Kazumasa thought birds were important too.
J.B. continued, “But this Matacão, this is even a bigger find than feathers. You can’t imagine the possibilities. Sure we could start to chip away at one obscure end of the thing, but this place is crawling with scientists and environmentalists, with tourists to boot. Someone’s bound to notice, and when we get going, we are going to need a lot of the Matacão.” J.B. leaned forward, as if to get the full sensation of what it was like to be a few inches from me. “This ball, Mr. Ishimaru,” said J.B., “is the key. If I’m not mistaken, it should lead us to other deposits of Matacão plastic.”
Kazumasa nodded, “My ball knows.”
CHAPTER 18:
Featherology
Mané Pena had run barefoot to the Matacão with the others to greet the young man who was called an angel but was like another son to him. Angustia had heard the news on the radio, and she had sent one of her young ones to the university, where he interrupted Mané’s story-telling lecture to whisper the news in his ear. When Mané ran from the classroom with the little boy at his heels, his abandoned class followed him out and ran with him to the Matacão. Seeing the barefoot guru of feathers running with a small cadre of people caused others to run as well. It made no difference to where or from what, but only that it was important enough for that old man to run.
On the other hand, many people had joined Chico Paco for the last portion of his walk, convinced by the Praise-the-Lord radio station that Chico Paco’s arrival on the Matacão was a historic moment on the Christian calendar. They came with their candles and rosaries, their caged pigeons, with babies in their arms and old people on their backs.
Batista, waiting with his two truckloads of pigeons on the Matacão, could see the collision coming from both directions. He felt momentarily frightened to see what seemed to him two armies of excited people approaching. What was one to think? Batista and the two truck drivers ran to their respective trucks, ready to bolt into reverse and hopefully watch a momentous riot from a proper distance. But nothing more momentous occurred than what J.B. Tweep observed from his balcony or the velcroed Kazumasa on TV—the significant convergence of two great rivers of believers: featherologists and pilgrims.
It would be 1,500 miles and at least seven days, Batista predicted, before the homers might arrive in São Paulo from the Matacão. He wondered if Tania Aparecida would even be at her post to await the birds, if she would be somewhere making those infernal deals. He could feel the irritation of his jealous thoughts just below the roots of his hair, which he scratched in frustration.
Mané Pena handed him a feather. “I think you might try one of these,” he suggested to Batista wisely. “You were saying about your birds?” he prodded Batista to continue his conversation.
“On long distances like this,” Batista gestured, “the female is usually faster than the male. You see, the female goes to sleep later and rises earlier; she gets in the habit of it from taking care of her babies. Now, she’ll get an earlier start and then stop later to rest. She’s got better flying time on the whole. I’d bet on a female every time for distance. Naturally, we’ve got more females out there than males.” Batista nodded at the skies above them.
Mané Pena thought about this. “That so?”
“Now the young males do better on short runs. You let him in with a hen for a few minutes before the basket. Let him get a taste for some ass and pull him out just when he’s dragging the old tail feathers. Then, oow,” Batista snapped his fingers to accentuate the lusty speed of his males, “they come panting back faster than the devil.”
“Heh heh, would’ve known it,” Mané Pena grinned.
“That first batch, not that Pomba stuff,” Batista inserted, “they’re all our very best.” Batista was proud of his birds. “Strong wing formation. Muscular. When you hold them in your hand, the feathers feel like silk stretched over hard wood.” He paused, that tactile sensation still radiating from his fingers. “That comes from a lot of training on the short runs. We’ve been long-distancing them gradually. This is the big test.” Batista rubbed the feather over his ear and smiled at his sudden relief from that taut feeling in his gut, from that necessity to soar back with his homers to São Paulo and that woman with those crazy ideas. He looked at Mané Pena quizzically.
Mané grinned. “That’s a pigeon feather,” he said. “They want to use the bright stuff—parrot feathers—you know, but these grays can give a man tranquillity. A man needs tranquillity of mind.”
Batista shot a look at the old man; what did Mané Pena know about him, Batista? Did his mad jealousy show? Batista looked at the feather. “What about pigeon feathers?” he asked hesitantly.
“Well,” Mané Pena spoke with authority, “take this feather. Not too big or too small. Quill’s stout and the vanes just wide enough. A pigeon feather’s just about the right size,” Mané nodded knowingly. “If it’s the wrong size, you have a hard time working it around. True, a lot of people like the parrot because of the colors. They don’t care how feathers work. They think color counts. But a feather’s an instrument. You need a little skill as well.”
Batista nodded, approving Mané Pena’s expertise. “I can give you some primaries from our next moult. Maybe you could give us your opinion on the Djapan champions.”
