Uiuna, the messenger chosen by Achtiti, examined the drawings carefully, asking for explanations with gestures. Was it in the direction that he was pointing to on the horizon? And the distance? Finally he loaded a knapsack of dried meat on his back, took his bow and arrows, and set off barefoot, rapid and silent, with the undulating gait of the Siriono. Achtiti made solemn gestures with his head, as if to say that they could have confidence in Uiuna: Goldbaum and Wilkins looked at one another in bewilderment. It was the first time that a Siriono had traveled so far from the village and gone to a city, in so far as Candelaria, with its five thousand inhabitants, could be considered a city.
Achtiti had food brought to them: shrimp from the river, raw, four each, two japara nuts, and a big fruit with watery, tasteless juice.
Goldbaum said, “Maybe they’ll be hospitable, and take care of us even if we don’t work. In that case, which would be the most fortunate, they will give us the same ration as theirs, in quality and quantity, and it won’t be easy. Or they may ask us to work with them, and we don’t know how to hunt or plow. We have almost nothing left to give them. If Uiuna returns without the boat, or doesn’t return at all, things will go badly. They’ll throw us out, and then we’ll die in the swamp; or they’ll kill us themselves, as they do with their old people.”
“Without warning?”
“I don’t think so, and they won’t be violent. They’ll ask us to follow their custom.”
Wilkins was silent for a few minutes, and then he said, “We have two days’ worth of provisions, two watches, two ball point pens, a lot of useless money, and the tape recorder. Everything in the camp has been destroyed, but we might be able to retemper the knife blades. Ah, yes, we also have two boxes of matches—maybe that’s the item that will interest them most. We ought to pay our keep, right?”
The negotiations with Achtiti were laborious. He paid scant attention to the watches, was interested in neither the pens nor the money, and was frightened when he heard his voice come out of the tape recorder. He was fascinated by the matches: after a few failed attempts he was able to light one, but he wasn’t convinced that it was a real flame until he held a finger over it and got burned. He lighted another, and declared with evident satisfaction that if he brought it close to the straw it would catch fire. Then he stretched out one hand with a questioning air: could he take all the matches? Goldbaum quickly retrieved them: he showed Achtiti that the box was already partly used up and that the other, though full, was small. He made a gesture that indicated the two of them. He showed Achtiti a match, and then the sun, and the sun’s path through the sky: he would give him a match for every day of sustenance. For a long time Achtiti remained in doubt, squatting on his heels, humming in a nasal singsong; then he went into a hut, and came out holding an earthenware bowl and a bow. He placed the bowl on the ground; he picked up some claylike earth, mixed it with water, showed the two men that the paste could be modeled into the shape of the bowl, and, finally, pointed to himself. Then he took the bow and caressed it affectionately along its length: it was smooth, symmetrical, strong. He showed the two a bundle of long, straight branches that were lying a little distance away, and had them observe that the quality and the fiber of the wood were the same. He returned to the hut, and this time came out with two obsidian scrapers, one big and one small, and a rough block of obsidian.
The two observed him with curiosity and bewilderment. Achtiti picked up a flint stone, and showed them that, if he struck with precisely aimed small blows along particular contours of the block, it flaked cleanly, without breaking; in a few minutes of work, he had made a scraper, maybe still needing to be refined, but already usable. Then Achtiti took two branches, each a little less than a meter long, and began to scrape one of them. He worked with purpose and skill, in silence or humming, his mouth closed: after half an hour the branch was tapered at one end, and periodically Achtiti checked it, bending it over one knee to feel if it was flexible enough. Perhaps he perceived a trace of impatience in the attitude or comments of the two men, because he interrupted his work, went off among the huts, and returned accompanied by a boy. He entrusted the second branch and another scraper to him, and from then on they worked together. Indeed, the boy was as skillful as Achtiti; it was evident that for him, too, making a bow was not a new job. When the two branches were reduced to the right size and shape, Achtiti began to smooth them with a rough stone that to Wilkins appeared to be a fragment of a whetstone.
