“It’s OK, princess,” Jane murmurs. “Don’t be scared.”
For a second, I think she’s talking to me. When I realise that she isn’t, she’s talking to Wayra, I just gape. The last thing Wayra looks is scared. But Jane is crouching down, getting closer, seeming to have no fear at all. Wayra is looking all around. We’re in an overgrown spot, a sort of junction, the paths hidden by a curtain of creepers. Jane and I have taken the left path, the less overgrown one, but Wayra is flashing looks of disgust at the other, as if she can’t decide. Then she turns around, takes a step towards Oscar. I can see only her back, her bristling tail, the tense snake of her spine. And Oscar is flinching and inching away.
Wayra spits at him, putting her paw on the rope and snarling.
“You’re OK, love,” Jane murmurs, laughing softly. She has lost her mind. But she just continues to murmur, and smile, and murmur, as if everything is fine. As if there isn’t a puma snarling at a guy who is attached to her on a rope. “Princess, you know you can choose whichever path you want.”
I hold my breath. Wayra turns back. She looks at Jane, kneeling on the ground. And, just with a sort of questioning look in her eyes, she lets out a long, explosive sigh, looks once more down the overgrown trail and chooses the path we are on. Jane grins, standing up quickly. She grabs my arm again and nudges me forwards. Minutes later we’re emerging into a sort of clearing. The sunlight trickles and then suddenly, floods. The bottoms of giant leaves, spreading in multilayered fans, are dark. Like a greenhouse, the light refracts double, triple. The gaps are stars, white and far away.
I can’t appreciate it. I can’t even see it. I’ve still got the echo of Wayra’s growl in my ears. My thighs are shaking. I’ve got a banging headache between my eyes. I must have sweated out all the water in my body and then some. My face must have tripled in size. I’m aflame with bites. Wayra, though, she just gazes around. Happy again, unconcerned. She yawns while I’m drowning in the bloated whine of mosquitoes and the memory of her unfathomable shit-fit.
Grass lines the path. She looks one way, then the other. She yawns again. Furrows up her forehead. There’s a bush of yellow flowers. One of the blossoms has somehow got stuck to her nose. She looks at the sky, at a sunny patch on the edge of the grass. Another turn, another yawn. The blossom falls. Then she flops into the grass. She takes her left paw in her mouth and begins to clean away the mud.
“Well, that’s it.” Oscar laughs.
Jane stretches her arms above her head and sits on the ground, careful so as not to make any unwarranted noise. Wayra, watching out of the corner of her eye, waits until Jane leans against a broad shady palm tree before going back to her paws.
“It’s OK to sit?” I whisper, my knees almost buckling. We were on the road only a few hours ago, a lifetime, before my heart and voice and world pitched, before Jane and Oscar walked me along the baked tarmac and told me that we were about to walk a puma. Jane has rested her head against her palm tree and closed her eyes. Oscar’s on a log and is staring dreamily into the trees.
“It’s fine.” Jane’s eyes stay closed. “She doesn’t mind. It’s better for her, if we’re relaxed.”
I look at Wayra. She’s gazing hard at each of her paws.
Puma. The word is weighty. I’m breaking the rules. I wrestle with a voice that tells me I shouldn’t be here. None of us should be here! This isn’t a fairy story. This is real! Wayra crosses her paws, rests her chin on them and delicately squeezes her eyes shut. The lines across her face and eyes are stark, charcoal and grey. I see little other than colours. Her belly and chin white, the end of her tail and tips of her ears black, her nose pink. There’s a neon-green caterpillar, thick as my thumb and covered in spikes, crawling past her paw. Mosquitoes swirl around her ears, cheeks, the same mosquitoes that are attacking my hands and face, my eyebrows, the side of my jaw. Blood swells their stomachs, mine and hers, maybe both.
I rub my sweat-clumped hair. Across the ground, dark, earthy mounds rise up, hinting at massive colonies seething just below our feet. I touch my face. I feel clammy, hot and feverish. The sun is making kaleidoscope patterns, brown and gold and yellow, in the dust. I am exhausted, raw and terrified. I think, I’m not going to survive this month. But then that other feeling I had earlier, the deeper, more compelling one, floods over me again. Curiosity. Anticipation. Hope.
