Lost in the Jungle

by Bill Nye

  4

  THE GRANDMOTHER OF THE IPHONE

  The next morning, a black limousine pulled to a stop in front of the busted front steps of our small hotel. The rain was light, and the limo, despite a few dents, was stunningly beautiful. Matt swung his laptop bag over his shoulder—he’d just sewn a new NASA patch onto the flap—and hurried down the steps. We’d been planning to call a taxi, but this was way better. “Are you sure that’s for us?” I asked.

  The passenger side front window rolled down. The driver leaned over and waved us forward. He was wearing a bright orange polo shirt; I’d been hoping for one of those black chauffeur suits. Matt produced the business card and the man nodded.

  “Dona Maria must have sent it,” Matt said.

  Ava elbowed me. “Stop smiling,” she said. “This is serious.”

  Sure, I knew that. Hank was missing. We were in a foreign country. But we were getting into a limo. And I really, really, really like limos. Inside, the leather seats were torn and cracked in places. The televisions didn’t work. And I didn’t care. I leaned back and stretched my legs. Matt jumped in shotgun and the driver stared at him for five solid seconds. No words were needed. My brother moved to the back and sat facing us as the limo cruised through Manaus, rolling through red lights and speeding through greens. At one point, we cut across a sidewalk to pass a smoke-spewing delivery truck.

  The night before, we’d done a little research in our room and discovered that we’d be visiting a factory in an area of the city known as Zona Franca. That translates to Free Zone, but it doesn’t mean you get free stuff there. Instead, it means the businesses there don’t have to pay taxes. Although Manaus is officially known as the gateway to the Amazon, it’s also the gadget capital of South America. All the smart-phones and iPads and laptops in Brazil are assembled in Manaus, and we found out that Dona Maria didn’t just own a few companies. Ava jumped around online and discovered at least a dozen. But one interested us more than the rest. Dona Maria was the first person to bring smartphones to South America, and she still made more of them at her factory in Manaus than anyone else on the continent.

  In Brazil, she was known as the grandmother of the iPhone.

  Ava yawned. After we’d done a little homework on Dona Maria, she’d borrowed Matt’s laptop and worked past midnight. I didn’t understand what she was doing, exactly, but it had something to do with Hank’s satellite. Ava figured out that it had been flying over the rainforest every few days. That probably wasn’t a coincidence. So she was hoping the CubeSat might give us some clue to Hank’s location.

  Unfortunately, she hadn’t found any hints yet.

  Dona Maria’s factory was a squat cement building as wide as several football fields and surrounded by low rusted fences. The front gate was wide open, and we drove straight through. I was expecting armed guards. Maybe a helicopter circling overhead. Even a few robots with machine guns wouldn’t have surprised me. But we cruised up to the main entrance without pausing and walked straight inside.

  A long hallway stretched ahead of us. The light was yellow and dull. The air tasted like dust and metal. Machines whirred and hissed and beeped in the distance, and ice-cold air blasted out of a vent near the ceiling. In the center of the hall, Dona Maria balanced on a dark metal cane, waiting.

  “You’re late,” she said. She smelled like cigar smoke, and her voice was younger than the rest of her, as if someone Min’s age were trapped inside that wrinkled shell. “You’re late,” she repeated, “and I don’t like to waste time.” She tapped her cane on the floor three times. Maybe it was the number of taps. Or all the wrinkles on her old face. I don’t know why, exactly, but I pictured an earthquake spreading out from beneath the cane, a crack in the floor and the earth below swallowing me whole. She stared at the cane and sneered, then tapped it on the floor three times again, harder. A small green light in the handle began flashing. The old woman turned around and slid her left foot forward. Then she bent her knees so that she was squatting slightly. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to let one go or getting ready for a race. None of us are athletic, exactly. But I was pretty certain we could all take a seventy-something-year-old grandma in a sprint. “Follow me,” she said, “if you can keep up.”

  And then she bolted.

