Isle of the Snakes

ONE

They call them Pau de Arara in Brazilian Portuguese, these ancient, wheezing, rattling, all-but-dying canvas-covered trucks that serve as transport in the interior of Brazil. The phrase is slang, born of the Brazilian’s sharp but critical sense of humor, and means the roosting bar of the macaw. Possibly the name derives from the nameless dirt that accumulates on the floor during a long trip; or it may come from the fact that, when overcrowded, many of the passengers sleep standing, accommodating their tired bodies to the swaying and bouncing of the complaining vehicle over the rutted roads of the interior, their knotted fingers locked onto a roof beam for support, or even at times clamped desperately to the patient shoulder of one lucky enough to have found space on the cramped benches that line the truck body. A tarpaulin shades them from the parching noonday sun, but beneath it the truck body is a shadowy furnace. Only their thin rags of clothing protect them from the miasmic damp chill that falls in the higher elevations of the coastal range every night.

You find the Pau de Arara carrying despairingly silent men and women, wide-eyed children, squalling infants, and even—if space allows—terrified chickens and ducks. As a general rule, goats are not allowed. The people come from everywhere, going almost anywhere: from the dried cracked-earth farms of the desolate northeast, searching for some semblance of hope in the south; from the sunken flooded lowlands of Santa Catarina, looking for the relative security of a laborer’s job in some factory in Rio de Janeiro; from the endless hunger of some hovel in Matto Grosso, seeking the ever-present dream of food in the crowded environs of São Paulo.

It is not that these steaming, groaning wrecks of Pau de Arara go only where there is no other transportation; the airplane covers this vast country, luxury omnibuses roll smoothly into every tiny crossroads village, and even rare uncomfortable trains haul between the major cities. But the Pau de Arara has the advantage of being cheap. Payment does not depend upon a fixed price scale posted on any official bulletin board—it is often the result of haggled agreement between the passenger and the driver, arrived at squatting at the dusty roadside in the shadow of the panting truck. Many times it depends upon the rider’s purse and the driver’s urgency at the moment for gasoline, or oil, or a new tube for his worn tires. Cooked food has been accepted, and even live chickens. And many times, when the gas tank is full, and the driver’s stomach also, credit takes care of the situation. They are the condução do povo, these Pau de Arara—the transport of the people—and they carry thousands daily in their endless search for the promise of tomorrow that, for the man swaying precariously along in the sweltering heat of the truck body, has to be better than the reality of today.

In the interior of Brazil, sudden blinding rains can reduce the roads to impassable mud wastes, or landslides can quickly block any semblance of passage, and for this reason the Pau de Arara has no fixed schedule or often any fixed route, other than a starting and an ending point. And for this reason they are, of course, an ideal means of travel for people who wish to avoid undue notice.…

To the dull, kilometer-weary eyes of the passengers in the nearly filled 1938 Chevrolet truck coming up to Rio de Janeiro from the tiny village of Urubuapá on the south coast of the state of São Paulo, the large man in the crumpled white suit provoked no particular interest. As they alternately dozed, cuffed children, chattered, or unwrapped marmites to partake of cold rice and beans, they may have noticed that the man in white seemed able to pass the day without eating. Or without sleeping. True, some of them may have noticed his head drop once in a while, but he always came out of his nodding at once with an abrupt jerk and a swift clutch at the inner pocket of his jacket as if to be sure that no one had relieved him of his possessions during his lapse. And whereas it was customary for the passengers to take advantage of the breeze and the view afforded by a seat along the open side of the truck, even at times going to the extreme of usurping such prime space with worded or wordless threats, this one in white seemed more intent upon maintaining a place in the very center, well in the deep shadow of the tarpaulin. The heat here was stifling, but he did not even seem to sweat, only sitting silently, his big body rolling evenly with the dipping and jouncing of the truck, his eyes staring into some distant dream of his own. At times he would hug his arm to his side and smile vacantly to himself at the pleasant response to his arm’s pressure against his crumpled jacket pocket. At other times his hand would sneak unconsciously to stroke his calf, and no one doubted the presence there of some form of protection. But these actions were disregarded and only led his fellow passengers to look pointedly away, for privacy is a cherished and respected adjunct to riding a Pau de Arara.

