Tether Dreams in the Shadow Game
Chapter One
BLAME IT ON RIO
by Claude L Arango
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
Present Day
Five clicks south of Rio’s bustling seaport, rain blustered clouds descended on Pão de Açúcar, releasing a rolling mist that spilled down the mountain’s perilous slopes, and 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 Fort Duque de Caxias, two weary fishermen with failing stamina but practiced resolve, delivered their catch of the day, right onto the beach. They had transported a mysterious stranger from a three-masted schooner anchored a mile off shore. He was a tall medium build black man, and oddly enough dressed all in white, from his white Fedora hat to his white Giovonni Rosmini shoes. He had sat forward in the bow of the boat in complete silence, during the entire trip from the schooner to Copacabana. He appeared to be in his early fifties, and obviously a man of means judging by his clandestine passage aboard the schooner. The fishermen also believed that he was some kind of high priest in one of the secret religions, because of his demeanor and white clothing, which signified purity among the faithful. The fact that he wore a bone chiseled ring on the small finger of his left hand, which had been honed from the bone of a Boto Porpoise, was a sign of fellowship with the most powerful religion practiced by blacks throughout Brazil, called Macumba. He could easily be a member of this secret group, or either of its sects, Umbanda or Quimbanda. Each of these religions have their own secret greetings that can be recognized by their fellow members, but the fishermen wouldn't have a clue. Maybe he was a shaman or witch doctor, able to summon spirits and cast spells. They didn’t know for certain, they being indigenous people with no formal contacts with the blacks of Brazil. But still, they were not totally ignorant of their surroundings, after all they did live in Rio de Janeiro, and even though it was the dawn of the 21st century, it still was the epic center for the practice of the dark arts, including witchcraft, and black magic, and it was ground zero for Macumba activity. In any case he was certainly not one to trifle with, and this they knew for sure.
The Stranger leaped from the boat a few feet from shore, with a burlap bag slung over his shoulder and a white Fedora hat in hand. While the fishermen dragged their boat out of the water, he ran ahead and placed his belongings just above the tide line, where the water reverse direction and rushes back to the sea. And then he fell to his knees singing in Bantu, an African language, and began to perform a Quimbanda ritual. This got their undivided attention and pricked their curiosity. What was the voodoo man up to now, they wondered, and moved a little closer to watch him make strange symbols in the wet sand. They were simple fishermen, with their own taboos and rituals, and they believed deeply in the power of rituals and magic, no matter who practice it.
The Stranger had poured sea water and a white powder into a hole that he had dugout of the beach, and mixed it with ordinary beach sand until it became pliable. His hands began to fashion an image from the mixture and the fishermen strained their necks to better see his black magic come forth. Slowly the image took form right before their eyes, and they were instantly transported back in time to childhood, when they were gripped by terror as their parents told them the story of Exu, the evil spirit who would kidnap children who were bad. The image of Exu slowly took shape in the form of a facemask that stared up at them from the sand, and it still had that terrifying affect on them. They had seen many strange things while working the waters off of Copacabana during the past thirty years. But they thought that the stranger’s abilities went beyond anything that an ordinary man was capable of possessing. So he had to be a witch doctor, they reasoned. Anyone would recognize the facemask of Eshu lying on the beach, and they would also remember the stories that they were told as children. The evil spirit of Eshu came back from the dead in the form of Exu the lord of chaos and trickery. Exu took the form of a human and became the rogue king of Palmares, the capital city of a mythical kingdom made up of runaway slaves and Indians in colonial times. They hid out in the Amazon forest and built their kingdom there, creating many cities and settlements that were independent from the regional colonial power. He almost brought the Colonial Portuguese power to its knees, before he was betrayed, and then captured, and beheaded, proving that he was only a man. Still the rumors persist to this day of the powers of Exu in the teachings of Umbanda. Exu was the Lord of the seven crossroads, a particularly strong, and some would say, evil spirit, who could be summoned to do the biding of whoever possessed the ability to summon it.
When the Stranger had finished creating the sand mask, he quickly rose to his feet, and looked in their direction with a penetrating stair. They nodded their heads in deference to him, but could not hold his gaze. They kept their eyes cast downward, hoping that they had not offended him in any way. He then quickly turned and strode up the beach like a primeval king, with the two fishermen in tow; one carrying his bag and the other carefully carrying his white Fedora.
