Cradle of Splendor

by Patricia Anthony

  But McNatt was strong. He wrapped his arm around Roger’s chest, and his muscles felt supernaturally hard, like if you shot him, the bullets would bounce off.

  “Please, Dr. Lintenberg,” the major said. “There is no need for this.”

  Where was the other guy? Where was Jerry? Oh Christ, oh Christ, where was the plastic bag? Roger wasn’t as brave as Marcel—he was blubbering already.

  “Please, Dr. Lintenberg.”

  McNatt pinned Roger’s arms to his side and picked him up. When Roger’s feet left the ground, he screamed.

  McNatt carried him, still screaming, from the entranceway to the living room cum dinette cum bedroom. He forced him down on the parquet and locked the other half of the cuff to the bedframe. Then the major sat back, propped his hands on his thighs, and took a little breather.

  “Please, Dr. Lintenberg. This location is soundproofed. Just ...” He shook his head. Daubed at his mouth. The place Jaje had kicked him was bleeding again. “Please.”

  “Jesus Jesus don’t kill me.”

  McNatt was still out of breath. He waved his hand. “No. I have no instructions on that. No, sir.”

  Instructions. Oh, shit. There was a phone on the wall. A goddamned phone on the wall. McNatt was waiting for fucking instructions.

  “Would you care for a towel?” McNatt seemed nonplussed. “Or something?”

  Roger wiped his face with his sleeve. His nose was snotty and running. His throat was raw. “Oh, no, thank you. I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”

  “Um.” The major got to his feet.

  “Any trouble at all.”

  Then—oh, Christ—McNatt was taking his shirt off. What the hell did that mean? He had one of those bodies that’s not beefy like a weight lifter, but stronger, leaner, meaner. And he had these slabs of muscle over his sienna—brown belly, and striated muscles across his brown chest, like you see on guys in the movies. Shit, Roger hoped he wasn’t going to take his pants off. Please. God. Not the pants.

  McNatt folded his knit shirt carefully. Put it on the kitchen table. Pulled the gun out of his waistband, oh the gun. All Roger could see for a minute was that big black cannon of a gun. Ah. Good. McNatt put the gun on the table. Took off his shoe and sock—standing up, not sitting down. Then the major took off the other shoe and the sock, and he looked absolutely comfortable on one leg, like he could have run the Boston Marathon on one leg. Like if his other leg was fucking shot off or something, he’d never even notice.

  Roger thought: Not the pants.

  The major’s eyes lost focus. His stomach and arm muscles clenched, the veins and tendons in bas relief. Taut body shifted, arms to the side, hands graceful as a ballerina’s. What was going on? Roger broke out in a freezing sweat. His teeth started to chatter.

  Lithe pivot. Body around, down, into a leopard crouch.

  Staring transfixed, at the wall. Oh. Oh, right. Roger had seen this before.

  “Uh. Tai Chi, huh? That’s neat. You do it good.”

  Balinese dancer pose. Hold it. Hold it. Then release. New position, and, “Thank you. It helps to alleviate the stress.”

  “Really? Hey. No. I mean it. A body like yours ...” Oh, if there was any vacillation to McNatt at all, there went the pants. “What I mean is ... maybe you could teach me or something. If we’re stuck here for a while. And I guess we will. Be stuck here for a while, I mean.”

  No answer. Why didn’t he answer? Right leg rose, up, up. Then down.

  “I guess you and me, we could get bored. Waiting.” Oops. Not an invitation. Please. Not.

  Controlled rotation. Eyes straight ahead.

  “Well. So.” Roger tested the handcuffs. They were, of course, firmly locked. “Guess it takes a lot of strength to do that.”

  “Not really.” Arm swept to the side in slow mo.

  “Hum. Interesting. I always wanted to ... you know. I guess I was the typical ninety—eight—pound weakling. Well, not actually. Ninety—eight pounds, I mean. See? I studied. A lot. Four—point—oh grade average. Homework with Dove Bars. Cramming for tests with nacho—flavored Doritos. Never did get to the beach much. Maybe I missed out on a lot of childhood stuff, you think? We have these lakes in Minnesota. Lots of lakes. Thousands of lakes. Freeze your balls off, even in the summer. Well, come to think of it, I hated that. Probably childhood’s ...”

