Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates

else) as by their haircuts.

Among the forest tribes of South America, countless languages were spoken, countless differing customs practiced. The one thing virtually all of them had in common was the unisex pageboy hairdo. It was as if in dim antiquity, back before time had really got its motor going, some primordial deity—the Great God Buster Brown, perhaps—had swept through the immense Amazonian woodlands with a clay bowl and a dull knife and administered to every early mortal the same bad coif. Hardly a unifying element—tribes that traditionally attacked each other on sight sported identical bangs—it nevertheless had persisted and prevailed. What Gaia the Hairdresser hath styled, let no man shear asunder.

Mixed blood South Americans tended to style their locks according to European fashion, allying in that manner with their countrymen of pure Spanish or Portuguese ancestry. In Lima, though, Switters had observed that certain of the youngish blancos—Hector Sumac and that girl, Gloria, at the club, for example—had begun to wear their hair in refined, upscale versions of the Indian crop. Switters wondered if there was a standardized Amazonian name for the style, if it had a different name in each tribal language or if it was something so taken for granted that it had no name at all other than each tribe’s word for hair. Momentarily, he was tempted to ask Inti what he called his haircut, but on the off chance that the boatman might answer “Arthur,” as George Harrison had responded to the same question in A Hard Day’s Night, he held his tongue. There was some trouble even a troubleshooter didn’t go looking for.

Little or no trouble, it turned out, was brewing at the beer stall. The group of Indians wasn’t angry or rowdy, it was simply intrigued for some reason by Sailor Boy, excited just enough so that its members had transcended their usual reserve and were milling about his cage, pointing scarred brown fingers and stopping passersby to question them, or so it seemed, about the parrot inside. That was a bit bewildering because Sailor, while a handsome bird, even in advanced maturity, was by no means a rare or exceptional specimen. And just bringing a pet parrot to this part of the world was probably akin to bringing a Miller Lite to Bavaria.

“They shopping for antiques or something? The warranty on this cracker-burner expired years ago.” Switters asked Inti, as best he could, what the attraction was, but Inti didn’t know nor could he find out in any appreciable detail, for although Inti and the Boquichicos bunch both spoke varieties of Campa, the dialects lacked sufficient vocabulary in common to permit any but the most rudimentary exchange. And since Inti and Switters didn’t have a lot of words in common, either, the most Switters could determine was that the Indians weren’t actually interested in Sailor Boy, they were interested in his cage.

“Perfect,” said Switters. “Can you inform your country cousins that this unique, custom-built aviary is about to be vacated in the next couple of hours and I’m prepared to make them a real sweet deal. What do they have to trade? A diamond bracelet, maybe?” Aware that rough diamonds were occasionally found in the gravel riverbeds thereabouts, he was thinking of Maestra.

The three-way language barrier proved insurmountable, however, and though the Indians’ curiosity about Sailor’s portable prison not only persisted but intensified now that its owner had appeared, Switters’s interest flagged, and he began looking about for signs of the Pucallpa boys and the colpa guide. “They must be getting that guide from a mail-order catalogue,” he complained, fanning himself with his hat.

When they did finally appear, the lads were accompanied not by a local tracker but by R. Potney Smithe.

“Hallo again,” called the anthropologist brightly. Vapors of gin preceded him. “The news about town is that you’re in requirement of a chap to lead you to the parrot wallow.”

“Is that a problem?”

Smithe chuckled. “Hardly, old man. The trailhead’s just behind the church over there. A straight shot, more or less, all the way. Follows the river. Unless you’re achingly keen on contributing to the indigenous economy, you really shouldn’t be wanting a guide. I’d be happy to tag along, though, if you feel the need for companionship.”

“Ain’t no shortage of that,” said Switters, gesturing to indicate the captain and crew of the Virgin as well as the contingent of local Indians.

