by John Grisham
some sense into her.”
“Not even close, Josh. She is the happiest person I’ve ever met, perfectly content to spend the rest of her life working among her people. It’s where God wants her to be.”
“She signed the papers though?”
“Nope.”
There was a long pause as Josh absorbed it. “You must be kidding,” he finally said, barely audible in Brazil.
“Nope. Sorry, boss. I tried my best to convince her to at least sign the papers, but she wouldn’t budge. She’ll never sign them.”
“Did she read the will?”
“Yes.”
“And you told her it was eleven billion dollars?”
“Yep. She lives alone in a hut with a thatched roof, no plumbing, no electricity, simple food and clothes, no phones or faxes, and no concern about the things she’s missing. She’s in the Stone Age, Josh, right where she wants to be, and money would change that.”
“It’s incomprehensible.”
“I thought so too, and I was there.”
“Is she bright?”
“She’s a doctor, Josh, an M.D. And she has a degree from a seminary. She speaks five languages.”
“A doctor?”
“Yeah, but we didn’t talk about medical practice litigation.”
“You said she was lovely.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, on the phone two days ago. I think you were stoned.”
“I was, and she is.”
“So you liked her?”
“We became friends.” It would serve no purpose to tell Josh that she was in Corumbá. Nate hoped to find her quickly and, while in civilization, try to discuss Troy’s estate.
“It was quite an adventure,” Nate said. “To say the least.”
“I’ve lost sleep worrying about you.”
“Relax. I’m still in one piece.”
“I wired five thousand dollars. Valdir has it.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“Call me tomorrow.”
Valdir invited him to dinner, but he declined. He collected the money and left on foot, loose again on the streets of Corumbá. His first stop was a clothing store where he bought underwear, safari shorts, plain white tee shirts, and hiking boots. By the time he hauled his new wardrobe four blocks to the Palace Hotel, Nate was exhausted. He slept for two hours.
________
JEVY FOUND no trace of Rachel. He watched the crowds on the busy streets. He talked to the river people he knew so well, and heard nothing about her arrival. He walked through the lobbies of the downtown hotels and flirted with the receptionists. No one had seen an American woman of forty-two traveling alone.
As the afternoon wore on, Jevy doubted his friend’s story. Dengue makes you see things, makes you hear voices, makes you believe in ghosts, especially in the night. But he kept searching.
Nate roamed too, after his nap and another meal. He walked slowly, pacing himself, trying to keep in the shade and always with a bottle of water in hand. He rested on the bluff above the river, the majesty of the Pantanal spread before him for hundreds of miles.
Fatigue hit him hard, and he limped back to the hotel for another rest. He slept again, and when he awoke Jevy was tapping on the door. They had promised to meet for dinner at seven. It was after eight, and when Jevy entered the room he immediately began looking for empty bottles. There were none.
They ate roasted chicken at a sidewalk café. The night was alive with music and foot traffic. Couples with small children bought ice cream and drifted back home. Teenagers moved in packs with no apparent destination. The bars spilled outdoors, to the edges of the streets. Young men and women moved from one bar to the next. The streets were warm and safe; no one seemed concerned about getting shot or mugged.
At a nearby table, a man drank a cold Brahma beer from a brown bottle, and Nate watched every sip.
After dessert, they said good-bye and promised to meet early for another day of searching. Jevy went one direction, Nate another. He was rested, and tired of beds.
Two blocks away from the river, and the streets were quieter. The shops were closed; the homes were dark; traffic was lighter. Ahead, he saw the lights of a small chapel. That, he said almost aloud, is where she’ll be.
The front door was wide open, so from the sidewalk Nate could see rows of wooden pews, the empty pulpit, the mural of Christ on the cross, and the backs of a handful of worshipers leaning forward in prayer and meditation. The organ music was low and soft, and it pulled him in. He stopped in the door and counted five people scattered among the pews, no two sitting together, no one with even the slightest resemblance to Rachel. Under the mural, the organ bench was empty. The music came from a speaker.
He could wait. He had the time; she might appear. He shuffled along the back row and sat alone. He studied the crucifixion, the nails through His hands, the sword in His side, the agony in His face. Did they really kill Him in such a dreadful manner? Along the way, at some point in his miserable secular life, Nate had read or heard the basic stories of Christ: the virgin birth, thus Christmas; the walking on the water; maybe another miracle or two; was he swallowed by the whale or was that someone else? And then the betrayal by Judas; the trial before Pilate; the crucifixion, thus Easter, and, finally, the ascension into heaven.