  Yes, it was a foot race, but not a fair one, and certainly not the kind we’d expected. Dona Maria stayed in that staggered, crouched position and rocketed down the hall as if she’d been launched out of a giant slingshot. She slowed at the next corner, then grabbed a pole to her right, swung through a turn, and disappeared into a different hall.

  My sister had built a motorized skateboard once. His name was Pedro, and you pretty much rode him the same way. Crouched down, feet staggered. But Pedro slammed me into a pile of garbage bags and my hair smelled like hot dogs for a week. “Is she hiding a miniature Pedro under there?” I asked.

  “Pedro was not that fast,” Ava said. She was staring. “Motorized shoes, maybe?”

  Matt stroked his chin. “Right, but she controls them with the cane. How?”

  “Bluetooth?” Ava suggested.

  “Uh, guys?” I said, pointing down the hall. “We’re going to lose her. Maybe you could talk while we run?”

  At the corner, there was no sign of Dona Maria, but a man in a white coat pointed to his left. Instead of stairs, a ramp sloped gently up to the second floor. I tripped. Below me, Matt laughed. Then he tripped, too.

  Thank you, universe.

  Ava hurried past us.

  We were panting when we reached her office. Dona Maria was already standing behind an enormous wooden desk. She plugged one end of a power cable into an outlet behind her, the other end into her right boot. A thick, half-smoked cigar rested in a silver ashtray on the desk. Nearly a dozen business cards were neatly lined up along one edge. A two-foot-long, finely carved nameplate faced the door. I pointed. “Dona Maria Aparecida Oliveiros Dos Santos,” I said, pronouncing each word slowly. “You Brazilians really do like your names.”

  “A name is history,” she said. “So is this desk. It belonged to Dom Pedro II.” The old woman moved her hands across the polished surface. “He was a large man. He sat. I stand.”

  The geniuses didn’t respond. But I remembered that name from my reading. “He was the emperor, right?” I asked.

  “Very good.”

  Confident, I rattled off a few facts I remembered from my reading, ending with one of the more surprising ones. “I believe he also introduced the chicken to Brazil.”

  “What? Why do you speak of chickens? This is not true,” she said. She licked her lips like she was trying to get rid of a bad taste. “Now, show me your photograph.”

  As Ava pulled off her backpack to get the folded printout, I motioned to the business cards, silently asking if I could help myself. Dona Maria nodded and I grabbed one of each. Embarrassed, Matt lifted his hand to his face. Once I was finished, I took out my notebook and scribbled a few details, including the woman’s full name. I added a note about looking up the chicken thing, too. Where had I gotten that idea?

  On the far side of her desk, there was a pile of tickets that read “Teatro Amazonas” on top. She slapped my hand as I turned one around to read the small print. “Those are for the opening night at the opera house,” she said. “I have a private booth. Many important people will be there. The mayor will be my guest. Maybe the chief of police. He is a friend, too. There will be famous footballers. Celebrities.” She shrugged. “I know them all. They are all good friends.”

  “Can we come?” I asked.

  She laughed hysterically, then lifted her fist to her mouth and began coughing. Matt leaned forward like he was going to help her, but she held up her hand, signaling him to wait. Then she pointed to her cigar. “Don’t smoke, my friends,” she said. “These will kill you.”

  My sister slid the printout across the desk and took my phone out of her pocket. Dona Maria glanced at the screen before eyeing the picture. “You should follow me
on Twitter,” she said. Without looking up, she pointed to her office door. Instead of her name, her Twitter handle was printed on the glass. “I have many followers. So,” she said, turning the printout around in her hands, “are you looking for Dr. Witherspoon, too?”

  The three of us glanced at one another. “You know him?” Ava asked.

  “Of course I know him. I told you, I know every important person in Manaus. Even the visitors.”

  My sister leaned forward and rested her elbows on Dona Maria’s desk. “Do you know why he’d be meeting with these kids?”

  “He doesn’t even like sports,” I pointed out.

  Dona Maria glared at Ava’s elbows. My sister stood back. “I can think of a reason,” the old woman said, sliding the printout back across the desk to Ava. “Pepedro is not only a soccer prodigy. He and his sister are the children of very skilled guides. They grew up touring the jungle with their parents. They know the rainforest as well as anyone.”