  “The body’s transitory, anyway,” McNatt said, a dreamy expression on his face.

  Whoa. Roger looked at the wall phone.

  McNatt took a deep breath, and kept breathing in, breathing in, and the air had to be going somewhere, but Roger couldn’t figure out what McNatt was doing with it.

  Then he brought his hands together over his solar plexus. Closed his eyes. His breath came out, forever.

  When he was finished, he said, “I’ve come to an interesting conclusion.” His eyes opened. Roger had never seen eyes that dark.

  “Oh?”

  “I can tell you, because you’ll understand. Both the science, and the metaphysics.” McNatt wriggled his hands, rolled his head back and forth on his shoulders. Then he went into the bathroom and brought back a towel. “You care for one?” he asked as he scrubbed his cheeks dry, gently patted his mouth and puffy eyebrow clean.

  “Uh, thanks. Maybe later.”

  The major put on his shirt, scooted a metal kitchen chair to the bed, and sat down next to Roger. “I am of the opinion that the entire universe lies inside us. And that includes Heaven and Hell.”

  “Hum.”

  “Take for example, when you kill someone. You know?”

  “Yeah. That.” A jingling. What the hell? Oh, the cuff. It was clinking on the bedframe every time Roger’s hand trembled.

  “There comes an epiphany at death. I tried to share Martinho’s. It was just us two, alone; and when he went down, I went with him. He tried to tell me something, but of course he couldn’t talk. So I put my mouth over his, and ate his last words, and—I know you will find this poignant—I could even taste the drug I killed him with. You see, Dr. Lintenberg, the drug couldn’t kill me.”

  Roger’s eyes stung. The room swam. He could not be hearing this. “No. Of course not. Not kill you. You’re—”

  “Perfectly nontoxic, taken orally.”

  “Hah. Yes.”

  “But it didn’t work. I’m missing something. You know Henrique Freitas, the president’s medium? I can’t be certain, but I think that’s what Freitas did. I think he killed his wife and then ate her death. Before he became what he is today, Freitas was not only a channeler, he was an outstanding psychic surgeon. I’ve learned quite a bit about him. I have spies, you know.”

  Joke. A joke. Should Roger laugh now? McNatt wasn’t smiling.

  “Psychic surgery, Dr. Lintenberg. I’ve seen studies on Zé Arigó, the one who died in ’68. This man could walk up to a patient, and with the patient still standing, shove an ordinary table knife into the patient’s open eye.”

  Roger wanted very much to squeeze his own eyes shut, but he was afraid he would miss something.

  “Do you understand the significance? The absolute theft of the free will? I have tried this on myself, but cannot overcome the instinct to blink. I see I’ve surprised you. ‘This is a reasonable man,’ you’re telling yourself. ‘A Marine officer. How can he believe such superstition?’ Well, Dr. Lintenberg, I have made this part of my life’s study. One should always have a study, don’t you think? Now, when I put my mouth over Martinho’s ...”

  The phone rang. McNatt got up. Roger prayed for a wrong number. The major lifted the receiver. Grunted. Scratched his cheek. And hung up.

  “Martinho, uh ... we were just talking about Martinho, and you were telling me—wow—a fantastic ... I don’t mean fantastic. I meant awesome, but perfectly, absolutely believable. Psychic surgery, huh? So. Martinho. Was that Fatty? Oh, I guess you never k
new—see? I didn’t know their names. The, the guys. MUFON guys. Were they really MUFON?”

  McNatt turned. His eyes were glazed, like he was going into his Tai Chi routine again. “What?”

  “Martinho and, uh ... Were they MUFON?”

  He took out his roll of Tums. Popped one. “No.”

  “Man, they sounded real. MUFON real, I mean. Gulf Breeze. All the buzzwords ...”

  He ate another Tums. An absentminded, “They were briefed.”

  “Wow. Imagine that. And ... so! CIA, huh? All the time. Had me fooled. Ha ha. So easy—”

  McNatt, frowning, looked at Roger. Roger froze. “Teresa Solange seems to be all right.”

