TETHER DREAMS IN THE SHADOW GAME

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.