Their route from Urubuapá lay along the base of the mountains, skirting the ocean, crossing the Santos road at the bridge of Iandú, and thence up the winding dirt trail through Pirimondanha until the rivers below lost their twisted form in the haze of distance; until finally the curving road swung into the rounded body of the hills and the ocean beneath disappeared completely from view. Their way from here, with all familiarity and sense of direction gone, lay in the tortuous curves of climbing turns, past dusty, abandoned orchards and sudden falling streams, until they reached the summit and swept into the planalto to intersect the Dutra Highway at Merópolis.

Before them lay the paved road to Rio de Janeiro. Their driver, a young, swarthy Paulista, whose pride in his driving almost equaled his pride in the decrepit and owed-for truck, swung from the pitted sand road that had led them safely up the mountain, pulling into a combination gas station and bar that fronted the busy Dutra Highway. The worst part of the trip was over; ahead lay the twin-laned and asphalted highway leading to Rio, smooth and assured driving, for even if his lights failed, as they often did, he could always follow the taillights of one of the many night trucks or buses descending from São Paulo.

We stop! he called back from the cab, and swung stiffly down to the crushed stone of the curved drive. "Ten minutes! The privadas are behind in the back. There is no paper, so I warn you. And those who stay, do not shove your garbage out here! The owner is a friend of mine. Ten minutes!"

He moved toward the lights and the blaring radio of the bar but found his way blocked by the sudden appearance of the large man in wrinkled white, who had swung down quickly to intercept him.

"Motorista?"

The driver stopped, still stretching his cramped muscles as he nodded. Yes?

The man in white eyed him speculatively, as if judging him for some obscure reason of his own. The driver waited patiently. The man in white coughed diffidently. You stay in Rio long? After this trip, I mean?

The driver suddenly recognized him. This one had gotten on in Urubuapá at the docks shortly after he had left the garage. One of the very first. He had come running from the shadows like some huge bird, flapping his arms, and had almost missed the trip. And he had paid cruzeiros, cash; and he had not argued over the price, although he did not appear to be the type to allow himself to be taken advantage of. Certainly, thought the driver warmly, the type of customer to attempt to develop.

Why? You would like to return with me?

If I might. The man in white suddenly seemed to realize his voice was louder than necessary and dropped it. Not all the way. Only a part of the way, but on your route. I have but a few hours to spend in Rio.…

The driver lifted his shoulders regretfully. I’m afraid I’ll be there longer. I need to sleep, you know. He smiled suddenly, a young smile. And I had planned on a visit to a girl …

The man in white shrugged this aside as being of minor importance. I can drive, he said shortly. "I have my carteira and it is in order. You can see your girl tonight and tomorrow I can drive and you can sleep."

But you will be as tired as I …

I only get tired when I have the time, the man in white said grimly. In my business you cannot get tired when you want. And at the moment I do not have the time. Well? The harsh voice was impatient. He suddenly realized this was the wrong tone to employ and added, It is quite important, I assure you. And if there are no other passengers … He paused significantly. This, also, can be handled, you understand.

The driver considered this, frowning. One eye was on the lighted bar and the other on his spread-out charges, taking the air, or aiding their children who relieved themselves along the highway into the flashing lights of the cars and trucks that swept by. Another drive his truck? And no passengers?

Well? Despite his control, the impatience had returned to the thick voice. But the driver was not to be rushed.

You wish me to bring you back alone?

Not necessarily alone. If anyone else is ready to leave when you—we—are, they can come. And anyway, I do not wish to come back all the way. You can drop me where you cross the Santos road, as near the docks as possible. He paused, thinking. If we’re alone, you can take me all the way to the docks. That might even be better.

But I may not go back the same way, he driver objected. The roads may be closed.…

The roads will not be closed, the man in white said, almost fiercely. The roads will be open. And I’ll pay well. Is it a deal?

How much?

The man in white relaxed, shrugging. How much do you want? We shall not argue.

It was a difficult decision, one that had never arisen before. Twenty—thirty—twenty conto?

Thirty. It was said with decision. I said we would not argue. Here, I’ll pay you now. He withdrew a thick packet of bills from his pocket and began counting. The driver blanched and pulled him hastily back into the shadows of the truck.

