'Do you believe Gaudet's in this jungle?'
'I guess my gut is starting to tell me that he is. If he is, he won't touch you. I promise.'
She moved closer.
The sleeping arrangement made him uncomfortable. And it got worse. The hammock was too narrow and he spent the night rearranging her so as to maintain decorum. None of it seemed to bother her; she just kept on sleeping and moving.
Chapter 6
When a man loses a woman, the year loses the spring.
Michael Bowden and Marita zigzagged through the deep jungle, looking for the trail of the six men. Marita thought their quarry might be wary enough to stay off the trail. This meant a laborious and slow tracking process that had yet to turn up any sign of the group.
That night they built a tiny fire and ate roasted piranha. They were easy to catch and reasonable to eat, although they had a bit of an oily taste. Another appetite suppressor was the macabre appearance of the piranha's teeth. Although he cut off the heads before roasting them, Michael could never quite get the picture of those little razors out of his head.
Sitting by the fire, Michael began looking at Marita with a new sort of gaze. No longer tentative, he deliberately sought eye contact. To his delight she looked back and they sat unabashedly studying each other. It was so novel for them that he burst out laughing.
She lowered her eyes, and Michael could see that he had embarrassed her.
'Why are you laughing?'
'Because I am happy to be with you and I guess I questioned whether I would be happy to be with anyone again.'
'You are not laughing because you think I am what… weird?'
'I am laughing for the reasons that men the world over laugh with women they like.'
'You are handsome,' she said after a time. 'And you are a man with many ideas. A smart man.'
'And you are beautiful,' he said. He found himself won dering if perhaps his amazement was reflected in his gaze. 'I am continually surprised at your English. And at my uncer tainty.'
'You are uncertain?'
'Some loquacious poet of the eighteenth century said that uncertainty is the steed on which romance rides into the heart.'
'I am proud of my English, but I do not understand
The steed is?'
'A horse… In those days English people rode horses.'
'And romance comes to us on this horse of uncertainty… I think I understand. Then I like this uncertainty.'
'I know that the Jesuits are amazing educators, but I am stunned that out here in the jungle I have a girl who is so… I don't know… Western.'
'We had toastmasters night at the priests' school. I have read Moby Dick, The Great Gatsby, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, Gone With the Wind — the priests didn't know about that-and all of Jane Austen. She is my favorite. And I have read many others.'
'I can tell. You're practically a hometown girl.'
'What is a 'hometown girl'?'
'I don't know anymore. It used to be a girl like you, I think. I came from a college town in America. It was far from the big city. I was twelve when I left and things are a bit hazy. I remember the big things, but it seems like the jungle has swallowed many of the details.'
'I want to go to New York City. Would you take me?'
'Just like that.' Michael chuckled. 'I have not been to New York since I was a little boy and I don't remember it.'
'Your books are published there, no?'
'Yes, but my father had an agent and an editor and I have the same people. I talk on the phone and write them letters. That is all.'
'Still, you could go.'
'I could.'
She paused awhile and they listened to the night sounds. The howler monkeys had bedded down, finished warning off other bands with their calling. But the other night creatures were anything but silent.
'The priests said you cannot be with a man until you are married.'
'Yes. That's what they say.' He studied her.
'That is not the custom here.'
It was under 70 degrees Fahrenheit and there was a little nip in the air. They had already set up their hammocks. The firelight played off her face and she smiled at him, then looked away. Michael stood up, went to his pack, pulled out mosquito netting, removed a blanket, and draped it over her shoulders. She sat on a chunk of a downed tree and there was space next to her. She took his hand and pulled him down beside her and they draped themselves with the netting, only inches between them. He wanted to touch her face. His eye followed the contours of her body. It was so lithe… maybe ninety pounds. Her arms were toned and beautiful and her waist small enough that it seemed he could encircle it with his hands. Her face was smooth and only slightly round. She had full lips and gorgeously shaped eyes. Her hair was thick and curly. It had a natural sheen, black as a raven's feather. He touched it. Between his fingers it felt soft. No doubt the Catholics had taught her to bathe daily.
'Do you have shampoo?' he asked.
'Of course.'
'The priests?'
'Everything is from the priests. Books, magazines, wine, newspapers, cheese. Even my boy was from the priests. Nobody knows and he is a nice man. So don't tell.'
'The boy is the one who was killed?'
'Yes.' She sighed. 'I cannot talk about it. I am sorry.'
'It's understandable. None of the other Matses read much about the outside world?'
'It is true. Except for the Protestant missionaries at Buenas Lomas Antigua. They bring in things on the planes, but it is very limited compared to what we have in Tabatinga. I miss the Western things, the magazines.'
'How old are you?' Michael was intrigued.
'I am twenty. I have had one child, but I plan to have more. I would have more, but the priests taught me birth control. Isn't that funny?'
Only her age surprised him.
'It matters?' she asked.
'You have a man?'
She turned toward him and engaged his eyes.
'I did. I had more than one. I do not now. I am too edu cated.'
'And unruly.' Michael laughed.
'My family agrees and my mother would not give me to a man unless she warns him. But I do not seek a native man.'
Michael nodded again.
'I am going to manage the workers for the house and gar den for the priests in Tabatinga,' she explained.