  “So you think their parents led Hank into the jungle?”

  “No, the parents are dead for two years,” she said. “I think maybe Pepedro and Alicia gave your friend some advice. Maybe they suggested some places to explore. Maybe they even led him themselves. Do you have any clues where in the rainforest he might be?”

  “We have an idea,” Ava said.

  “An idea?” Dona Maria pressed.

  Ava rocked her head back and forth. “I’m getting closer. I’ll figure it out.”

  A faint beep sounded beneath the desk. “What was that?” I asked.

  “My boots,” Dona Maria said. “They are quick to charge, but quick to run out of energy, too.” She laid one hand on the desk for balance, then reached down and switched the power cable from one boot to the other. “It is very, very frustrating. Now, back to your friend. . . . You think you will know soon, young lady?”

  My sister started to reply, but I cut her off. “Maybe,” I said. “But until then, we don’t know much at all. That’s why we need to find these kids.”

  “You have contacted him? Dr. Witherspoon?”

  “Yes,” Matt said, “but he hasn’t responded to a single e-mail in weeks.”

  “Not even from his girlfriend,” Ava added.

  “She’s not his girlfriend,” Matt said. “He’d tell us.”

  Dona Maria was watching my sister. “So you cannot contact him, and you don’t know where he is exactly, but you want to go look for him anyway.”

  “Precisely,” I said.

  “This is a crazy idea,” she said. My sister muttered the beginnings of a reply, but Dona Maria waved her off. “No, no. I like crazy. I will help you.”

  “Do you think these kids would take us?” Matt asked.

  “Can you help us find them?” Ava added.

  Dona Maria nodded. “Yes, I can help you find them. Will they take you? That I don’t know. I will text Alicia for you, but she will not answer right away.”

  “Why not?” Matt asked.

  “Because Pepedro is playing today. A little pickup game in the center of the city.” Dona Maria reached for her phone, tapped and swiped at the screen, then showed it to Ava. “Alicia tweeted about the game an hour ago.”

  “What’s the address?” Matt asked. “We should go.”

  “You’ll never get to talk to them there,” Dona Maria said. “There will be too many people. But if you tell me the name of your hotel, I’ll have her contact you there.”

  Normally, that plan would have been fine. But Matt was right when he’d bounced that sweaty sock ball off my head the day before. We hadn’t flown to Brazil to sit in our hotel room. Waiting wasn’t an option. “That would be great,” I said, “but we’re going to go, anyway. Just in case. Would you mind writing down the address of the field?”

  The old woman shrugged and scribbled the names of the intersecting streets on a piece of notepaper, then handed it to Ava. “And your hotel?” she asked again. “In case you don’t get to talk to them, I want to be able to reach you.”

  “The Hotel Magnificent,” I said.

  She winced as if she’d just had her finger pricked by a needle. “Not so magnificent.”

  My brother was already backtracking toward the door. “We should try to catch them before the game starts,” he suggested.

  Ava looked up from the notepaper. “How far away is this? Will we get there on time if we leave now?”

  “Now? No. If you wanted to get there on time, you should have left ten minutes ago.”

  A long, heartfelt thank-you from each of us would have been appropriate. Maybe some gracious handshakes. Even a bow. Instead, the three of us shouted our thank-yous over our shoulders as we sprinted for the limo.

  5

  THE BOY WITH THE MILLION-DOLLAR FOOT

  Obviously I wasn’t around when the Beatles or Elvis were at their peak, and I was barely in preschool during the prime years of Bieber Fever, but I’d have to guess that the madness surrounding Pepedro was close to what those superstars experienced. As we drove across the city, Ava researched the young star. She discovered that he didn’t actually play for a team yet. Instead, he’d show up at pickup games, or appear at the last minute and play in charity football matches with older players. Each time he did run onto the field, though, he mesmerized everyone with his footwork and the amazing power and accuracy of his left-footed shot. There were hundreds of clips of him on YouTube and countless photos and videos posted across social media. So we shouldn’t have been surprised when we couldn’t even get close to the outdoor field, which was surrounded on all sides by two-story-tall buildings and houses.

