Cradle of Splendor

by Patricia Anthony

  Roger swallowed hard. Aw, please, no. “You shot one down?”

  “Finally.” Lab Coat was boyishly proud. “Since bringing our jets into Bolivia, we’ve been toying with each other. Interestingly, most of the UFOs we’ve sighted over Brazilian airspace are decoys. And—I know you’ll be intrigued by this—the illusions actually have mass, enough mass to give a good radar return. The few manned UFOs themselves seem to be capable of disguising the size and shape of their crafts. Nothing was like we thought. But this time the pilots were able to acquire a good target—”

  “So we shot first?”

  A hesitation. Lab Coat looked at McNatt, who popped another Tums.

  “Any of them survive?”

  Lab Coat nodded. “Well, yes. One.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Unfortunately, he succumbed to his injuries.”

  Roger felt sick. It was probable the creature never understood the reason the teasing game turned deadly.

  Lab Coat coughed into his hand. “We have a tape you can view later. I know you’ll be disappointed. He spoke a few words, but died before he could say anything meaningful.”

  Spoke?

  “We need your input, Dr. Lintenberg. Washington is waiting. Are you ready to view the cabin now?”

  He spoke.

  “Come this way. Careful of that monitor. I read your article in World UFO Magazine, the theories on possible propulsion and guidance systems. That’s what we’re looking for here, and you would be the man to spot that.”

  The alien fucking spoke.

  “Surprised? I can see by your face you’re wondering how I knew. Oops. Watch those cables. I read your Scientific American article first. The style in the anonymous World UFO piece was identical, the ideas mere extrapolations. In fact, I was the one who originally brought you to the attention of the Agency. Ah. Here we are.”

  The man swept back the plastic curtains. At first glance, the wreckage might have once been a spaceship, or could have been a Chevy. One occupant was a bloody smear. The other corpse was still strapped in, the chair and part of the instrument panel around it left intact.

  Incredible that the pilot had survived at all. It had a mouth, one eye, no legs, no hands; but before impact it had been a human male. And the spaceship a two—seater Cessna.

  * * *

  Edson leaned back in his favorite easy chair, remote—controlled the television to a mumble, and ran through the tape again. He didn’t need to hear the words—after all, he’d written them.

  A terrified Dolores Sims peered out from the screen, one eye swollen shut, lip split—pathetic as a whipped dog. Edson shook his head. “You lying bitch,” he whispered in admiration. The brief tape ended, automatically rewound.

  Something else had happened today ... What was it? Ah, yes. The return of CNN reminded him. Nando had put the entire São Paulo police department on leave. He brought in militia from Curitiba, from Congonhas, from Caxias do Sul. Young soldiers from small towns, their first time away from home. All experts in traffic control who could write parking tickets, who could step in when red lights malfunctioned. They looked so overwhelmed, their rubber bullet—loaded rifles slung forgotten over their shoulders, their faces lifted to the tall buildings, their expressions awed.

  Edson got to his feet and wove an unsteady path to the kitchen. He filled another glass and wandered back. His eye lit on the only legacy from his family: a baroque crucified Jesus.

  “I did my job,” Edson protested, but knew he had failed the test for heaven. He leaned against the wall and brought his head down close to the cross. “Forgiveness is yours.”He pushed himself upright and shuffled to the easy chair. When he sat, he could see Jesus watching him out of the corner of His eye, watching his every move, like the thing in Freitas—only Jesus loved the sinner, and the thing in Freitas loved the sin. Fondled it. Pressed his lips against the glass.

  Edson heard the whistle of wind in the eaves, the squeak of fingers down the window. On the screen a somber American announcer was mouthing something. Behind her shoulder was a map of Brazil, and letters the color and shape of panic: ULTIMATUM DEADLINE.

  He pulled the phone closer, and dialed the number by memory.

  A woman answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “He home?”

  “Um,” she replied. A thick—voiced male query in the background, and the woman’s “Edson Carvalho. Drunk.”

  Outside Edson’s picture window wind muscled into the patio, whipped the potted palms, battered the glass.

