Through the Arc of the Rain Forest

by Karen Tei Yamashita

  “I can’t walk, Chiquinho,” Gilberto explained. “But I will fly!”

  “You’re crazy. I won’t be responsible for the death of a cripple like you!” Chico Paco had refused. Now he thought with amusement that the boy Rubens had even flown. Gilberto would be interested to hear this story.

  In a matter of three days, Chico Paco announced that he was ready to return on foot to the Matacão to comply with Lourdes’s promise to Saint George. In preparation for this trip, Lourdes bought him a pair of very sturdy boots, but Rubens had been preparing zealously for Chico Paco’s trip as well. Rubens announced with determination, “I am going with Chico Paco.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Lourdes laughed.

  “I will wheel alongside of him,” he insisted.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The pigeon and I are both going. I have feed for a month.”

  Hiroshi laughed, “I suppose you want to send the pigeon home from the Matacão?”

  Kazumasa and I thought about this idea. It was an interesting one, but we knew Lourdes would not allow it.

  Chico Paco smiled kindly at Rubens. “Your mother is right. It is not a trip for you. The rainy season is not over. I would have to carry you and your chair through the mud.”

  Rubens wanted to cry. “No one has done this before. My pigeon would be the first to travel from the Matacão. Perhaps you will take my pigeon with you and release him when you arrive?” He looked earnestly at Chico Paco.

  “Well, if you trust me with your animal,” Chico Paco hesitated, “I will try.”

  When the word spread that Chico Paco would be leaving for the Matacão on foot with a pigeon, Batista was immediately interested. “Tania,” he said, “this idea of the boy’s is brilliant. Of course, he needs to send more birds than just one. It’s a treacherous trip for animals. You can’t expect all of them to make it. We have some birds who can make it, no doubt.”

  “Maybe we can help him out. Send more birds. A dozen.”

  “Chico Paco can’t carry and care for all these cages filled with birds. He will never make it to the Matacão.”

  “Well then, someone should go with him. Maybe go ahead in a truck.”

  “Tania Cidinha!” Batista kissed his wife. “Of course!”

  In a week, Batista had arranged for a truck, loaded his birds, kissed his wife and mother-in-law good-bye, and as the truck pulled away, zealously watched the figure of Tania Aparecida in the truck’s rear-view mirror until she was a small speck. A flood of doubt welled up in his heart as he turned the corner. “Leaving that woman behind may be a great mistake.” He shook his head and almost turned back.

  Over the radio, Batista heard the news about Chico Paco’s progress. Chico Paco had already left several days before with a small crowd of people, who stuffed his pockets with money for the trip, the names and addresses of relatives and friends along the way, and notes filled with other promises to be fulfilled by this same walk. A jeep with the words “Praise the Lord” and “Living Moments in Sainthood” also followed slowly behind. A reporter rode or walked alongside of Chico Paco with a microphone and a tape recorder, interviewing Chico Paco as he walked toward the Matacão. It was this radio show that Batista listened to in his truck. Chico Paco was in Ouro Prêto today. It would not be long before Batista and his pigeons would overtake the walking angel.

  CHAPTER 14:

  Karaoke

  “Karaoke is a style of nightclub invented by the Japanese. It generally consists of a sound system with a stage, lights and microphones, with a sophisticated video system to boot. This sound system creates an entire orchestra for a myriad of selected popular songs. The sound can be controlled to move up or down to any octave, according to the needs of the amateur singer. The sound is accompanied by a video with some appropriate story line—lovers walking, smoking, arguing, gazing longingly, etc., a sort of mood commercial to go with the song—and under all this are the words of the song printed in the language of your choice. You choose a song from a selected menu, grab the mike, read the libretto on the video and sing, accompanied by a full-bodied orchestra. An operator adjusts the sound and the octave to your voice, and suddenly you are Frank Sinatra or Dionne Warwick. At the end of the evening, your waiter hands you a bill for your drinks and your songs.”