  At least a dozen streets led straight to the edge of the grass, but the pavement was packed with people trying to get close enough to see the prodigy play. Fans were on rooftops and leaning out of apartment windows. People leaned ladders against buildings and sat on the steps like they were bleachers. Someone was piloting a drone, too, and I swear there were nearly as many selfie sticks as there were people, only everyone was holding them up to film the play instead of themselves.

  The car barely inched forward. The traffic and crowds were too dense. None of the people walking in front of us were moving out of the way. A woman in a black-and-red-striped soccer jersey turned and flicked her hair at our limo. The driver shouted something at her.

  “Could we try another street? Another way in?” I suggested.

  Ava translated for me.

  The driver shrugged, held up his hands, and answered in Portuguese. “He says there’s no point,” Ava explained.

  Two old dudes chewing on cigars scurried alongside our car, balancing on canes. Someone Matt’s age was holding a toddler on his shoulders. A couple wearing matching soccer jerseys and matching fanny packs were pressing into the group, too. They looked like Americans. Crowds of teens were darting between people, kicking soccer balls along the dirt. Construction workers with dust-covered T-shirts stood on their toes, hoping for a better look. A boy and a girl who were probably close to my age cut in front of our car. The boy wore a thin hooded sweatshirt. His steps were short and uneven and he never lifted his eyes from the pavement. I propped myself higher in my seat for a better view. A tattered soccer ball rolled along at his feet. He tapped it forward, never too far from his toes. The girl at his side was grabbing his elbow, frowning as she looked for openings in the wall of people. She slapped the hood of the limo as our driver edged forward, squinting as she glared through the windshield. Her face was round, her hair dark as the night sky. She yanked the boy away from the car. He still didn’t look up or lose the ball.

  Our driver stopped and leaned toward the windshield. He squinted, staring back at the girl, then grabbed his phone and called someone. He whispered, then waited. The two kids turned left, away from the crowds, and our driver followed them.

  “Why are we going this way?” Ava asked. She repeated the question in Portuguese.

  The driver ignored her.

  Ava leaned out the window, eyeing the tops of the buildings. �
��What if we get up on the roof? If I had Betsy with me it would be easy.”

  “Should we just get out and walk?” Matt suggested.

  I watched the two kids.

  “We’re here to talk to Pepedro, not watch him play,” Ava answered. “He’s probably out there already. I think we’re better off waiting and trying to catch him on his way out.”

  The limo rolled to a stop. The girl with the night-black hair glared back at our driver. Then she and her companion turned again, backtracking and walking alongside our car in the opposite direction, toward the river of soccer fans rushing to the field. I reached around Ava and opened the door. The girl nearly banged into it, then walked around and peered inside at us. The boy was still at her side. His hoodie was old and worn, but his soccer cleats looked new. The bulge in his socks suggested he was wearing shin guards, too. He rested his foot atop the scuffed soccer ball.

  His left foot.

  “Want a ride?” I asked.

  The boy glanced up at the girl. Clearly she made their decisions. My brother grabbed my sleeve. “Jack, what are you . . .” He stopped and stared at the kids and the ball. “Wait, is that Pepedro?” he asked in a whisper.

  I took a second to savor my minor accomplishment. I was a step ahead of Matt. Maybe a half step ahead of Ava, too. And I deserved to enjoy that feeling. Like the last bite of that pineapple sorbet, I wanted to let it linger. But the girl started to close the limo door and move on. “Yes, Matt,” I said. “That’s Pepedro, and this is his sister, Alicia. Am I right? Ava, could you translate? Ask them to come inside for a few minutes. Tell them we have a few questions.”

  Alicia wagged her finger. “I understand English,” she said. “But I do not understand why you are asking us to get into your limousine.”

  Two burly men in green-and-yellow soccer jerseys pushed past the kids. “Two reasons,” I said. “First, it’s quiet in here, out of the crowds.”

  “And what is the other reason?”

  “We’re friends of Henry Witherspoon,” Matt said.