  “Teresa Solan—oh.” Jaje was alive. The news made Roger feel almost okay. “I’m sorry. Look, I’m really sorry about what happened. It was Kinch. I wanted to keep her away from that dork Kinch, and—”

  “It’s perfectly all right, Dr. Lintenberg. It was just as well she got away. She was a problem, you see. I had no instructions on her.” A third Tums. God. A third Tums.

  “Ah. So. You had instructions, well ... Instructions on Martinho and ... uh, whozits. The bagged guy.”

  Roger finally snagged McNatt’s attention. He came over, turned the metal chair around and sat, arms on the backrest, contemplating Roger. “They chose their deaths, whether they understood that at the end or not. Results like tragedy and success are inevitable. I always say: as we live our lives, we box ourselves into our destinies.”

  “Huh.”

  “First comes ego. Babies, Dr. Lintenberg. Neat packages of ego. And curiosity, the explorer in us. As children, if we encounter a dead dog in the roadway, we stop to look, don’t we? And then we return the next day, and the next, just so that we may see what death is all about. I know you very well, Dr. Lintenberg, for despite skin color, despite upbringing—we are alike. And death, as sex, is forbidden fruit. They are what Gran called ‘the nasties.’”

  It was so quiet that the kitchen’s dripping faucet sounded like funeral drums.

  “So,” Roger said. “Granny ... uh. Mother’s side, father’s side?”

  McNatt rested his bruised face in his hands. “Forgive me. I’m not explaining myself well. I realize, of course, that the theory may sound somewhat eccentric ...”

  “No, no! Not—”

  “I very much admire you. A scientist’s knowledge of nature, a metaphysicist’s knowledge of the paranormal. I, myself, wanted to go into science, but I could not grasp the math.” McNatt blew out a breath, let his hands drop. “I think about things, however. Deeply. Please, this is so formal. May I call you Roger?”

  “Sure.”

  “And, please. Call me Doug. I need to nap for an hour. Would you mind terribly if I used the bed?”

  “Oh. Be my—”

  He yawned. Got up. Grabbed the gun. Oh the gun. And then he was lying down, the iron bed creaking and twanging, the pistol resting on his stomach. “Such a pity, Roger,” he said to the ceiling. “Had I understood at eighteen what I understand now, I could have been a scientist. I could have been anything.” His eyes closed. “The knowledge is there inside us, each and every one. Think of it—all knowledge there for the taking: faster—than—light travel, antigravity, what constitutes consciousness, and how life begins. Indeed, these are the very nuggets that Freitas is mining. If you will permit me to mix my metaphors: Freitas has picked the lock of Universal Awareness.”

  The next sound from McNatt’s mouth was a snore.

  CNN, Live

  ... sense of absolute helplessness—if you’ll forgive the cliché—like a sitting duck. Only a few hours are left until the deadline expires. There is no word, none at all, that the Brazilian government will back down. You can see the shopkeepers taping windows here behind me. I’ve spoken with them, and they have little hope of salvaging anything. The truth has finally hit home. And I think it started with that accident in the Military Sector yesterday. Until then, the Brazilians simply didn’t believe it could happen here.

  How are the people holding up?

  Sorry? The wind is—

  How is the mood of the people, Susan? Are they frightened?

  Yes. And oddly fatalistic. A woman came up to me yesterday. She lives in one of the apartment blocks which lie to either side of the Monumental Axis, just a few blocks from the seat of government. She saw the camera and realized I was with the American press corps. She asked me, ‘Will they be careful?’

  Careful?

  Yes. She meant our Air Force. The Brazilians who can leave are leaving right along with the foreigners. The ones who have to stay, Bernie, can only hope that the American smart bombs are as accurate as everyone says.

  HOW COULD you leave life so fast? A brief announcement over the jet’s intercom that the tire was fixed; and that because of emergency scheduling, there would be no lunch served. The pilot hoped, sourly, that everyone would enjoy their flight. Then the turbines shrieked, and the jet began its lumbering race for the air. Dolores realized she’d forgotten something.

  Harry. Harry needed his medicine. The iron was on. She needed to check the answering machine. The mail. God. The garden needed watering.

