by Karen Haber
Our little contingent of observers numbered five: Paula Tremaine, expert psychosociologist; Yuri Kryuchkov, master of theological philosophy; Margot Fremont-Chai, anthropologist; Katarina Otulji, specialist in cults; and yours truly, Better World connoisseur and mutant point man.
I had met Paula Tremaine years before and had, in fact, enjoyed a brief dalliance with her during an international symposium on alternative techniques for healing. She was a tall, robust woman with auburn hair, blue-green eyes, and an infectious laugh. She greeted me warmly and I was glad to see her.
Yuri Kryuchkov was the very picture of the cloistered Russian academician: dark-eyed, bushy-browed, with a fierce, frowning countenance that kept the rest of us at bay. He let us know right away that he didn’t like this Better World, not at all, and saw its spread as a sign of the continued erosion of what passed for civilization in the benighted twenty-first century.
Margot Fremont-Chai I knew of only through her many publications on cultural relativism. She was a dignified woman of about sixty with straight, shining white hair, an unlined face, and cold gray eyes that seemed to take in everything around her and classify it for later use.
Katarina Otulji had the delicate build of a ballet dancer. She was tiny, with intricately coiled golden braids forming a knot atop her head and smooth, coffee-colored skin. She smiled a great deal but spoke little.
As soon as we were settled in at the beachfront Parc Imperium Hotel in Copacabana, our group convened to share notes and suggestions.
“Cults usually penetrate a society slowly,” Katarina Otulji observed. “Then, due to some apocalyptic event, they suddenly gain momentum and new converts.”
“That certainly fits with what my contacts have told me,” said Margot Fremont-Chai. “Apparently, Better World first came to Rio early this year. The Desert Prophet, Rick, appeared here suddenly and performed one of his famous rescues, teleporting three busloads of schoolchildren off a crumbling arm of the mountain road near Corcovado. Then he vanished. But some American tourists recognized him and told the local media about him. The Better World cult began to take root from that moment.”
“What is your proof of this?” Yuri Kryuchkov rumbled.
“A vidtape.”
Kryuchkov shook his head sadly. “First world countries export their worst and keep their best for themselves.”
Paula Tremaine met my glance and rolled her eyes slightly to show her amusement. “Let’s not make generalizations too soon, Yuri. We’re here to observe, not to judge.”
“It will be the same thing in the end.”
“Maybe so. But that remains to be seen.”
We were kept quite busy: the signs of Better World were everywhere. My brother had ascended to the pantheon of the macumba saints with a boost from a shrewd street merchant. After the school bus rescue, the shopkeeper had designed a batch of idols to look like Rick. These had sold quickly and the crowd had become furious at the man’s limited inventory. The police had to be called.
Now Rick was as firmly ensconced in each macumba ritual as Lemanja, goddess of the waters. He had taken his place among the many deities worshiped by the superstitious Cariocas, and the merchant had become a very rich man.
In banks, on the desks of receptionists, in souvenir stands, and on every bar in Leblon, Copacabana, and Ipanema, ceramic effigies of my brother grinned and nodded, casting their blessings. It was startling at first, then almost comical. I began to wonder whether I should purchase one and send it to my mother, but decided against it. I was certain that Dad would find the statuette funny but I wasn’t sure that Mom would see the joke.
I quickly came to see that Better World was no joke to the poor of Rio—in fact, it was an absolute blessing, far from the cult of personality it seemed to have become in the States. In Rio I saw the tenets of B.W. at work in the streets, in the miserable hovels and alleys that made up the favelas where volunteers knelt in the mud to tend the sick, fed the hollow-faced hungry children, and tried to repair tattered shacks and rusty, outdated vehicles. Everything I saw made my respect for B.W.—and Rick—grow. Regardless of why he had started the organization, it was doing some good right here, right now. How could I argue with that? How could anyone?
We watched, we asked questions, and we listened. We took notes, made vid recordings, debated the cultural implications of Better World’s dissemination, and then redebated them.
One night, after a particularly heated discussion following dinner, I headed for the pool on the roof of the hotel. The hour was late and the pool was deserted. Chlorine-scented mist rose in undulating streams, illuminated by the golden pool lights.
I slipped into the deliciously cool water with a sigh of relief. But it took several laps to work off my irritation at Kryuchkov’s dour imprecations, Fremont-Chai’s smug assumptions, and Otulji’s maddening passivity.
A splash and sudden convulsion of the blue-green water announced that I had company. A dark shape moved toward me underwater, stroking powerfully. Then Paula Tremaine broke through the surface, gasping for air, sleek as a seal.
“Can you believe that Yuri?” she said. “He’s like some mad monk. And Margot—I’m ready to wrap Katarina Otulji around her neck and tie her in a bow, if only it will shut her up. Who puts these groups together, anyway?”
“If you’re planning to lodge a formal complaint, get in line,” I said. “But we’ve been shanghaied by the ISA, remember?”
“Gods, it’ll take years to have anything adjudicated.” She sighed theatrically. “Never mind.”
“Paula,” I said. “Tell me truthfully. What do you think—I mean, really think—about Better World?”