"Senhor! Por favor! Not in the faces of everyone in the world! He looked about nervously, but no one was paying them the slightest attention. He swallowed. It is a deal. What time?"

About eight.

I will be ready. And I will give you a receipt for the money.

The man in white smiled; it was not a pleasant smile. I do not require a receipt. If you take my money you will wait for me. Or you will not sleep well nights, wondering if—

No, senhor. I insist. You must have a receipt. The driver was young, honest, and also cautious. He was far from sure that this unusual passenger was not of the police. He reached for the other’s arm. If you will, in the bar …

The man in white hesitated a moment, and then his smile became almost friendly. All right, then, a receipt. One return passage on the—how do you call your line?

The driver was embarrassed. As yet it doesn’t have a name, senhor. But everyone in the Praça Mauá knows me—Evaristo Machado. We shall make it in my name. Do not worry; it is legal.

I am sure it is. The man in white hesitated once more, glancing at the bright lights flooding the noisy bar. You can give me the receipt when we get to Rio. I do not believe I am hungry.

As you wish, senhor. The driver essayed a minor salute and headed for the bar. A conhaque and a beer made him feel better; he called his friend the bartender and requested paper and pencil. And then he proudly and laboriously traced out a receipt for thirty thousand cruzeiros for one return passage via the Evaristo Machado Omnibus Line. Even as he carefully formed the magnificent figures, his heart swelled. How right he had been to buy the truck! His family had argued endlessly about the deal; his friends, even as they helped him change the clutch and reline the brakes, had practically laughed at him. Even his girl friend—he shook his head. Well, they would see. They would see who had the last laugh, which was always the most delectable. Someday the Evaristo Machado Omnibus Line would compete with the Passaro Marron, with the Viação Cometa, even, running from—

The radio music faded; a station announcement was made. He glanced quickly at the wall clock. Time to stop dreaming and to get moving if he wanted any sleep at all tonight. For obviously he couldn’t let a paying passenger drive while he slept on the morrow. He signed the receipt with a flourish and tucked it into his shirt pocket together with his driver’s documents. One last conhaque and he slipped from his stool, ready for the road.

The man in white had already retreated to the deep shadows of his bench in the center of the truck when the driver returned. The young man clambered up into his cab and wheeled around to the pumps to fill up with gas. Only one quart of oil was required, and very little water. The tires were more or less as they had been, in itself a good omen. With the business of feeding the monster beneath him accomplished, he swung to the road’s edge and braked. Then, with the sort of chuckling cry one uses to start ducks along their route, he finally managed to get all of his passengers back in place.

Whistling to himself, he pulled out onto the broad highway, entering the stream of traffic, heading east. Thirty conto! Six months’ payment on his truck! On his truck? On his omnibus! He pushed the faltering machine into second gear and then into high, rolling faster. Thirty conto, he thought, and grinned to himself in the moonlit darkness.

They passed the lip of the plateau, the passengers now asleep or attempting sleep in the face of sudden sweeping headlights and the hard jolting of the benches beneath them. The serra dipped; they came down slowly, taking the sharp curves with care, hugging the rock wall to allow faster vehicles to pass or to let laboring trucks creep by on their way uphill, their acrid exhausts choking in the still, humid air. The man in white laced his fingers tightly across his knees, pressing his arms to his side, feeling once again the pressure of the package beneath his arm.

He smiled to himself in the darkness, his feeling of safety growing with each mile. What luck! The one chance everyone dreams of! If Jorge hadn’t tried to be extra careful, and if Jorge hadn’t chosen that particular island, he wouldn’t have needed me, and I’d never have gotten that chance. Dishonest? Who’s honest? Jorge? Luis? The Man?

His smile faded suddenly at thought of The Man. How much time had Jorge asked for? Two weeks? Just about up, and when the time came for explanations I’d better be far away from here, well out of Santos, heading south. Jorge is bad enough, he thought, but The Man …

A small shack slid by, a flickering kerosene lantern a reminder of life in the empty night; as quickly as it had been seen it disappeared into the broken shadows behind. They dropped over a steeper lip of the descent, and then before them was the sharp, straight drop into the valley. A bright moon peered from behind the bank of ruffled clouds, throwing distorted shadows of the roadside banana plants in odd patterns across the patched asphalt of the road. The heat of the plain rose to meet them; a sudden blanket of fog swirled up to obscure the moon; the driver slowed down at once, cautiously. And then they were through the wavering band of mist, down in the valley itself, onto the four-lane highway leading to the distant city.