  An instant of weightlessness. The nose lifted. In the front of the cabin, a baby started to scream. The plane struggled skyward, bearing its load of middle—class refugees.

  When they banked over the city, the wing dipped twice. Clear—air turbulence, or the pilot’s goodbye? Dolores looked down on the bird—shaped city, could see ruins in the northern section still smoldering.

  Jack reached across the aisle and tried to grab her hand. She pulled away. She would leave just as she came, alone. It was safer not to count higher than one. Harry had taught her: men weren’t company.

  A chime sounded. Flight attendants unbuckled and stood. Passengers stirred. Then from the intercom boomed Ana Maria’s song, “Vem Morena.” A farewell gift from the cabin crew. The stewardess who was asking for drink orders paled, and walked quickly back to her seat.

  Dolores looked at Jaje who sat, dry—eyed, beside her. Not callousness. Simple ignorance. Dolores had to remember not to lose her temper, must try her best to obey Ana’s last order: give Jaje a family.

  A warm tickle on her cheek. Oh. She was crying. She shouldn’t, not over Ana. Not over Brazil. What did they matter? She was a Canadian tourist named Allison Morris, living with her husband Hugh who was not moreno, not mulatto, but black. And with her café—com—leite daughter, Tina, who would never again be a white girl’s equal. Silly, simplistic—the color distinctions of North America.

  She was flying to a black—and—white world. Political good and evil. Religious right and wrong. A two—choice place that she didn’t want to return to. America’s smug surety, its lack of ambivalence, scared her. Everything scared her.

  She was afraid Canada would not be different enough. Brazil slipped away. Below, beige ground turned green and damp and wild, and soon the swamps would fold in on themselves, and the land would rise, and the Andes thrust up to meet the jet.

  They were leaving too fast. Nothing would ever be as it was. Not freedom. Not career. Not contentment. Could she learn a new vocabulary? Jack reached across the aisle again, and this time Dolores let his hand stay.

  * * *

  Hiroshi vomited onto Xuli’s clay yard, scattering the chickens. His bowels cramped, announcing a near—future return to the outhouse.

  His vomit tasted of coffee. His shit stank of coffee. His sweat was the rank cheesy sweat of a foreigner. It frightened him, how he was losing himself. Yet, it was what he must do. Gingerly, he stood upright. Xuli was seated on the steps, watching.

  “You doing good.”

  He ran a hand over his stomach. How many days had it been since he had slept? He had vomited so much that his muscles were sore. Shit so much that his ass burned, and it was hard to sit down. Yet he tingled with
energy.

  “Got to get all that old life out,” she said. “Got to get clean for what’s coming. And you know what that is, little one. Soon now, you’ll have the Amazon and the Rio São Francisco in your veins. Your heart’s going to pump cachaça. Your prick will be strong as mahogany, and your skin will smell of coconut and black beans and shrimp.”

  He nodded. When his mind wandered to the serene walled garden at his parents’ home, he concentrated on multiplication tables. Twelve, twenty—four, thirty—six ...

  Xuli called, “Tell me who you are.”

  Aftertaste of greasy sausage, the caustic burn of gall, the acid sting of pepper sauce. He felt an urgent, undefined need to act. “The Warrior.”

  “Good. And where is your place now?”

  Hot, arid air made his nostrils itch. The flat desert glinted and shimmered like a mirror. The strange far hills were blue. “With Oxalá.”

  “Yes,” she said. “There’s a great, dark evil on its way, and its name is envy, and its warrior is America. And if we don’t beat it back, evil’s going to cover the earth. You believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when that evil comes, who you going to fight for?”

  So simple. Hiroshi felt the pull of the sun, and closed his eyes. Blind, he surrendered to the sweet drag of Earth. “Brazil.”

  “No need to be afraid. Not you. You got Xuli on your left side. You got Oxalá on the right. One ball is Sugarloaf, the other, Corcovado.”

  Afraid? Not anymore. Xuli had given him direction.

  “Tell me. How are you going to fight?”

  His lips felt dry, and he licked them. “Alone.”

  * * *

  Muller was asking something.

  Edson pulled his attention from the car window. “What?”

  “Do you wish me to take you to the office afterward, sir?”