Yes, Nate knew the basics. Perhaps his mother had told him. Neither of his wives had been churchgoers, though number two was Catholic and they did midnight mass at Christmas every other year.
Three more stragglers came from the street. A young man with a guitar appeared from a side door and went to the pulpit. It was exactly nine-thirty. He strummed a few chords and began singing, his face glowing with words of faith and praise. A tiny little woman one pew up clapped her hands and sang along.
Maybe the music would draw Rachel. She had to crave real worship in a church with wooden floors and stained glass, with fully clothed people reading Bibles in a modern language. Surely she visited the churches when she was in Corumbá.
When the song was finished, the young man read some scripture and began teaching. His Portuguese was the slowest Nate had encountered so far in his little adventure. Nate was mesmerized by the soft, slurring sounds, and the unhurried cadence. Though he understood not a word, he tried to repeat the sentences. Then his thoughts drifted.
His body had purged the fevers and chemicals. He was well fed, alert, rested. He was his old self again, and that suddenly depressed him. The present was back, hand in hand with the future. The burdens he’d left with Rachel had found him again, found him then and there in the chapel. He needed her to sit with him, to hold his hand and help him pray.
He hated his weaknesses. He named them one by one, and was saddened by the list. The demons were waiting at home—the good friends and the bad friends, the haunts and habits, the pressures he couldn’t stand anymore. Life could not be lived with the likes of Sergio at a thousand bucks a day. And life could not be lived free on the streets.
The young man was praying, his eyes clenched tightly, his arms waving gently upward. Nate closed his eyes too, and called God’s name. God was waiting.
With both hands, he clenched the back of the pew in front of him. He repeated the list, mumbling softly every weakness and flaw and affliction and evil that plagued him. He confessed them all. In one long glorious acknowledgment of failure, he laid himself bare before God. He held nothing back. He unloaded enough burdens to crush any three men, and when he finally finished Nate had tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to God. “Please help me.”
As quickly as the fever had left his body, he felt the baggage leave his soul. With one gentle brush of the hand, his slate had been wiped clean. He breathed a massive sigh of relief, but his pulse was racing.
He heard the guitar again. He opened his eyes and wiped his cheeks. Instead of seeing the young man in the pulpit, Nate saw the face of Christ, in agony and pain, dying on the cross. Dying for him.
A voice was calling Nate,
a voice from within, a voice leading him down the aisle. But the invitation was confusing. He felt many conflicting emotions. His eyes were suddenly dry.
Why am I crying in a small hot chapel, listening to music I don’t understand, in a town I’ll never see again? The questions poured forth, the answers elusive.
It was one thing for God to forgive his astounding array of iniquities, and Nate certainly felt as though his burdens were lighter. But it was a far more difficult step to expect himself to become a follower.
As he listened to the music, he became bewildered. God couldn’t be calling him. He was Nate O’Riley—boozer, addict, lover of women, absent father, miserable husband, greedy lawyer, swindler of tax money. The sad list went on and on.
He was dizzy. The music stopped and the young man prepared for another song. Nate hurriedly left the chapel. As he turned a corner, he glanced back, hoping to see Rachel, but also to make sure God hadn’t sent someone to follow him.
He needed someone to talk to. He knew she was in Corumbá, and he vowed to find her.
THIRTY-EIGHT
_____________
THE DESPACHANTE is an integral part of Brazilian life. No business, bank, law firm, medical group, or person with money can operate without the services of a despachante. He is a facilitator extraordinaire. In a country where the bureaucracy is sprawling and antiquated, the despachante is the guy who knows the city clerks, the courthouse crowd, the bureaucrats, the customs agents. He knows the system and how to grease it. No official paper or document is obtained in Brazil without waiting in long lines, and the despachante is the guy who’ll stand there for you. For a small fee, he’ll wait eight hours to renew your auto inspection, then affix it to your windshield while you’re busy at the office. He’ll do your voting, banking, packaging, mailing—the list has no end.
No bureaucratic obstacle is too intimidating.
Firms of despachantes display their names in windows just like lawyers and doctors. They’re in the yellow pages. The job requires no formal training. All one needs is a quick tongue, patience, and a lot of brass.
Valdir’s despachante in Corumbá knew another one in São Paulo, a powerful one with high contacts, and for a fee of two thousand dollars a new passport would be delivered.
