by Sunniva Dee
“Belgian White. It’s a pale ale. Does that sound good?” he asks when I make no attempt to scour the drink menu.
“Yeah, it does.” The Fratters keep it at the Queen, and it’s a beer I enjoy. Luka knows.
“...and a cheese platter. Does the pita come warm?” he asks the bartender.
“Yes, sir, it certainly does.”
“Okay, we’ll take the hummus with pita too. Throw in some extra olives for us, will you?” He winks at me while saying it, aware that I’m a sucker for black olives.
I feel braver now, in line to get on our plane. It’s wild what a few bites of food and a single beer can do to a girl. I’m warm inside. My brain tells me we’re taking a break from worrying, because this is happening and there’s not a thing we can do at this point. My options are to make the best of the situation or have a generally shitty time.
Luka’s hand is on my lower back as he leads me ahead of two early-twenties’ guys. One of them struggles to not appear inebriated and does a few sidesteps that could’ve ended badly for my toes.
“Good afternoon. Your tickets?” An older flight attendant smiles us onboard.
I hold mine up, and Luka extends his, divulging that we’re 18 A and B.
“Great. It’s going to be to your left, past the curtain.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Luka’s palm on my hip feels good. Our first flight is seven and a half hours long. That’s a while to be sitting next to someone you’re intermittently disgusted by and attracted to. Actually, it’s a long time to be seated at all. I bite my lip studying our space. Our row consists of three chairs. The window seat—mine—is already occupied by a lady who spills over into Luka’s seat.
“Ma’am, excuse me?” Luka begins in his smooth voice. The lady looks up with so much disdain in her eyes that I tug on his shirt. He continues though, fearless. “I believe we have A and B. This is row 18. Is that your row too?”
Nodding slowly, she pierces her stare in him. “Yes. Yes, this. Is my seat.” She removes her glasses and puts them in its case all the while narrowing her eyes at Luka. Wow. She might be willing to shed blood over her view. I’m not.
“It’s fine,” I murmur against Luka’s shoulder. “It’s probably easier to get to the restroom if one of us is on the aisle anyway.”
“Right.” He clears his throat of amusement. Hooks our bags off his shoulder and removes the blankets that are folded on our seats. “You first, milady.”
“Oh, honey, you’re so kind,” I answer with Ms. Ornery still staring daggers at us. “But gentlemen first. Go on. I insist.”
He almost-suppresses a snort. “Aren’t you thoughtful.”
Luka gets another death glare from Ms. O. for trying to accommodate his big body on the middle seat without touching her. It’s not happening. Not with the armrest already overflowing with her.
“Sorry,” he mutters every few seconds while accidentally pinching skin folds beneath his arm. I have to turn away; isn’t it interesting how you really want to burst out laughing when you can’t?
Thirty minutes into our exercise in patience, the plane finally rolls over the tarmac. Ms. O. cusses under her breath, giving Luka the side-eye when he removes his sweater and tries to find a comfortable position.
“She’s a fucking furnace,” he whispers quietly, and I can’t help myself any longer. I crack up, and Ms. O. emits a growled huff.
I let him suffer for the first hour in the air. It’s ridiculous the way Luka is sitting right now. This tall, broad-shouldered man has managed to twist his thick arms into his lap, hands steepled and tucked between his thighs. It makes him look prim. I lean closer, face toward him, and he meets me half way.
“We’re swapping seats,” I murmur.
“No, we’re not. The middle seat won’t be any easier for you than it is for me.”
“Come on, Luka. Saintliness isn’t your thing.”
I back into the aisle and launch into a stretch, my joints creaking with relief. When I open my eyes again, Luka is studying me with unreadable intensity. It makes a pang go off at my solar plexus, and his gaze softens as if he can see it.
Luka wrestles out of our row to the accompaniment of Ms. O.’s guttural protests, and I think I just deciphered her: the person in the middle seat is simply expected to not move.
“So, ladies first after all?” Luka shows his palm in a generous gesture for me to slide in.
“Apparently so.”
Luka was wrong. It’s not as bad for me. I give Ms. O. less to be displeased about with my much smaller frame. I also find myself leaning slightly into Luka, who responds by folding away the armrest between us and opening his arm. I warn him with a look, but he just shrugs and air-bats me closer. Guess it’d be okay; we’ve done worse than get some fully clothed shut-eye together on a crowded plane.
The hum of the motors and the air conditioner relax me. The ebb and flow of Luka’s chest does too. I sigh, feeling my muscles untense. When I finally close my eyes, I don’t open them until the flight attendant asks our neighbors if they want chicken or pasta.
At Brazilia Airport, we have to run to catch our next plane to Belém. It’s quite the exercise, it turns out. Not because it’s far and we have a lot to carry, but because we’ve remained twisted in the same positions for most of the night.
The morning is rosy outside our window when we huff into our seats on the next plane. I’d never have thought I’d be delighted to share a two-seater with Luka, but right now it’s amazing to know we’ll be safe from crazy strangers for the next two and a half hours.
“We’re waiting for our last passenger,” the pilot informs in several languages over the speakers.
“So no need to hurry after all, huh?” I say.