Suddenly I sigh too, then I’m sitting down next to Jane. She turns her head and opens one eye. And grins.
When it gets dark, when we’ve taken Wayra back to her cage and we’ve come back to camp, when I’ve braved the freezing shower and eaten sweaty soup, squashed onto tables with sweatier people, I take the trail out to the road again. I’m looking for silence, for space to think, and the only place where there’s any space at all is this road. I haven’t seen a single car. I walk by myself down the cracked tarmac, still baking from the day’s sun. It burns the soles of my sandals. The leaves on either side of me seem to flutter, silhouettes on strings. I turn, looking up. The Milky Way stretches in a parallel copy of this road. A highway. Huge, silvery, breath-taking. I’ve never seen so many stars. When I reach my hands up, slightly dazed, a star shoots off like I’ve knocked it. I gasp a little, pulling my hands away. An owl calls, then falls silent. A dog barks. This makes me think there must be other humans, somewhere.
Wayra stayed where she was until the sun started to set. We missed lunch. She slept on and off, groomed herself, turned onto her side, ignored us mostly. She’d growl though, if we coughed or spoke too loudly. Or worse, she’d hiss, like she was a hair’s breadth away from attacking. Why she didn’t, I don’t know. She could have done. And just the possibility was enough to keep my nerves impossibly frayed. I concentrated on holding my questions to a minimum but towards the end, when my stomach was eating itself with hunger, I was finding it hard. Would we be out all night? How could we possibly convince her to get back to the cage? The forest had hushed, edged with the grainy golds of dusk. And then, right then, everything changed. Suddenly she wanted to go back. The cage was no more than five minutes from where we’d been sitting—we’d been walking in circles, Jane told me, rather than further and further away from anything, as my brain had tricked me into believing. And Wayra hurried back to that small, cramped cage like a magnet finding her way home, just in time for dinner.
Home. The only home I know is my mum’s house, the one by that scraggly wood. It’s where I still go when I’m sad, or lost. It’s where I went when I quit my last job in London. It’s a converted farmhouse, white with a red-tiled roof. I was born in my sister’s room, next door to my dad’s childhood bedroom. Dad moved back there when he married my mum. After they divorced and he moved out, my mum wanted to stay. She rescued Fletcher, a massive, confused dog. And she’s happy, I think. Just her and Fletch. All year round, the garden is wild with colour. It was planted by my grandmother Sonya. The yellow of daffodils in spring, seas of bluebells, pink with roses and the red of maples in summer, carpets of scarlet and orange as the oak leaves fall, white with winter frosts. Now I think the house smells like my mum, of old cushions and freshly watered plants. She’s probably asleep there now, Fletcher snoring downstairs unless he’s awake, eyes wide at nothing.
Over two generations, that house, I think, has felt like a refuge. A long time ago, my dad’s family—who were Jewish—left their homes in Germany, Russia, and Poland, to come to England. On the other side, my mum is Czech. Her parents escaped from Czechoslovakia after the war. However safe our house now feels, has been made to feel, I know that a home, however stable you think it is, can come crashing down. I learnt that, a little bit, when my parents split up. And I do think the world I was born into does its best, in its built-up, walled-up way, to fool the “lucky ones” into believing that we’re strong enough to last forever. That we’re invincible.
I think of Wayra. She must have had a proper home once upon a time. I’ve been wondering about this all day, as I lay in the dirt and now as I look up at the stark, unfamili
ar marks of the Southern Cross. How did she come to be here? What happened to her family? Her mum? Her home?
I’m at the place where the two witches stand, just off the road, their bark bone-white in the moonlight. I almost mutter something, I don’t know what. An incantation, a prayer. Something like: “Don’t let me die” or “Just let me get out of here safely without being mauled or bitten or poisoned by a spider on the toilet seat.” I laugh, feeling foolish, before rubbing my eyes, trying not to scratch the constellations of swollen bites, and turning around, away from the path that I know leads to Wayra. I’m about to start walking back—there’s a candle burning now by the entrance to camp, its flame stuttering like a blinking eye—and as I do, I whisper, “Please, just don’t let me quit this.”
