Two Graves

57

IT WAS A COOL MORNING AFTER A NIGHT OF RAIN, THE mists drifting over the surface of the river, as they set off from the last town on the Rio Itajaí do Sul, the southernmost tributary of the Rio Itajaí.

Mendonça, in a foul mood and nursing a hangover, guided the boat upriver. The naturalist, Fawcett, resumed his seat in the bow, no longer reading his book but keeping a lookout for butterflies. Once in a while he would shout for Mendonça to slow down when he spotted a butterfly fluttering along the river’s edge, and once he demanded that they actually chase a butterfly with the boat, with him leaning over the bow, swiping at the thing with his net until he caught it.

The last town on the river had been a sad, dirty, horrible little place called Colonia Marimbondo. While there, Mendonça had made careful inquiries about Nova Godói: where it was, how to recognize the landing place along the river. He had gathered most of his information at the local cervejaria, the central beer hall in the town, where he had been forced to spend his hard-earned money buying endless rounds to encourage the uncommunicative villagers to talk. What he had finally managed to squeeze out of them had unsettled him greatly. Most of it was no doubt superstition and sheer ignorance, but it badly unnerved him nonetheless.

They had set off early, just at dawn, the sound of the engine echoing off the wall of araucaria trees, dripping after a night of rain. Mendonça could feel the wetness gathering in his hair and beard and creeping through his shirt.

God in heaven, he couldn’t wait for this to be over.

Around noon, they came around a broad bend in the river, and there, on the right-hand bank, stood a floating dock with a ramp leading up to a rickety wooden quay. Beyond the high riverbank lay a partially overgrown clearing in the forest, with several rusting Quonset huts and a ramshackle wooden warehouse. It was exactly as the villagers had described it.

“We have arrived,” said Mendonça, eyeing the quay for signs of life. To his great relief, it looked abandoned.

He slowed the engine and angled the boat in, easing up to the dock, hopping out and tying it off. He stood on the dock as the naturalist, awkward as usual, hauled his pack out and transferred it to the dock, then got out himself, standing unsteadily and peering about.

“We have arrived,” Mendonça repeated, mustering a smile. He held out his hand. “The rest of the money, please, o senhor?”

A pause. “Now, wait just a minute,” Fawcett said, his beard wagging in sudden irritation. “We agreed: two thousand up front, and—”

“And one thousand on arrival,” Mendonça finished for him. “Surely you remember?”

“Oh.” The naturalist screwed up his face. “Is that what we agreed?”

“Yes, it is.”

More grumbling. “You have to wait here until I come back. We agreed on a round trip, six days total.”

“No problem,” said Mendonça. “I wait. But you pay me now.”

“How do I know you won’t take off?”

Mendonça gathered himself up. “Because I am a man of honor.”

This seemed to satisfy Fawcett, and he delved into his pack, fished around, extracted the wad of cash, and peeled off two five-hundred-real notes. Mendonça snatched them and stuffed them in his pocket.

The naturalist picked up his pack. “So where’s the town?”

Mendonça pointed toward a four-wheel-drive track that crossed the clearing, passed by the huts, and disappeared into the forest. Beyond, the green canopy rose in hills, one after another, culminating in a volcanic caldera that disappeared into the low-lying clouds. “Up that road. About three miles. There’s only one way to go.”

“Three miles?” Fawcett frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I thought you already knew.” Mendonça shrugged.

Fawcett fixed him with a scowling eye. “You wait for me. I’ll be back in three days—seventy-two hours—by noon.”

“I will stay with the boat, sleep in the boat. I have all I need.” He grinned, lit a cigar.

“Very well.” The naturalist struggled to get the pack on, adjusted the straps, and then began doddering up the muddy track, his figure appearing and disappearing in the drifting mists. As soon as he had finally vanished into the forest, Mendonça hurried down to the boat, fired up the engine, and cast off, heading back down the river toward Alsdorf as fast as he could go.