The Ways of Evil Men Read online

  She couldn’t argue. Considering the contempt in which the townsfolk held the people of the rainforest Azevedo was a bad place for him.

  But how will he cope if we leave him for twenty-four hours on his own?

  She concluded he’d cope well. Indian boys grew up fast.

  “Good,” she said. “You come. Boy stay.”

  Chapter Three

  JADE WAS SURE THAT Amati had never seen a jeep, much less ridden in one, but he hopped in and took a seat as if he’d been doing it every day of his life. He didn’t run his hands over the dashboard or try the knobs on the door as she expected he might. He simply sat there, seldom uncrossing his arms throughout their entire journey.

  As she drove, she tried to press him for more details of what had happened. Initially, he responded to her questions, but when it became clear that she understood almost nothing of what he was trying to tell her, he fell into silence.

  They arrived in the hottest part of the day, that time between noon and four when the sun seared the treeless streets. Between those hours, the temperatures were almost intolerable for animals and humans alike and Azevedo was prone to take on the look of a ghost town.

  It would have deeply offended the sensibilities of the townsfolk to have a near-naked man circulating in their midst, so Jade made Paulo Cunha’s clothing store her first stop. Cunha stocked only the sizes he was likely to sell, and most of the men in Azevedo ran to fat, so all of the shorts were too wide around the waist. Jade had to buy a belt to secure the smallest pair she could find. As for shirts, the Indian’s shoulders and arms were well developed from drawing his bow. She needed something broad across the shoulders. To get it, she had to settle for something much too large by the time it reached his hips. But now, at least, his bare flesh was modestly covered.

  The other customers in Cunha’s shop avoided them. One, a woman of about Jade’s age, even scurried backward upon rounding a corner and seeing them coming toward her.

  The shrew at the register, a sour-faced individual of about sixty, skewered Jade with a look that went beyond mere disapproval. “You should know better than to bring a savage in here,” she said, pointing at Amati with her sharp chin. “If Senhor Cunha was here—”

  “Ah, but he isn’t, is he?” Jade said, sweetly. She laid a hand on Amati’s shoulder. “Where can he change?”

  The woman slammed the drawer of the register shut. “Anywhere you please,” she said, “as long as it isn’t in here.”

  FATHER CARLO Castori lived in a tiny house adjoining the church. It had whitewashed walls, blue shutters, and a red tile roof.

  “Ah,” he said, looking none too pleased to see Jade on his doorstep. “Our esteemed representative of the FUNAI. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  His speech was slurred, but he wasn’t too drunk to identify his visitor. The FUNAI, the Fundação Nacional do Índio, was the federal government’s National Indian Foundation—Jade’s employer.

  “I’m so glad you’re at home, Father. I need your help.”

  He stared at her out of bleary eyes, then looked at Amati. “I know him,” he said.

  “And he knows you. He’s an Awana. His name is Amati.”

  The Indian said something in his own language. Castori snapped a reply. Jade didn’t understand a word, and she didn’t have to. It was clear the two men detested each other.

  “Can we come in?”

  For a moment, Jade thought the priest might refuse, but curiosity must have gotten the better of him. He stepped aside.

  In the kitchen, on a table surrounded by four chairs, were an ashtray, half full, a glass, half empty, a Bible, and a bottle. He motioned for them to sit, took a seat himself, pushed the Bible aside and picked up the bottle. “Drink?” he asked, waving it in Jade’s direction.

  She shook her head. The bottle was clear glass and the content as transparent as water—a sure sign that the cane spirit hadn’t been aged. It took a strong stomach to ingest the stuff. She thought he might offer her something else: coffee, water, a soft drink perhaps. But he didn’t. Nor did he extend the offer of refreshment to Amati.

  “Help with what?” he asked, topping up his glass.

  “Translation.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s been a disaster.”

  “Really?” The priest raised the glass to his lips, gulped rather than sipped. “What kind of a disaster?”

