-Part 3-
I only lent him an arm, but he took advantage of me and used my shoulder seventy percent of the nine-hour flight. After such body contact, it felt as if I had lost my virginity.
We had spent the night at a cheap neoclassical-styled hotel in Manaus, Brazil. We were up at first light. It was now just shy of six and we were inside a white van in the middle of a congested road among the early risers, heading to the transition port to the Amazon jungle. The vehicle was air-conditioned, but da Graça let the window open slightly, probably due to his claustrophobia. The salty, hot wind blew my face every now and then. Living in California, eighty degrees wasn't as bad. The bad would come later. The temperature would be in the mid-nineties by noon.
"Thank you for saving me earlier," da Graça said beside me. "I had an accident half a year ago. So I don't do so well with vehicles, especially big ones. That was only my second time on a plane. Well, first. Because I fainted the first time I tried to fly." He grabbed the windowpane.
No wonder he forgot his medication. He wasn't used to this. I thought he was a plain fool.
"You made it sound as if I saved you from a warzone." I wiggled on my butt, trying to get comfortable. Ethan, my Ph.D. student, was kneeling on the seat beside me as he passed a camera to one of Chaves's students behind us.
"It felt that way to me." Da Graça leaned over the opened window. "Have you ever been here?"
"Here? Manaus? This is the first time. But I've gone to the University of Brazil for a conference a few times."
"The people here remind me of my childhood," he said, but his voice was so soft that the cacophony of the road almost prevailed over it. He glanced at me. "Are we really surrounded by the jungle?" He looked half-impressed, half-scared. "Isn't that the ocean?"
I looked over his shoulder. The oceangoing vessels were loading intermodal containers at the wharf down yonder.
"This city is in the Amazon basin. The so-called ocean you talked about is the Negro River. It flows into the Amazon River about ten miles from here, and then into the Atlantic Ocean, which is a thousand miles away. See those ramblers?" I pointed toward the European tourists who were gesticulating all over the place under a knobbly and huge tree. "Lots of them don't come here for the city itself, but for its facilities... as the springboard to the forest."
"The same thing we're doing now."
"Yes," I said.
"It felt a bit odd knowing my Portuguese ancestors used to colonize this country." His lips segued into a small smile.
"Then I can say it's ironic that this city was founded as a fort built by your Portuguese ancestors to fend off attacks from my Dutch ancestors."
He laughed, sleek and smooth.
"Guys, look." Chaves pointed toward his right. "That's the Theatro Amazonas. We'll find some time to stop by the place once we're done with the expedition."
"It's still functioning? I low-key thought it was a museum," one of his students said.
"Next time, I advise you to read a bit about the country you're going to stay at," Chaves said. "It's a working historical landmark. It hosts the Amazonas Philharmonic and the annual opera festival."
"It looks very grand and somehow... out of place. Like it isn't native to Manaus. How old is the place?" the other student, Alicia (I heard she introduced herself to da Graça this morning), said.
Well, she has a good eye for architecture.
"It was built in the end of the 1800s. Wasn't it, Professor Smit?" Chaves asked. "Hey, you guys have introduced yourselves to Professor Smit, right?"
I pulled my gaze from that piece of Renaissance architecture when he mentioned my name.
Alicia answered yes and asked for my expertise.
Ethan answered for me, all agog. "Professor Smit is a linguistic anthropologist, with expertise in history and Romance languages. I did my Masters under him too."
I ignored the unsolicited introduction and said, "Yes, it was. And you have a good eye for details," I told the ebony girl. "By the standards of its time, it was a modern theatre, offering a slice of belle-époque remnant to locals. The architect was an Italian, Celestial Sacardim. Many of the materials to build the place were brought from all over Europe. The roofing tiles and furnishing came from France, in the style of King Louis The Beloved. The materials inside, the stairs, column, et cetera, were brought from England. Not only the materials but the artists were also imported from Italy. It took twenty years to complete the construction."
“Ah, colonialism. I bet all the money to build it came from slave labor,” she opined.
They talked a bit about the Manaus Theather before Ethan asked, "You can understand them, right, Jona? The Brazilian. You're half-Brazilian, right?"
"Half-Portuguese. I don't understand every word, but yes, fairly well. I personally think they're easier to learn and understand than my mother tongue. They're more... modern and informal. But my language is more appealing in my opinion. It sounds… proper." The sensei smiled.
Fluent in both, I agreed with him. European Portuguese is more conventional, thus more pleasing aesthetically. It is like the British or Australian of the English. Flowery.
After several minutes of soporific commentary on the history of the city and a prompt Q&A session with the students, the sensei said: "You do know a lot about a place you haven't been to."
"Know your friend, know your enemy."
"Enemy? Who? The forest? Why?" he asked.
"I hate countless things in life. One of them is the forest. I don't have great memories of it." I shivered. For the umpteenth time, I wondered how I was going to survive in the Amazon, especially with all the monkeys.
He didn't ask me what happened, but he gave me a cut up smile. "That's nice, knowing your enemy and hating it. I wish I could hate my enemy too." His gaze morphed into unfathomable scrutiny.
"I can teach you how to hate if you want."
"Really? How?" He smiled, but his eyes were still empty.
"I'll be your friend. You'll surely hate me more than you like me."
His eyes bulged in their sockets and he burst into laughter. "What's that? Are you trying to make a friend or an enemy? I don't think I'll hate you though. You helped me. I like you. You're good."
"Of course you do. What's not to like? And I'm not putting a damper on your post hoc justification, but the word good has many connotations. If a man were to shoot his mother at a range of five hundred yards, I should call him a good shot, but not necessarily a good man."
I was being serious, but he laughed. Jesus.
"It's a bad habit to assume someone is good just because they help you. You should be suspicious instead. You don't even know me. Humans are nefarious by default."
"Luuk," he said.
"Where?" I traced his gaze. We were approaching the transit port to the Amazon River (according to the driver).
He grinned. "Luuk Smit. Your name is Luuk Smit. I know you."
I rolled my eyes. "Tsk. You're being naïve. What if I'm planning to sell your organs to the indigenous here?"
He stared at me, nodding gently. "You could do that. I don't mind. At least I don't have to go back to reality," he said, resting his chin on the windowpane. "But I smoke. I drink. I've broken six bones. Many things are wrong with my body. So my organs are not gonna sell for much. Consider yourself warned."
"That's one harrowing thing to say."
It wasn't but five seconds later when he turned to me. "My life itself is one depressing thing." He smiled wanly and stepped out of the van once we reached the bustling riverbank.
I hate countless things in life. One of them is a sob story. But something in his eyes reminded me of myself.
There is a door, deep, deep down in my soul that will creak open at times, exposing a monster that has haunted me ever since I was a child.
And I could see it in his eyes.
The same door as mine.
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