The Darkest Heart (6 page)

We sat in silence for a while before the old man sighed and shook his head. ‘Don't do it.'

‘Hm?'

‘Whatever it is Costa wants you to do. Don't do it. It feels like ... like something bad is coming.'

I looked out at the river, narrow here, at just five hundred metres from one bank to the other. The brown water was flowing past, always moving, always going somewhere. I wondered where it would end up; whether it would be better or worse than this particular stretch of the Araguaia.

It felt like a lifetime ago that my sister and I had talked about moving on. We had sat on the hillside in Rio and watched the sea and thought about the things lying beyond our weary
favela
, Sofia saying there was something better out there.

The old man, he dreamed too – about more money, moving on, a new life. I wondered if Antonio had dreamed about that; if he had come to Piratinga on his search for a better life but ended up lying dead in a rented apartment with his throat cut. Sofia's dreams never came to anything either.

I couldn't let the same thing happen to the old man, or to Daniella. I didn't want to be alone again. I would have to do what Costa wanted.

8

Late afternoon, the sky grumbled somewhere over the open savanah that lay beyond the forest on the other side of the river. Rocky sensed the oncoming storm and took refuge inside the bar, but the old man and I shifted our seats and watched the dark grey thunderheads rolling in across the trees and water.

It was like the end of the world unfolding before us as the sky grew blacker and blacker and the gloom reached across Piratinga.

When the rain finally broke, it came down as hard as I had ever known it, soaking into the dry land, releasing a warm earthy smell. It churned the river into a murky froth and battered the umbrella over our heads. It pummelled the tiles and the concrete and the road with such violence that the world was filled with white noise. It came at us from all directions but we stayed as we were, enjoying its ferocity.

The cool air and the rain washed away my frustration and I tried to find something positive in everything that had happened that morning. Daniella was disappointed I'd lost my job at the farm, but mucking out pigs for Batista wasn't ever going to give me the life I wanted for us. And I thought about what Costa was doing right now, who he was talking to, and what kind of deal he would bring back to me. I had to take something good from this.

When the rain had passed, we went to the old man's place, further along the river, at the edge of town. Rocky trotted ahead, moving from shade to shade now that the clouds had gone. There was still a touch of lingering freshness brought by the storm, but the sun was uncompromising and had started its work. The rainwater was already evaporating and the misty air was growing hot again.

‘Look.' Raul stopped and pointed. ‘See?'

Ahead, his small house stood close to the beach. Now the rains were here, though, the river would start to rise and soon the water would be almost at his doorstep.

The house was made of brick, most of it built by the old man himself, and painted a bright green because that's the colour his wife chose. The roof was tiled rather than covered with tin, so it didn't rattle in the hard rain.

Four vultures were hunched over a large dead fish at the water's edge, squabbling and screaming at one another, jostling for the best place at the banquet. A fifth was sitting on the roof of the old man's house, back curved and wings folded.

Rocky ignored them and made for the shade of the porch.

‘That's bad,' the old man said as he bent to pick up a stone. ‘Not on the house. Not on my roof.' He took aim and threw the rock as hard as he could. It sailed up and up, a black speck against the blue sky, before it clattered down on the tiles, startling the scrawny bird.

The vulture hopped on one foot and screeched.

‘Get off, you devil!' The old man threw another rock, and this time the bird spread its wings and took to the sky, sailing out over the water, before turning back and settling with the others over the carcass of the fish.

‘Calm down, old man, you'll crack your tiles,' I said as Carolina came out from the house and looked up at the roof before spotting us.

‘It's bad luck,' he told me. ‘Especially
there. A
vulture on my house? You know what that means?'

‘You're too superstitious,' I said, raising a hand to his wife. ‘It means the bird wanted somewhere to rest, that's all. Come on – I think all this heat and beer is going to your head.'

As we headed over the scrub to his house, though, I couldn't help glancing at the birds huddled round their meal. Dark and ugly and smelling like carrion, it was hardly any wonder people saw them as an omen of death.