They rolled down the silent valley, following the tunnel of their yellowed headlights past Nova Iguaçú, past Merití, past sleeping houses and trees hiding in the last fading wisps of early-morning fog. The city rose suddenly and mysteriously about them. They swung down the Avenida Brasil past the dim walls of signboards and the shuttered factories, past the weird reflection of the refinery thrown back from the low clouds, past the sodium street lights, harsh and ghastly after the clarity of the moonlight. It was two in the morning when they turned into the final stretch, bouncing unevenly over the cobblestones that fronted the locked and darkened dock warehouses and led finally into the lights of the Praça Mauá.

The driver braked squeakily to a halt, turned off the ignition with relief, and dropped from the cab, stretching his taut muscles as he did so. It had been a good trip, an exceptional trip. No breakdowns, no rain, no sick children. And his lights had miraculously managed to remain lit the entire way. Not to mention the unexpected thirty conto in his pocket. A very good trip indeed.

His passengers unloaded themselves and their tattered belongings slowly, as if reluctant to quit this last fragile tie with home and familiar surroundings. The man in white was the last to descend, but the driver was awaiting him.

Your receipt, senhor.

The man in white smiled, showing large square teeth. Hold it. I’ll collect it when I come around tomorrow—or later this morning, I should say. About eight, more or less. Is that all right?

Fine, senhor. About eight. But I must insist. Your receipt. He held the paper out stubbornly.

The man in white laughed, happy to be in Rio, the end of his business in sight. The most perilous part, by far, was over; a quick delivery and collection and he’d be on his way. A fraction of the value? So what! It was still more money than he’d ever seen, and anyway, they still had to pick it up. And by the time they knew what they faced, he’d be past all of them forever, the people he’d sold it to, as well as Jorge. And The Man, whoever he was. He pressed the package against his side once again for reassurance.

Well, all right, he said lightly. I’ll take the receipt if it will make you any happier. He slipped the scrawled sheet into his watch pocket negligently, grinning at the weary driver. And you’ll be here at eight …

I’ll be here, senhor, all gassed up and ready to go. He patted the steaming radiator fondly. And she’ll get us back. Maybe one of these trips I’ll have something a bit better …

It’s good enough for me as it is, said the man in white, and he smiled. Until tomorrow, then. He turned up his thumb in farewell and crossed the street in the direction of the cab rank.

"Até amanhã." The driver rubbed his neck to relieve the tenseness there from over three hundred miles of difficult driving. He smiled. For thirty conto he could cut down on his sleep. For thirty conto he could even forgo his usual visit to the shapely girls in the houses behind the Avenida Vargas.

He was undergoing his first lesson in the responsibilities of wealth.

In a small cul-de-sac tucked off to one side of the Praça Mauá, between two squat ancient buildings that appeared to lean over it protectively, a black sedan was parked. The two men who sat in the front seat of the darkened car had picked this place for several reasons: it gave a clear view of the Praça and particularly of the main bus station, and it also allowed them to escape any undue attention from passing cars. Especially from police cars. The black sedan had been stolen some six hours before, and there was a chance that the license number had already been circulated.

The man behind the wheel hulked there; even in the darkness his great size might have been suspected, for slumped as he was, his head came to the same height as that of the other, perched high on the seat. They had been there since midnight and the hours had dragged. The car they had stolen did not have a radio, but the larger man knew that his companion would not have allowed him to use it even had they been so blessed. For the tenth time since parking there he unconsciously reached for a cigarette, placed it in his mouth, and then felt it picked away before he could light it.

Luis! The voice grated. How many times …!

Luis grunted. I forgot, that’s all. I forgot. He shifted on his seat. This is foolish, Jorge; he will never come by bus. And there will not be another bus for over an hour, anyway. So why can’t we go over and get a drink?

The smaller man didn’t bother to turn his head as he answered; his eyes were fixed upon the