  She told him.

  He stroked his chin, drained the remainder of his glass, reached for the bottle and refilled it. Fumes from the strong cane spirit wafted across the table.

  “All of them dead, eh?” he said. “Imagine that.” His lack of outrage infuriated Jade. She would have liked to stand up right then and leave, but she knew no one else who could speak the language. She needed him, couldn’t run the risk of offending him, but also couldn’t trust herself to speak. So she sat there, waiting him out, while he took another sip, then, finally, began speaking in the Awana tongue.

  She’d hoped he’d translate the Indian’s responses one by one, but he didn’t. He simply engaged Amati in conversation as if she wasn’t there. It seemed to her that quite a long time had passed before he switched back to Portuguese and began summarizing the story: “He and his son went out hunting. They left the village before dawn, shot a monkey and returned in the afternoon. When they got back, everyone was dead. Everyone. Their whole tribe.”

  Jade looked at Amati in sympathy. The Indian didn’t appear to notice. His eyes were fixed on Castori, who treated himself to more cachaça before he continued:

  “Corpses were all over the village. They hadn’t been dead long. Most were still warm.”

  She couldn’t contain herself. “Does he know what killed them?”

  “Poisoned, he said, by a piece of meat.”

  “An entire tribe? From a single piece of meat? How is that possible?”

  He must have taken her response as criticism—either of his translation or his credulity—because his response was sharp, an explosion of instant anger. “Your question, Senhorita Calmon, betrays your gross ignorance of Indians in general and the Awana in particular.”

  She tried to placate him. “I make no claim to be an expert, Father.”

  “Then I suggest you look upon this as a splendid opportunity to learn something from someone who is. The Awana share food.” He paused to belch, washed the taste out of his mouth with more cachaça, and went on in a milder tone of voice. “The meat derived from every hunt is regarded as common property. If the food is a gift from another tribe, they turn the sharing into a ritual. Everybody is supposed to eat a portion, however small, even if they’re not hungry. It’s meant to honor the giver.”

  It took an effort, but Jade moved closer, striving for more intimacy. “Wouldn’t they have noticed that the first people to consume the meat were getting sick? And when they did, wouldn’t the rest stop eating? Or not eat at all?”

  “That depends, does it not, on whether the poison was quick acting? It isn’t considered polite to begin until everyone has been served, so they all would have taken their first bites at about the same time. Only the babies, the ones too young for meat, would have been exceptions, but there weren’t any babies, were there?”

  Jade shook her head. “No, no babies.”

  “No, there wouldn’t have been, would there? A dying tribe, the Awana. Now, let me see, what else did he say? Ah, yes. He buried the bodies and he and his son performed their pagan rituals. They were at it for a number of days before you arrived. Then you came along and promised him justice. And for that reason and that reason alone, he agreed to come here and tell his story.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s it? After all that talking?”

  “Of course not, but that’s the gist of it. He related everything in minute detail, but you don’t need to hear any of that.”

  “I’m sorry, Father, but I think I do. Please, try to remember.”

  The priest
drained his glass, poured another. “Why?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Very well. I’ll try, but I’m warning you, some of it is pretty disgusting. They’re like that, the Indians. Disgusting. It comes from being too close to the ugly side of nature.”

  “Nevertheless—”

  “He talked about the flies on his wife’s face. They were crawling in and out of her …”

  Castori pointed to his nose.

  “Nostrils.”

  “Yes, nostrils. There was one man who’d fallen across a fire and roasted his belly. And there were vultures tearing at the bodies, opening them up with their beaks, going first for their eyes. You see? You really didn’t want to hear any of that, did you?”

  “No,” Jade said. “But I must. Go on.”

  “He said the dead people hadn’t discharged any vomit or excrement. He said it wasn’t that kind of poison. Ridiculous! How could he possibly know what kind of poison it was?”