  The line clicked as the extension was picked up. “Edson?” Another click as Nando’s wife left the line.

  “I’m not mad.” Wind kicked at the orchids, pushed the patio chairs. Jesus, that look in his mahogany eyes—Maybe Jesus was mad.

  “It’s two o’clock in the morning, Edson.”

  “Is the deadline passed?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you call the White House?”

  “Don’t hang up.”

  “No. I promise I won’t hang up. Is someone there with you?”

  Jesus on the wall.

  “Edson?”

  “Yes, someone’s here.”

  Bass laughter that became a smoker’s cough. “You keeping them awake, too?”

  “I walked into the chamber.”

  The silence went on so long that Edson wondered if Nando had fallen asleep. Then, “Where are you?”

  “Home. I heard voices. The Disappeared are still there by the Door. You were right. He’s lying to us. Today, just today, I talked to him without Ana. And now afterwards, I feel—Nando? Tell me the truth. We are good friends. Aren’t we?”

  “Edson, the exchange of police was Ana’s idea.”

  No feeling in his body except for that bullet of ice in his heart. He forced himself to laugh. “The militia doesn’t look at all deadly.”

  “But what rhythm when they march. Besides, that’s the point, I think. Who would want to bomb children?”

  “Ana doesn’t trust me anymore.”

  A pause. “She just thinks you’re tired.”

  “If I were in your position ...” Edson closed his eyes. “I want you to know I won’t fight.”

  He sighed. “Oh, Edson. When the time comes, I promise we will face the end together. I will teach you English. Then we will go to Itamaraty and burn an American flag. I will shoot you first. Then I’ll hand you the gun, and you can shoot me.”

  Edson had the glass to his mouth before he understood. He smiled. The wind pounded the window. Jesus chuckled softly from the shadows of the hall.

  “Edson? You still there?”

  “Yes. Did you ever wonder if Hell is full or empty?”

  “Interesting question. Phone the White House. Ask them. Perhaps tomorrow you can tell me what they say.”

  Nando hung up. Edson cradled the receiver to his chest. On the screen the American president thundered a warning. Children in uniforms milled, lost in São Paulo streets. Edson felt an overpowering urge to call Freitas and ask him the question, but was terrified of what the answer might be.

  * * *

  Morning. Gray light seeped through the window, made a high—tide line on the wall. From the corridor wafted the smell of coffee, the cheerful squawk of the station’s parrot Dolores, forehead and lip throbbing, pulled the blanket snug to her neck, cocooning against the early chill.

  An avian shriek. “Opa! Policia!” The parrot whooped like a siren. Close by, a man laughed.

  Dolores bolted up in bed, bringing the covers with her. Jack was standing in the open doorway of her cell.

  His expression changed from surprise to empathy before becoming woeful. “Oh, sweetie. Bless your—”

  “Stop.” Her swollen lip muddied her words. She couldn’t remember when she had been so relieved to see anyone. When she had been so fur
ious. “Go away.”

  “Go away?”

  She grunted, straightened her nightgown, beat the blankets around her into submission. “Don’t need pity.”

  A raw and painful quiet. She hadn’t the heart to raise her eyes. Poor Jack suffered Harry’s sins.

  “Let me get dressed, Jack. Turn around.”

  “God bless, girl,” he said softly. “We’ve seen each other naked.”

  “Without glasses. In the dark. Doesn’t count.”

  He turned his back.

  She got out of bed, began gathering clothes. “Arrest you, too?”

  “No. They just wanted to talk. God, I’m disappointed. I didn’t expect this Presbyterian prude shit. They told me what you did. Said you refused a doctor. Why don’t you let me call one for you. Please, baby? You should see somebody about that.”

  Talking was agony. Her whole face ached. “I’m fine.” She turned her back on him and slipped her panties on under her nightgown. Shimmied into her jeans. “Talk about what?”

  “Ana asked Fernando Machado to track me down. She wants to deal.”

  Dolores pulled the nightgown over her head. As if self—inflicted wounds weren’t enough, she felt an arthritic complaint in her shoulder. “Carvalho know?”

