Brazilian Hearts

To the reader

:

Some have written to say they think that I attribute some Western ideas into Peter and Maria's stories and motivations. Except for Peter himself, I can assure the reader I have not. Everything you are about to read is authentic. From the words to the motivations to certain aspects of the

ayahuasca

, they remain just as they were relayed to me. I am just a humble teller of stories.

Again the warning: if you are looking for a mindless stroke story, pass my writings on by. But, if you are looking for a tale of captured love in an exotic land, read on. There is nothing new here; just a tale as timeless as humanity itself.

My thanks to my muse, Lizabeth. meu coração brasileiro. Once again, many, many thanks for her patience to my editor-in-waiting, LadyCibelle

Brazilian Hearts (Corações Brasileiros)

By

Chagrined

Only as a warrior can one survive the path of knowledge, because the art of a warrior is to balance the terror of being a man with the wonder of being a man.

Carlos Castaneda Teachings of Don Juan

The crash was louder than I had expected. With one hand I grabbed for the first available rag and tried to erase the evidence before discovery. It was a wasted effort. The black liquid had already begun its winding journey to the floor. I set the cup down and stepped over the kitchen sink and wetted a dishcloth

minha cara

kept there for just such emergencies. I was busily swiping the floor and cursing when the discovery was made.

"Peter? Peter, what are you doing in my kitchen?" a soft accented voice floated from the living room.

So it was her kitchen now? I paid the bills and the rent; well, some of the bills and rent. Her translating and tour service is actually quite lucrative, owing to a large Brazilian community in the area. But, still, I am the man after all!

"Nothing, just had a bit of an accident is all." I replied with feigned nonchalance.

"Did you tip over the coffee pot again?" She called back from her perch on the couch. "I told you that the space was too small to mount it there."

From the safety of the next room I stuck my tongue out in her direction as a gesture of manly defiance.

"I can think of better uses for that,

meu caro

," she commented. How could she have seen that?

I splashed the last bit of Coffee Mate into my cup and stirred it to the right consistency and color; an important ritual which few people can appreciate. I placed the empty carton back in the refrigerator. I would need to remember to stop and get more tomorrow. Retrieving my cup, I padded into the adjacent living room where my wife, Maria, was sitting on the sofa. Her feet rested on a throw pillow sitting on the table in front of her.

I walked up behind her and kissed her ear. Again I could smell the heady fragrance of her hair. Everywhere she goes the essence of Maria's exotic homeland follows her. She sighed contentedly from her perch. I started to come around front to join her on the sofa.

"Peter, rub my feet," she implored, pointing to the pillow.

I eased myself on the floor and set the coffee on the table. My knees cracked in a loud complaint. Going down was easy; getting back up was the hard part at my age. I took one small callused foot and began to massage it. On her lap she had a small shoe box filled with old photos.

"What is that you have there?" I asked.

"Photos from my mother; I want to put them all together in a book for the baby," came her reply.

Maria was three months pregnant and already the nesting instinct was raging within her. She had sorted some into neat piles already. I could tell that some were fairly recent while others were very old and somewhat faded and still more had a sepia tone to them. Idly, I focused on one black and white photo and picked it up. Portrayed there was a dark-haired woman wearing a full skirt and the short sleeve blouse of the type we in America often referred to as a peasant blouse. She was young, perhaps barely twenty years of age, when the photo had been taken. The figure was lush and round, her breasts full, legs well shaped but fleshy. I couldn't make out any color but she was probably a morena and I would have bet the hair was black. It was worn long and draped over her shoulders. There was a vague familiar quality to it.

"Who is this,

cara

?" I asked.

Maria glanced at the photo. "That's my mother,

meu caro

." I made a mental note not to open a detective agency.

"When was this taken?" I inquired.

