The Testament

  “Where was Jevy during the storm?”

  “Somewhere on the Cabixa River. I fear for him.”

  Valdir walked to his office, where he closed the door and returned to his window. Mr. Stafford was three thousand miles away. Jevy could survive in a small boat. No sense jumping to conclusions.

  He decided not to call for a few days. Give Jevy time, and surely he would return to Corumbá.

  ________

  THE INDIAN stood in the boat and braced himself by clutching Nate’s shoulder. There was no noticeable improvement in the motor’s performance. It continued to sputter and miss, and at full throttle had less than half the power it had when they left the Santa Loura.

  They passed the first settlement, and the river bent and looped almost to the point of going in circles. Then it forked, and the Indian pointed. Twenty minutes later, their little tent came into view. They docked where Jevy had bathed earlier in the day. They broke camp and moved their belongings into the village, where the chief wanted them.

  Rachel had not returned.

  Because she was not one of them, her hut was not in the oval. It was a hundred feet away, nearer to the edge of the forest, alone. It appeared to be smaller than any of the others, and when Jevy inquired about this, the Indian who’d been assigned to them explained that it was because she had no family. The three of them—Nate, Jevy, and their Indian—spent two hours under a tree at the edge of the village, watching the daily routine while waiting for Rachel.

  The Indian had learned Portuguese from the Coopers, the missionary couple who had come before Rachel. And he had a few words of English he intermittently tried on Nate. The Coopers had been the first white people any of the Ipicas had ever seen. Mrs. Cooper died of malaria and Mr. Cooper went back to wherever he came from.

  The men were hunting and fishing, he explained to his guests, and the younger ones were no doubt sneaking around seeing their girlfriends. The women had the hard work—cooking, baking, cleaning, watching the children. But labor was at a languid pace. If time moved slower south of the equator, then there was no clock at all among the Ipicas.

  The doors to the huts remained open, and children ran from one to the other. Young girls braided their hair in the shade, while their mothers worked over the fires.

  Cleanliness was an obsession. The dirt of the common areas was swept with straw brooms. The exteriors of the huts were tidy and neat. The women and children bathed three times a day in the river; twice for the men, and never with the women. Everybody was naked but some things were private.

  Late in the afternoon, the men gathered outside the men’s house, the larger of the two rectangular buildings in the center. They worked on their hair for a while—cutting and cleaning—then began to wrestle. The matchups were one on one and toe to toe, with the object being to throw the opponent to the ground. It was a rough game, but with strict rules and smiles afterward. The chief settled any disputes. The women watched from their doorways with only a passing interest, as if they were expected to. Little boys imitated their fathers.

  And Nate sat on a block of wood, under a tree, watching a drama from another age, and wondering, not for the first time, where he was.

  TWENTY-NINE

  _____________

  FEW OF the Indians around Nate knew the girl’s name was Ayesh. She was only a child and she lived in another village. They all knew, though, that a girl had been bitten. They gossiped about it throughout the day while they kept their own children closer at hand.

  Word came during dinner that the girl had died. A messenger arrived in a rush and delivered the news to the chief, and it swept through the huts in a matter of minutes. Mothers gathered their little ones even closer.

  Dinner resumed until there was movement along the main trail. Rachel was returning with Lako and the other men who’d been with her all day. As she entered the village, the eating and the chatting stopped as everyone stood and stared. They lowered their heads as she walked by their huts. She smiled at some, whispered to others, paused long enough to say something to the chief, then continued to her hut, followed by Lako, whose limp was worse.

  She passed near the tree where Nate and Jevy and their Indian had spent most of the afternoon, but she didn’t see them. She wasn’t looking. She was tired and suffering and seemed anxious to get home.

  “What do we do now?” Nate asked Jevy, who passed the question along in Portuguese.

  “We wait,” came the reply.

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  Lako found them as the sun was falling behind the mountains. Jevy and the Indian went to eat leftovers. Nate followed the boy along the trail to Rachel’s dwelling. She was standing in the door, drying her face with a hand towel. Her hair was wet and she had changed clothes.

  “Good evening, Mr. O’Riley,” she said, in the same low, slow tone that betrayed nothing.

  “Hello, Rachel. Please call me Nate.”

  “Sit over there, Nate,” she said, pointing to a short square stump remarkably similar to the one he’d been perched upon for the past six hours. It was in front of the hut, near a ring of rocks where she made her fires. He sat, his rear still numb.

  “I’m sorry about the little girl,” Nate said.

  “She is with the Lord.”

  “Her poor parents aren’t.”

  “No. They are grieving. It’s very sad.”

  She sat in the doorway, arms folded over her knees, eyes lost in the distance. The boy stood guard under a nearby tree, almost unseen in the darkness.

