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Inside a thatched-roof schoolhouse in Nabekodabadaquiba, a village deep in Brazil's Amazon rain forest, Surui Indians and former military cartographers huddle over the newest weapons in the tribe's fight for survival: laptop computers, satellite maps and hand-held global positioning systems. At one table, Surui illustrators place a sheet of tracing paper over a satellite image of the Sete de Setembro indigenous reserve, the enclave where this workshop is taking place.
Back Next Contents. After the drive had grown long and monotonous, Partridge shut his eyes and the woman was waiting. She wore a cold white mask similar to the mask Bengali woodcutters donned when they ventured into the mangrove forests along the coast.
The tigers of the forest were stealthy. The tigers hated to be watched; they preferred to sneak up on prey from behind, so natives wore the masks on the backs of their he as they gathered wood.
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Sometimes this kept the tigers from dragging them away. The woman in the cold white mask reached into a wooden box. She lifted a tarantula from the box and held it to her breast like a black carnation. The contrast was as magnificent as a stark Monet if Monet had painted watercolors of emaciated patricians and their pet spiders. Partridge sat on his high, wooden chair and whimpered in animal terror.
In the daydream, he was always very young and powerless. The woman tilted her head. She came near and extended the tarantula in her long, gray hand.
Sometimes it was a strange, dark flower. The woman offered him a black phone.
Come quick! The woman in the cold white mask brightened then dimmed like a dying coal or a piece of metal coiling into itself. Partridge opened his eyes and rested his brow against window glass.
He was alone with the driver. The bus trawled through a night forest. Black trees dripped with fog. The narrow black road crumbled from decades of neglect. Sometimes poor houses and fences stood among the weeds and the ferns and mutely suggested many more were lost in the dark. Wilderness had arisen to reclaim its possessions. Royals hunted in woods like these. He snapped on the overhead lamp and then opened his briefcase.
Stags, wild boar, witches. The briefcase was nearly empty. Carry on, carry on. He had hopped a redeye jet to Boston and once there eschewed the convenience of renting a car or hiring a chauffeur and limo. He chose instead the relative anonymity of mass transit. The appeal of traveling incognito overwhelmed his normally staid sensibilities.
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Here was the first adventure he had undertaken in ages. The solitude presented an opportunity to compose his thoughts—his excuses, more likely. There were several smaller opportunities, namely an L. He knew he should hire a reliable secretary. He promised himself to do just that every year. It was hard. He missed Jean. Jean left him for Universal Studios and then slammed into a reef in Maui learning to surf with her new boss. These details would surely keep despite what hysterics might come in the meanwhile. Better, much better, not to endure the buzzing and whining and the imprecations and demands that he return at once on pain of immediate career death, over a dicey relay.
He had not packed a camera, either. He was on vacation. His mind would store what his eye could catch and that was all. The light was poor. Partridge held the dark blue sex chat mobile truckthe forest book close to his face. He had scribbled the directions from margin to margin and drawn a crude map with arrows and lopsided boxes and jotted the initials of the principles: Dr. Toshi Ryoko; Dr. Howard Campbell; Beasley; and Nadine. Of course, Nadine—she snapped her fingers and here he came at a loyal trot. There were no mileposts on the road to confirm the impression that his destination was near.
The weight in his belly sufficed. It was a fat stone grown from a pebble. A few minutes before dawn, the forest receded and they entered Warrenburgh.
Warrenburgh was a loveless hamlet of crabbed New England shop fronts and angular plank and shingle houses with tall, thin doors and oily windows. Streetlights glowed along Main Street with black gaps like a broken pearl necklace. The street itself was buckled and rutted by poorly tarred cracks that caused sections to cohere uneasily as interleaved ice floes. The sea loomed near and heavy and palpable beneath a layer of rolling gloom.
Partridge did not like what dark blue sex chat mobile truckthe forest he glimpsed of the surroundings. The doctor was a creature of warmth and light. Beasley, longstanding attendant of the eccentric researcher, waited at the station. This was like being embraced by an earth mover.
Beasley had played Australian rules football for a while after he left dark blue sex chat mobile truckthe forest Army and before he came to work for Toshi. His nose was squashed and his ears were cauliflowers. He was magnetic and striking as any character actor, nonetheless. The truck was museum quality. It was fire engine red with a dinky American flag on the antenna.
They rumbled inland.
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Rusty light gradually exposed counterchange shelves of empty fields and canted telephone poles strung together with thick, dipping dark blue sex chat mobile truckthe forest cables. Ducks pelted from a hollow in the road.
The ducks spread themselves in a wavering pattern against the sky. Yeah, I roam the marshes a bit. Things get in the way. Life, you know? Bag a mallard or two. Raise the dust. Partridge stared at the moving scenery. Toshi was disinterested in hunting and thought it generally a waste of energy.
Nadine detested the sport without reserve. He tasted brackish water, metallic from the canteen.
The odor of gun oil and cigarette smoke was strong in the cab. The smell reminded him of hip waders, muddy clay banks and gnats in their biting millions among the reeds. They drove in silence until Beasley hooked left onto a dirt road that followed a ridge of brambles and oak trees. On the passenger side overgrown pastures dwindled into moiling vapors.
The road was secured by a heavy iron gate with the usual complement of grimy warning s. Beasley climbed out and unlocked the gate and swung it aside. Partridge realized that somehow this was the same ruggedly charismatic Beasley, plus a streak of gray in the beard and minus the spring-loaded tension and the whiskey musk.