Luka chuckles. “So it seems.”
Ten minutes later, Ms. Ornery herself floats down the aisle with eyes like steel and looking for her seat.
“No way?” Luka flicks me an incredulous look.
“Oh my gosh. Do you think...?” I start, and he bobs his head.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
I cover my grin, because what kind of odds are we working with, here? I’m this close to laughing hysterically, and that hasn’t happened in a while.
My tour mate is correct. The only available seat in our section is the one right across the aisle from us. Ms. O. squeezes into it, forgetting a meaty leg and her oversized purse in the aisle between us. Then, she glares at us personal-vendetta-like.
“Good to see you again, Miss.” It slips out, lack of sleep and the crammed space finally getting to me, and I’m rewarded with a strangled snort from Luka. His shoulders are shaking, transplanting his mirth to me.
And that’s it. I’m crying laughing. I can’t even look at the poor lady. It’s not her fault that’s she’s so sour she could be pickled. Jesus Christ!
“Everything all right?” the flight attendant asks. I glance up, nodding fast because I’m still unable to speak.
“Oh the odds,” Luka finally says exactly what I was thinking.
It took us forty-seven hours on the dot to get here. We didn’t even have any delays. I’m feeling small and exhausted right now, sandpaper scratching behind my eyelids and airport grime coating my skin. I shudder even though I’m not cold.
“A little more humid than the Valley, eh?” Luka jokes, his lip tilting up on one side.
“Yep. Tropical climate, sweetheart. You signed up for this, so suck it up.” I give him a tired yet playful wink. Come to think of it: would be nice not to have to open that eye again.
Crazy how our backpacks looked only slightly oversized when we checked them in at LAX. At the moment, I can’t even fathom carrying mine. It’s chock-full of everything I could possibly need, including fifteen million laptop batteries, and if I hike it up on my back, it’s going to extend from my waist past my head.
Luka waves down a faded little taxi. The driver hops out, bustles to the back, and pops the trunk open. He scratches his head, gesturing and chattering in Portuguese. Luka points from one oversized backpack to the trunk, then from the other to the backseat. Our driver lights up, having the happiest eureka! moment and starts on the job.
Luka opens the front passenger door for me. It makes me smirk. Gentlemanly Luka. That’s not going to last long in the jungle though. At least, there won’t be any doors to open.
It takes us two hours to get to the small village of Tacua and its only hotel, which triples as post office and what amounts to an old-fashioned saloon. Three of the staff come running out to help us. A young girl, an old man, and someone in his mid-fifties wearing a tired suit. With indigenous features and his hair slicked back in greasy waves, he tells us how excited he is to offer us a room. We can also live there for the rest of the month, and he will “make espezial prize.”
We thank him. I’ve practiced a few words in Portuguese, but he just nods blankly when I butcher out, Muito obrigado.
I scan the lobby. “Do you see Akuntsa?”
The hotel owner is lining up a stack of papers for us to fill out. It appears he prefers that Luka do this manly work. I certainly don’t mind.
There’s a group of children at the bottom of a staircase leading up to the second floor, but I see no women. A few of the kids wave and giggle. I smile and wave back even though we’re only feet apart.
The hotel has internet, which we’re immensely grateful for. After connecting to the Wi-Fi, I find Akuntsa’s Twitter account and leave her a message while Luka finishes our paperwork. Then, the girl who met us outside—Rafaela, the wife of the owner—leads us upstairs.
“I love the walls,” I murmur to Luka.
“Because they’re like yours at the Queen.”
Bright. Happy. Pink. I chew on my lip. Maybe the timing of this trip isn’t so bad after all. Maybe it’s happening at the right time, just when the grief isn’t so all-consuming anymore and I can lift my chin from my heart and look around me.
Rafaela smoothes both hands over her already smooth hair before she opens the door to Luka’s room. Her chin tips up proudly as she beams at us. She says something we don't understand in Portuguese. Luka still nods and thanks her with a much better Muito Obrigado than I managed.
I peek in and gasp out loud; Luka has a canopy bed in his room. It’s a twin, though, and the thing is short. Someone will be sleeping with his legs drooping to the floor. I glance up and find his yellow eyes focused on the foot end of the bed.
“Hey, at least it has a canopy,” I say while smiling at Rafaela. Her grin widens, displaying a missing tooth in the front.
The old man has already deposited my backpack in my room by the time I get there. Mine has a regular twin bed, but a shock of flowers compensates for the lack of canopies. The Victorian wallpaper boasts a rigid pattern of pale roses. It’s a wild contrast to the tropical arrangements on my nightstand, on the small desk, and on the coffee table by the window. Orchids, lilies, heliconias and bromeliads at the center of lush green leaves. The scene around me is breathtaking and unfamiliar. And it is exactly what I need.
A timid knock on the door wakes me to English roses on the walls. I blink, trying to adjust my memory to the surroundings. Tropical arrangements on all wooden surfaces. Ah. Yes.
I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “Come in?”
The door barely creaks open, and a girl my age with smooth skin and happy eyes peaks her head in through the crack.
“Akuntsa?” I ask, recognizing her. I scoot off the bed and narrow the distance between us. Her smile breeds contented streaks at the corner of her eyes.