  “I get the feeling he doesn’t.”

  “Um. Offer?”

  “Canadian passports. Money. Lots of money.”

  “Plural passports?”

  “Both of us. We’ll go away to Vancouver together. With new identities, Dee.”

  She put her arms into her shirtsleeves. Stared blindly at the floor. “Where are my goddamned shoes?”

  His voice was soft. “I know what you’ll be leaving behind, hon. I can’t make that up to you, but I’ll always be there. Always love you. You never had that.”

  “What did I do with my goddamned fucking shoes?” The scab on her lip popped open, and she tasted blood. She kicked a nearby cardboard box, stubbed her toe. “Shit!”

  “Dee?” He sounded so sad. “Not just for me, honey. Ana wants us to get Jaje out.”

  Dolores fumbled, suddenly numb—fingered, at buttons. The world fogged. She couldn’t feel her bruised and throbbing toe, her battered face, her hands. Couldn’t make her muscles work. Her arms dropped, forgotten and useless at her sides.

  “Dolores?”

  Streaks of light in the air, as if the room was crowded with visiting angels. “Has to ask.”

  “What?”

  She formed the words carefully. The wound on her lip stretched and stung. “She can’t saddle me with saving her damned daughter, unless she comes and asks.”

  Good Morning America

  ... we should take a moment here to review her accomplishments. She passed the Women’s Rights Law. She began groundbreaking educational reforms which became a blueprint for other countries. Ana literally pulled a nation up from its knees.

  I understand that you, personally, were her friend. And that you stood by her even through the takeover six years ago.

  I saw the takeover as necessary, Joan. Tragic, yes. But necessary. Had Ana not acted decisively, the entrenched power structure would have resisted her legislation. It was at this time that, well—that I believe she made the mistake of relying on the advice of those around her.

  So you’re saying ...

  A few of those men, if you’ll forgive me being blunt, are strong—arm goons with long histories of civil rights violations.

  Part of Brazil’s old death squads.

  Yes.

  What about the soldiers currently stationed in Brasília?

  The militia?

  Yes. They seem so ... poorly trained, I suppose is the word.

  I hate to think this. I really do. But it puts me in mind of the Iran/Iraq War.

  The—

  When the Iranian Army sent innocent children out into the field, thinking the Iraqis wouldn’t fire.

  Um. But they did fire, didn’t they?

  Yes, they did.

  AMULET HIDDEN by white shirt and subdued tie, Hiroshi walked the morning corridors of the embassy. He kept his head down, his eyes averted, just as the black woman had instructed.

  He knew what was wrong with his life. It looked like Quimbanda, but nothing was ever as it seemed. The on his family carried opened him up to danger. When his grandmother died in the earthquake, no one, not even Hiroshi’s father, offered as much as a cup of tea to soothe the place her blood polluted.

  If Hiroshi were in Japan, he would perform owabi for the unhappy and vengeful ghost of his grandmother. He would walk the proper shrine one hundred times each morning. He would give kuyō, and rinse the site clean with hydrangea tea. He would leave her offerings of rice cakes and milk. Maybe then she wouldn’t wander. Maybe then she would not punish him.

  He halted when he thought he heard his dead father call his name. No. Just Shuma Kasahara. Hiroshi looked into the beaming, round face, then remembered, and quickly lowered his eyes.

  But Kasahara would not have stolen his diary, would never use that to gain the evil eye over him. What was Hiroshi thinking? Still ...

  The old man had asked something, and was waiting for a reply. But since his trip to the Valley, the drone in Hiroshi’s head had grown louder. He had not heard a word Kasahara said.

  “Hiroshi. What is wrong?”

  A quick bow. “Thank you for your concern, Kasahara—san.” He cast around for some excuse for his behavior, could think of none.

  Kasahara’s worried frown deepened. “You are ill.”

  “I ...” Hiroshi almost blurted out the ugly secret of his family’s debts. How his father had abandoned his own mother’s ghost. How Hiroshi was destined to bring ruin on Kasahara.

  “Please. Come into my office.”

