TETHER DREAMS IN THE SHADOW GAME
By Claude L. Arango
CHAPTER ONE
BLAME IT ON RIO
Beyond the
rain soaked shores of Copacabana Beach, high above the mountains that
surround Guanabara Bay, scattered rain clouds roam the sky above Rio
de Janeiro, like marauders looking for easy prey.
Five clicks
south of Rio’s bustling seaport, rain blustered clouds descend on Pão de Açúcar, releasing a rolling mist that
spills down the mountain’s perilous slopes, then out among the screaming gulls
that follow the fishing boats to port, loaded with the day’s catch of sharks,
skates, and rays.
At the north
end of Copacabana Beach, in the shadows of the Fort Duque de Caxias, two weary fishermen, with failing
stamina but practiced resolve, deliver their catch of the day right onto the
beach. They had transported a mysterious passenger from a Three-Masted Schooner,
anchored a mile off shore. He had sat silently in the front of the small boat,
with a stiff breeze in his face, the entire way. But the moment they touched shore
he sprang into action, and leaped into the retreating surf with a burlap bag
slung over his shoulder, and a white Fedora hat in his hand. He immediately
fell to his knees, and made an emblematic sign in the wet sand, while the two
fishermen looked on in bewilderment, amazed but utterly silenced by the handmade
sign scrawled in the sand.
The stranger
quickly rose and strode up the beach, with his foot prints and the fishermen trailing
behind. His white pants and white dress shirt clung to his body soaking wet and
covered with sand. He soon found a suitable spot, sat his bag down and then
opened it. He took out a thick wade of money, secured with a red rubber band.
He peeled off several notes and offered it to the fishermen. They lowered their
eyes, and then nimbly took the money from his hands, and whispered the word
Macumba over their shoulders, as they ran to their boat and pushed it back into
the sea.
Further
north, across the Bay of Guanabara, dark rain clouds had gathered high above Mt. Corcovado,
while down upon the mountain top, the monolithic white stone figure of Christ
the Redeemer, stood majestically with open arms outstretched, dispensing hope
to the masses far beyond its exalted perch. With the promise of redemption from
on high, the faithful bowed their heads and prayed in the rain. But far below
down beyond the inlet sea, redemption was not promised, as white cap waves
slipped pass shifting swells to crashed against the shore, delivering a promise
of a different sort with the advent of the storm.
The beach
lay deserted, and the surfers had abandoned the tumultuous sea. Self-preservation
had a way of cutting to the quick, yet there stood the stranger at the water’s
edge, chanting words from the mystic, in front of a large flat rock that laid
half buried in the sand. He had covered it with a red silk cloth, upon which he
placed the jaw bone of a Boto Porpoise, a few strands of human hair entangled
in a wooden comb. A few trinkets lay to the side, and next to them he placed a
mirror and four white candles, whose flame flickered wildly in the wind. At the
left side of the rock alter, laid a small wooden figure, whittle from a branch
of a Capaiferra tree, which was charred black by flames.
The Stranger
stood in silence like a man in a trance; he was completely mesmerized by the
pounding surf. Wave after wave raced up the beach to greet him, drawing closer
and stronger with each passing surge. Then a huge wave engulfed the rock altar knocking
him down, and then quickly drained back to the sea, leaving driftwood,
coconuts, and twisted palm branches scattered across the sand, and the rock
altar lay in shambles, with one candle still burning, miraculously.
He took this
as a good sign, and then snuffed out the flame, retrieving what remained of the
Rock altar and put the objects back into his bag. Then he withdrew some dark
clothing from the bag and changed into them right there. Afterwards, he took
one last look at the churning sea, and then turned and headed for higher ground,
and the rain swept streets of Copacabana.
Five minutes
from the site of the temporary altar, as the Tucano birds fly, tall shade trees
line the streets, offering temporary shelter from the rain. A dubious proposition
at best, he soon discovered, while wiping rain water from his eyes, but then he
saw something off in the distance, which hastened his departure from the porous
sanctuary of the trees.
The streets were nearly empty now, except for a few dogged souls, and one young
boy who had braved the storm to sell umbrellas in the rain. The stranger had
witnessed the boy's grit and determination, from the sanctuary of the trees,
and this pleased him. And when he came upon the boy he gave him a few coins,
but he refused the umbrella that the boy offered him, and then he continued on
his way.
He walked with hunched shoulders against the wind that blew off of
the Inlet Sea. With his eyes to the ground, and head held down, he
ignored the storm that sent waves exploding on the shoreline across the street,
and barely noticed the Copacabana’s high-rise apartment buildings, with million
dollar views, on the other side, but that day the view wasn't worth a dime.
The stranger passed by open air bistros, that usually stayed empty until late
afternoon, with garcons dressed in pressed black pants and white serving
jackets, all huddled under plastic canopies outside in the rain. They spoke
softly among themselves, as they anxiously waited for the deluge to subside,
which had reduced the tourist flow to less than a trickle, and their gainful
expectations to nothing more than wishful thinking.
Then suddenly, as if a celestial torrential switch had been thrown, the rain
stopped. People suddenly began to materialize in the streets as if from thin
air, and within minutes the bistros began to fill with patrons taking full
advantage of the lull in the storm, and soon it was as if there had been no
storm at all.