“From the looks of those birds,” Mané Pena gestured to the southern skies, “there’s some firm feathers, strong barbs.”
“You can be sure of it.” Batista urged his flock home.
“Those champions might not be for everyone,” Mané Pena speculated, sucking air through the spaces in his grin. “Might be best for athletic types, football players. See what I mean? I don’t suggest the strong flyers for everyone. An eagle feather can get you in trouble, for example. Give a fool more guts than he can negotiate. Nope. A simple man like me sticks to simple feathers.”
“What did you mean about tranquillity,” Batista still wanted to know.
“Well, some feathers provide tranquillity. Don’t know why, really, but they do. Pigeon feather’s one, specially the female. Suppose because they say pigeons marry for life. Domesticated sorts and stuck to each other forever after. There’s birds that get a new partner every season. Some’s got various. Talk to that French bird professor; she’ll tell you stories get your mind to thinking. Nature’s like the TV. You take a good look at it; it’ll tell you something new all the time.”
Batista wanted to know about those French bird professor stories, but a tiny buzzer went off. Batista noticed the fancy digital watch with all sorts of buttons on Mané’s wrist.
“They’ve punched this up so when it buzzes I know I’ve got to go somewhere.” Mané thought for a moment. “It must be that TV lecture. That’s it.”
“TV lecture?” asked Batista.
“Funniest thing. I talk for two, three hours, see. Then when it’s finished, they do something, make it come out ’bout one-half hour. Speed everything up. That’s how come you can watch a story, guy gets born and dies in one hour.” Mané Pena nodded gravely, then grinned and left for his TV lecture.
Batista watched the old barefooted guru walk away. He wanted to walk away too. He wanted to get in his truck, press the gas pedal for home, and sing all the way back to the rattling of his empty cages. He wanted to be there when the homers arrived. He wanted to take Tania Aparecida in his arms and dance on the back porch all night. He wanted to make love to the sound of their cooing pigeons. But he could not. Even as the sky above the Matacão was grey with those Pomba pigeons, another two truckloads had arrived. There were pigeon messages for Gigeta’s Pizza and Hiro’s Karaoke and some popular politician named Evandro Alves. Tania Aparecida had sent detailed instructions so that the arrival of certain pigeons would coincide with such and such an advertising campaign. And then Evandro Alves himself was supposed to come to the Matacão to make a long rhetorical speech and to let the pigeons out himself. It would be months before Batista could even think of returning to São Paulo.
Back again, recuperating from his walk in the home of Mané Pena—where even more letters of the same nature awaited him—Chico Paco patiently opened each letter, reading the contents with sympathy, pity, and amazement. Many of the correspondents sent money, often the precious savings of a lifetime, to support Chico Paco’s mission. In fact, there was a great deal of money, more money than he had ever seen in his life.
“What does this mean?” Chico Paco asked Mané Pena for advice.
“Don’t really know,” Mané Pena scratched the scruff of his unshaved face. He walked over to a drawer and pulled out an envelope. “There’s this too.” He handed the envelope addressed “To Chico Paco.”
Chico Paco pulled out a check from the Kazumasa Ishimaru Foundation and signed by Kazumasa himself. A small note was attached to the check. “Mr. Chico Paco: I’m very happy you arrived at Matacão safe to pray for Rubens. Please use this gift to continue your good work. Your friend, Kazumasa Ishimaru.”
Chico Paco’s green eyes blinked with disbelief. “It’s a lot of money, Mané! I didn’t walk to get money. I just did it because it was God’s will. What will I do with all this money?”
“Some people wouldn’t have a problem answering a question like that.” Mané Pena grinned at the young fisherman now so far from the sea.
Chico Paco pulled the tiny photograph of Rubens from his pocket. “You didn’t see this boy, Mané. He was the very boy in my dreams. Once you see something real like that in front of you, you know you can’t do wrong by God.”
Suddenly the buzzer on Mané’s watch went off. “Now what is it this time?” Mané had to think. “I’ll have to call Carlos to find out. Good thing there’s Carlos.” Carlos was the secretary who came with the office provided by GGG Enterprises. “Carlos is what they call ‘efficient.’”
Chico Paco looked with confusion at the old man, searching his thoughts for an idea. “Mané, please help me think about my problem. I can trust you.”
Mané Pena pulled out a feather. “Here, try this one. I’m sure you will think of something.”