  Inevitably Kazumasa became disillusioned with the charity business, but not because people took advantage of him or because they were greedy or because they lied. Despite his innocence about human nature and character, he did not believe that people were or should be perfect. With me in the way, he could not, even if he wanted to, have a vision of perfection. Everyone he met had something missing, some part of them that needed filling in. A lack of character was no different from a physical lacking. What disillusioned Kazumasa was that, given the opportunity to imagine happiness, people could only imagine things, and so many of the things they imagined were basic to their well-being: food, shelter, clothing, medicine, health care. He gave to everyone, from the poor beggar on the street to the big foundations, hospitals, and schools. No matter who they were, they all had to stand in Kazumasa’s charity line. The need was so great, so big, and so deep that it boggled the imagination. It was a great crime that so many came to swindle a kind man’s goodwill, but it was a bigger crime that so many were in so much need. The list of people who required miracles got longer and longer and longer until Kazumasa began to feel the hopelessness of a wealthy man whose giving was eternal and, therefore, whose vision of suffering would also be eternal.

  Hiroshi was incapable of allowing Kazumasa’s fortune to dwindle away to the predictable nothing, the absolute zero that Kazumasa envisioned. This money that came out of a poor people’s dreams should thus return to those very dreams, but Hiroshi did not see it that way. He learned very quickly that great wealth generates greater wealth, that the stakes were greater and the returns greater yet. There was a greater lottery, an international lottery that could turn thousands into millions and millions into billions. Without knowing it, Kazumasa began slowly to have international holdings, real estate in Tokyo and New York, hotel chains, entire islands with all their flora and fauna, stocks in everything from computers to cars to chips and clips. Hiroshi had even invested Kazumasa’s money in those computerized balls that measure railroad track wear. All of this was unknown to Kazumasa, who asked Hiroshi wearily from time to time, “When will it be done?”

  “Not yet. Not yet,” was always the reply.

  Back on the Matacão, it was J.B. Tweep who, with one hand on the GGG stockholder reports, another flipping through the current issue of Forbes, and another massaging the handle of his morning coffee cup, noticed the name Kazumasa Ishimaru. He eyed the blurred picture in Forbes of Kazumasa, who seemed swept up in the throngs of a Brazilian carnival. I’d never been very photogenic myself, and I was slightly hidden from view and blended in unattractively with the gray background. J.B. clipped the page and read the blurb on Kazumasa: “An obscure Japanese immigrant known to have a strange personal satellite the size of a golf ball whizzing inches from his forehead, probably some sort of bogus invention intended to complete the eccentricity of this man who, since making his great fortune on the Brazilian lotteries, now calls Brazil his home.” But the thing that really concerned J.B. was the notice in the GGG Enterprises quarterly report that showed that Kazumasa was now GGG’s major stockholder.

  All of this would have come as an enormous surprise to Kazumasa, who thought that Hiroshi dabbled only in the karaoke business. Kazumasa was particularly fond of karaoke, and he often took me out to bob and sing for an evening at one of Hiroshi’s hotspots. You might have thought that Kazumasa was a shy sort, hardly given to singing on stage in smoky bars to tipsy audiences, but karaoke is after all a sport for the shy—those closet, or rather, shower performers who let it all out while sudsing and rinsing. Where else could you belt out a song with a full orchestra into a mike with its reverb set to match the acoustics of your tiled shower? Despite Kazumasa’s fon
dness for karaoke, it was not always easy to sneak out and sing incognito with a ball obviously pointing at your nose. Even though we were often mistaken for one of those who wore the artificial balls attached by transparent headbands, people would invariably rush up to Kazumasa’s table and form a charity line. To assuage this problem and to feed Kazumasa’s hunger for karaoke, Hiroshi had a shower stall built with a waterproof karaoke system, stereo, mike, video and all. Every morning, Lourdes could hear us singing. Depending on the choice of songs, she knew how Kazumasa was feeling and even what he might like to eat that day. In time, Hiroshi successfully glutted the market with karaoke shower stalls.

