Cradle of Splendor

by Patricia Anthony

  And a smell. The cloying smell of the butcher shop. A fetid stench from punctured guts. José Carlos had been tossed indifferently near the Door, his torso and groin plucked empty.

  A whisper from the shadows. A familiar voice. “Now I’ll give you what you want.”

  Run in the Door. That was the payment Edson had to make for heaven. Go where he had sent the others, if only in the interest of justice. If only for the love of God. But too many promises had been broken. Between Edson and the Door José Carlos lay, pudgy child limbs, body cavity picked clean as a nutshell. Edson didn’t dare try to lift him; couldn’t leave him behind.

  Then Freitas was there, close. And it was too late. A touch on his shoulder. Edson’s body went helpless. He felt himself sink.

  On Freitas’s shirt, small rusty handprints. A bulge at the front of the jeans. Two huge hands, a stern father’s hands, with spatulate fingers. Butcher’s dregs caked under the nails.

  The small—caliber pop of the brass snap, the spread of the zipper. Freitas took Edson’s hands in his own, ran soiled thumbs down the center of his palms. Lust surprised Edson. It was surprise, in fact, that held him there on his knees, flush rising, breathing quickened.

  Then Freitas scrubbed Edson’s hands against himself, and Edson shut his eyes. He would never hold another man like this. The smell of blood came from a simple beating, and in his hands was a rubber hose. That was all.

  He turned away. Freitas took Edson’s arms, pulled them around his buttocks. Against Edson’s cheek, a scouring of coarse hair, the smell of the swamp.

  Edson tried to push him back, tell him no. He wasn’t strong enough. That aggressive cock, like a jabbing finger. Freitas was too aroused not to be careless. Edson would strangle in his own blood, choke on his own teeth.

  Rhythmic heaving, ponderous as the sea. Edson fell into dark. He fell dizzy and fast, and suddenly it didn’t matter, to die. Against his cheek the nudge of something velvety and swollen. Edson opened his mouth for it, like a baby.

  A blast echoed through the hangar, and that didn’t matter, either. Freitas shivered, bone—deep; made a small, apologetic sound. Then he was leaving, the swollen nub pulling away, the buttocks slipping through Edson’s hands. Edson couldn’t let go—wouldn’t. He followed Freitas down.

  Freitas was slippery. The limp weight of him was hard to bear. Edson wrapped one arm about his waist, tore at his jeans with the other, until he felt the warm ejaculation fill his hand.

  Startled, he let Freitas drop. Flaccid, loose—limbed, the body hit the floor. Too much blood. In Edson’s palm, all over Freitas. Bright, arterial blood, and Freitas was dead. Oh. Edson hadn’t meant to do that.

  He shook him. Screamed his name. Freitas’s shirt flapped open. There was a puckered mouth in the man’s side. A bullet hole.

  Edson looked around. Nando stood in the shadows of the hangar, Edson’s own .45 still aimed. All Edson could see was the well of that barrel. He imagined the long fall, felt the tug of that gravity. And he wanted. He was hungry enough to do anything to make that need stop.

  Nando’s once—familiar face was grim. Edson knew that it was desire that made him a stranger. More than soul, more than life, Nando wanted to pull the trigger.

  So Nando finally realized what Freitas had made Edson into. Now he and Nando would fall together in the swamp, and Edson would make him dirty. Edson meant to shout a warning. Only a sob escaped. His shoulders heaved. He lowered his face into his bloody hands.

  God forgive him. Not for the sins of commission. Not for the executions, for who could blame justice? Not even for the spy tricks, or the lies. What he wept for were the things he hadn’t done: how his life had been a waste; and how in not fighting to save himself, he would take Nando down, too.

  A loud clatter. Edson flinched, dropped his hands. The .45 lay nearby, where Nando had thrown it.

  “Get out,” Nando said. “Get out.”

  Edson nodded.

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  A whispered, “Yes.”

  “I swear I will give you what you want, Edson. I will bring this whole damned building down on you.” Boot heels clicked, receding through the hangar.