________
JEVY SPENT the next few mornings at the river, helping a friend repair a chalana. He watched everything and heard the gossip. Not a word about the woman. By noon on Friday, he was convinced she had not arrived in Corumbá, at least not in the past two weeks. Jevy knew all the fishermen, captains, and deckhands. And they loved to talk. If an American woman who lived with the Indians suddenly arrived in town, they would know it.
Nate searched until the end of the week. He walked the streets, watched the crowds, checked out hotel lobbies and sidewalk cafés, looked at the faces, and saw no one even remotely resembling Rachel.
At one on his last day, he stopped at Valdir’s office and collected his passport. They said good-bye like old friends, and promised to see each other soon. Both knew it would never happen. At two, Jevy drove him to the airport. They sat in the departure lounge for half an hour, watching as the only plane was unloaded, then prepped for reboarding. Jevy wanted to spend time in the United States, and needed Nate’s help. “I’ll need a job,” he said. Nate listened with sympathy, not certain if he himself was still employed.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
They talked about Colorado and the West and places Nate had never been. Jevy was in love with the mountains, and after two weeks in the Pantanal Nate understood this. When it was time to go, they embraced warmly and said farewell. Nate walked across the hot pavement to the plane, carrying his entire wardrobe in a small gym bag.
The turbo-prop with twenty seats landed twice before it reached Campo Grande. There, the passengers boarded a jet for São Paulo. The lady in the seat next to him ordered a beer from the drink cart. Nate studied the can less than ten inches away. Not anymore, he told himself. He closed his eyes and asked God to give him strength. He ordered coffee.
The flight to Dulles left at midnight. It would arrive in D.C. at nine the next morning. His search for Rachel had taken him out of the country for almost three weeks.
He wasn’t sure where his car was. He had no place to live, and no means to get one. But he couldn’t worry. Josh would take care of the details.
________
THE PLANE dropped through the clouds at nine thousand feet. Nate was awake, sipping coffee, dreading the streets of home. The streets were cold and white. The earth was blanketed by a heavy snow. It was lovely for a few minutes as they approached Dulles, then Nate remembered how much he hated the winter. He wore a thin pair of trousers, no socks, cheap sneakers, and a fake Polo shirt he’d paid six dollars for in the São Paulo airport. He had no coat.
He would sleep somewhere that night, probably in a hotel, unsupervised in D.C. for the first time since August 4, the night he’d staggered into a suburban motel room. It had happened at the bottom of a long, pathetic crash. He’d worked hard to forget it.
But that was the old Nate, and now there was a new one. He was forty-eight years old, thirteen months away from fifty, and ready for a different life. God had fortified him, and strengthened his resolve. He had thirty years left. They wouldn’t be spent clutching empty bottles. Nor would they be spent on the run.
Snowplows raced about as they taxied to the terminal. The runways were wet and flurries were still falling. When Nate stepped off the plane into the tunnel, winter hit him and he thought of the humid streets of Corumbá. Josh was waiting at the baggage claim, and of course he had an extra overcoat.
“You look awful,” were his first words.
“Thanks.” Nate grabbed the coat and put it on.
“You’re skinny as a rail.”
“You wanna lose fifteen pounds, find the right mosquito.”
They moved with a mob toward the exits, bodies jostling and bumping, a shove here, a push there, the throng squeezing tighter to fit through doors. Welcome home, he said to himself.
“You’re traveling light,” Josh said, pointing at his gym bag.
“My worldly possessions.”
With no socks or gloves, Nate was freezing on the curb by the time Josh found him with the car. The snowstorm had hit during the night, and had attained the status of a blizzard. Against the buildings the drifts had reached two feet.
“It was ninety-three yesterday in Corumbá,” Nate said as they left the airport.
“Don’t tell me you miss it.”
“I do. Suddenly, I do.”
“Look, Gayle is in London. I thought you could stay at our place for a couple of days.”
Josh’s house could sleep fifteen. “Sure, thanks. Where’s my car?”
“In my garage.”
Of course it was. It was a leased Jaguar, and it no doubt had been properly serviced, washed, and waxed, and the monthly payments were current. “Thanks, Josh.”
“I put your furnishings in a mini-storage. Your clothes and personal effects are packed in the car.”
“Thanks.” Nate was not at all surprised.
“How do you feel?”
“I’m fine.”