"Hmmm, 1962, I think." She went back to her work. I continued my ministrations until she set down another pile. On the top was a very old photo of a man scowling at the camera. He was slender with the soft frame which so often hid the tight whipcord strength of the Brazilian Indian people. His hair was lighter than most, his eyes fierce as he gazed at the photo clearly displeased. He was draped in dark cut off slacks and a worn button shirt. A shiver went through me as his eyes bore through mine. This could be a very nasty customer, I thought.

"Darling, who is this guy? A Brazilian headhunter?" I asked flippantly.

Maria looked at the object in my hand. "No, that is my mother's father,

meu avô

."

"Why is he looking so angry?"

"Because his spirit has just been stolen," She explained.

"You're shitting me?" What crazy things people can come up with?

She looked at me, irritated. "Please don't speak that way around the baby. He can hear you," she admonished. "Back then, some people did not understand about photos, especially the forest people. They believed that the photo was actually their spirit taken from them. That photo was the reason he married my grandmother."

I looked back at the faded sepia tone. "Jesus, I would hate to have met up with him in the jungle."

Maria laughed. "No, Peter, he isn't the one to fear. His wife was."

I frowned at the photo. "His wife is your grandmother?"

Maria nodded and begun digging badger-like into the shoebox. I looked at the photo again. "What is your

avó

, a jaguar?" It was hard to believe anything would be scarier that this scowling face.

She came back up for air holding yet another faded sepia photo. "Here. This is she. My

avó

."

The photo she handed was even more old and faded but the centerpiece was as timeless as the sphinx. It showed an Indian woman of indeterminate age. She was naked from the waist down and the full skirt, which circled her hips, was tied in such away that it exposed a length of smooth thigh. Her breasts were small but round and firm. The hair was as dark as my Maria's and kept in place by a bandana tired around her head. The overall effect was quite erotic and for a moment my loins stirred. This was woman: primal, desirable and ripe.

"Wow! This is your grandmother? And you say that she was more dangerous than gramps here? How was that?"

"

Sim

.

minha avó

was a

feiticeira

or

bruxa

, how do you say? A witch?" She informed me.

I considered the photo still in my hand. The power emanating from the image of this woman was almost palpable. She would have held much influence in her time. I looked to my Maria; the resemblance was there. "Yeah, that is the word. Is there a difference between a

feiticeira

and a

bruxa

,

minha cara

?"

Maria looked up and smiled. "

Feiticeira

is more sweet, like me," she chirped and then blew me a kiss.

Over the time we have spent together, my Maria has given me quite a few surprises. But this revelation was a bit over the top. I picked up the photo of Maria's grandfather. He was still scowling at me. "And you say that this picture was the reason they met?"

"Yes. It is an old family story. He had to get his sprit back from the spirit world. He went to

minha avó

family to get it back. Her father was a

pahé

, a man of great power to his people and she was a witch as was my mother and as am I. Now, hand me the box cover."

I sat up. "Oh, no! I want to hear this! You are a

bruxa

? " I demanded.

"No, I am your

feiticeira

,

meu caro

," she corrected.

"Whatever. Tell me the story!"

Maria laughed. "Oh, Peter you are an engineer and an educated man. You do not wish to hear the old tales of forest people," she retorted.

I didn't have the heart to tell her my major in college was anthropology. "Hey, you have just told me that the woman of my dreams is a witch. I think I deserve to know the details."

She looked at me hesitantly. "Are you sure you want to hear this? It is just a tale passed from family member to family member. It maybe isn't true." He eyes told me she believed it was.

"I'll take the chance. Tell me," I demanded.

She looked at me reproachfully. "And you won't interrupt?"

As I said it, I did it. "Cross my heart,

xu xu

."

Xu Xu

, pronounced "shoo shoo" is a term I had taken to using with her lately meaning roughly "girlfriend". It made her feel younger; anything to keep peace in the family.

"Well," she began, "years ago there was a man…"

"Shouldn't this start with 'It was a dark and stormy night?'" I interjected.

"Peter! If you are going to make fun I will stop now! Are you interested or not?" she asked reprovingly.

I grinned and held up my hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I just wanted to add a little atmosphere."