  Edson wiped his face with his sleeve. Freitas’s eyes were open, vacant of appetite. For the first time Edson noticed how small the man was. How truly ordinary.

  Freitas had the beginnings of a paunch. His jeans were pulled to his hips. The tip of his cock peeked out of leopard bikini undershorts, a purple—faced puppet. Who had bought those silly undershorts for him—Ana? Freitas was a man like any other, hiding secrets behind a zipper. Anyone’s uncle. Someone at a bus stop. At the grocer’s.

  Tired, shaken, Edson stood. He retrieved his gun; thought about shooting himself, but that seemed pointless. Thought about going in the Door, but that was no use. Dr. Lizette and her Donato were gone. Light from the hangar flooded the chamber, brightened the corners. The floor was dusty, the painted walls shabby.

  Just a room, really.

  Just a man.

  CNN, Live

  ... minutes until dawn here in Brasília. The heart of this great city, the Monumental Axis, has sustained an overwhelming amount of damage. But as you can see behind me, Itamaraty still miraculously stands. And that is where, a few hours from now, Ana Maria Bonfim will officially surrender to Fredrick E. Davis, the American Marine general serving as U.N. Coalition Commander.

  Ah, perhaps we should note here for our viewers that CNN will be reporting the signing ceremony live, beginning at eleven o’clock Eastern Standard Time.

  Susan? Have you found out anything about the destruction of the military base at Cabeceiras?

  A U.N. team is already at the base, sorting through the wreckage. But the destruction does seem, at least at this moment, to be complete. General Davis supposedly plans to question Brazilian chief of staff General Fernando Machado, ah, at some length. Gossip has it that Davis is upset. Aides tell me the general is notorious for his temper. They call him ‘Ferocious Freddy’ behind his back. I’ve met him. Davis is a Marine’s Marine. He doesn’t have much of a sense of humor. I would not like to be in Machado’s shoes when he calls him on the carpet.

  Any radioactivity out there?

  The inspectors have been sent in with protective clothing, but the fears about a radioactive release into the atmosphere seem to be groundless. Privately, I’ve been told that, extensive as the damage is, and as hot as it is out there, the site will eventually be cemented over, and a fence thrown up around it.

  Can we expect some arrests today?

  I assume so. Machado, although those charges may be dropped. Carvalho, who, as you know, has confessed to murder. And, of course, Bonfim.

  And now I can just see the sun rising over the horizon behind you, Susan. And the building. Quite dramatic.

  Yes, Bernie. All the glass was blown out in the bombing, but otherwise, it seems to be in good shape. Since Itamaraty is just a glass box inside a huge colonnade of arches, there has been a lot to clean up. Can you see the trucks lined up outside there? To my right? Those are Brazilian maintenance vehicles. Crews have been here since late last night, ever since the announcement was made that Bonfim had telephoned the White House.

  And let us note here, that telephone call was logged in by the White House switchboard at ten forty—seven P.M., Eastern Standard Time. White House spokesperson Dan Rosen has informed us the call lasted a very short four minutes. Again, as one of her last acts, Bonfim has been brief. Well, Susan. Quite a few clouds there. Are the weather reports calling for rain?

  No. Those are fair—weather cumulus. Very common this time of year.

  Uh—huh. Looks like you’re in for another beautiful day.

  BLACK TURNED gray. Buildings loomed out of the fog. Mist condensed, wormed down windows, glossed the cobblestones. In the trees, vultures stirred in their roosts, shook themselves dry. Head
down, she kept going. The one thing Dolores had always known was direction: straight ahead. Never turn aside. Never, ever look back. If you looked back, you would see it coming. Don’t stop, or it would catch up.

  But she was tired; and if there wasn’t a home on the next block, at least there was rest, a place to put her feet up for a while. She nearly missed the steps—secretive, Lima steps, narrow and unfriendly. And at the top, the door.

  She stood there, hair and blouse soaked through. She’d forgotten the key. If the door was locked, she would have to knock and rouse them.

  She put her hand to the knob, and turned.

