Two Graves

53

THE DOCKS OF ALSDORF, SUCH AS THEY WERE, LAY ALONGSIDE the Rio Itajaí-Açu, a broad, brown, odorous river flowing out of the deep forested interior of the southernmost provinces of Brazil. The docks were a busy area, thronging with fishermen unloading their catches in great wooden wheelbarrows, fish dealers shouting and waving wads of money, ice mongers trundling blocks, whores, drunks, and peddlers pushing food carts loaded with soft pretzels, knockwurst, sauerbraten, and—even more strangely—kebabs of tandoori chicken.

Amid these multitudes an odd figure made his way—a stooped man dressed all in khaki, with a salt-and-pepper Van Dyke beard, hair clamped down under a Tilley hat. He was carrying a backpack bristling with butterfly nets, bait-station setups, jars, traps, collecting heads, funnels, and other obscure lepidoptery equipment. The figure was trying to get down to the landing quays, pushing through the heedless crowds, his shrill, querulous voice protesting in broken Portuguese as he shoved his way toward a shack at the far end of the floating quay, which sported a hand-painted sign reading ALUGUEL DE BARCOS.

Belmiro Passos, a skinny man in a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, occupied the shack, eating a large soft pretzel and watching the figure approach. Behind Passos were boats—mostly battered Carolina skiffs with decrepit Yamaha engines—which he would rent to anyone for almost any purpose, legal or otherwise. His customers were primarily travelers going up- or downriver, visiting hard-to-reach villages, or fishermen whose own boats were out of order. Occasionally, Belmiro would rent to the rare adventure tourist, naturalist, or sport fisherman. As he watched the figure draw near, he immediately pegged him as a naturalist, and not only that but a butterfly collector, of which there were not a few who came to Santa Catarina State because of its varied and exotic butterfly population.

The agitated man finally broke free of the throngs of fishermen and came huffing over. Belmiro greeted him with a broad smile.

“Yo… eu… quero alugar um barco! Alugar um barco!” the man shouted, stammering over the words and mixing Spanish with Portuguese to create almost a new language.

“We speak English,” said Belmiro quietly.

“Thank God!” The man shucked off his pack and leaned against it, panting. “My goodness, it’s hot. I want to rent a boat.”

“Very well,” said Belmiro. “For how long?”

“Four days, maybe six. And I need a guide. I’m a lepidopterist.”

“Lepidopterist?”

“I collect and study butterflies.”

“Ah, butterflies! And where you go?”

“Nova Godói.”

At this Belmiro paused. “That is very long way up the Rio Itajaí do Sul, deep in the araucaria forest. It is a dangerous journey. And Nova Godói is private. No one go there. No trespass.”

“I won’t bother anybody! And I know how to deal with people like that.” The man rubbed his fingers together to indicate money.

“But why Nova Godói? Why not go to Serra Geral National Park, which has many more rare butterflies?”

“Because the Nova Godói crater is where the last Queen Beatrice butterfly was sighted in 1932. They say it’s extinct. I say it isn’t, and I’m going to prove it!”

Belmiro gazed at the man. Fanaticism shone in his watery eyes. This could be quite profitable if handled correctly, even though he would probably lose a boat and perhaps even become involved in an unpleasant investigation.

“Nova Godói. Very expensive.”

“I have money!” the man said, removing a fat roll of bills. “But, like I said, I need a guide. I don’t know the river.”

A slow nod. A guide to Nova Godói. Another problem. But not impossible. There were those who would do anything for money.

“How about you?” the man asked. “Will you take me?”

Belmiro shook his head. “I have a business to run, doutor.” He didn’t add that he also had a wife and children he’d like to see again. “But I find you a guide. And rent you a boat. I call now.”

“I’ll wait right here,” said the man, fanning himself with his hat.

Belmiro went into the back of his shack, made a call. It took a few minutes of persuasion, but the man in question was one of those whose greed knew no bounds.

He came back out with a large smile. With what he planned to charge on this rental, he could buy two good used boats.

“I found you a guide. His name is Michael Jackson Mendonça.” He paused, observing the man’s unbelieving scowl. “We have many Michael Jacksons in Brazil, many here who loved the singer. It is a common name.”

“Whatever,” said the man. “But before I hire him, I’d like to meet this… ah, Michael Jackson.”

“He come soon. He speak good English. Lived in New York. In the meantime, we finish our business. The cost of the boat is two hundred reals a day, doutor, with a two-thousand-real deposit, which I return when you bring boat back. That does not include Senhor Mendonça’s fee, of course.”

The fanatical naturalist began counting out the bills without even batting an eye.