"Well," she began again, glaring at me, "years ago there was a man who would come to the forests to hunt, to capture the animals for the zoos. He was very famous and used to make films of his trips. Well, one day he comes to the jungle……

**********************************

1933 Rio Negro River Area Upper Brazil

The day was wearing and hot. José trudged after the crazy American

patrão

toward the river side. Behind him trailed a short progression of bearers carrying the cages and sacks used to transport the animals caught. They were empty save a small one which held a young jaguar. José prayed to the Blessed Virgin that the mother did not happen along before he had the opportunity to leave with the day's pay.

He could not understand this desire to take animals away to live in some foreign land. Didn't they have animals of their own? At least this crazy American

guia

wanted to bring them back alive and not a carcass with which he could brag to his friends about how he had killed the fierce beast in mortal combat

But still, he believed it was contrary to nature. The animals that populated this land had been born here, lived in here in balance with the land here. From the boa,

prequica

,

onca

the jaguar, all had been designed to live here along the banks of the Rio Negro. If others wanted to see them let them come here. José had no problem with that, but to take them away from their homeland, well, he was not certain of it.

He labored along through heat and moisture. José stopped short as the crazy man stepped from the path to a tangle of vines which had captured his attention. José caught a hint of movement and yelled at the man but he ignored the warning, reaching into the mass of vines.

Despite its size the snake struck with blinding speed and gripped the man on the forearm. The weight of the anaconda tried to bear the man down but he was miraculously able to stay on his feet. The snake instinctively tried to loop a great coil around the struggling man as José yelled back at the remaining men for help. José grabbed the straining coils and wrestled it back. The other men poured around the struggle, each grabbing to restrain the huge reptile. Three of the porters came to the head and pried away at the mouth in an attempt to loosen the anchoring grip. After long minutes the mouth released its prize and the American

guia

fell back clutching at the injured arm. José ordered two porters to retrieve a large sack.

The native hunter-tracker then turned his attention back to helping the other men to subdue the creature still intent on obtaining a meal. Ten men now struggled with the beast each making sure not to become trapped in a coil. The returning porters rushed back and began the process of getting the snake into it. Soon it was bagged and secured. José motioned to the rear of the train and the capture was sent back to camp.

The American was looking at his arm. The anaconda had left several teeth embedded into the arm. The cameraman was busy taking a moving picture record of the wound. The American looked up and saw José and called out to him. José approached, uncertain of what the man wanted and watching the man with a camera warily. José did not trust the strange box and wanted to keep a wide berth of it.

The American said something in his gibberish. The head porter looked at José and translated. "The

chefe

Buck says you saved his life. He is happy with you. You will get a bonus."

José shrugged. "If the stupid man would do as we have told him it would not have been necessary. His stupidity will get someone killed."

The porter translated that José was very pleased to be of help. The American went on for some small time and motioned for the man with the magic box to come close. José backed away. The American motioned him closer.

"The

chefe

Buck wants to take your picture. He says it will be good way to remember the man who saved his life," the chief porter explained. "You will be famous and an important man back in his native country." José shook his head guardedly. The two men talked some more and the American seemed agitated.

Presently the porter turned again and said, "The

chefe

wants you to have the magic box take your image. I explained that you know that the box will steal your spirit but he says that is nonsense. He says that if you do not stand in front of the box he will not pay you at all today."

José needed the money. He had to accept. The photographer came up holding a Kodak Brownie Special No. 2. José could do nothing but glare as the man took his spirit.

Joachim, one of the lead bearer's came up and laid his hand on José's shoulder. They were from the same village and had known one another since childhood.

"Now you will have to go and retrieve your spirit" Joachim observed. "There is a witch man, a

pahé

, in a village about an hours walk from camp. Tonight we will go to and speak with him about what can be done."

Still glaring in the direction of the American who's life he had saved, José nodded his agreement. How can one repay a dept by stealing the spirit from a man? Perhaps the American had no honor, or he was stupid and did not know of this but everyone knew the purpose of the magic box. His father had warned him about this and these people. To his father the Norte Americano's and Europeans could not be trusted. They brought disharmony and disease to the people. Someday they would come and take the lands well, leaving the people with nothing. Shaking his head, José moved off and away from the main group.