His clothing, now soiled and wet, clung to his body in the rapidly cooling air. Evening was upon them, and he could feel the storm coming on strong, and knew that he didn't have much time. They soon came upon a large flat rock, jutting out of the sand, and he had the fisherman sit his bag down next to it. He opened the bag and took out a thick wad of Brazilian money, secured with a red rubber band, and then proceeded to peeled off several bills and offered them to the fishermen. They hesitated for just a moment, but then quickly snatched the money from his hand, and ran down the beach shouting Macumba, Macumba, until they reached their boat, and quickly pushed it back out to sea.
Further north across the Bay of Guanabara 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. The monument stood on its pedestal dispensing hope to the masses far beyond its exalted perch.
With the promise of redemption from on high, the faithful fell to their knees and prayed in the rain. Among the faithful, there knelt a corpulent man, with a solid gold key secured around his neck with a 24k gold chain. To him the ornaments represented the key to happiness and all things possible. And in his right hand he held an expensive string of Black Onyx Stones, fashioned into a string of rosary beads, believing that the more money he spent on the process, the better chance he had of redeeming his soul. In his prayer he promised to make a gift to the church in the name of the Redeemer, surely this would guarantee his redemption. His outward appearance suggested an educated man of means and resolve, but his inner demons revealed him to be the fool that he was. Even during this calculated desperate attempt to gain redemption for his soul, he could not muster the faith necessary to renounce the false belief in material things, which would always blind him to the true path of spiritual redemption; true to his nature he had to try and play both sides. 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 was deserted now, and even the surfers had abandoned the tumultuous sea. Self-preservation had a way of cutting to the quick, yet there he stood at the at the water’s edge, in front of a large flat rock that laid half buried in the sand, chanting strange words from the mystic in the African language of Bantu. The rock was covered with red fabric, upon which was placed the jaw bone of a Boto Porpoise, and a few strands of human hair, entangled in a wooden comb. A few color trinkets lay to the side, and next to them was placed a vanity mirror and four candles, two black and two red, whose flame flickered wildly in the wind. On the left side of the rock alter laid a small wooden doll, whittle from a branch of a Capaiferra tree then charred black by flames.
The Stranger stood in silence like a man in a trance completely mesmerized by the pounding surf. Wave after wave raced up the beach to greet him, drawing closer and stronger with each passing surge. Finally a huge wave engulfed him tossing him into the pounding surf, and then quickly drained back out to sea. After a fleeting moment, he managed to regain his balance and raised himself to one knee. He quickly surveyed the havoc that the wave had done. Driftwood, coconuts, and twisted palm branches were scattered across the sand, and down by the surf stood the rock altar in total disarray. Yet miraculously one red candle still flickered wildly in the wind.
He took this as a sign of approval from the sprite of Exu, and sang one last chant to honor his name then he snuffed out the flame. He retrieved the objects that he could find that had lay upon the rock altar and put them back in his bag. He then withdrew some more white clothing and changed right there. Afterwards, he took one last look at the churning sea, turned, and headed for the rain swept streets of Copacabana. Unbeknown to the Stranger, two sets of eyes spied on him the whole time, from the cover of the palm trees off to the east. The fishermen had returned out of pure curiosity. They had never witness a ritual ceremony dedicated to summon the spirit of the dead.
Five minutes from the beach, 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, as he wiped rain water from his eyes, but then he saw what he was looking for in the distance, and quickly departed the 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 determination, from the sanctuary of the trees. And when he came upon the boy he gave him a few coins, but he refused the offered umbrella, and continued on his way.
The weather continued to deteriorate as he walked with hunched shoulders against the wind with eyes to the ground and head held down. He ignored the waves crashing against the shore line a hundred yards away, and hardly noticed the high-rise apartment buildings with million dollar views, but that day the view wasn't worth a dime.
The Stranger passed by open air bistros 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 nothing, and their gainful expectations to nothing more than wishful thinking.
Suddenly the rain stopped, as if a celestial switch had been thrown. People 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. 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 roving 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 favelas, in the hills just a few blocks away. Action News camera crews had already begun filming the inevitable carnage left by the mudslides that came after the torrential rain. The rains eventually lead to homes tumbling down the mountainside that were no longer capable of remaining stacked upon one another like color game board pieces, in the crowded hills above Rio de Janeiro.