She smiled wistfully. “I’m almost rooting for them, to tell you the truth. Of all the cults I’ve seen in recent years, it seems the most beneficial, the most innocent.”
“I wish I shared your view.”
“And I wish I could see just where the hidden catch in it is, Julian. You certainly seem to know. But all I see is a group of people uniting in ecstatic communion, providing support groups and services where none formerly existed. What’s so terrible about that?”
“They have a leader they worship as though he were a god.”
“Wait long enough and, most likely, he’ll become one. So what?” Her eyes twinkled but her tone was serious. “You’re mighty grim about this, Dr. Akimura. Something about Better World touches you right where you live.”
You should only know, I thought. But I shrugged instead. “What the hell, enough business. Maybe I’ll never understand cults at all.”
“Spoken like a true man of science. Come on, I’ll race you to the deep end.”
For a time we swam, side by side, in companionable silence. Then Paula triggered the null g-field and we floated easily, staring up at the stars.
“I don’t know what it is about this place,” she said. “I’ve been in a monogamous relationship for two years now. But here, alone with you, well, I’m sort of tempted to relive the past.” She moved closer until she was pressed against me, thighs against mine. I felt a tightening in my groin, and a growing excitement as she rubbed up against me.
“Just like old times,” I said, and kissed her deeply. Her swimsuit was a triangle of netting and it came off with a gentle tug. Mine offered little resistance.
We moved deeper into the water and cut the g-field. I slipped my hands between her legs, brought her up and over me and the two of us were locked together in that blue-green world, floating dreamily as we moved toward blissful consummation. Afterward, we clung together, gasping for breath, listening to the drumming of our pulsebeats as they slowed.
“It’s so good with you,” she whispered.
“That’s because we only see each other every five years.”
“You’ve gotten cynical, Julian.”
“Just realistic.” I stroked her cheek. “But maybe we should give it a try—”
She pulled back, only half joking now. “You and me? Oh, Julian, not now. Maybe we c
ould have, years ago. But no. You’re a cherished friend, and I’m glad we came together again. But let’s just stay friends.”
I was a bit hurt, and a bit relieved. She gave me a cool, moist kiss and said good night. I did not suggest that we schedule a reengagement.
Although both Paula and Katarina Otulji had invited me to accompany them on their investigative rounds, I begged off, eager to be alone and free to go and observe where I chose.
It was the decade of hunger riots and each day there were demonstrations by the poor. They marched, a ragged, desperate, defiant mob, to the outskirts of the moneyed districts where the wealthy Cariocas hid in tall, white buildings guarded by dogs and men with guns. The police used tasers, guns, and clubs to beat back the crowds. Each day, people died in the crush, in the screaming dusty pandemonium.
“Estamos com fome!” they cried in hoarse, exhausted voices.
“Estamos doente!”
“Socorro!”
“Esta fudido.”
“Dinheiro! Onde fica o dinheiro!”
Their cries of hunger, of illness and misery, were appalling. I began to despise my role as observer and eavesdropper and nearly turned away. Then I saw them. Clean, neatly dressed people moved slowly through the crowd speaking in low, reassuring voices, laying on hands in an attempt to calm the rioters. Somehow I knew that these were Better World volunteers, vainly attempting to stop the bloodshed. They were risking their own lives while trying to save others. They were trying to help in the only way they knew how.
I held my breath, wishing that my brother were there to help the miserable poor. Then I caught myself. Oh ho, I thought. Hold on, now. Was I starting to pray to St. Rick? Would Lemanja be far behind?
Despite the attempts of the Better World volunteers, the mob would not be turned away. A woman began screaming in a high, ragged voice, the crowd surged forward, and then the police moved in swinging their batons.
After each riot came the street sweepers and the medics, counting corpses. For the many consumed by hunger and hysteria, the greatest mercy seemed to be a quick death. Modern medicine has an arsenal of drugs to deal with pain but none yet cured starvation and poverty.
Hope was a different matter, and I discovered that it could be a potent drug in its way, despite the contending forces of disease, malnutrition, and political corruption. Oddly enough, my brother was responsible for teaching me that lesson. My brother and Star Cecilia Nicolau.
I saw her for the first time at an evening gathering in Botafogo. It was at an outdoor amusement park and bar complex bordered by leafy green trees and lofty palms. She was dressed in a flowing white gown that somehow emphasized the slim lines of her body and her golden tan. Oblivious to the people and street noises around her she was leading a group of perhaps thirty-five people through an elaborate ritual prayer that seemed to consist of an elaborate circle dance followed by a group embrace.
The bodies swirled in and out, in and out, feet beating a complicated rhythm as hips gyrated, heads nodded, faster and faster. They all moved in perfect syncopation, all possessed by the same silent beat that they alone seemed to hear. I found my toe tapping to their movement, to the thump of their feet against the bare, compacted soil.
I couldn’t take my eyes from the woman in white: while in frenzied motion she managed to give a graceful cast to everything she did. Twirling, laughing, jumping around the circle, she was filled with infectious joy. If she had looked my way I would have joined her in a moment.