I stand a moment, unable to move. There’s a resounding silence, filled with the voices of what I think are frogs, mating in the verge, and the hum of the jungle, which is something that never, ever seems to stop.
Just before you turn off the road to go into camp, there’s a smokers’ hut. It’s called the fumador and inside are two hammocks strung between the beams. The roof is thatched and there are no walls, just spaces that look out on one side to the road and on the other to the jungle, which is so close the palm leaves poke through to tickle your face. Tom, Faustino’s friend, is passed out in one of the hammocks. He’s snoring loudly. In the other is another guy, complete with ubiquitous beard. He’s handsome, if you ignore the filth, and wiry. The end of his cigarette flares as he turns his head. His brownish-blond hair is too long. His beard almost reaches his chest and he’s got cutting blue eyes. He’s not wearing a shirt and sweat gleams in the hollow of his stomach.
“Hey,” I murmur, raising my hand.
“Hey.” He’s Australian.
I turn down the path and almost step on a monkey.
“Oh shit!” I swerve just in time. He’s hunched in the middle of the darkness, his tail wrapped around himself. When I curse he just looks up at me, eyes desperately sad. The sound of frogs echoes, so loudly I can almost hear the flap of their throats. A thousand tinkling water glasses, bouncing up and around and back again.
The hammock creaks. “Coco?”
The monkey fixes his eyes on the ground. It must be Coco. I don’t want either of them to think I’m afraid, so I reach my arms down in what I hope is an emulation of what I’ve seen others do, but Coco quickly pulls his lips back, showing impressively sharp canines, and crawls away, getting even closer to the road. There is a weary sigh, and bare feet slap against wood. The guy steps out of the fumador, crouches down and Coco immediately crawls into his arms. The monkey rests his head in the crook of the guy’s shoulder and when he straightens, Coco held protectively against his chest, they both gaze miserably at the NO MONKEYS sign.
“I made that last week,” he tells me. “Trying to stop him from killing himself.”
I cannot think what to say to this. “Maybe he enjoys the irony,” I try to joke.
He chuckles, as if surprised. “That’s funny.”
I blush.
“I’m Harry.”
“Laura.”
“I know. You want to take Coco back in?”
I stare at Harry, the planes of his face harsh in the flickering candlelight, then at Coco, then back at him. Harry strokes the top of Coco’s head.
“He only bites people he doesn’t like.”
I’m not sure how to take this, so I continue to hesitate but Harry just steps towards me, grinning.
“Here.” He smells of old smoke laced with salt. Stale sweat. Mould. He’s not that much taller than me and as our shoulders touch, I feel a sudden weight as Coco climbs onto me, wrapping his tail around my neck. I wasn’t expecting him to be so heavy and instinctively reach up to balance him. Little leathery hands clutch my fingers and wet lips touch my cheek. I gulp, not quite able to swallow. Coco grunts and his breath tickles my neck. I can’t move.
Harry rubs his beard. “You good?”
“Yes, fine!” I’m holding a monkey. I cannot believe it! I desperately try to crane my neck to see Coco’s face but just succeed in getting a mouthful of damp fur.
“He loves girls.” Harry stares tiredly towards camp, the branches of tall trees dangling over the path. “I was just going to have another cigarette. Do you mind taking him?”
I don’t mind, even though his tail is almost cutting off my windpipe. And I see, having now flicked on my head torch, that Harry’s still dressed for work. Wet, slimy jeans drag around his ankles. His feet are caked with sloppy black mud and a pair of discarded gumboots are lying by the hammock. It’s past nine. I wonder if he’s just got back in from whatever animal he works with.
“Where should I put him?”
“In Santa Cruz.”
“The dorm?”
“Yeah, next door to La Paz. Coco and Foz sleep in there.”
“In Santa Cruz?” I repeat stupidly.
