Country Of The Falcon. Anne Mather
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in other circumstances the idea of feeling any alarm at the prospect would not have occurred to her. But here—with nowhere to escape to except the jungle—that was something else. And there were still the rapids …
Santos was studying her expressive face and now he said: ‘You are worried about Vasco?’ He shook his head. ‘You will not be alone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I will send two Indian bearers with you.’
‘Bearers?’ Alexandra frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
Santos lowered his bulk on to one of the cane chairs and Alexandra watched the narrow legs buckle a little. It always amazed her that they didn’t snap altogether beneath his weight.
‘The rapids, Mees Tempest.’ He raised his eyebrows and at her look of incomprehension, he went on: ‘Not all rapids are—how do you say it?—negociavel?’
‘Negotiable?’ offered Alexandra, and he nodded.
‘Sim, negotiable.’ He stretched out his legs. ‘We leave the boat and walk around—yes?’
‘Leave the boat?’ Alexandra’s mouth felt dry. ‘And—walk through the jungle?’
‘For short distance only.’
‘I see.’
‘You will need these men to carry your cases.’
‘And—and the boat?’
‘It is hauled along the river-bank above the rapids.’
‘I—didn’t realise.’ Another anxiety, Alexandra thought sickly, contemplating in imagination the scores of insects and snakes they might encounter in the forest. She had an intense and cowardly desire to turn back.
‘And—we sleep in the boat, is that right?’
‘Safest,’ nodded Santos, chewing at the end of his cigar, and while she pondered this he turned and shouted: ‘Maria!’ at the top of his voice. When the Indian girl appeared, he grasped her familiarly about her hips, dragging her close against him and saying: ‘You tell that inutil Vasco I want to see him, yes?’
Maria pulled away and went to do his bidding while Alexandra poured herself another cup of coffee. She wished she smoked. Right now she would have appreciated something to calm her nerves. On her first evening she had sampled some of Santos’s spirit alcohol in an impulsive effort to appear sophisticated, but she had spent several hours afterwards being violently sick and she had not repeated the experience. Indeed, she had avoided almost everything, food as well as drink, that did not come out of a tin and in consequence she had avoided any further gastric disturbances.
But now she could have done with some stimulating brew to dispel the sense of chilling apprehension she was feeling.
Vasco arrived with Maria, looking more than ever like a monkey as he loped along beside her. He had long arms and a short body, and a shaggy mat of black hair which Alexandra supposed he must comb but which never looked as though he had. She felt an hysterical sense of the ridiculous overwhelming her. To think—she had left the comfort of an exclusive boarding school, or the equally exclusive luxury of her father’s house in a fashionable square in London, to live in a mud hut in the heart of the Amazonian rain forest. She must be mad!
Santos’s conversation with Vasco was conducted in Portuguese and Alexandra understood little of it. But what did emerge was that Santos had accused the other man of delaying here because he was paid by the day and the longer he took to deliver Alexandra to her destination the more money he made. Until then Alexandra had hardly considered that aspect of it, and somehow just talking about money made everything seem a little more normal.
The wrangle continued, but Alexandra turned her attention to the river. In truth, it looked very little different today than it had done the day before, but for all his obesity and his disgusting affair with Maria, she trusted Santos more than the wizened Vasco. She half wished it was he, and not the other man, who was to escort her on the final leg of her journey.
Eventually Vasco went away muttering to himself but apparently persuaded that the waters were subsiding. Santos sat, smiling and nodding, and when Alexandra looked at him, he said:
‘You will go now, Mees Tempest. Santos will see you on your way.’
‘You mean—we’re leaving today?’ Alexandra was surprised to find how little enthusiasm this aroused in her now that the moment had actually come. Although perhaps after her anxiety earlier she could be forgiven for losing the determination with which she had initially begun this journey.
‘Is right,’ agreed Santos, lighting another cigar from the stub of the first. ‘Santos will see that you have everything you need.’
Alexandra got to her feet. ‘I’d better get my things—–’
Santos yelled for Maria, and when she came he told her to go and collect the senhorita’s cases from her hut. Alexandra began to protest that she was perfectly capable of getting her own things, but Santos interrupted her, saying:
‘Maria will do it. Leave her. The Indians like to serve. Hadn’t you noticed?’
Alexandra made no response to this. If she had she might have been tempted to tell Santos exactly what she thought of the kind of servitude in which he held Maria, and she had no wish to make enemies here. So she merely smiled and walked to the edge of the landing, looking down in to the amazingly clear waters of the Velhijo. She could see the sandy bottom lying beneath the water, the bleached rocks and curious dark red tinging of the water in places which from a distance made it appear almost black. She realised it was the mineral deposits in the river, swept down by the force of the elements, and it was mostly iron which gave it its curious colour. On the opposite bank, what had appeared to be a log moved, and she saw to her horror that it was one of the grey alligators, called caymans, which she had seen from time to time on the river-bank on her journey to Los Hermanos. Its narrow beady eyes and raised nostrils which enabled it to swim almost completely submerged sent a shiver of apprehension up her spine and she took an involuntary step backward. What would they do if they encountered something like that as they tramped past the rapids? She had little confidence in Vasco’s protection.
But by the time the boat was loaded with sleeping bags and extra blankets, cans of water and supplies, and two rifles had been added to the pile of equipment in the bottom of the boat, she felt a little more relaxed. The two Indians who were to accompany them seemed cheerful enough, although Alexandra had to avert her eyes from their apparent disregard for clothing of any sort. They sat together in the prow of the boat, chewing the tobacco which had blackened their teeth, and talking in some language of their own. She tried not to think about the fact that apart from Vasco’s, theirs were to be the only other human faces she was likely to see for two whole days. She had too much imagination, she decided.
Santos waved them off. He had shown little surprise at her adventurous journey to see her father, and Alexandra could only assume that like the Indians he considered all white people slightly eccentric. And, too, he had displayed little interest in her destination, and she hoped this was not because he never expected her to reach it.
A bend in the river hid the trading post from view and the boat’s small motor chugged steadily upstream. There was a canvas canopy rigged at the rear end of the craft and Alexandra sat beneath this, glad of the respite from the glare of the sun which was just beginning to make the heat unbearable. In fact, it was a little better on the river. There was a slight breeze as the boat moved through the water, and Alexandra fanned herself with her sunglasses.
Well, she thought, trying to be philosophical, she was at least moving again, and who knows, maybe in less than forty-eight hours she would see her father again. It seemed an unreal supposition.
They didn’t stop at lunch-time, but Vasco chewed a hunk of the mandioca bread and drank some beer while Alexandra opened a tin of Coke and peeled two bananas. The fresh fruit was infinitely more delicious than any she had tasted in England, and