  “They use various kinds of poisons for hunting, some in the rivers to stun fish.”

  He blinked at her, getting irritated again. “Thank you, Senhorita Calmon. That’s a stunning revelation.”

  “I’m sorry, Father. You knew that.”

  The priest put down his glass with a thump. If the tumbler had been of more delicate stuff, he might well have broken it. “Of course I did! I know everything there is to know about the Awana. I’ve probably forgotten more than you’ll ever learn.”

  Jade refused to react to his show of temper. “I’m sure that’s true,” she said. But then couldn’t refrain from adding, “particularly considering the fact that there are now only two left. Can you remember anything else?”

  “He talked about how the young girls will never again dance at the ceremony for the dead because there are no young girls anymore. And he says he must get back to his village and help his son to put up the kuarups. You know what a kuarup is?”

  “Yes,” Jade said. “I know. They’d only erected one when I found them, and they hadn’t painted it yet.”

  “He said it took them a long time to bury everyone and cut the wood.”

  “Please ask him why he thinks white men did it.”

  “I already did. He gave me two reasons.”

  “And they are?”

  “The only one I’m inclined to believe was his description of the meat. It wasn’t a tapir, he’s sure of that, but he couldn’t identify it. It might have been a pig. They’re not familiar with pigs.”

  “And the other reason?”

  “It’s preposterous.”

  “I’d like to hear it anyway.”

  “He said that only white men would be evil enough to poison an entire people.”

  Chapter Four

  BY THE TIME THEY left the priest’s home, the hottest part of the day had passed and people were appearing on the streets. Without exception, they stared at the Indian and, without exception, the stares were hostile.

  Jade decided to get Amati out of sight until she needed him. But where could she bring him?

  Her home? No. There’d be shrieks of protest from her housekeeper if she showed up accompanied by a “dirty savage”. Jade had explained more than once that Indians commonly bathed twice a day, and that most were cleaner than many white men, but Alexandra Santos didn’t believe it. To her, all Indians were dirty, and that was that. She remembered, then, a comment once made by a sales clerk at Cunha’s Pharmacy. The woman had remarked that Osvaldo Neto’s mother was an Indian. She’d said it disparagingly, as if it was something to be ashamed of, as if Osvaldo were a lesser creature because of it. Jade had disliked the remark at the time, but she was grateful for it now. If it was true, Osvaldo might not share the bigotry that pervaded the town. He might agree to give Amati a room at the Grand.

  She parked behind the building and circled around to the front door. Osvaldo was alone in the bar, loading cans of beer into the refrigerator.

  “Happy to help,” he said when she’d finished explaining the situation. “But we’ll have to sneak him in. You know how folks in this town are. Most of them wouldn’t like the idea of him staying here. Where is he now?”

  “Out back, sitting in my jeep.”

  “Perfect. You notice the door back there?”

  “What door?”

  “There’s only one. Go there and wait.”

  Two minutes later, she heard the key turn in the lock. Osvaldo stuck out his head, looked left and right to make sure no one was watching, and ushered them inside.

  “This way,” he said. “There’s a stairway that goes to the second floor.”

  On the way up, they met one of the chambermaids coming down. When she caught sight of the Indian, she stopped dead. “Is that an Indian, Senhor Osvaldo?”

  “Yes, Rita, that’s an Indian. He’ll be staying in two-one-one.”

  Her mouth set in a firm line. “And you expect me to clean it?”

  “I’ll do it myself,” he said. “Or Amanda will. Get back to work.”

  She sniffed and continued on her way.

  “Bitch,” Jade muttered.

  “She is,” Osvaldo agreed. “But she’s reliable, and in this town reliable is hard to get.”

  Room 211 was at the end of the corridor.

  “Not the cheapest one I’ve got,” Osvaldo said, opening the door. “But that’s because of this.” He opened another door to reveal a small bathroom. “Most of the other rooms have to share the facilities. If someone went into one of the toilets or showers and found him there, they’d be sure to kick up a fuss.”