The sudden transition presented an amicable picture of tranquility. Blue sky
and ample sun penetrated the rolling clouds, heartening the prosperous
Brasileiros who now filled the bistros to overflow. This was a far cry from the
plight of the poor Brasileiros, who lived in the hills, in the favelas, just a
few blocks away. Action News camera crews had begun filming the carnage left by
the mudslides that came after the torrential rain. Which, inevitably lead to
several makeshift homes tumbling down the mountain side, no longer capable of remaining
stacked upon one another, like colorful game board pieces, in the crowded hills
above Rio de Janeiro.
Copacabana
appealed to the stranger, more so than Ipanema’s pristine facade, and as he
walked through the neighborhood he came upon a traveling band that roamed the
streets entertaining strangers, with song and dance and strumming guitars, as a
drummer beat out a captivating rhythm on Macaco skin drums, while Capoeira
fighting dancers did their thing.
The stranger moved about like an errant breeze, neither confined nor hindered
by venders hawking their cheap wares in front of very expensive stores, while their
makeshift stands further narrowed the passable walkway. Then, suddenly, the
storm once again made its presence known, and with the first clap of thunder,
the crowds dispersed, leaving the stranger once again all alone.
It was his
nature to be observant, and he knew that the people in Rio doing all of the
heavy lifting were black Brasileiros. He had witness this before, but he was a
pragmatic man who dealt with reality, and not the way one thought it should be.
Although he moved easily between both worlds of the rich and the poor, his
sense of value was never filtered through the prism of ignorance; he knew that
things happened by design and not by happenstance.
The ditch diggers, bus
drivers, and baggage handlers, bore their Afro-Brazilian heritage, reluctantly,
upon their backs, albeit unwittingly, they accepted their station in life. While
the shop owners were well educated and prosperous, with their European heritage
intact, promulgating a way of life that guaranteed their domination and control
with its most consistent aberration intact. The white Brazilians assumed the
caretaker role, which assured their status as captains and masters of the
Brazilian society as a whole. Their domination of the most vital aspects
important to building a successful material life, in the form of complete
ownership of everything in the country worth owning, except for a man’s soul,
and in that realm of spiritual mysticism the former Africans slaves held sway.
One
shopkeeper called out to the stranger in the street and invited him inside,
recognizing that he was not a carioca. The stranger was somewhat amused that he
had been so readily identified, by the shopkeeper, as being a tourist. Nothing
could have been further from the truth, but his projected personification was
working, and he was an inquisitive man who was ahead of schedule, so he
complied.
It wasn’t a racist thing, the shopkeeper told him, when he fielded
the unexpected question of inequity posed to him by the stranger. The stranger
already knew the answer, and of course it was about money, which the shopkeeper
readily admitted, sighting the realities of life. The stranger understood the
shopkeeper’s tacit acceptance of the gross imbalance between the rich and the poor
in Brazil, but he wasn’t passing judgment, but simply passing time, his mind
was elsewhere, as he looked at his watch, then he thanked the shop keeper for
indulging him, and walked out the door, right on time.
He was back on tract, navigating the busy streets of Copacabana, and
occasionally dodging pedestrians who suddenly crossed his path. He consistently
avoided collisions and mishaps time and again, as the pedestrians attempted to
pass him along the narrow sidewalk. It seems to be a Brazilian thing, for they
possess no inkling of the presumed pedestrian sensibility to veer to the right
while walking. It was the small things that reminded him that he was
in Rio de Janeiro.
He observed other Carioca’s, as the residents of Rio de Janeiro call
themselves, going about their daily lives, oblivious to the inundated
conditions that winter brings to Rio. It was a welcome change of climate for
them, tossing off summer’s sodden heat, and the bustling streets stood in stark
contrast, to the recently deserted beaches, abandon by tourist and hucksters
alike, and now only capable of attracting the occasional sea turtle, tossed
ashore by the wind whipped sea.
The evening downpour turned into a steady drizzle, as the stranger side stepped
small puddles of water that had gathered on the sidewalk. When he reached the
corner of Rua Bolivar, he turned right, and then proceeded to thread his way
through the rest of the neighborhood that made up one of many of the core
neighborhoods of Copacabana.
Soon he arrived at his destination, an old office building located on the
corner of Rua Aires Saldanha and Miguel Lemos, one street away from the beach.
On the front door of an apartment rental office, a travel poster extolled the
reader to simply “Blame it on Rio”. He kept that in mind as he quickly
scanned the street and then opened the door, and stepped inside. The fat man
seated behind the desk looked up, and quickly made an effort to stand. But he
was stopped in his tracts by the sight of a gun, held firmly in the grip of the
Stranger. The surprised look on the fat man’s face belied the fact that he
wasn’t surprised at all, he knew that this moment was coming sooner or later, someday,
one day, today.… now.
With a wave of the gun, the stranger motioned for the fat man to sit. With a
visible sigh of relief the fat man settled back into his seat, and then the
stranger shot him right between the eyes.
The fat man
collapsed onto the desk, lifeless eyes harboring no surprise. A ribbon of smoke
slowly slipped from the hole in his head, as a trickle of blood ran down his
face, and a key was snatched from around his neck. Then a
wood carving was placed in his lap before the front door closed without a
sound, and the Stranger melted back into the crowd, as effortless as the rain.