  “I would invite you into my home,” she said. “But it would not be proper.”

  “No problem here.”

  “Only married people can be alone indoors at this time of the day. It’s a custom.”

  “When in Rome, do like the Romans.”

  “Rome is very far away.”

  “Everything is very far away.”

  “Yes it is. Are you hungry?”

  “Are you?”

  “No. But then I don’t eat much.”

  “I’m fine. We need to talk.”

  “I’m sorry about today. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course.”

  “I have some manioc and some juice if you’d like.”

  “No, really, I’m okay.”

  “What did you do today?”

  “Oh, we met with the chief, had breakfast at his table, hiked back to the first village, got the boat, worked on it, set up our tent behind the chief’s hut, then waited for you.”

  “The chief liked you?”

  “Evidently. He wants us to stay.”

  “What do you think of my people?”

  “They’re all naked.”

  “They always have been.”

  “How long did it take to get accustomed to it?”

  “I don’t know. A couple of years. It gradually grows on you, like everything else. I was homesick for three years, and there are times now when I would like to drive a car, eat a pizza, and see a good movie. But you adjust.”

  “I can’t begin to imagine.”

  “It’s a matter of calling. I became a Christian when I was fourteen years old, and I knew then that God wanted me to be a missionary. I didn’t know exactly where, but I put my faith in Him.”

  “He picked a helluva spot.”

  “I enjoy your English, but please don’t swear.”

  “Sorry. Can we talk about Troy?” The shadows were falling fast. They were ten feet apart and could still see each other, but the blackness would soon separate them.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, with a weary air of resignation.

  “Troy had three wives and six children, six that we knew about. You, of course, were a surprise. He didn’t like the other six, but evidently was quite fond of you. He left them virtually nothing, just enough to cover their debts. Everything else was given to Rachel Lane, born out of wedlock on November 2, 1954, at Catholic Hospital in New Orleans, to a woman named Evelyn Cunningham, now deceased. That Rachel would be y
ou.”

  The words fell heavy in the thick air; there were no other sounds. Her silhouette absorbed them, and, as usual, she thought before she spoke. “Troy wasn’t fond of me. We hadn’t seen each other in twenty years.”

  “That’s not important. He left his fortune to you. No one had a chance to ask why because he jumped out of a window after signing his last testament. I have a copy for you.”

  “I don’t want to see it.”

  “And I have some other papers which I’d like you to sign, maybe tomorrow, first thing, when we can see. Then I can be on my way.”

  “What kind of papers?”

  “Legal stuff, all for your benefit.”

  “You’re not concerned about my benefit.” Her words were much quicker and sharper, and Nate was stung by the rebuke.

  “That’s not true,” he replied weakly.

  “Sure it is. You don’t know what I want, or need, or like, or dislike. You don’t know me, Nate, so how can you know what will or will not benefit me?”

  “Okay, you’re right. I don’t know you, you don’t know me. I’m here on behalf of your father’s estate. It is still very hard for me to believe that I am actually sitting in the dark outside a hut, in a primitive Indian village, lost in a swamp the size of Colorado, in a third world country I’ve never seen before, talking to a very lovely missionary who just happens to be the richest woman in the world. Yes, you’re right, I don’t know what benefits you. But it is very important for you to see these papers, and to sign them.”

  “I’m not signing anything.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “I have no interest in your papers.”

  “You haven’t seen them yet.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “They’re formalities. My firm has to probate your father’s estate. All of the heirs named in his will must inform the court, either in person or in writing, that they have been notified of the proceedings, and have been given the opportunity to take part. It’s required by the law.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Honestly, I haven’t thought about that. It’s so routine that everybody simply cooperates.”

  “So I submit myself to the court in … ?”

  “Virginia. The probate court there takes jurisdiction over you, even though you’re absent.”

  “I’m not sure if I like that idea.”

  “Fine, then hop in the boat and we’ll go to Washington.”

  “I’m not leaving.” And with that a long silence ensued, a pause made even quieter by the darkness that now engulfed them. The boy was perfectly still under the tree. The Indians were settling in their huts, with no noise except for the cry of an infant.

  “I’ll get us some juice,” she almost whispered, then moved into the house. Nate stood and stretched his tender body, and slapped at mosquitoes. His repellent was in his tent.

  There was a small light of some sort flickering through the house. Rachel held a clay pot with a flame in the center. “These are leaves from that tree over there,” she explained as she sat it on the ground by the door. “We burn them to keep mosquitoes away. Sit here, close to it.”

  Nate did as he was told. She returned with two cups filled with a liquid he could not see. “It’s macajuno, similar to orange juice.” They sat together on the ground, almost touching, with their backs resting against the hut, the burning pot not far from their feet.

  “Speak softly,” she said. “Voices carry in the dark, and the Indians are trying to sleep. They are also very curious about us.”

