Lost in the Jungle (24 page)

I was loath to get my clothing wet again, especially my socks. I stripped, shoved my clothing into the rubber bag, and closed it inside the pack. I took out the fishing line and tied it to the shoulder straps. I set the pack in the river; it floated satisfactorily. I pulled it back in and set in on the edge of the shore. Then I jumped barefoot into the water, holding the line. The water was shallow. I could walk, wading farther out, slowly but surely.

The current was stronger than it had looked, and the sharp stones on the river bottom cut into the soles of my feet. Only the walking stick came to my aid. I leaned heavily upon it, taking one cautious step after another. As I went, I gradually let out the fishing line, until I made it to the first island, about seventy-five feet from the shore. Now I would pull the pack over and go on to the next island. That was my plan. But it didn’t work out that way.

I gave the fishing line a yank, and the pack slipped into the river. The undertow sucked it beneath the surface, and though I tugged with all my might, I couldn’t pull it to me. I decided to change plans and tied the end of the line to a small tree on the shore of the island. I would walk back across to the riverbank and carry the pack on my back, but first I wanted to check out the second island.

I walked quickly to the far side of the first island. As I walked, mosquitoes swarmed all over me. I was black with them. I swatted myriads of them with my hands, but they didn’t leave me alone. I rushed to the water but discovered it to be deep. I couldn’t touch bottom and almost lost my faithful walking stick to the current. I threw it up on the bank and tried swimming to the second island, but the current was so strong that I headed back to the first while I was still able.

I would never make it across the river, at least not with the weight of the pack on my back. Perhaps I should leave the pack behind? No, I still needed it. I returned to the bank of the Tuichi, picking up the pack on my way. I dried myself on a mosquito net as best I could and put my clothes back on. I was covered with mosquito bites and clawed at them in a frenzy. My only consolation that day was a new nest of wild chicken eggs. I gulped down four warm, delicious eggs and saved two for morning.

It was growing dark, and I had not yet set up camp. I didn’t find a tree that offered any shelter. Either the roots didn’t protrude far enough out of the earth, or the tree wasn’t standing on level ground. The sun had almost set before I found a place to settle.

The rain started coming down again in the middle of the night, not a drizzle but a downpour, which seeped through my thatch of fronds. I shivered and curled up into a ball. I pulled the rubber bag high up over my knees and tucked the red poncho in all around me. I had three fantasies that by this time I had worked into long scenarios. Each was set in a different place. I put the hood over my face and went to visit Las Vegas, São Paulo, and my home in Israel, drifting from one to another all night long.

In the morning I ate the salty rice-and-bean paste together with two eggs. A real feast.

If anyone is looking down on me, he is absolutely heartless.

It was pouring rain, and all my efforts to keep my clothes dry were wasted. I was supposed to find San José today. Maybe I would spend this night in the company of other men. That thought drove me out of my mind. I didn’t want to pin all my hopes on it. Well, if not today, then surely tomorrow, I thought, trying to convince myself.

Walking was difficult. I was soaking wet, heavy, and clumsy. I could feel the water in my shoes and knew only too well what it was likely to do to my feet. The ground was muddy and slippery, and the wind chilled me to the bone. The longer I spent here, the more likely I was to sink into despondency. Even marching songs were of no avail, so I decided to flee to São Paulo, Brazil, a city I had heard much about.

My uncle lives here, and I am visiting him. I like it here. Why not stay for a while? I make elaborate plans for putting down roots in the city. I meet a few people my own age, all of them students. I spend a lot of time with them and discreetly inquire which is the wealthiest family in town. Do they have a young daughter? They do, of course, and of course she is both intelligent and beautiful. But how can I meet her? How can I ask her out? I have to find a way. Maybe I should take my uncle’s car and crash into hers. That sometimes works in the movies. Maybe I should just hang around waiting for her and win her over with sincerity? Maybe she won’t be able to resist my charms? Finally I come up with a plan. I will get to the daughter through the mother. My first thought is to have her run me over, just a little, like in
Being There
, but that would be risky. Plan B is to save her from muggers. And that’s what I do.

Hey, you, kid! Come over here a minute.

I’m no kid. You’d better watch it, or else...

He was a street urchin who always hung around the neighbourhood.

Take it easy, pal. I didn’t mean to insult you. I just wanted to know if you’d like to make a few bucks.

You bet, but it depends how.

This is going to sound weird, but...
and I tell him my plan.

The kid drives a hard bargain, and I end up agreeing to pay him more than I had intended, but for this it’s worth it. I just worry that he might double-cross me.

You’d better not keep on running. Don’t try to con me.

You don’t know us, señor. We never go back on our word.

The mother goes out to a large shopping centre, wearing a fancy dress and carrying a fancy bag. She is elegant, aristocratic. She walks down the street like she owns it, oblivious to the admiring glances of everyone she passes. Then something happens: something that forces her down from Olympus. A short, dark-skinned boy brushes up against her, pushes her roughly, grabs her purse out of her hands, and runs off.

Thief! Thief! Stop him!

Now she turns to the crowd for help, but the dark-skinned boy knows his business; he has vanished into the crowd, quick as an eel.

This is where I come in. Around the corner the boy hands me the purse as we had agreed. I bend over and let him give me a punch in the nose before he takes off.

I return the fancy bag. She smothers me with gratitude and takes out a clean handkerchief to staunch the bleeding. Then she takes out a wad of bills and offers them to me. I look her straight in the eye and refuse to take her money. She begins questioning me.

Speak more slowly, señora
.
I don’t speak the language that well.

We chat. I know I am making a good impression.

Perhaps you’d care to join us for dinner this evening, she says. My husband and daughter would be so pleased to meet you.

Well, I don’t know. I...