“Yes, this is nice to meet you!” Akuntsa’s English is easier to understand than the hotel owner’s. I reach for her hand, but she squeezes me like we’re family. It’s rare for me to feel like a giant, but with my arms around this beautiful little waif, I do.
“Did you bring your cousin?” I ask.
She pulls back enough to show the confused furrow at her brow.
“You know, Levari? Is he here?”
She lights up and says, “He is! Come.” She waves me forward.
I slide into my flip-flops and give Akuntsa a one-sec warning with a finger in the air. Luka and I are only two days into our ten-week trip, but his presence already feels necessary. “My friend is asleep. I want him to meet you too.”
Her mouth forms an excited “Ah.”
Groggy, Luka rumbles, “Yep,” at my knock, and I open the door to find him on his back, lounging on top of the sheets with his hands under his head. When he sees that I’m not alone, he sits up. As he stands, smile growing slowly, Akuntsa makes a small sound in the back of her throat.
He too slips into his flip-flops and saunters toward us like he does. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Akuntsa,” he murmurs.
“So beautiful a man,” Akuntsa says now, grinning.
It could have been awkward if Luka’s smile wavered and he hadn’t simply replied, “Thank you. Did you come to see us alone?”
She shakes her head happily and points at the staircase. “He wait with chairs.”
“Okay, let’s go to the chairs,” I say and watch her clap.
On the first floor, I look around and only see another young woman. Light on her feet, she stands from the group of worn-out armchairs and steps forward with her hand outstretched.
Luka and I exchange a glance.
“This is cousin Levari! He ready to work now.”
We take turns having our cheeks kissed, Luka bending even lower than he does with me. Once we’re upright again, standing in a small circle, I say, “We thought Levari was a man.”
“He? Man?” Akuntsa points at Levari, and they both giggle.
“I look like a man?” Levari asks. Dark with big eyes, she’s small and dainty.
Air puffs out of Luka, a nasal gust of humor. “No, no. It’s all clear to us now.”
“Oh good.” Levari winks and sets a hand playfully on her hip. I think she’s flirting with him, right here in front of her new employer, aka me. I can’t help laughing.
“They say ‘she,’ about us. ‘He’ is for men,” she explains to Akuntsa, who’s trying to absorb all our words. Levari switches to what must be Larengatu.
It’s pretty cute to watch Akuntsa’s face brighten in understanding. Then she giggles again, still finding it hilarious.
Luka lowers his voice and whispers exactly what I thought he would: “There goes your extra muscle for the jungle. See? You need me.”
“Whatever.” I elbow him, because goddammit, he’s right. Don’t you hate it when guys are right?
A day later, a small ferry carries us away from civilization. Levari and I stand by the banister. She points into the river’s murky depths each time she sees something we don’t. “Black caiman. Do you see the knobs of its back sticking out of the water?”
I shake my head, squinting. The sun is high over us, leaving its reflection on the surface.
“There. It’s sticking up again. The caiman bobs in and out of the water, looking like a tree trunk. There. See it now? Its spine is about three meters long. Look past the white hat and into the river.”
Said white hat covers the head of a retiree from Texas. He’s enjoying the view too, from ten feet down the long side of the ferry. Luka has already shared fictitious war stories with him, knowing full well his true stories would have given the poor man a heart attack.
And there’s the caiman, slithering against the surface, long and scary and mar
velous. I see its eyes too, and squeal with excitement.
“You like that?” Luka’s voice has a smile in it.
“Yes!”
The banks of the river are so green the air seems to vibrate from them, and the tropical climate leaves the temperature in the mid-eighties year-round. The constant need for insect repellant will take some getting used to, but on an inhale, I realize there’s something missing that I don’t miss; my heart isn’t spasming with pain.
Wow. It’s surreal. I’m really here, in this place I’ve only ever read about. With heavy backpacks hoisted high, we trot into the wild, and I’m impressed at how easily Levari discerns a path through the shrubbery. She was so excited about the last stop of the ferry, because, “It used to take ages to get home.” Now, it’s “only” a three-hour walk.
Twice, she stops, raising a hand in warning behind her. We remain frozen until a thick bushmaster snake has slithered across in front of us. The second time, it’s a howler monkey, only this one is the leader of his tribe and louder than all of them. We don’t want to mess with him, she says. I’m not about to object.
But then we’re there, in a small opening in the green, green jungle, where leaves and branches wave above dirt-toned huts. Curious Lara’ men peer at us, and my heart skips a beat over being here, right here with them.
With long hair tied back in a ponytail, dressed like me, and in jungle-worthy shoes, Levari stands out from her own. The Lara’ people view clothing as optional, and more an adornment than a necessity.
A man steps forward. He speaks rapidly, chopping his sounds into short, sing-song syllables that suit the forest. Levari nods. She twists toward us and extends an open hand. She pronounces our names slowly for the man who bobs his head.
“This is Paparanya, the chief of Lara’ Nation. We call him Pap.” She smiles and motions us forward. I nod, swallowing my awe to give room for a smile. He’s been the leader of the Lara’ for a long time, a generous host for anthropological teams before me.