Copacabana appealed to the Stranger, more so than Ipanema’s anemic facade. It still had that Art Deco flair, stemming from the 1940’s and 1950’s when most of the buildings were built, and Copacabana was in its heyday, attracting tourist from all over the world. As he walked through the old neighborhoods he came upon a traveling band that roamed the streets entertaining tourist and locals alike. They sang old favorites and strummed on acoustic guitars, while one of the members passed the hat. The tambourines kept cadence while the drummers beat out a captivating rhythm on Macaco skin drums, and Capoeira fighting dancers did their thing. All of this took place among the frantic pace of a city on the move.
A hundred buses jockeyed for position along Avineda Nossa Seniora de Copacabana. They all seemed to be part of some unscheduled race, with the passengers taking second place no matter who won. Pedestrians took on the added threat of incurring great bodily harm just by crossing the street, and should give thanks to the deity of their choice for reaching the other side unharmed.
He moved along the crowed avenue like an errant breeze, neither confined nor hindered by street venders hawking their wares. But before too long the clouds began to gather again as if the gods knew that it was time to make amends. With the first clap of thunder the storm made its presence known, and the crowds dispersed without a trace leaving the Stranger once again all alone.
It was his nature to be observant, and observe he did, as he watched two black men at a construction site unload a truck load of red bricks, while their white co-workers sought shelter from the rain. They were not ordered to do so, but tradition and expectations often speak louder than words.
He knew that the blacks did all of the heavy lifting in Rio de Janeiro, and manned all of the menial jobs. He was a pragmatic man who dealt with reality, and did not harbor fantasies when the truth was as plain as black and white. Although he moved easily between both worlds, his sense of purpose 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, all bore their African heritage reluctantly upon their backs, albeit unwittingly. They appeared to accept their station in life, but acceptance is not the same thing as embracement. You have to be able to choose from viable options in order to make gainful decisions, but when given the choice to live or die, you would drink muddy water and sleep in a hollow log.
The shop owners were well educated and prosperous, with their European heritage intact. The white Brazilians assumed the caretaker role, which assured their position and status as masters of the Brazilian society as a whole. They dominated and controlled all of the vital institutions and social systems that ultimately lead to a better quality of life. Superior education and meaningful health care were restricted to the privilege few, while inferior substitutes were forced on the masses and then they were told that they were all equal. But as in the literary quote from the Animal Farm, some were more equal than others. The rich believed that their status was not a result of racial policy or prejudice but merely coincidental that the whites had complete control and ownership of everything in the country worth owning, except for a man’s soul. And in the realm of spirituality the former Africans slaves held sway. Karma dictates a natural balance in the universe, giving each faction the tools to decimate the other or to live in harmony.
One shopkeeper called out to the Stranger walking about in the rain and invited him inside, recognizing that he was not a carioca. The stranger was somewhat amused that he had been so readily identified as being a tourist. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but his projected personification was working as planned, and he was an inquisitive man who was ahead of schedule, so he complied. It wasn’t a racist thing, the shopkeeper said, when he fielded the unexpected question of inequity posed to him by the Stranger. 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 lay elsewhere as he looked at his watch, then thanked the shop keeper for indulging him, and walked out the door.
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.
Chapter One
BLAME IT ON RIO
by Claude L Arango
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
Present Day
Five clicks south of Rio’s bustling seaport, rain blustered clouds descended on Pão de Açúcar, releasing a rolling mist that spilled down the mountain’s perilous slopes, and 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 Fort Duque de Caxias, two weary fishermen with failing stamina but practiced resolve, delivered their catch of the day, right onto the beach. They had transported a mysterious stranger from a three-masted schooner anchored a mile off shore. He was a tall medium build black man, and oddly enough dressed all in white, from his white Fedora hat to his white Giovonni Rosmini shoes. He had sat forward in the bow of the boat in complete silence, during the entire trip from the schooner to Copacabana. He appeared to be in his early fifties, and obviously a man of means judging by his clandestine passage aboard the schooner. The fishermen also believed that he was some kind of high priest in one of the secret religions, because of his demeanor and white clothing, which signified purity among the faithful. The fact that he wore a bone chiseled ring on the small finger of his left hand, which had been honed from the bone of a Boto Porpoise, was a sign of fellowship with the most powerful religion practiced by blacks throughout Brazil, called Macumba. He could easily be a member of this secret group, or either of its sects, Umbanda or Quimbanda. Each of these religions have their own secret greetings that can be recognized by their fellow members, but the fishermen wouldn't have a clue. Maybe he was a shaman or witch doctor, able to summon spirits and cast spells. They didn’t know for certain, they being indigenous people with no formal contacts with the blacks of Brazil. But still, they were not totally ignorant of their surroundings, after all they did live in Rio de Janeiro, and even though it was the dawn of the 21st century, it still was the epic center for the practice of the dark arts, including witchcraft, and black magic, and it was ground zero for Macumba activity. In any case he was certainly not one to trifle with, and this they knew for sure.