Please do come.

The evening is unforgettable. I am introduced to her daughter. It’s a special moment, charged with expectations of things to come. I know that she will someday be my wife.

We seat ourselves around the table. Liveried servants serve a magnificent repast: salads, soufflés, skewered meats, vegetables, baked potatoes. The table is laden with every kind of delicacy, and I do not pass up a single dish. I taste everything, trying to do so without a rude display of gluttony.

When it is time to take my leave, I have the nerve to invite the mother and daughter to visit me in the apartment I have rented in the city. On the appointed day, after poring over recipes, I decide to serve a pizza, the very best pizza ever prepared. I knead the dough and toss it into the air like a professional. I don’t settle for tomato paste seasoned with oregano, but sauté onions in a deep skillet together with whole, peeled tomatoes. I add green peppers and numerous cloves of garlic. I spice the sauce and ladle it over the crust. I sprinkle aromatic grated cheese in a thick layer. The cheese melts even before I put the pizza into the oven.

Dinner is a great success. We drink a lot of wine. It doesn’t take long from there to the wedding...

My belly was howling. Brazil had been swell, but I had gotten my digestive juices all worked up for nothing. No matter, one day the dream would come true. For now I had to find something to eat.

Walking was intolerably difficult. The rain poured down. The jungle was dark and gloomy, and I walked slowly. It wasn’t much better on the path. It was often blocked and frequently left me abandoned, helpless, in the jungle. The little streams were brimming over and difficult to cross. Scaling the walls of the wadis and climbing steep hills was treacherous. My shoes were caked with mud, and I slipped often. I was exhausted. I leaned heavily on my walking stick. I was weak and famished but afraid to take another amphetamine. Fate mocked me: I came upon a fruit tree whose inaccessible branches were laden with
manzanas de monte
. The rain and wind had knocked a few of them down into the mud. I picked out and ate the best of them. Most already had fat worms crawling through them. If only I could climb the tree or chop it down, I would have enough food for two days.

You know, Kevin, if you were here with the machete, with your muscles that tree would have been down in less than an hour. And you know what else, Kevin? If you were here, you’d be the one carrying this cruddy pack, not me.

But I was alone, and the fruit was out of reach. The pack was burdensome, and the rain still poured down.

I no longer felt that someone was watching over me, but still I prayed.
Make the rain stop. Make me get to San José. May a plane come and find me. Do something.

Nothing happened, and I kept walking mechanically forward, but I couldn’t stand it anymore. I decided to hop a plane for Las Vegas.

I arrive at night. A hot desert wind is blowing. At the hotel I take a shower and freshen up, then go down to the casino, smooth-shaven and well dressed. I had last been here on my way back from Alaska and had left a contribution of a thousand dollars on the blackjack table. But Judgement Day is here; I have come for my revenge.

Lord, what cards I hold this evening! I am dealt blackjack on almost every round. I increase the amounts I bet and tip the dealer generously. I play recklessly, paying no attention to the dealer’s cards. I have fourteen, and he has six showing.

Hit me,
I tell him.

The other players at the table give me disapproving looks but are astounded when I am dealt a seven. What can I say?

Everyone gathers around to watch the big-time young card shark. I start betting two hands at once and wipe out every dealer in the place.

The pit boss comes to my table and watches anxiously. His face is blank, but I can read his thoughts. I could swear I hear him say,
Go on, sweetheart, keep playing. I know your type. You don’t know when to get up and leave the table. You’ll end up depositing all your money here.

He’s wrong, of course. My luck never runs out. The pot gets bigger and bigger, astronomical sums of money. They have to call the manager to raise the limit. The manager has been watching me through one-way mirrors in the ceiling. He signs the authorisation, and the game goes on.

Waitresses showing a lot of cleavage try to ply me with drinks.

Not right now, honey, no thanks. Only coffee for me. Sure, you can put a little Grand Marnier in it, but just a little.

A gorgeous kitten materialises behind me, massaging my shoulders, brushing her breasts against my back.

I know why you’re here, sweetie,
I say to myself
. It’s not because of my charming smile, but it’s all right with me. I’m no prude. Just a few more hands, and then we’ll have a good time.

I get up from the table with $300,000 in chips. The manager signs the cheque personally. I have to admit that they are gracious losers. He shakes my hand and informs me that my luggage has already been moved to the VIP suite. He gives me a card entitling me to free use of all of the hotel’s facilities. And this hotel has everything: floor shows, bars, restaurants, girls. You name it. They have it. I promise that I will be back tomorrow to triple my winnings. We are both happy.

Now I get down to business. I take my well-endowed bunny and go into the casino’s fanciest restaurant. The credit card works wonders. The special treatment we receive is fantastic. Everyone has already heard about me. The table is surrounded by waiters.

Sweet-and-sour ribs, sir? Waldorf salad? Would you like to try a new kind of crêpe? Wine? Fish in garlic and butter? A T-bone steak with french fries? What kind of dressing would you like on the chef’s salad? Roquefort? Yes, sir, right away. A banana split or ice cream? Chocolate and strawberry ice cream? Yes, of course, sir. You know just what to order.

The flattery pays off for the waiter. I don’t leave anyone out. They all ask me to return. If I was a big hit at the blackjack tables, that was nothing compared with the restaurant.

You can rest assured, my friends, that I’ll be back very soon...

In the late afternoon I was surprised by another river cutting across my path. It was quite wide – one hundred feet at least – but most of it was a desiccated riverbed. Down in a relatively narrow channel a placid flow of water ran into the Tuichi. The Tuichi itself looked treacherous. Its waters were black with the mud it churned up. Logs, branches, and uprooted bushes were carried along by the current, which was extremely swift. I wouldn’t have liked to have fallen into those waters.