Chico Paco laid back in the hammock, rubbing the soft fluff at the end of the feather over his earlobe. He thought about the radio station that had accompanied him for the past month. It had made a tremendous amount of money from their program, “Living Moments in Sainthood.” The radio station had given him nothing for his central role. Of course, they had paid for the telephone calls to his mother, had scouted places for him to eat or sleep, and he had been grateful for their friendship on that long journey that otherwise would have been quite solitary. Chico Paco had not thought of his walk as something that required payment; it was his duty to God and to his fellow human beings. It would seem, however, that all these letters and all this support must require some sort of answer and action on his part. If he were indeed a chosen angel—and all of these letters and requests seemed proof in themselves—he must take on these God-given responsibilities and invest these gifts for God. He nodded to himself, scratching on this point with the tip of the feather.
Then, he thought about his amazement at the possibility, the very miracle, of being able to send his voice through the air over invisible waves. It had taken a while to become accustomed to the presence of the radio people, their announcers, tape recorders, and microphones. But after a while, he began to enjoy giving interviews. He liked hearing himself on the radio, squeezed in between the commercials and gospel news. He liked the music. Yes! Chico Paco pecked his ear excitedly with the feather and sat up with sudden resolution. If he could have anything, he would like his very own radio station.
Mané Pena pressed the buttons on his phone. He had to learn to use a push-button phone.
Carlos answered his call. “Oh, Seu Mané. It’s that television talk show. Mr. Tweep has a memo that authorizes you to take the GGG plane to fly to Rio. You do the show and come back the next day.”
“Fly?”
“Yes.”
“Likely those metal birds fall from time to time.” Mané sawed a feather anxiously over his ear.
“I wouldn’t worry about such things. They say flying is safer than getting on a bus.”
“I’m not much for buses either. If God had meant people to go faster, he woulda built us with wheels and wings.”
“It’s the only way to get to Rio today, Seu Mané. I’ll come by in a bit and pick you up. If we’re going to make the show, we’d better hurry.”
Mané Pena sighed. This feather business had gotten rather complicated. Mr. Tweep said education and research were the most important things. Mané Pena owed it to the world to spread his knowledge about feathers. If he didn’t want imitations and misconceptions to crop up, he’d better keep the matter straight and do his bit for the good of the feather and its good to society. But every day, they had something else for him to do. If it wasn’t what they called a seminar, it was an interview or a press conference. One day, they had him going everywhere and taking pictures all day. He had to stand in front of banana trees, on the Matacão, off the Matacão, in front of this or that building, under bright lights, in front of a sunset, posing for picture after picture. The photographer had this mechanical camera that spit out the shots like crazy. There wasn’t one conceivable expression or pose they hadn’t caught of the old man. After this, Mané had a better respect for those people he saw in magazines who posed for this or that. “It’s harder work than meets the eye,” he would tell Angustia.
And then there was Carlos, who seemed to be busy writing down everything that Mané Pena ever said. He was always transcribing video and audio tapes of Mané’s interviews and lectures. Mané could not read the transcriptions, but he thought Carlos worked awfully hard. “Carlos is always pecking away at that machine in the office,” he told Angustia. “Says he’s writing a book. Pecking. Pecking like this with the fingers,” Mané showed Angustia how Carlos typed.
“He gets paid to do that?” asked Angustia.
“There’s many ways to make a living, Gustia,” asserted Mané. “Who woulda thought I could live off of talking about feathers?”
“Don’t know it’s worth the trouble,” pouted Angustia. She was getting tired of Mané’s buzzing watch and not being able to send a young one over to the corner bar and café to fetch the old man for supper.
Very rarely now could Mané Pena be found at his favorite spot at the old café. Once, Mané Pena had been a rubber tapper in the forest, then a simple farmer on infertile soil. Then he had been a mason on construction sites along the Matacão. Now he had
left the labor of his former days for a different kind of toil. He had to be places at a specific time. He had to get on airplanes to get there. He had to squint into bright lights. He had to talk about the same things over and over. The stress and tension of this new life was a constant challenge to the effectiveness of the feather. Mané Pena had once found the proper balance of relaxation and excitement in the simple feathers of the parrot or pigeon, but lately, he had discovered that his needs were met only by the more sophisticated feathers of rarer birds. He was not sure what this meant, but he knew it was significant.
CHAPTER 19:
Michelle Mabelle
J.B. Tweep was in love. It was true he had known other women but never a French ornithologist with three breasts. Here, then, was that indescribable meeting of hearts and minds where two overqualified human beings find their romantic match. It was a dream come true. All those years, excelling from one job to the next, the satisfaction of a job overdone, which invariably soured into boredom, and the extraordinary chance to work for a company like GGG where the chances to extend the possibilities of overqualification were infinite—all of this no longer seemed to matter. Michelle. Michelle. Michelle. J.B. proclaimed his love in triplicate.
Through the Arc of the Rain Forest Page 13