The Stranger leaped from the boat a few feet from shore, with a burlap bag slung over his shoulder and a white Fedora hat in hand. While the fishermen dragged their boat out of the water, he ran ahead and placed his belongings just above the tide line, where the water reverse direction and rushes back to the sea. And then he fell to his knees singing in Bantu, an African language, and began to perform a Quimbanda ritual. This got their undivided attention and pricked their curiosity. What was the voodoo man up to now, they wondered, and moved a little closer to watch him make strange symbols in the wet sand. They were simple fishermen, with their own taboos and rituals, and they believed deeply in the power of rituals and magic, no matter who practice it.
The Stranger had poured sea water and a white powder into a hole that he had dugout of the beach, and mixed it with ordinary beach sand until it became pliable. His hands began to fashion an image from the mixture and the fishermen strained their necks to better see his black magic come forth. Slowly the image took form right before their eyes, and they were instantly transported back in time to childhood, when they were gripped by terror as their parents told them the story of Exu, the evil spirit who would kidnap children who were bad. The image of Exu slowly took shape in the form of a facemask that stared up at them from the sand, and it still had that terrifying affect on them. They had seen many strange things while working the waters off of Copacabana during the past thirty years. But they thought that the stranger’s abilities went beyond anything that an ordinary man was capable of possessing. So he had to be a witch doctor, they reasoned. Anyone would recognize the facemask of Eshu lying on the beach, and they would also remember the stories that they were told as children. The evil spirit of Eshu came back from the dead in the form of Exu the lord of chaos and trickery. Exu took the form of a human and became the rogue king of Palmares, the capital city of a mythical kingdom made up of runaway slaves and Indians in colonial times. They hid out in the Amazon forest and built their kingdom there, creating many cities and settlements that were independent from the regional colonial power. He almost brought the Colonial Portuguese power to its knees, before he was betrayed, and then captured, and beheaded, proving that he was only a man. Still the rumors persist to this day of the powers of Exu in the teachings of Umbanda. Exu was the Lord of the seven crossroads, a particularly strong, and some would say, evil spirit, who could be summoned to do the biding of whoever possessed the ability to summon it.
When the Stranger had finished creating the sand mask, he quickly rose to his feet, and looked in their direction with a penetrating stair. They nodded their heads in deference to him, but could not hold his gaze. They kept their eyes cast downward, hoping that they had not offended him in any way. He then quickly turned and strode up the beach like a primeval king, with the two fishermen in tow; one carrying his bag and the other carefully carrying his white Fedora.
His clothing, now soiled and wet, clung to his body in the rapidly cooling air. Evening was upon them, and he could feel the storm coming on strong, and knew that he didn't have much time. They soon came upon a large flat rock, jutting out of the sand, and he had the fisherman sit his bag down next to it. He opened the bag and took out a thick wad of Brazilian money, secured with a red rubber band, and then proceeded to peeled off several bills and offered them to the fishermen. They hesitated for just a moment, but then quickly snatched the money from his hand, and ran down the beach shouting Macumba, Macumba, until they reached their boat, and quickly pushed it back out to sea.
Further north across the Bay of Guanabara 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. The monument stood on its pedestal dispensing hope to the masses far beyond its exalted perch.