*

Carolina had prepared boiled rice and
feijoada
, made with black beans and a few thin strips of dried beef. My sister Sofia used to make it that way, though we didn't always have the beef. Sometimes it was chicken, sometimes nothing at all. Doña Melo, the woman next door, taught Sofia to cook when we were growing up because our mother was already buried and she felt sorry for us. Whenever I smelled
feijoada
now, it reminded me of Sofia.

Carolina placed a bowl of
farinha
on the table – coarsely ground manioc flour – and invited me to sit with them. There wasn't much so I ate just a little, telling them I'd repay them. The old man waved a dismissive hand and Carolina shook her head, telling me there was no need. I was always welcome to share what they had.

Carolina was Xavante Indian;
A'uwe Uptabi.
The True People, they called themselves, coming from further south, past Piratinga, on the Rio das Mortes. The River of Deaths. She hadn't lived in a Xavante village since she was seven or eight and couldn't even remember her real given name. She never went back, never mixed with her people, but showed no sign of regret. Life had put her and the old man together and she was happy that way.

Carolina wasn't beautiful and her face was hard, but her eyes carried a warm look every time they met her husband's. And Raul's smiled in reply. Seeing them together made me think that Raul had everything he needed right here in Piratinga. He didn't need Imperatriz and Imperatriz didn't need him. There was no reason to suffer the despair of always chasing something he would never catch.

The old man had talked about it so many times, telling me how the money was so important. He needed enough to buy him and Carolina a place in Imperatriz, close to their son Francisco; a place where they could make a better life. Francisco had done that – gone to find a better life – because he hated it here. He hated the slow pace and he resented his parents for not taking him away from it. He was married now, a wedding that Carolina and Raul had seen only in photos, and he wrote once a year, asking
them to come. A year ago he had sent them a picture of their first granddaughter, Luziene; a child they had never seen in the flesh.

When we had eaten, Raul and I sat on his narrow porch, a glass of
pinga
each, a cigarette for him and a bottle of mosquito repellent for me. I spread the Autan on my arms and face as we spoke, and Rocky came to curl up on the cool concrete floor beside the old man's chair.

The sun had dropped now, the last of its light was shimmering over the forest on the other side of the river, and soon it would be gone. The cicadas chirped with an unnoticed monotony, and the frogs were beginning to call their own tune.

‘You don't look so good, old man, you feeling all right?' His eyes were bloodshot; the bags underneath were bigger and darker than usual. The deep tan on his lined face was pallid and drained of colour.

‘It's the beer,' he said, coughing as if to prove himself wrong. ‘And the
pinga.'

‘I've seen you drink more beer than that, and chase it down with
pinga
and cigarettes and God knows what else.'

‘The heat then. It's so damn hot today.'

‘Just like every day. No, you look like you're getting sick.'

‘You tell, him, Zico.' Carolina had come to the door. ‘He won't listen to me. Old fool never listens to me.'

‘If I always listened to you, woman, I'd never listen to anything else.' Raul chuckled and blew a kiss at his wife before turning to me. ‘I don't get sick, Zico. When have I ever been sick?'

I could tell he didn't want to talk about it. Men like Raul don't like to admit they're feeling weak, so I nodded and let it pass, changing the subject. ‘So what's this job you've got tomorrow? Delivery or collection?'

‘Both. Something to collect and then we have to deliver it.'

‘You shouldn't be working,' Carolina said as she came to sit beside him. ‘Look at you. You're in no state for it.' The plastic chair creaked and Rocky shifted, looking up, then letting out a long sigh and settling again.

‘There's nothing wrong with me,' Raul said. ‘Stop fussing.'

‘You need to get well.'

‘I need to
work.'

‘Then promise to take Zico with you.'

‘Of course I'll take Zico with me.'

‘So where are you collecting from this time?' I asked. ‘São Tiago? Further north?'

The old man shook his head. ‘Further south.'