The rest of the day was spent in chasing down parrots and monkeys. A leopard had been spotted but had escaped into the jungle and the trail lost. José busied himself with obtaining meat for the young jaguar and worrying over his missing spirit. If it was not retrieved soon, José would develop the wasting disease and die over the next few months. His physical body would be unable to continue without the spirit body present to sustain it. His dreams of the life in the city would die with it.

An uneducated man, he had lived in the Rio Negro area for generations, and expert in its ways. His family had made a living by working for several local coffee plantations. José had grander aspirations. José had seen the magic of the bigger city of Manaus and developed a taste for the city. He found that he enjoyed the mass of people and diversity; working this job would give him the money to move and begin a life there.

In the jungle, darkness does not descend or fall. It is a world where daylight is filtered across a canopy of trees which can stretch a hundred feet into the sky; each day is marked by a checkerboard of light against a slow progression of dusk. One moment thin sunlight struggles against the ground; the next, blackness envelopes the world. It is at this time that the jungle is most alive and at its most dangerous.

After dinner had been eaten and the utensils cleared, José went looking for his friend to begin the trek to the nearby village and its

pahé

. The trip would take about an hour and José and Joachim decided to take machetes and Joachim carried a Remington slung on his shoulder. The trip was uneventful and on the way they had discussed what José had to do and how he would pay the

pahé

back.

"You will need to find something good for the

pahé

. Getting back your spirit will be difficult for him. He may have to walk the white spirit trail," Joachim observed.

José shrugged. "I have brought money."

"Stupid, what doe a medicine man need with money? He has everything he needs. He lives in the world of spirit." his companion replied.

"In that case, why should I need to pay him at all?" reasoned José.

They approached the village from the southwest. They could see the light of a roaring fire and hear singing in the distance; most likely a local celebration of some event, perhaps a marriage. As they approached they could make out a circle of people standing looking at a couple. The couple was facing an older man who was talking to the assembled people. He seemed intent on his address until he saw the approach of the two strangers. He stopped and called out to the men in welcome.

The crowd stopped and tuned to look at the stranger. José stepped forward. "

Desculpe-nos

, we are looking for the

pahé

. We are in need of healing."

The man who had been addressing the village broke away and walked to ward them "I am the

pahé

. What is wrong?" he held up a hand. "No, I will guess, it is good practice for me," he grinned. He approached the men.

The

pahé

was a small lean man with a weathered face and sharp black eyes. The gaunt frame revealed a body colored and painted in a variety of colors. José knew that these were part of spirit travels and illustrated some particular power or significant event in the shaman's life. From the depth, José guessed this man had been very accomplished.

Without preamble, the small man approached José. The eyes evaluated the tracker in one long sweeping look.

"Your spirit is gone. It was taken by the black box." The

pahé

announced. He reached into a small canvas sack hanging at this side and withdrew a short piece of dried root.

José looked to his friend and then back to the small man. "

Sim

,

chefe

. I need you to return to the sprit world and retrieve it for me. Can you do that?"

The

pahé

gnawed at the root and regarded the man. The shaman's eyes pierced deep into José's as if looking into his heart and reading whatever story might be written there. Presently he said, "Yes. What is it worth to you?"

José reached deep into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, the entire days pay. The shaman glanced at the contents of the hand and snorted. "So little for your life? For as sure as I stand here, if your spirit is not returned you will die of the wasting sickness."

"I can bring more tomorrow," José countered.

The little man's eyes began to dance reflecting pinpoints of light from the fire. By now, the exchange had piqued the interested of the remaining tribe. They walked over. José stood his ground but his companion took a step back, uncertain. These were forest people and one never knew how they would react. A simple thing such as a wrong inflection could insult them. Joachim knew that to insult a forest person would bring certain painful death to the offender.