  In the beginning, Hiroshi’s karaoke business was confined to three small bars in São Paulo. But after a while, they began to sprout up like hamburger stands. The neon signs scrawled in deep blue with the words “HIRO’S KARAOKE” popped into the evening sky in major cities like Rio, Belo Horizonte, Salvador, Recife, Manaus and moved on to Buenos Aires, Santiago, Lima, Bogotá, and Mexico City. Hiroshi sold the karaoke bars as franchises, and pretty soon, almost every town in South America had one. People burst from their showers to sing.

  Kazumasa was very proud of his cousin’s success and envious of Hiroshi’s obvious happiness with his new business, but he could not, for his part, find happiness in his self-proposed career. It was beginning to feel much like traveling around in the Tokyo Yamanote circular train again. The sad stories began to run together, everyone getting off at the same stops with the same desires. Every day, we passed the same suffering. The depression of these stories began to show in Kazumasa’s face. “When will it be over?” he asked Hiroshi every day, but Hiroshi was merciless.

  “Not yet. Not yet.”

  When Kazumasa’s holdings in GGG Enterprises hit 50 percent, J.B. Tweep decided to call the eccentric Japanese with the personal satellite. Kazumasa and I nodded on the phone.

  “Mr. Ishimaru,” J.B. spoke from the Matacão. “This is J.B. Tweep from GGG Enterprises. I’m—,” J.B. paused. What was he this week? “er, vice president of our international division, and since we’re both on the same end of the hemisphere, I figured you might be interested in taking a short hop up here to see what we’re about.”

  Kazumasa hesitated. He had no idea what GGG Enterprises could possibly be. He figured they must be some foundation in need. “Please Mr. J.B.,” Kazumasa answered politely. “I know it is a long way, but to be fair, everyone must stand in line. I am here every day. If you don’t need a miracle, I’m sure I can do my best to help you.”

  J.B. looked at the phone. It was not a bad connection; it was the Japanese’s odd Portuguese. “Yes, well, we don’t need a miracle of any sort, Mr. Ishimaru. We are on very sound ground. As you know, we’re up 11 percent this week and climbing. Your investment is in good hands.” J.B. examined the nails on one of his three hands.

  Kazumasa and I nodded again. “Mr. J.B., you make a mistake. I don’t invest. I give my money. I trust you completely.”

  “Yes, yes,” J.B. nodded too. “I understand your way of doing business. Some people just watch those numbers, but since you now play such a large and critical financial role, I suppose it is incumbent upon us, as well as you, to develop a relationship, don’t you agree?”

  Kazumasa thought about this.

  “Now I know you’re a busy man, but I’m proposing to send down our private plane. You name the time and date, and a vehicle will be there to pick you up. It’s the least GGG can do, Mr. Ishimaru.”

  That is how Kazumasa and I left São Paulo for the Matacão. Lourdes saw us wistfully to the elevator. “Please take care, Seu Kazumasa,” she said softly. “Don’t you worry about anything. We will take care of everything here just fine. And please come back soon,” she added.

  Kazumasa looked at her with his kind eyes. Suddenly, it was hard to leave for some reason. He looked beyond me at Lourdes, her dark shining eyes pressed upon him with all the love she could muster. What was it about this woman? He nodded at her and smiled warmly. Hiroshi was a lucky man, he thought. He knew Hiroshi was in love with Lourdes. She and Hiroshi would be very happy together. Kazumasa still could not see that all Lourdes’s love was meant for him. Something tugged at his heart, the sweet sadness of feeling another person’s joy. He missed Lourdes already.

  “Seu Kazumasa,” Lourdes said breathlessly because she could wait no longer for this man to come to his senses, but the elevator door closed and parted us for the time being.