“He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry,” said Goldbaum.
“The Siriono are never in a hurry. Hurry is a sickness of ours,” Wilkins answered.
“They have other sicknesses, however.”
“Of course. But nowhere is it said that a civilization without sickness is possible.”
“What do you suppose he wants from us?”
“I think I understand,” Wilkins said. Achtiti continued to scrape the wood diligently, working around all sides and testing the surface with his fingers and his eyes, squinting, because he was a little farsighted. Finally, he tied the two untapered ends together, overlapping them for a short distance, and between the pointed ends he stretched a string of twisted gut: he had a certain air of pride, and showed the two that, if you pinched the string, it resonated for a long time, like a harp. He sent the boy to get an arrow, took aim, and shot: the arrow stuck quivering in the trunk of a palm fifty meters away. Then, with an emphatic gesture, he offered the bow to Wilkins, indicating with a nod that it was his: he should hold it, try it out. Then he took two matches from the open box, offered one to Wilkins and one to Goldbaum, squatted on the ground, wrapped his arms around his knees, and waited, but without impatience.
Goldbaum, with the match in his hand, was speechless. Then he said, “I think I understand, too.”
“Yes,” Wilkins answered. “As a lecture, it’s clear enough: we wretched Siriono, if we don’t have a scraper, we make one; and if we are without a bow, with the scraper we make the bow, and maybe we also make it smooth, because then it’s a pleasure to look at and hold in your hand. You foreign sorcerers, who steal men’s voices and put them in a box, you were left without matches: come on, make some.”
“So?”
“We’ll have to explain our limits.” With two voices, or, rather, with four hands, they tried to convince Achtiti that although it’s true that a match is small, much smaller than a bow (this was a point that Achtiti seemed to consider important), the head of the match contained an ingredient (how to explain it?) that dwelt far away, in the sun, in the depths of the earth, beyond the rivers and the forest. They were painfully conscious of the inadequacy of their defense: Achtiti stuck out his lips at them, shook his head, and said things to the boy that made him laugh.
“He must be telling him that we are bad sorcerers, scoundrels who only know how to talk big,” said Goldbaum. Achtiti was a methodical man: he said something else to the boy, who grabbed the bow and some arrows and stood at a distance of twenty paces with a resolute air; he himself went off and returned with one of the knives found at the site of the base camp, which the fire had warped and severely oxidized. He picked up one of the watches off the ground and held it out to Wilkins. Wilkins, with the pale face of one who shows up unprepared for an important exam, made a sign of impotence. He opened the watchcase and showed Achtiti the minute gears, the thin balance wheel that never stopped, the tiny rubies, and then his own fingers: impossible! The same, or almost, happened with the tape recorder, which, however, Achtiti didn’t want to touch: he made Wilkins pick it up himself, and stopped up his ears for fear of hearing his voice. And the knife? Achtiti seemed to want them to understand that it was a sort of makeup exam, that is, an elementary test, basic enough for any simpleton, sorcerer or no: go ahead, make a knife. A knife, look, isn’t a kind of little beast with a beating heart, which is easy to kill but very difficult to bring back to life: it doesn’t move, it doesn’t make noise, and it’s got only two parts—the Siriono themselves had three or four of them,
which they had bought ten years earlier and had paid very little for, just an armful of papayas and two caiman skins.
“You answer—I’ve had enough.” Goldbaum displayed less talent for mimickry and diplomacy than his colleague. He waved his arms vainly, in a gesture that not even Wilkins understood, and Achtiti, for the first time, burst into laughter; but it was not a reassuring laugh.
“What are you trying to tell him?”
“That perhaps we would manage to make a knife, but that we need some special rocks, rocks that burn and that aren’t found in this country, plus time and a hot fire.”
“I didn’t understand, but he probably did. He was right to laugh: he must have thought that we just wanted to gain time until they come to get us. It’s the number-one trick of all sorcerers and prophets.”