“I see.” When Smithe acknowledged the Indians around the birdcage, they closed in and buttonholed him, speaking respectfully, although all at once. To Switters’s surprise, the Englishman spoke back to them in their own language, and for a few minutes they carried on a conversation, often looking deliberately, meaningfully, from the parrot cage to the jungle and back again.

Smithe turned to Switters. “Blokes have a fascination with this bloody cage.”

“Obviously. Why?”

Smithe pulled thoughtfully at first one of his fleshy cheeks and then the other. His jowls glistened in the heat and humidity like burst melons. “Symbolism,” he said. “Homoimagistic identification or some such rot. Never mind that. It’s simple, really. This is only the second, um, pyramid shape the Nacanaca have ever seen.”

“The first one must have been a doozy.”

“Quite.” Nodding his big head, Smithe smiled mysteriously. “Assuming that doozy can be construed to mean ‘impressive’ or ‘outstanding,’ it was—and is—rather a doozy.”

Briefly Switters entertained a vision of some lost pyramid, a ruin of ancient architecture hidden in the jungle out there. It would have had to have been Incan, though, and he knew that Incan pyramids bore but a passing resemblance to the Egyptian structures after which Sailor’s cage was modeled. He scowled at the anthropologist, as if demanding that he continue, and Smithe appeared about to oblige when a sudden squawked command caused everyone within earshot to act for a split second as if they were shaking invisible martinis.

“Peeple of zee wurl, relax!” is what they heard. Just like that. Loud. Out of nowhere.

“Bloody hell!” Smithe swore.

“Aheee!” exclaimed Inti.

“Send in the clowns,” muttered Switters, for reasons that were not entirely clear.

Although intimately accustomed to raucous bird cries, the Nacanaca had jumped more comically than any of them. When they recovered, they asked Smithe what the “magic” parrot had said, for they were convinced it had made a pronouncement, quite likely with supernatural implications. Smithe conferred with Switters, who replied, “You heard it right, Potney. The ol’ green featherduster has bade us chill out, calm down, and lighten up; which, if you can forgive the parade of conflicting prepositions, is as sage a piece of advice as we’re likely to get in this life —especially from an erstwhile housepet.”

When Smithe succeeded in conveying the essence of Sailor’s favorite saying, the Nacanaca’s fascination seemed to escalate. They jabbered to Smithe and among themselves, going on at such length that Switters lost patience and broke in to announce that he was leaving at once for the clay lick. He motioned for one of the crew to carry the cage, since Inti was toting the ocelot and he, himself, was going to be occupied with taping atmospheric footage on the camcorder. Maestra might as well get a good show out of this.

Before the little safari could successfully embark, however, Potney Smithe halted it. “I say, Switters. I say. . . .” But he didn’t say. He stammered indistinctly, searching for the correct wordage. He had the coloration of a conch shell and the bulk of a bear, so that a fanciful person could imagine him the offspring of a mermaid and a panda. “I say. I have something, I may have something, of consequence to impart.”

“Then impart or depart,” said Switters. “It’s hotter than the soles of Dante’s loafers out here.” Immediately he regretted the remark, for he heard himself starting to sound like one of the petty mopers who wasted untold priceless moments of their brief stay on this planet complaining about its weather. Unless it was about to cause you bodily harm, rot your rhubarb on the stalk, or carry off your children, weather ought either to be celebrated or ignored, he felt, one or the other; although at times such as this, when it was steaming one’s brain like a Chinese dumpling, it failed to inspire much in the way of celebration, while not thinking about it was even more difficult than not thinking about . . . Suzy.

Switters softened his tone. “I read somewhere that each second, four-point-three pounds of sunlight hit the earth. That figure strikes me as kind of low. What about you, Potney?” He mopped his brow. “I mean, I realize that sunlight is, well, light, but don’t you suppose they meant four-point-three tons?”

Smithe smiled indulgently and wagged his cigarette. “You aren’t exactly dressed for trekking in the torrid zone, old boy; now are you?”

“Why, that depends on—”

“Although I must say, the boots are sensible.” He glanced at the chevresque sky. “It’s going to be raining soon.”