“Look, Nate, I’ve read about dengue fever. It takes a month to fully recover. Level with me.”
A month. It was the opening jab in the fight over Nate’s future with the firm. Take another month, old boy. Maybe you’re too ill to work. Nate could write the script.
But there would be no fight.
“I’m a little weak, that’s all. I’m sleeping a lot, drinking a lot of liquids.”
“What kind of liquids?”
“Get right to the point, don’t you?”
“I always do.”
“I’m clean, Josh. Relax. No stumbles.”
Josh had heard that many times. The exchange had been a bit sharper than both men wanted, so they rode in silence for a while. The traffic was slow.
The Potomac was half-frozen w
ith large chunks of ice floating slowly toward Georgetown. Stalled in traffic on the Chain Bridge, Nate announced, matter-of-factly, “I’m not going back to the office, Josh. Those days are over.”
There was no visible reaction from Josh. He could’ve been disappointed because an old friend and fine litigator was calling it quits. He could’ve been delighted because a major headache was quietly leaving the firm. He could’ve been indifferent because Nate’s exit was probably inevitable. The tax evasion mess would ultimately cost him his license anyway.
So he simply asked, “Why?”
“Lots of reasons, Josh. Let’s just say I’m tired.”
“Most litigators burn out after twenty years.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Enough of the retirement talk. Nate’s mind was made up, and Josh didn’t want to change it. The Super Bowl was two weeks away, and the Redskins were not in it. They seized the topic of football, as men usually do when they have to keep the conversation going in the midst of weightier matters.
Even under a heavy layer of snow, the streets looked mean to Nate.
________
THE STAFFORDS owned a large house in Wesley Heights, in northwest D.C. They also had a cottage on the Chesapeake and a cabin in Maine. The four kids were grown and scattered. Mrs. Stafford preferred to travel while her husband preferred to work.
Nate retrieved some warm clothes from the trunk of his car, then enjoyed a hot shower in the guest quarters. The water pressure was weaker in Brazil. The shower in his hotel room was never hot, and never cold. The bars of soap were smaller. He compared the things around him. He was amused at the thought of the shower on the Santa Loura, a cord above the toilet that, when pulled, delivered lukewarm river water from a shower head. He was tougher than he thought; the adventure had taught him that much.
He shaved and then worked on his teeth, going about his habits with great deliberation. In many ways, it was nice to be home.
Josh’s office in his basement was larger than the one downtown, and just as cluttered. They met there for coffee. It was time to debrief. Nate began with the ill-fated effort to find Rachel by air, the crash landing, the dead cow, the three little boys, the bleakness of Christmas in the Pantanal. With great detail, he recounted the story of his ride on the horse, and the encounter in the swamp with the curious alligator. Then the rescue by helicopter. He said nothing about the binge on Christmas night; it would serve no purpose and he was terribly ashamed of it. He described Jevy, Welly, the Santa Loura, and the trip north. When he and Jevy were lost in the johnboat, he remembered being frightened but too busy to be consumed with fear. Now, in the safety of civilization, their wanderings seemed terrifying.
Josh was astounded by the adventure. He wanted to apologize for sending Nate into such a treacherous place, but the excursion had obviously been exciting. The alligators grew as the narrative continued. The lone anaconda, sunning by the river, was joined by another that swam near their boat.
Nate described the Indians, their nakedness and bland food and languid lives, the chief and his refusal to let them leave.
And Rachel. At that point in the debriefing, Josh took his legal pad and began writing notes. Nate portrayed her in great detail, from her soft slow voice to her sandals and hiking boots. Her hut and medicine bag, Lako and his limp, and the way the Indians looked at her when she walked by. He told the story of the child who died from the snakebite. He relayed what little of her history she’d given him.
With the precision of a courtroom veteran, Nate covered everything about Rachel that he’d gathered on his visit. He used her exact words when talking about the money and the paperwork. He remembered her comment about how primitive Troy’s handwritten will looked.
Nate recounted what little he remembered of their retreat from the Pantanal. And he downplayed the horror of dengue fever. He had survived, and that in itself surprised him.
A maid brought soup and hot tea for lunch. “Here’s where we are,” Josh said after a few spoonfuls. “If she rejects the gift under Troy’s will, then the money remains in his estate. If, however, the will is found to be invalid for any reason, then there is no will.”
“How can the will be invalid? They had psychiatrists talking to him minutes