  CHAPTER 15:

  Prendas Domesticas

  Tania Aparecida watched her husband Batista leave with a mixed feeling of longing and relief—longing because Batista was the epitome of Brazilian good looks and charm, and relief because he would not be around for a while to follow her every movement with a tenacious and jealous eye. She could go out with her friends, take in a movie, visit her sister in another town, drink and laugh with abandon, enjoy the looks and stares of other men without having to justify anything to Batista. If they wanted to look, if they liked looking, what was it to her? If she were an ugly witch, then who would look? Surely not Batista. Why did he have to make such a big deal about every little thing, as if she were some sort of prostitute lifting her skirts so that anyone could see? She was a respectably married woman. Was it her fault if she was also attractive? She didn’t go around making a scene whenever some silly woman came along and made eyes at her Batista. She didn’t blame Batista even though he smiled too. She just gave the other woman a cold look that cut her off. What was the point of making a scene, of blaming Batista if he were handsome? And he was so handsome, her Batista. Tania Aparecida sighed. She missed Batista, but she was not going to let his absence spoil her vacation from him.

  In the meantime, Batista was on the road with Chico Paco. Sometimes he drove ahead and waited for Chico Paco to catch up. Sometimes he stayed behind, biding his time with a bottle of beer in some corner bar, feeding and watering his birds, exchanging small talk with the locals who also dabbled in pigeons.

  After a while, Batista preferred to be ahead or behind Chico Paco, who always brought crowds and tumult to the sleepy towns and hamlets. People who never left the shade of their front porches or the fabricated world of their nightly soap operas were bound to come out to see the walking angel, the keeper of promises. They showered him with gifts of food and drink, and there was no lack of sheltered places to lay his sleepy golden head. The “Praise the Lord” radio station faithfully followed him from town to town. They got into every story, every miracle, every blessing that a town could produce. All along Chico Paco’s route, people listened for his coming and told stories of his passing.

  And along the same route, every few hundred miles or so, Batista released a pigeon with a message, carefully noting its name and time and place of release. Tania Aparecida and her mother had strict instructions to watch for these birds, to note their time of arrival and their condition after flight. It was all very scientific. Batista did not want to miss a thing. These flights were historic in nature. Everything must be carefully documented.

  Tania Aparecida left these details up to her mother Dona Gloria, whose affection and pigeon-mothering was beyond reproach. Despite whatever Batista might have thought of his mother-in-law in the past, he could never have found a more caring pigeon keeper. Dona Gloria knew all of the pigeons by name. She knew their histories and parentage, remembered their birthdays and had her favorites. Some pigeon could always be found nestled in her hair or on her shoulders, or if she were reclined, snuggled warmly in her bosom. She carried the young ones in her apron pockets, took the sick ones to her home, and talked what Tania Aparecida called “pigeon talk” all day long.

  While Dona Gloria tended the pigeons, Tania Aparecida kept the records, haggled over the price of feed, and did the bookkeeping. It was Tania Aparecida who set up a breeding program to sell a line of potential prize-winners. It was Tania Aparecida who set the fees for mating prizewinners. It was Tania Aparecida who set up the concession stands on the street on
weekends to sell pigeon cages and Batista’s special feed, which brought in a nice profit. It was Tania Aparecida who furnished the information for the Pigeon Messenger—a weekly pamphlet that listed the famous pigeon messages, their possible meanings, and the people who benefited from them—in return for free advertising and a small consulting fee. And it was Tania Aparecida who put their winnings from pigeon flights into the poupança—a money market that pays interest while promising to keep up with inflation.

  In the beginning, of course, there was not a great deal of money, but it was enough that Batista no longer had to work as a dispatcher. Tania Aparecida discovered that she liked to haggle over prices, to make deals and even to watch the inflation index. Compared to washing clothing, cooking, and sewing, this was so much better.

  It was Tania Aparecida’s idea, therefore, that great money was to be had in the pigeon business. Unlike Batista, who was really an enthusiast and sportsman, Tania began to see pigeons as a profitable source of income. With Batista away, Tania Aparecida’s mind began to wander to new ideas. She toyed with a bar of sweet-smelling soap that had the impression of a dove pressed into its oval shape. Within the week, Tania had put on her very best dress and shoes and matching purse and was knocking at the door of the Pomba Soap Company.