With the promise of redemption from on high, the faithful fell to their knees and prayed in the rain. Among the faithful, there knelt a corpulent man, with a solid gold key secured around his neck with a 24k gold chain. To him the ornaments represented the key to happiness and all things possible. And in his right hand he held an expensive string of Black Onyx Stones, fashioned into a string of rosary beads, believing that the more money he spent on the process, the better chance he had of redeeming his soul. In his prayer he promised to make a gift to the church in the name of the Redeemer, surely this would guarantee his redemption. His outward appearance suggested an educated man of means and resolve, but his inner demons revealed him to be the fool that he was. Even during this calculated desperate attempt to gain redemption for his soul, he could not muster the faith necessary to renounce the false belief in material things, which would always blind him to the true path of spiritual redemption; true to his nature he had to try and play both sides. 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 was deserted now, and even the surfers had abandoned the tumultuous sea. Self-preservation had a way of cutting to the quick, yet there he stood at the at the water’s edge, in front of a large flat rock that laid half buried in the sand, chanting strange words from the mystic in the African language of Bantu. The rock was covered with red fabric, upon which was placed the jaw bone of a Boto Porpoise, and a few strands of human hair, entangled in a wooden comb. A few color trinkets lay to the side, and next to them was placed a vanity mirror and four candles, two black and two red, whose flame flickered wildly in the wind. On the left side of the rock alter laid a small wooden doll, whittle from a branch of a Capaiferra tree then charred black by flames.
The Stranger stood in silence like a man in a trance completely mesmerized by the pounding surf. Wave after wave raced up the beach to greet him, drawing closer and stronger with each passing surge. Finally a huge wave engulfed him tossing him into the pounding surf, and then quickly drained back out to sea. After a fleeting moment, he managed to regain his balance and raised himself to one knee. He quickly surveyed the havoc that the wave had done. Driftwood, coconuts, and twisted palm branches were scattered across the sand, and down by the surf stood the rock altar in total disarray. Yet miraculously one red candle still flickered wildly in the wind.
He took this as a sign of approval from the sprite of Exu, and sang one last chant to honor his name then he snuffed out the flame. He retrieved the objects that he could find that had lay upon the rock altar and put them back in his bag. He then withdrew some more white clothing and changed right there. Afterwards, he took one last look at the churning sea, turned, and headed for the rain swept streets of Copacabana. Unbeknown to the Stranger, two sets of eyes spied on him the whole time, from the cover of the palm trees off to the east. The fishermen had returned out of pure curiosity. They had never witness a ritual ceremony dedicated to summon the spirit of the dead.
Five minutes from the beach, 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, as he wiped rain water from his eyes, but then he saw what he was looking for in the distance, and quickly departed the 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 determination, from the sanctuary of the trees. And when he came upon the boy he gave him a few coins, but he refused the offered umbrella, and continued on his way.
The weather continued to deteriorate as he walked with hunched shoulders against the wind with eyes to the ground and head held down. He ignored the waves crashing against the shore line a hundred yards away, and hardly noticed the high-rise apartment buildings with million dollar views, but that day the view wasn't worth a dime.
The Stranger passed by open air bistros 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 nothing, and their gainful expectations to nothing more than wishful thinking.
Suddenly the rain stopped, as if a celestial switch had been thrown. People 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. 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 roving 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 favelas, in the hills just a few blocks away. Action News camera crews had already begun filming the inevitable carnage left by the mudslides that came after the torrential rain. The rains eventually lead to homes tumbling down the mountainside that were no longer capable of remaining stacked upon one another like color game board pieces, in the crowded hills above Rio de Janeiro.
Copacabana appealed to the Stranger, more so than Ipanema’s anemic facade. It still had that Art Deco flair, stemming from the 1940’s and 1950’s when most of the buildings were built, and Copacabana was in its heyday, attracting tourist from all over the world. As he walked through the old neighborhoods he came upon a traveling band that roamed the streets entertaining tourist and locals alike. They sang old favorites and strummed on acoustic guitars, while one of the members passed the hat. The tambourines kept cadence while the drummers beat out a captivating rhythm on Macaco skin drums, and Capoeira fighting dancers did their thing. All of this took place among the frantic pace of a city on the move.
A hundred buses jockeyed for position along Avineda Nossa Seniora de Copacabana. They all seemed to be part of some unscheduled race, with the passengers taking second place no matter who won. Pedestrians took on the added threat of incurring great bodily harm just by crossing the street, and should give thanks to the deity of their choice for reaching the other side unharmed.
He moved along the crowed avenue like an errant breeze, neither confined nor hindered by street venders hawking their wares. But before too long the clouds began to gather again as if the gods knew that it was time to make amends. With the first clap of thunder the storm made its presence known, and the crowds dispersed without a trace leaving the Stranger once again all alone.