  Hiroshi went, And that was destiny, too. Since his trip to the Valley, Hiroshi had stayed up at night, his lights burning. Thinking, putting things in order. That’s when he recalled the grandmother the family never spoke of. That’s when he remembered the family’s on. Realization of that sin had given him a sense of destiny, how all things fit together, everything but Hiroshi. Hiroshi, who, by disobeying orders, had lost his sense of place.

  Kasahara closed the door. His hands fluttered, first toward Hiroshi as if he wished to touch his arm, then toward a lacquered table as if offering a poor gift. “Please. Please.”

  They knelt on pillows, facing each other. The old man poured tea from a thermos, offered a sticky cake. Hiroshi picked up the cup to be polite, put it to his mouth, and set it down.

  The old man’s face was as ritually tragic as a kabuki mask. “You eat and drink as if your stomach plagues you.”

  A quick nod. “Yes.” There should be more he should say. Instead he propped his hands on his thighs, and waited.

  “We complain when women nag us, and pamper us with food, but they are our strength. Don’t you think it is so? It seems that when we are left to our own devices, we skip meals. We eat unhealthy things.”

  Kasahara had graciously given him a way out. Hiroshi nodded in relief. “Yes. Surely that is all that is wrong with me. My wife is not at home, and I have acquired an indisposition.”

  The old man sipped from his cup. Waited.

  “And if the indisposition continues, of course, I shall go to the doctor.”

  “Good. Good.” Kasahara put his cup down. Eyes lowered, he braced his hands on his knees as if he would bow an apology. “I have wronged someone. Judged them unfairly.”

  “Ah?”

  “Yesterday, Kengo came to see me.” Gaze still averted, Kasahara picked up his cup again.

  The warmth of humiliation washed Hiroshi’s face. His skin tingled. Kengo. The brown enemy who destroyed for envy.

  “He is worried about you.”

  Hiroshi was suddenly so hot that he wanted to tear off hi
s tie, his jacket. The flesh around his eyes prickled. Did Kengo know Hiroshi had gone to the Valley? Did he know what was said there?

  “Kengo tells me that it is his habit to wake three hours before dawn. He likes to walk then, he says, when the city is quiet and cool. And he tells me that for the past two mornings, when he passed your apartment house, he has seen your lights on.”

  Like the dead of Nagasaki, he would burst into flame. “But Kasahara—san. Why should Kengo know where I live? Why should he watch me?”

  “That is his job. He means nothing by it.”

  “He sees my light on, and thinks ... all this because of my indisposition. Why doesn’t he come to me directly? I would tell him. Of course I can’t sleep, so indisposed. There is nothing sinister in that.”

  “No one said that it was sinister.”

  It was the heat that made his voice rise out of control. “Have I done something to offend?”

  He saw the truth in the old man’s face. But, being kind, Kasahara shook his head. “No, no. Noth—”

  “Kasahara—san, forgive me.” Hiroshi’s words emerged as a strangled cry. “I shamed you. I shamed myself.” That’s when the tears came. Kasahara knew Hiroshi had begged help from the KGB. Everyone in the embassy knew. There was no way to escape it—the nail that sticks up is always hammered down.

  He couldn’t have made this mistake. How had it happened? Baka! his mother would have shouted. You stupid! From the time he was two years old, she would lock him out of the house when he had done wrong. He would sit on the porch and sob. Just as he sobbed now—the same grieving pain in his chest. To think that once he had longed for the romance of being a masterless samurai. Baka! Stupid! He should have remembered what loneliness was.

  What was left for Hiroshi to do but write a note: Shinde owabi suru, and then to throw himself in front of a train. Jump from his office window. Put the muzzle of his gun in his mouth. My death is apology.

  “Please, Hiroshi! Do not upset yourself so! Kengo now agrees with you. Yes. Don’t look so surprised. This is true. He has told the ambassador that it was—not your fault that the information about the space launch was incorrect Kengo distrusts the CIA, and thinks they purposefully misled us. At least he has told me this. If he has not yet told you, it is only because he feels shame at his mistake.”