  It was waiting for her there in the darkened living room, in the blue flickering light of the TV. Had been waiting for her all along, painstakingly furnished while Harry lay dying: Jack’s comfortable little world. He looked up. And the concern in his face lured her, as exhaustion would lure her to a feather bed. On his left, Jaje lay curled asleep. On the right side of the sofa, a hopeful place, her place, had been left empty.

  She closed the door, hermetically sealing herself in family. For a panicky moment, she couldn’t breathe.

  Cups and plates littered the table. When Jack was in doubt, he cooked. A woman’s solution. A mother’s. Dolores tiptoed to the sofa and looked down at Jaje. Egotistical little girl. A smart girl, and lucky. Growing up without demons of sacrifice or self—denigration.

  Dolores said quietly, “Get some sleep, Jack. We need to be at the airport by ten.”

  In his face, a touching relief. How could he stay with her, when she hurt him? How could she have stayed all those years with Harry?

  “Can’t wake the girl up,” he whispered. “She just dozed off about two hours ago. I’m fine. You?”

  A question with layers. She didn’t answer. And she didn’t take the place he had saved. She sat on the floor by his legs. The television sound was off. On the screen, pink sunrise and Itamaraty.

  A gentle touch at the back of her hair. “You’re wet,” Jack said. “Need to get dry.”

  She reached up, caught his fingers. In Brasília, two American soldiers were raising the Stars and Stripes. “I love you.”

  He didn’t say it back. Instead, he cleared his throat, the way men do. When he spoke, his voice was almost steady. “Snows up in Vancouver. I know how you like snow. You can paint, baby. You know you can always paint. The ocean’s right there, and they have those big old fir trees. And mountains. Oh, you’ll just go crazy painting those mountains.”

  The warmth of Jack’s fingers. Through them, his slow steady pulse. She wasn’t Ana, and it wasn’t with men that she made her mistake. She had loved only one thing without check, without balance.

  For thirty years she let Brazil grow wild inside her. Its lushness root—bound her heart. “I can leave you anytime,” she told Jack but, as she had learned with Harry, duty was probably strong enough to make her stay.

  A hesitation, then a kiss to the top of her head. “I know.”

  * * *

  Galleon clouds voyaged the sky: heavy gray bellies, sun caught in the tops of their sails. The breeze in the plaza was an ocean sort of breeze, one that felt as if it had traveled a long way, unchallenged.

  He walked, trying to use up the last of his restlessness. Perhaps later, when it was spent, he would sleep. His wandering took him by Kengo’s apartment. Then to the place he had killed Kinch.

  Wide tile breezeway. Palms and eucalyptus shivering in the wind. He spotted the orange and purple dress first. Maria Bonita sat on the steps, legs tucked beneath her. The red ribbon on her wrist fluttered.

  He stopped at her side. No magic, but that was all right. She was older than he had thought, and every bit as pretty. She looked up, tucked her dark hair behind her ear. The wind teased it loose again.

  “Olá, querido. Your face is hurt. But I guess you know. Would you like a cigarette?”

  “I have given up smoking,” he said.

  She made a space for him, patted the step. “Come. Sit down. I gave up smoking, too. But the Americans have invaded. Think of it: an army of camouflage tourists. I will kill myself slowly. I will eat foods high in cholesterol. I will not wear my seatbelt anymore. I was at the Cathedral when the bombs hit. Ceschiatti’s metal angels fell from grace, and glass shattered on the floor like ice. I ask you again: are you sure you don’t want one?”

  She offered him the pack. He tweezered a cigarette out with his fingertips.

  “What a mess you have made of your hands,” she said, and lit his cigarette for him. “Tastes good, neh? Small sins.”

  Good? He wasn’t sure. But he supposed that small nostalgic sins were forgivable.

  “I’ve seen you before. You’re the one who killed the American.”

  The smoke made him light—headed, made his eyes water. To escape her direct gaze, he looked down. There was blood on his pants cuff: a handprint.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell,” she said. “I didn’t like him, that American. I applauded your good job when you were finished, but I suppose you didn’t hear.”

  Kinch. She was speaking of Kinch.