Harry nods, running his hand through his hair before turning back to the fumador. “They used to live in a hotel. They were beaten. Made to smoke cigarettes and drink alcohol,” he says over his shoulder. “They watched TV all day. They’re old, and every time they go into the jungle or into a cage, they’re so terrified they start to shake, beat themselves, shit themselves . . .” He shrugs. “The government dumped them here, no money, no help, nothing. So we let them sleep in the dorms if they want. It seems to make them happy.” He hesitates, then corrects himself. “Happier.”
I stare at him. I don’t know what else to say, so I just make to move towards the path. This is just one more traumatic, insane, wondrous thing that’s happened to me today, so I let it fall onto the top of the list, along with “walked a puma” and “shared my shower with a tarantula the size of a dinner plate.” I shine my head torch firmly at the obstacles around my feet and try not to think about all the ways this seemingly simple task that Harry has given me could go wrong.
“How did it go with Wayra?”
I turn back. He’s standing a little lopsided, his head cocked, his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. His beard curls around at the edges of his lips, the straggly ends long enough for him to suck, which he does now, absentmindedly.
“Great!” I reply, smile plastered on.
Harry raises his eyebrows and looks like he might query it, but then Tom emits a particularly loud snore and Harry just nods as if he has remembered that he’s too tired to care.
Candlelight shines out of the comedor and across the ground, making the patio into a criss-cross of stark black shapes. The forest canopy hangs solid, like a roof. I look up and don’t see the sky or the stars—they are like memories, I can only feel the edges of them. Fractured moonlight makes figures around my feet, turning the dusty earth on the patio pale. Tall trees surround us, stretching high into the darkness. Coco and I hover there, peering inside the comedor. His chin, heavy and surprisingly sharp, rests on the top of my head. The teenagers are hunched over something, their homework perhaps. I’ve been told they are from here, there’s a village nearby, and Mila and Agustino take in kids every now and then. When their families aren’t able to look after them. The money volunteers pay goes towards looking after not only animals but also these kids—buying them schoolbooks, clothes, food. A temporary—or permanent—home. Osito (“little bear”) is the youngest. He’s speaking disjointed English now, Sammie gently correcting him as she sits next to him on one of the benches. Someone, another tall American called Bobby, is playing the guitar. Agustino holds up the soup ladle, asking if anyone wants more food.
I give Coco a tentative stroke. I’m nervous that he’ll bite me, despite—or because of—what Harry has said, but he just leans into my hand. His fur is puffed out, moist with sweat. He’s a tiny red yeti with clutching fingers. His skin feels smooth as cured leather. But thin too. Around the edges of his joints, across his distended stomach, it feels fragile, as if by pressing too hard, I’ll break through to his bones. In those places, he feels like silk. All I can hear
is his breathing and the steady beat, beat, beat of our hearts.
“Is this OK?”
Coco leans his cheek against mine. He has soft, tickly whiskers. When I push open the door to Santa Cruz, he grips the frame and swings himself inside, as if he has done this a thousand times before, using his tail to wrap around a rope that hangs across the room. Faustino is cross-legged on one of the top bunks, gazing down at us reproachfully. When Coco lands next to him, Faustino pushes him away. Then he holds out his arms to me.
Me? I look around but there is no one else here. I take one disbelieving step and then I’m pressed against the bunk. Faustino’s against my chest, and he’s carefully taking my hands and wrapping them around his back. He’s smaller than Coco, and his bones are hunched like an old man’s. I press my hands into his crinkled fur, and he gives a low, contented grunt. Coco glares at us both, putting his chin in his hands gloomily. Faustino then pulls down my shirt and tries to lick my breasts.
“Careful!”
I jump back as the door bangs and Sammie and Jane come in.
“Faustino likes boobs. Filthy old man.”
“You want to watch your ears too. And the sweaty bit under your armpit. Right Fozzy?”
Faustino wraps his tail around his body as if he’s deeply wounded. But as I quickly close my shirt, buttoning the collar up to my neck, he watches, disappointed, like I’ve taken away something precious. I glare at him.
This room is the same as La Paz, only there’s old monkey shit on the floor and fresh shit on someone’s bed.
“You really sleep in here?”
Sammie laughs. “It’s the best room.”
My expression curdles. It doesn’t look sanitary. Sammie laughs again, wrapping her arms around Coco.
The Puma Years: A Memoir Page 4
