Dietlev could not repress a cry. She pulled her hand away and looked at him with concern.

“Go on,” he managed to say. “Ignore me.”

She continued cleaning, concentrating on the bloodiest part of the knee. The joint was crushed, transformed into bloody pulp. Meu Deus! They’ll never be able to stick that back together again … She was getting annoyed, swearing in a low voice.

“Get the clamp,” Dietlev said with a grimace. “The pliers that look like a pair of scissors … That’s it. Now loosen the tourniquet, you’ll see it better …

The wound started to bubble in brief spurts.

“It looks as if it’s coming from behind,” she said, sponging up the blood as it came, “No … Ah, there it is!”

She’d just noticed the section of pink tube, fluted like a chicken’s esophagus, out of which the blood was pumping. Concentrating on what she was doing, she slipped one of the jaws under the artery, checked she wasn’t taking anything that looked like a nerve, and closed the clamp until the catch engaged. The hemorrhaging stopped.

Mauro returned just at the moment when the boat started to go at full speed again. “We’re going to run aground,” he warned.

“Help me hold his leg,” she said immediately, not without noticing his somewhat stunned look.

“Elaine …” Dietlev said in a faint voice.

She leaned close to him so she could hear better.

“Have I told you before you’ve got beautiful breasts?”

Blushing to her ears, she clumsily tried to close her blouse. His eyes fixed on her chest, Mauro was smiling, a stupid look on his face, like a child who’s just seen Father Christmas.

PETERSEN WAITED UNTIL the last moment before disengaging the clutch. Its impetus took the gunboat three or four yards onto the sandbank, where it listed slightly to starboard before coming to a standstill.

“A neat piece of work,” the old German said, proud of his maneuver. Then he cut out the engine and switched on the electric pumps. “Go forward,” he said to Yurupig, “and try to find these blasted leaks.”

When he came back down to the gangway, Elaine was just finishing binding Dietlev’s artery with the ligature. “How is he?” he asked.

“He’ll pull through,” she said coldly, “but it was less a …”

She took a syringe out of its case, pierced the rubber stopper of a little vial with the needle and started to draw up the contents. Dietlev had noted the nature and method of administering the medicines on all the labels so that she’d had no difficulty finding what she needed.

“What about Milton?” Dietlev asked as Elaine injected the morphine in his arm.

“Dead,” Petersen replied curtly. “I’ve just been to have a look.”

Elaine paused for the fraction of a second. A painful silence took hold of the little group in which the feeling of guilt at having forgotten Milton mingled with the sudden awareness of his tragic death.

“Mauro, could you boil some water for me please? I’ve got to finish cleaning this. Then we’ll have to take him down and make him more comfortable.”

“Right,” said Herman, “I’ll go and have a look around to check the damage before night falls.”

“One moment!” said Elaine. “That guy … I mean the Paraguayan?”

Petersen indicated his fate with an extremely expressive gesture. “Yurupig … He didn’t have a chance.”

FOLLOWING THE INDIAN, Herman went around the holds with a torch. He was furious when he emerged: the machine guns had made an unbelievable number of holes and tears that were impossible to plug. It was a miracle they’d stayed afloat for so long. Even with welding equipment it would take several days to patch up the boat. Herman hurried to the stern, but once he saw the condition of the rubber dinghy — a shapeless mass three-quarters submerged — he immediately sized up their situation. “Help me,” he said to Yurupig, “we’ll haul it aboard.”

It was like a sieve, beyond repair as well. As for the outboard motor, it had not only been stuck under water, a direct hit had torn it apart. Yurupig shook his head. “Nothing we can do. The cylinder head’s split.”

“A fine mess you’ve got us into!” Petersen exclaimed. “Stupid fucking indio ! What are we going to do now, eh? You tell me that.”

Mauro’s calm voice was heard behind them: “Stop your bickering and come and help us. We need a piece of wood or something rigid to immobilize his leg.”

“I’ll see to it,” said Yurupig. “Start bringing the mattresses up to dry them out. The hammocks too …”

“And what else?” Herman said, beside himself. “I’m the one who gives the orders on this boat.”

“Stop shouting, for God’s sake,” said Mauro, taking him by the arm. “He’s right. As for giving orders, that’s all over. I’d say you’ve shown us what you can do …”

Taken aback by his firmness, Petersen followed him down into the interior. There was no water left in the saloon, but everything was higgledy-piggledy: books and papers transformed into revolting sponges, splinters of glass, soaking cushions … countless objects swept away by the flooding were scattered around in the most unlikely places. The cabins hadn’t been spared either, but on the top bunks they found three foam-rubber mattresses and a few blankets that were almost dry. The rest they spread out on the rail.

Meanwhile Yurupig had brought two small planks cut out of a crate lid and one of the webbing straps used to keep the tin trunks tightly closed. Once she had the splints, Elaine set about seeing to Dietlev’s leg. As a result of the morphine he was so fast asleep that she had no difficulty immobilizing it satisfactorily. Then Yurupig made arrangements to move him: after having tied both ends of the strap together, he pushed it under Dietlev’s buttocks, leaving a broad loop on either side; then he lay on his back between Dietlev’s legs, slipped his arms through the loops, as if he were putting on a rucksack, and turned over onto his front. Once in that position, with all the weight of Dietlev’s body on his shoulders, he used one knee to lever himself up and got slowly to his feet. Not long after, he performed the same maneuver in reverse to put Dietlev down on a makeshift bed at the rear of the boat.

Elaine flopped down beside Dietlev. She had started to tremble and felt she was going to be sick. For a moment it seemed as if the forest were crying for her.

Under a blazing sky, the evening breeze began to raise little waves on the river.

“WE HAVE TO TALK,” said Herman with a somber air. “The boat is beyond repair, the same goes for the Zodiac. We’re all of us up shit creek, I can tell you. It’s no use waiting here, no one’ll come … It would be possible to build a raft to go back down to Corumbá, but you know what’s waiting for us a bit downstream. Those guys would shoot us like rabbits, that you can be sure of. That leaves the forest, which is at least as dangerous … but it’s the only solution if we want to get out of here.”