‘South? How far?' There wasn't much down that way and the river was only navigable a few hundred kilometres in that direction. Once we got to a certain point, the water was laced with rapids, falls and rocky canyons. ‘Anywhere I know?'

‘Just the river. We're meeting a plane. It's going to land on the water.'

I whistled. ‘They tell you what's on it?'

Raul shook his head, then sipped his
pinga
and stared out at the river, watching the last splinter of sun disappear. ‘When do I ever ask? That's why people come to me. All I know is I'm meeting a plane, taking on cargo, and heading to Mina dos Santos.'

‘That's a long way.' We'd been once before, a gold mine three or four hundred kilometres west on the Rio das Mortes. Maybe further. ‘And you have no idea what the cargo is?'

‘I don't need to.'

‘It's too far to go in your state,' Carolina told him. ‘This sounds too dangerous, Raul. It's too much for you.'

I looked across at the old man sitting with Rocky at his side and I remembered the bird perching on his roof that afternoon. I was too practical to be superstitious like he was but it bothered me anyway and I wanted this day to be over. Tomorrow would be better. A fresh start.

‘It'll be fine.' The old man spoke to his wife, reaching out to take her hand in his own. ‘Money for nothing.' Then he turned to me. ‘Cargo for Mina dos Santos is all I know. A man came to Ernesto's this morning, gave me half the money up front, the rest when I get to the mine.'

‘What man?' I asked.

‘Said his name was Leonardo.'

‘What's he like?'

‘Like any other man.'

‘And he gave you money?'

‘Half.'

I nodded. The
Deus e o Diabo
wasn't the fastest boat on the river and it wasn't the biggest, but it would carry anything that was asked of it, and its captain always delivered. She was big enough to carry a good cargo and put about fifteen, twenty kilometres of river behind her in an hour, depending on the conditions. Raul had been carrying people and contraband up and down the Araguaia since he was a young man and he knew the rivers like he knew the contours of his own wife.

There were other boats, other captains, but taking the wrong channel when the river split or turned could lead to narrowing passages blocked by the forest and a nest of tributaries that writhed about each other like snakes. In there, surrounded by the dense forest, the heat and the pounding rain, there were a thousand deaths waiting for every man who lost his way.

Raul knew the channels, the sandbanks, how to recognise the change in the water. If the riverbed had shifted and risen with the rains or droughts, Raul knew how to spot it just by looking at the surface of the water.

His knowledge of the river wasn't the only reason why people came to him, though. He had a reputation for discretion and always turned his eyes when he took the money. He didn't care what he carried, as long as the money was real when it touched the palm of his callused hand.

‘And this guy Leonardo?' I asked him. ‘He paying you much?'

‘Not much,' Raul said. ‘But it all goes into the pot. And when we have enough, Carolina and me ...' Raul made a blowing noise and tilted his head while lifting one hand like it was taking off from his knee.

Like everyone else, Raul had plans. When he had the money.

Always when he had the money.

9

Around ten o'clock, the old man stood up and said he was tired. He rubbed a hand across the back of his thick neck and stooped a little as he went inside, bumping his shoulder against the doorframe.

‘Too much
pinga,'
I said.

‘Or maybe not enough,' he replied as the door swung closed behind him.

Rocky stayed where she was, chin resting between her paws as she watched him go, but Carolina followed him, coming back out after ten minutes or so with a shawl draped over her shoulders to combat the night's chill.

‘He's not well,' she said, pouring more
pinga
into my glass.

‘Just tired is all. Tired and drunk.'

‘No, it's something else; he's just too proud and stubborn to admit it. I worry about him.'

‘We both do, but whatever it is, it'll pass.'

Beside the old man's chair, Rocky lifted her head and looked out into the night, a low growl rumbling in her throat.

‘Come here,' I called to her. ‘What is it?'

The dog rose to her feet and slinked over to me, her head low, eyes watching the darkness. She continued to growl, lifting her lip just enough to show a flash of teeth.