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

“There’s something else. I know. Tell me the truth.”

Cut to the quick by this demand, Elaine remained silent. Every time this boy managed to drive her into a corner. The truth … Her new life had not matched up to her hopes. Her other men — a few pale silhouettes were all that came to mind — were not a patch on Eléazard. Even Dietlev, so tender and funny, so brilliant, had not managed to eclipse the man she had fled in a desperate rush, in one last instinctive assertion of freedom. And, God, where had it left her? In this permanent anguish of having to live alongside a shade, in this quiet disgust with herself?

“The truth,” she suddenly said in a low voice, “is that I’m afraid. In a panic about what’s going to happen tomorrow … You don’t feel afraid, do you?”

Mauro did not reply. Elaine closed her eyes with a smile. She matched her breathing to his and finally fell asleep herself.

DAWN RAISED BANDS of mist over the river, creeping greedily, ready to wrap themselves around the least protuberance, as if they could thus secure their fleeting existence. Nocturnal predators and prey had finally dozed off; their successors were still asleep. A brief moment of equilibrium during which the river noises alone — sudden plops, muffled lapping, brief splashes, languid belchings of the mud — broke the morning calm. The effort of sitting up made Petersen aware of his hangover. The first thing he did was to go and look for Yurupig to order him to make some coffee. He was not in the least surprised to find him squatting on the prow, his gaze fixed on the forest, so accustomed had he become to the Indian’s permanent, almost superhuman wakefulness. You could have sworn he slept standing up, like horses or certain sharks whose need to keep their fragile organs ventilated day and night forced them to keep moving.

Petersen climbed up to the wheelhouse to collect the few instruments that were indispensable for his march thought the forest: the detachable compass, the binoculars, two distress rockets rusting away in a drawer. He put these things by the Kalashnikov, congratulating himself on not having thrown it into the river with Hernando’s body. Satisfied with his preparations, he went back down onto the lower deck, heading for the kitchen. Yurupig wasn’t there. Never there when you need him, the baboon. Surely he doesn’t expect me to pack the rucksacks. It’s not even properly light and he’s already managed to make me mad … But OK then, there are more urgent things to do . Seeing a bottle of cachaça , he swigged a mouthful, grimaced and went to his cabin. The ceiling light concealed a hiding place. He took out the odd belt Hernando had given him and buckled it around his waist. Then he took a few steps to check the distribution of weight, adjusted the little bags by sliding them along the leather and seemed happy with the result: it wasn’t ideal, but it would do.

Back on deck, he heard voices: his passengers had woken.

“Morning, good people,” he said in placatory tones. But when he saw Yurupig drinking his coffee with Elaine and Dietlev, he gave him a murderous look. “So,” he went on, “how is the wounded man today?”

“Not that bad,” Dietlev said. “We can set off as soon as Yurupig’s made a stretcher for me.”

Petersen froze. “Bullshit, amigo . In the state you’re in you won’t last two days. I’ve already told the professora it would be better for you to wait here while I go for help.”

“Except that we haven’t enough water to last more than a week — thanks to you, I believe — and that, for some reason that escapes me, you’ve decided not to come back.”

“You’re crazy,” said Petersen. “Whatever makes you think something like that?”

“Stop putting on an act,” said Elaine in contemptuous tones, “you were seen puncturing the jerricans.”

Realizing where the information must have come from. Petersen turned to Yurupig, his face twisted with rage. “You! I swear I’ll have your hide for this!”

And since the Indian gave him a defiant look, he suddenly turned around, determined to fetch the Kalashnikov and put an end to all this palaver. He stopped short: Mauro stood before him, holding the rifle.

“Is this what you were going to look for?” he said in a toneless voice. “I’m not a weapons fanatic, but I’ve learned to use them.” Matching action to words, he fired a brief burst into the air before aiming at Petersen again. “It’s the first time my national service has been any use to me,” he added airily.

“Have you all gone out of your heads?” Petersen cried, gray-faced.

“It’s a preemptive strike, that’s all,” Dietlev said firmly. “Just remain calm and nothing will happen to you. We’re all going to leave together, but first of all we need a few explanations. Why you punctured the jerricans, for example.”

“What jerricans, for God’s sake?! Surely you’re not going to believe that savage? He’ll tell you anything. He’s a two-faced bastard, he’ll take the lot of you for a ride.”

“For the moment it’s his word against yours, and I have to admit that your protestations don’t count for very much, especially after what’s happened. But as you like: you’ll give your explanations to the police, that’s all. While we’re waiting you can give me your belt.”

“You’ve no right,” Petersen said, turning pale, “they’re personal things.”

“The belt,” said Mauro threateningly.

“Fire if you like, I don’t give a shit.”

“ Cocaína ,” Yurupig said simply. “He’s the one who makes the deliveries.”

“Aha! So that’s it,” said Dietlev, raising his eyebrows. “That explains everything. Now I can understand why this dear fellow didn’t want anyone to go with him.” Seeing Elaine’s nonplussed expression, he added, “At a rough estimate there’ll be five or six kilos there, let’s say 50,000 dollars at the very least, and I’m sure our friend was banking on disappearing without a trace but with that little fortune. Since the Paraguayans certainly wouldn’t be happy with that, he wouldn’t risk setting foot in these parts again. As for taking us with him, that would be going into the lion’s den, since sooner or later he’d have to deal with the authorities …”

“It’s not 50,000 dollars but 500,000, you poor fool!” Petersen exclaimed, his arrogant self again. “And there’s half of it for you, if you let me slip away with it when the time comes. Just think, it’s more than you’ll earn in your whole life.”

Dietlev shook his head, a sorrowful look on his face: “If that’s all you learned in the Waffen SS, I’m not surprised the Germans lost the last war.”

“I’ll throw the lot of the filthy stuff in the river and that’ll be the end of it,” said Elaine firmly.

“Definitely not,” Dietlev said, “it’s the only proof of his complicity. He can keep it on, that’s one thing less you’ll have to carry. Keep an eye on him while Yurupig gets the stretcher finished, we’re leaving in half an hour.”

KIRCHER STILL BELONGS to the world of Archimboldo: if he enjoys anamorphosis, it’s because it shows reality “the way it isn’t.” To truly exist, landscapes, animals, fruits and vegetables or objects of everyday life must be put together to make the face of man, of the divine creature for whom the Earth is intended. With the distorting mirrors or those which, on the contrary, rectify skillfully calculated optical aberrations, Christianity of the Counter-Reformation period takes over the Platonic myth of the cave and turns it into an educational show: during our lives we never see more than the shadows of divine truth. Because it incites lust, this beautiful female face destined for hell is the lesson of the mirrors that distort it horribly; that this blood-colored magma will be of significance one day is the promise of the cylindrical mirrors, which reshape it and change it into the image of paradise.