  “He always had parties, that one. People went for the food, for the American whiskey. But then after a while not even that could make them go, and I guess he ate the food and drank the whiskey alone. He thought he was funny, but he had no jeito. No way of dealing with people. And among the women, he was a joke. He squeezed my breast once, that pig, and with my husband right in the next room. I think he was a spy. Are you a spy, too?”

  Hiroshi looked up. Hidden sun outlined a cloud with bright. “Yes.”

  “I thought at first that you were American. Then I thought you were Brazilian, until you spoke. And now I would think you Japanese, but the Japanese have won the war and they should be happy. Who do you spy for?” she asked.

  The wind snagged a thread of smoke from the cigarette. It unraveled down the sidewalk, thin and white. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, every spy knows who they spy for. That must be the nature of the business.”

  “Yes,” he said. “That is the nature of it.”

  “My husband, he knows the nature of his business. He is an architect. We could have lived anywhere, Petrópolis, Cabo Frio. But architects, you know, they worship the light. Light rains down here, he told me once. Light showers down in Brasília.”

  Hiroshi lifted his head. Washes of sun through the trees, splashes of bright on the tiles.

  “I take photographs,” she said. “Mostly for travel guides. Houghton Mifflin. That one. I’ve been in Paris Match. And Life magazine. A little reporting, too. But I like photography best. Form and space. Shadow and light. That is what my husband and I manufacture. I can understand taking a photo. I can understand building a building, for no other reason than wonder. But to spy for no reason seems pointless.”

  He yawned, tried unsuccessfully to hide it. At last he was ready for sleep. He took one last drag from the cigarette, dropped it, ground it out on the tiles. “I served one master all my life, and then he died.”

  “Oh,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Now I spy for wonder.”

  He got up. He would curl up on a park bench somewhere. When the banks opened, perhaps in a few days, he would take his money out. When he was rested, he would know what to do.

  A tug on his jacket. He looked down. “What sort of wonder is there in spying?” she asked.

  “Take care,” he said. He took the small gray camera from his pocket and pressed it into her hands.

  * * *

  Itamaraty stood suspended over its own reflection. Muller waited on the pool’s walk, clouds at his feet.

  Irked, Edson approached. The boy should have left. Edson pulled at his lapel. Pulled again. The .45 under his jacket felt heavy. The shoulder holster pinched. Everything that was ordinary seemed strange.

  Muller step
ped toward him, and his shadow fell over Edson: looming, masculine, and hungry. Edson instantly lowered his eyes and stumbled back.

  Muller retreated. “Sorry, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Edson straightened his jacket, looked up in time to catch Muller’s pity. Edson took a steadying breath and tried to smile. “Well, you look familiar. So well dressed. So prosperous. Have we met? Novo Hamburgo, perhaps. Or Caxias do Sul. One of those gaucho places.”

  “Sir. I’ve learned they plan a tribunal: Americans, Germans, British, Japanese.”

  Standing over that reflecting pool of sky, Edson felt weightless. Another breath of wind, and he could float free. “I passed by the ministry,” he said. “It is a loss. The Americans outfinessed themselves. Go home, my esteemed gaucho. Take what name you wish. Buy a little ranch for yourself in the mountains, for that is what gauchos should do.”

  “Please. There is no need for this, sir. I can hide you. I have everything in place ...” His voice trailed off when Edson shook his head.

  Eight years together. It should have ended with an abraço. Instead, Muller let Edson walk away.

  Four steps later, Edson looked over his shoulder. Muller hadn’t moved. He called back. “My last order.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Raise some cattle. One or two. Treat them gently.” When Edson looked back again, he was gone.

  Bombs had opened Itamaraty to the wind. Edson made his way into its shade and through its interior gardens. He passed papaya trees with fruit like ponderous breasts; passed the dangling purple phallus of a banana bud. Waiting on the polished floor of the foyer were two gatherings: Nando’s officers and pigeons. Across the huge room Nando stood, ankle—deep in birds. Edson waded through the flock to reach him.

  A quick embarrassed look. Smells of bird shit and disinfectant. Nando lowered his head, tore a hard roll into pieces. Edson found himself looking for blood under Nando’s nails.

  “Nando.”