It was his nature to be observant, and observe he did, as he watched two black men at a construction site unload a truck load of red bricks, while their white co-workers sought shelter from the rain. They were not ordered to do so, but tradition and expectations often speak louder than words.
He knew that the blacks did all of the heavy lifting in Rio de Janeiro, and manned all of the menial jobs. He was a pragmatic man who dealt with reality, and did not harbor fantasies when the truth was as plain as black and white. Although he moved easily between both worlds, his sense of purpose 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, all bore their African heritage reluctantly upon their backs, albeit unwittingly. They appeared to accept their station in life, but acceptance is not the same thing as embracement. You have to be able to choose from viable options in order to make gainful decisions, but when given the choice to live or die, you would drink muddy water and sleep in a hollow log.
The shop owners were well educated and prosperous, with their European heritage intact. The white Brazilians assumed the caretaker role, which assured their position and status as masters of the Brazilian society as a whole. They dominated and controlled all of the vital institutions and social systems that ultimately lead to a better quality of life. Superior education and meaningful health care were restricted to the privilege few, while inferior substitutes were forced on the masses and then they were told that they were all equal. But as in the literary quote from the Animal Farm, some were more equal than others. The rich believed that their status was not a result of racial policy or prejudice but merely coincidental that the whites had complete control and ownership of everything in the country worth owning, except for a man’s soul. And in the realm of spirituality the former Africans slaves held sway. Karma dictates a natural balance in the universe, giving each faction the tools to decimate the other or to live in harmony.
One shopkeeper called out to the Stranger walking about in the rain and invited him inside, recognizing that he was not a carioca. The stranger was somewhat amused that he had been so readily identified as being a tourist. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but his projected personification was working as planned, and he was an inquisitive man who was ahead of schedule, so he complied. It wasn’t a racist thing, the shopkeeper said, when he fielded the unexpected question of inequity posed to him by the Stranger. 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 lay elsewhere as he looked at his watch, then thanked the shop keeper for indulging him, and walked out the door.
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’s downpour turned into a steady
drizzle that barely disturbed the small puddles of water that the Stranger side
stepped on the way to his final destination. He soon arrived at an old office
building, located one block away from the beach. A poster attached to the door in
front of him, extolled the reader to simply “Blame it on Rio”. He kept that in
mind as he quickly scanned the scene, and immediately noticed a multitude of
people seemingly just milling about in the rain. The more he thought about it
the odder it seemed, but then he refocused his attention to deal with the matter
at hand, and adjusted his white Fedora just a tad, with a slight tip of the
brim, then slowly opened the door and stepped inside.
The fat man was seated behind a desk, with a purring
black cat nestled in his lap. He quickly looked up and made an effort to stand,
but was stopped in his tracts by the sight of the 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 day was coming; judgment day had
arrived sooner rather than later, this day, today, now.
With a wave of the gun, the Stranger motioned
for the fat man to sit. And with a visible sigh of relief the fat man settled back
in his chair, absentmindedly stroking the cat and thinking that he had just
dodged a bullet. Then the Stranger leaned forward and shot him in the head.
The fat man’s eyes held no surprise when he slumped forward, quite dead. The startled cat jumped from his lap, pulling a string of Onyx beads behind it. Apparently redemption was not at hand; after all some things are simply priceless.
A faint trace of cordite filled the room, as a wisp of smoke rose from the hole his head, while the black cat sat in the corner, cautiously watching a trickle of blood run down his face, all the way to his chin. A gold key and chain hanging around his neck were quickly removed, but not without reciprocation. The black cat witnessed the Stranger place a charred wooden doll in the fat man's lap, and then the Stranger closed the front door without a sound, and quickly melted back into the crowd, as effortless as the rain.
The fat man’s eyes held no surprise when he slumped forward, quite dead. The startled cat jumped from his lap, pulling a string of Onyx beads behind it. Apparently redemption was not at hand; after all some things are simply priceless.
A faint trace of cordite filled the room, as a wisp of smoke rose from the hole his head, while the black cat sat in the corner, cautiously watching a trickle of blood run down his face, all the way to his chin. A gold key and chain hanging around his neck were quickly removed, but not without reciprocation. The black cat witnessed the Stranger place a charred wooden doll in the fat man's lap, and then the Stranger closed the front door without a sound, and quickly melted back into the crowd, as effortless as the rain.
No comments:
Post a Comment