  “And this way, he won’t have to leave the room. Good idea. I’ll try to explain that to him.”

  Before Osvaldo could reply, the Indian pointed to the toilet bowl and said a few words, probably asking what it was for.

  Osvaldo answered him in the same language.

  “Wait,” Jade said. “You speak Awana?”

  “Sure do.”

  “If I’d known that I would have come here first.”

  “Come here for what?”

  “To get a translation. I’ve been trying to learn their language, but I still have a long way to go.”

  “So you went to Castori?”

  “I did. Does he know you speak Awana?”

  Osvaldo grinned. “He does, but he doesn’t spread it around. He likes the idea of being the sole expert.”

  “Why does he dislike the Awana so? And, given that he does, why did he bother to learn their language?”

  “He learned so he could make converts, but he was never able to convert a single one. He blames them for that, but the truth of the matter is he’s a drunk.”

  “What’s being a drunk got to do with it?”

  “Indians don’t respect drunks, and they don’t take on new ideas from people they don’t respect. I could have told him that, saved him a lot of trouble, but he never asked.”

  “And you never offered?”

  Osvaldo shook his head. “No way. Castori’s an asshole. So, tell me, what’s going on?”

  Jade told him.

  “Jesus,” Osvaldo said when she was done. “I can see why you’d want to get him off the street.”

  “You think he’s in danger?”

  The hotelkeeper gave an emphatic nod. “You bet I do. Think about it. After thirty-nine murders, what’s one more?”

  “So you think it might be a land grab?”

  “I do. People around here have been bitching about that reservation for years, and the only way to do away with it was to do away with the people who lived there. Everybody knew that, but nobody ever had the guts to go that far. Now, somebody has and there’s just him.” Osvaldo hooked a thumb at Amati.

  “And his son,” Jade added.

  “Right.”

  “So what you’re saying is—”

  “That if the killers get a crack at them, their lives won’t be worth a centavo.”

  “Who are they, Osvaldo? Who do you think might have done this thing?”

  O
svaldo scratched an ear. “One of the big ranchers, probably, or maybe someone who’s already stealing from the Indians and doesn’t want your agency or the IBAMA to find out about it.”

  The IBAMA, the Instituto Brasileiro do Meio Ambiente, was the country’s environmental protection agency.

  “You’re thinking illegal logging?”

  “I am.”

  “I don’t think so. We put a stop to that.”

  “You only think you did.”

  “Could you be a bit more specific?”

  “As long as it doesn’t go any farther than this room.”

  “Agreed.”

  Despite the fact that they were within closed doors, Osvaldo leaned close and lowered his voice. “You know Paulo Cunha?”

  “Sure. He owns all those shops.”

  “And a lumber business. You know Raul Nonato?”

  “The IBAMA guy?”

  “The IBAMA guy. He owns two cars and the biggest goddamned TV set anybody in this town has ever seen. Had it shipped special all the way from Belem. Filho da puta has begun touting it as the town’s biggest tourist attraction.”

  “You think Cunha is taking wood from the reservation and Nonato is issuing him phony certificates of provenance to enable him to do it?”

  “You have another explanation for owning two cars and a monster television set on the salary he’s supposed to be earning?”

  “So you suspect the guilty party is Cunha?”

  Outside, a truck with a faulty muffler was approaching the hotel. Osvaldo raised his voice so she could hear him over the racket.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe Cunha. But it could just as well be another one of the Big Six—or maybe more than one, acting together.”

  “Big Six?”

  The noise from the truck was fading. He went back to speaking softly again. “You never heard that term?”

  “No.”

  Osvaldo motioned for her to take a seat on the bed and sank down into the room’s only chair. The Indian walked to the window, pulled the curtain aside and looked out. There wasn’t much to see, just the wall of the adjoining building, but he kept staring at it as their words flowed over him.