Achtiti called out, and seven or eight robust warriors appeared. They seized the two men and shut them up in a hut of solid tree trunks. There were no openings; light entered only through the chinks in the roof. Goldbaum asked, “Do you think we’ll be here long?” Wilkins answered, “I fear no; I hope yes.”
But the Siriono are not a fierce people. They were content to leave them there to expiate their lies, providing them with plenty of water and a little food. For some obscure reason, perhaps because he felt offended, Achtiti no longer came to see them.
Goldbaum said, “I’m a good photographer, but without lenses and without film… Maybe I could make a camera obscura. What do you say?”
“That would amuse them. But they are asking us for something more: that we demonstrate, concretely, that our civilization is superior to theirs, that our sorcerers are more powerful than theirs.”
“It’s not as if I knew how to make many other things with my hands. I know how to drive a car. I also know how to change a light bulb or a fuse. Unclog a sink, sew on a button. But here there are neither sinks nor needles.”
Wilkins meditated. “No,” he said, “here it would take something more essential. If they let us out, I could try to take apart the magnetic tape recorder. How it’s put together inside I don’t know, but if there’s a permanent magnet we’re in business. We can make it float in a bowl of water and give them the compass, and at the same time show them the art of making a compass.”
“Even though it’s called a magnetic tape recorder, I don’t think there are magnets inside,” Goldbaum answered. “And I’m not even sure that a compass would be very useful to the Siriono. For them the sun is enough: they aren’t navigators, and when they set out into the forest they follow the marked trails.”
“How do you make gunpowder? Maybe that’s not too hard. Don’t you just mix carbon, sulfur, and saltpeter?”
“Theoretically, yes. But where would you find saltpeter here, in the middle of the swamps? And there might be sulfur, but who knows where? And, finally, what use would gunpowder be, if they don’t have an ordinary gun barrel?”
“I have an idea. People here can die as a result of a scratch, from septicemia or tetanus. We could ferment their grain, distill the infusion, and make alcohol for them; maybe they would also like to drink it, even if that’s not exactly proper. They don’t seem to be acquainted with either stimulants or depressants. It would be a fine bit of sorcery.”
Goldbaum was tired. “We don’t have a fermenting agent. I don’t think I would be capable of recognizing one, and neither would you. And then I’d like to see you wrestling with the local potters to get them to build you a still. Maybe it’s not completely impossible, but it’s an undertaking that would require months, and we have only days.”
It wasn’t clear if the Siriono intended to make them die of starvation, or if they wished only to maintain them with the least expense while waiting for the boat to come up the river, or for the final, decisive idea to develop in the two men. Their days passed in a torpor that grew ever deeper, a waking sleep made up of damp heat, mosquitoes, hunger, and humiliation. And yet both of them had studied for almost twenty years, knew many things about all human civilizations, ancient and modern, were interested in all primitive technologies, in Chaldean metallurgy, in Mycenean ceramics, in pre-Columbian weaving: and now perhaps (perhaps!) they would be able to split off a flint stone because Achtiti had taught them, while they were unable to teach Achtiti anything: only tell him by means of gestures about marvels that he didn’t believe in, and show him miraculous things that they had brought with them, made by other hands, under another sky.
After almost a month of prison they were short of ideas, and felt worn down to a final impotence. The entire colossal edifice of modern technology was out of their reach: they had to confess to each other that not even one of the inventions of which their civilization was proud could be transmitted to the Siriono. They lacked the basic materials to start with, and, even if these could have been found nearby, the two Englishmen would have been unable to recognize or isolate them; none of the arts that they knew would be judged useful by the Siriono. If one of them had been good at drawing, they could have made a portrait of Achtiti, and, if nothing else, evoked wonder. If they had a year’s time, they might perhaps convince their hosts of the usefulness of the alphabet, adapt it to their language, and teach Achtiti the art of writing. For several hours they discussed the idea of making soap for the Siriono: they could get potash from the wood ashes, and oil from the seeds of a local palm. But what use would soap be to the Siriono? They didn’t have clothes, and it would not be easy to persuade them of the usefulness of washing themselves with soap.