  “They can’t understand anything.”

  “Yes, but they will listen anyway.”

  Soap had not touched his body in days, and he was suddenly concerned with his hygiene. He took a small sip, then another.

  “Do you have a family?” she asked.

  “I’ve had a couple. Two marriages, two divorces, four children. I now live alone.”

  “Divorce is so easy, isn’t it?”

  Nate took a very small sip of the warm liquid. He had thus far managed to avoid the raging diarrhea that struck so many foreigners. Surely the murky liquid was harmless.

  Two Americans alone in the wilderness. With so much to talk about, why couldn’t they avoid divorce?

  “Actually, they were quite painful.”

  “But we move on. We marry, then divorce. Find someone else, marry, then divorce. Find someone else.”

  “We?”

  “I’m just using the pronoun. Civilized people. Educated, complicated people. The Indians never divorce.”

  “They haven’t seen my first wife either.”

  “She was unpleasant?”

  Nate exhaled and took another drink. Indulge her, he told himself. She’s desperate for conversation with one of her own.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not prying. It’s not important.”

  “She was not a bad person, not in the early years. I worked hard, drank even harder. When I wasn’t at the office, I was in a bar. She became resentful, then mean, then vicious. Things spiraled out of control and we grew to hate each other.”

  The little confessional was over in a flash, and it was enough for both of them. His marital debris seemed so irrelevant then and there.

  “You’ve never married?” he asked.

  “No.” She took a sip. She was left-handed, and when she raised the cup her elbow touched Nate’s. “Paul never married, you know.”

  “Paul who?”

  “The Apostle Paul.”

  “Oh, that Paul.”

  “Do you read the Bible?”

  “No.”

  “I thought I was in love once, in college. I wanted to marry him, but the Lord led me away.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Lord wanted me here. The boy I loved was a good Christian, but he was weak physically. He would have never survived on the mission field.”

  “How long will you stay here?”

  “I don’t plan to leave.”

  “So the Indians will bury you?”

  “I suppose. It’s not something I worry about.”

  “Do most World Tribes missionaries die in the field?”

  “No. Most retire and go home. But then, they have families to bury them.”

  “You’d have lots of family and friends if you went home now. You’d be quite famous.”

  “That’s another good reason to stay here. This is home. I don’t want the money.”

  “Don’t be foolish.”

  “I’m not foolish. Money means nothing to me. That should be obvious.”

  “You don’t even know how much it is.”

  “I haven’t asked. I went about my work today with no thought of the money. I’ll do the same tomorrow, and the next day.”

  “It’s eleven billion, give or take.”

  “Is that supposed to impress me?”

  “It got my attention.”

  “But you worship money, Nate. You’re part of a culture where everything is measured by money. It’s a religion.”

  “True. But sex is pretty important too.”

  “Okay, money and sex. What else?”

  “Fame. Everybody wants to be a celebrity.”

  “It’s a sad culture. People live in a frenzy. They work all the time to make money to buy things to impress other people. They’re measured by what they own.”

  “Am I included?”

  “Are you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Then you’re living without God. You’re a very lonely person, Nate, I can sense it. You don’t know God.”

  He squirmed and considered a quick defense, but the truth disarmed him. He had no weapons, no punches, no foundation to stand on. “I believe in God,” he said, truthfully but weakly.

  “It’s easy to say that,” she said, her words still slow and soft. “And I don’t doubt you. But saying is one thing, living is another matter. That crippled boy under the tree over there is Lako. He’s seventeen, small for his age, and always s
ick. His mother told me he was born early. Lako is the first to catch every disease that comes our way. I doubt if he’ll live to be thirty. Lako doesn’t care. Lako became a Christian several years ago, and he has the sweetest spirit of anyone here. He talks to God all day long; in fact he’s probably praying right now. He has no worries, no fears. If he has a problem, he goes straight to God and leaves it there.”

  Nate looked at the darkness under the tree where Lako was praying, but saw nothing.

  She continued, “That little Indian has nothing on this earth, but he’s storing riches in heaven. He knows that when he dies he’ll spend eternity in heaven with his creator. Lako is a wealthy boy.”

  “What about Troy?”

  “I doubt if Troy believed in Christ when he died. If not, then he’s burning in hell right now.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Hell is a very real place, Nate. Read the Bible. Right now Troy would give his eleven billion for a drink of cold water.”

  Nate was ill-equipped to argue theology with a missionary, and he knew it. He said nothing for a while, and she took the cue. Minutes passed as the last infant fell asleep in the village. The night was perfectly black and still, no moon or stars, the only light coming from the thin yellow flame near their feet.

  Very gently, she touched him. She patted him three times on his arm, and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that you are lonely. How would I know?”

  “It’s okay.”