-Part 3-
"Então precisamos voltar aqui a cada duas semanas para o gás porque é racionado?" [So we need to come back here every other week for gas coz it's rationed?] da Graça asked the shopkeeper, exasperated. Like a thirsty animal, he looked at the gasoline barrels stacked against the shebang's frail wall.
The town was anachronistic, stinking to high heaven, and miserable. Every hundred steps, there was a small shop that sold nothing useful to us. Fertilizer, livestock, plants, doodads, fertilizer, snacks, plants, doodads. This place was not a residential town. It was simply a transition point for commodities trading, the same town we stopped two weeks ago to stock on gasoline before we reached Kamaiurá—though it was Chaves and Michael who bought it before.
They only allowed us to buy a barrel of fuel. I had expected that much. Gasoline wasn't an abundant commodity in this part of the world. Coming here every week or every month was not an optimum choice; every week would be too cumbersome, and for a 12000-watt generator, a hundred liters of gasoline won't last for a month even if we rationed the usage to several hours per day.
"Now we know we can't try to use Skype every day to call home." I sighed, counting the money to pay the fat, sweaty, amazingly smelly shopkeeper.
"Really? It's my fault we ran out of fuel?" he snapped.
"I said 'we', not 'you'. Where did you learn your English? Japan?"
His cheeks reddened, and he whispered a weak sorry. He looked reluctant, but then he bowed to me and exited the pungent store.
The shopkeeper's jowls shivered when he said he would send someone to transfer the barrel to our small boat. I asked him if there was any motel around.
"Onde vais?" [Where are you going?] Da Graça trailed behind me when I walked in the opposite direction of him. "That's not where the boat is."
"Looking for a hotel. Motel. Room. B and B. Pig pen. Whatever the hell they call it here. I haven't slept in two days. I'm not going through a miserable four-day trip when I can separate it into two-day jaunts."
"You're spending the night here? I... I didn't bring any changes of clothes. And the boatman will be waiting for us."
"I let him know earlier." I scanned his black clothes. "And I've told you to bring extra clothes." I continued walking to a one-level brick building with a false front. No name board. "I don't like sharing, but I hate to see a gay man naked in front of me either. I have an extra for you to wear."
"Told you I'm not gay." He paused. "You read the Bible and the Quran every morning. What are you? Christian? Muslim? Are you... homophobic? You always find the need to mention about me being gay. What's the deal even if I am gay?"
"Let me make this clear. I have nothing against same-sex relationships. I just don't trust gays. It's my issue." I pushed the creaking wooden door and headed straight to the obese female receptionist behind the tattered, mold-smelling desk. "But you're the last person I would see as a predator. Don't worry." Weird, but my homo radar didn't really go off when I was with him.
"Not that I'm not glad you don't see me as a predator or something. But why not?"
I shrugged a shoulder. "God knows why."
Then I continued wending my way along the muggy, short hallway. This place looked like a scene from James Wan's movies. Cobwebs stuck on every nook and cranny of the ceiling. I shoved the key to our room into the rattling knob.
"Jesus, I hope there won't be any storms. Or we'd lie gazing at the stars tonight." I pushed the squeaking door open, and my feet fixed on the threshold. My heart almost froze. Something painful began to flutter in my stomach when I saw the bed, and I had to take several deep breaths to calm the crawling paranoia in the box I had locked behind my head. I honest to God didn't think that the dirt-cheap room in the middle of this shitty town would provide a proper legged bed.
Da Graça stood next to me. "O que está errado? Não ir em?" [What's wrong? Not going in?]
I barely heard him from the pounding in my ears. "Sensei. I think... it's fine to go back today. I changed my mind."
"Why?" He pushed me gently and peeked into the room. "I know you're all about luxury, and I can't say the room is good, but it's not Hell either, no matter how hot the room is." He crawled onto the navy blue queen-sized bed (there was almost no space to walk in this seventy-square-feet room) and switched on the fan. It mewled to life and blew humidity toward my direction. He then pushed the bay window, and the heat dissipated. "The river is more than a mile away. I'm not walking again. It's almost dark outside. You know I can't see well in the dark." He was kneading his knee as he spoke.
I wiped the forming sweat above my lip. I could feel the pulse in my wrist.
"Hey, what's wrong? Sit down. You look pale." He reached for my elbow, and I slapped his hand away.
"I'm fine."
"Let me tell you this again. No matter how... mushy you see me, I am not gay. I won't take advantage of you even if we share the same bed." He grinned, but it was muscle-work. No endorphins were involved.
I snorted. Perhaps it was the defense mechanism from the panic, but I found his facetious remark hilarious. Mushy. So I laughed until my diaphragm got as tight as my schedule at Stanford University.
"What's so funny?" He sat on his folded legs, the way Japanese do.
"You actually think you can take advantage of me? A mushy guy like you?" I pinched his cheek.
"Ow!" He slapped my hand, mumbling something in Japanese. He extended his hand. "The shirt you wanna lend me."
I stared at his small palm. Can he save me with his small, mushy hand?
But he saved me from the monkeys. Monsters listened to him. He was a monster whisperer. I would be fine with him here. Yes, I would.
My paranoia crawled back to the back of my mind.
He would definitely save me from the monster under the bed.
Comments (0)
See all