This group seemed to be a macumba-inspired crew that had now given over its worship and rituals to “Saint Rick” of the Better World, or Mundo Melhor, as it was called here. Their songs told of his goodness and exalted his righteousness. As I watched the dancers whirl, their elegant leader began to chant an invocation in a resonant alto voice, and the Portuguese implant I had received whispered to me that she was praising Rick’s name and asking that the god Exu protect him and honor him.
The ritual ended with a great round of clapping and laughter. Then the celebrants slipped off through the darkness. The woman in white vanished into a sleek pavilion behind the bar and I followed her.
I knocked but there was no answer. Knocked again and then, growing impatient, tried the lockpad. The door was open and it swung easily on greased hinges. I stepped inside, into shadow, and became aware of unusual sounds.
They were intimate, moist, unmistakable. A woman was moaning softly, almost an animal purr that, as I listened, climbed toward a roaring, gasping climax.
I started to back out of there but in the darkness became disoriented and stumbled over something that emitted a great metallic screech as I kicked it.
The sounds of lovemaking stopped abruptly.
“Porra!” a woman said crossly. “Me deixa em paz.”
My implant cut in immediately, translating: “Dammit! Leave me in peace.”
It was unmistakably the voice of the priestess who had led the celebration outside. But she didn’t sound very holy now.
“Disculpa,” I said, struggling to form the Portuguese syllables properly. “Voce fala ingles?”
“Yes, yes, of course I speak English.” Now she sounded impatient but curious, too. “I went to school in the United States because my parents had no faith in Brazilian academies.”
And then she stood there, naked and golden, holding a lamp by a silver chain.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Julian Akimura.”
“American, yes? My name is Star Nicolau, Julian Akimura.” She stepped into a pair of jeans, zipped them up, and shrugged into a thin white shirt. “What do you want?”
That was many years and many miles ago. I stood across the room from Star that night as the light snapped and popped in her lantern, and I watched her dress and felt the first faint stirring of what soon would become uncontrollable passion. But I didn’t know it then and I assumed my discomfort was due to the singular way my arrival had interrupted her lovemaking.
“I’m studying Better World,” I said wanly.
“Not a CIA snoop?” She peered at me, half-amused, half-angry. “No, no I don’t think so. Your face is too kind. You were one of those tourists watching us, weren’t you? Yes, I think you were the one, the only one, who looked eager to join the dance.”
“So you did see me.” I smiled.
She gave me a sly, catlike glance that seemed to take my full measure and find me worthy. “Oh, yes, of course.”
“Tell me, how do you know of Better World?”
“When I was in the States last year I began to hear about this group and I was fascinated. I went out to New Mexico and spent some time at Better World, But I had to return here because my mother was not well. I brought the Better World spirit back home with me.” She slid on a pair of tall brown leather boots with pointed heels and sealed them just below her knees.
A tall figure loomed suddenly, one of the other celebrants. His dark hair was wild and he looked as though he had just thrown on his shirt and pants. Eyes cast downward, he nodded at me as he strode past, but he and Star exchanged a cryptic look before he bolted out the door.
She seemed quite unperturbed and continued to cheerfully interrogate me: How long had I been in Rio? Did I like it? What had I seen? Where had I eaten? Did I know about Better World? Had I ever met Rick? And Alanna?
Her voice sharpened over that name and I began to suspect that Star Nicolau had a bit more than mere spiritual interest in my brother.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m quite well acquainted with Better World and with Rick. In fact, he’s my twin brother.”
I stopped, horrified. What had I done? Whatever could have possessed me to reveal my intimate relationship with Rick to this attractive stranger? Was I hoping to draw her closer, to use my brother as a bridge between us?
As I stood there, mute and red-faced over my blunder, Star moved closer to me and took my hand.
“I don’t think you wanted to tell me that, did you?” Her smile was both sympathetic and s
mug. “Don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone. But what are you doing here?”
Briefly, I explained the mission of the task force.
“So,” she said. “You’ve come to watch us and report back to your brother’s enemies.”
“It’s not quite like that—”
“No? Then explain it to me. You are his brother,” she said. “Yet you stand against him and Better World.”
“Well, yes.”
“That would never happen in Brazil,” she said. “If one brother were venerated as your Rick is, and a different brother chose to turn against him, the family would never forgive the traitor. They might even stone him to death.”
Her glance was sly and I wasn’t sure if she was joking.
“So tell me,” she said cozily. “I would like to know more about Alanna. Why she is so close to Rick.”
“Alanna is our—cousin,” I said, a little clumsily. Something warned me not to tell Star the total truth. Not yet, anyway.
“Cousin?” Star squinted at the lantern and shook it: the flame within flared, then died back. “You mutants must have huge families, don’t you?”
“It’s a complicated story. A complicated family.”
“I’m sure.” Star waited, but I had stalemated her. She would get no more information out of me. She stared, frowned, stared some more. Finally, she began to pace the room. Her boot heels were loud against the floor.
My treacherous imagination substituted her naked body for the jeans and work shirt she wore now. The more I tried to forget what I’d seen the more I wanted to touch her, to lick and tease those small, dark nipples, to have those strong legs wrapped around me, to penetrate and possess this woman completely.