Finally, they were reduced to a modest project: they would teach the Siriono to make candles. Modest but irreproachable; the Siriono had wax, wax from peccaries, which they used to grease their hair, and there was no difficulty about the wicks: they could use bristles from the same peccaries. The Siriono would appreciate the advantage of illuminating the inside of their huts at night. Of course, they might prefer to learn how to make a gun or an outboard motor: candles weren’t much, but it was worth a try.
They were just attempting to get in touch with Achtiti, to negotiate their freedom in exchange for the candles, when they heard a big ruckus outside their prison. Soon afterward the door was opened, amid incomprehensible shouts, and Achtiti gestured to them to come out into the dazzling light of day: the boat had arrived.
The farewell was neither long nor ceremonious. Achtiti immediately stepped away from the prison door; he squatted on his heels, turning his back to them, and remained unmoving, as if turned to stone, while Siriono warriors led the two men to the bank of the river. Two or three women, laughing and shouting, exposed their stomachs in their direction; all the others in the village, even the children, swung their heads, singing “Luu, luu,” and held out their hands, limp and as if detached, letting them dangle from their wrists like overripe fruit.
Wilkins and Goldbaum had no baggage. They got into the boat, which was piloted by Suarez himself, and begged him to leave as quickly as possible.
THE SIRIONO are not invented. They actually exist, or at least they did until around 1945, but what one knows of them makes one think that, at least as a people, they will not survive for long. They were described by Allan R. Holmberg in a recent monograph (“The Siriono of Eastern Bolivia”): they lead a subsistence-level existence, which alternates between nomadism and primitive agriculture. They are not familiar with metals, they do not possess terms for numbers higher than three, and, although they often have to cross swamps and rivers, they do not know how to build boats. They do know, however, that at one time they were able to do so, and the story is passed down among them of a hero who had the name of the Moon, and who had taught their people (then much more numerous) three arts: to light fires, to carve out canoes, and to make bows. Of these, only the last survives; they have forgotten even the method of making fire. They told Holmberg that in a time not too far back (two, three generations ago: around the time when among us the first internal combustion engines were invented, electric light became widespread, and the complex structure of the atom was be
ginning to be understood) some of them knew how to make fire by twirling a stick in a hole in a piece of wood. But at that time the Siriono lived in another land, with a desert-like climate, where it was easy to find dry wood and tinder. Now they live among swamps and forests, in perpetual dampness. Since they could no longer find dry wood, the method of the stick in the hole could no longer be practiced, and was forgotten.
Fire itself, however, they kept. In each of their villages or wandering bands there is at least one old woman whose job it is to maintain a live spark in a brazier of tufo. This art is not so difficult as that of lighting a fire by means of rubbing sticks, but it’s not elementary, either: especially in the rainy season, the flame has to be fed palm flowers, which are dried in the heat of that flame. These old vestals are very diligent, because if their fire dies they are put to death: not as punishment but because they are judged to be useless. All the Siriono who are judged to be useless because they are incapable of hunting, sowing, and plowing with a wooden plow are left to die. A Siriono is old at forty.
I repeat, they are not invented. They were reported by Scientific American in October, 1969, and they have a sinister renown: they teach us that not in every place and not in every era is humanity destined to advance.
Bureau of Vital Statistics
There were four elevators, but one, as usual, was out of service. It wasn’t always the same one and even the sign hanging on the door wasn’t always the same. This one, for instance, said “Out of Service”; others might say “Not Working” or “Broken” or “Don’t Touch” or even “Back Soon.” Maybe it was the doorman, or the superintendent, who changed the signs according to some vaguely ironic whim. There were lines in front of the three other elevators, and this, too, happened every day, at the beginning and at the end of the workday. If his office hadn’t been on the ninth floor, Arrigo would have taken the stairs; sometimes he did anyway, for the exercise, but that morning he felt a little tired.