"And he died on the river."
"Not this, but the Taquiri, to the east. He was guiding a boat of German tourists when a storm hit them. The only survivor was a deckhand."
"When was this?"
"Five years ago."
Forever the trial lawyer, Nate had a dozen more questions about the accident. He wanted the details - details win lawsuits. But he said, "I'm sorry," and let it go.
"They want to destroy the Pantanal," Jevy said.
"Who?"
"Lots of people. Big companies that own big farms. To the north and east of the Pantanal they are clearing large sections of land for farms. The main crop is soja, which you call soybeans. They want to export it. The more forests they clear, the more runoff collects in the Pantanal. Sediment rises each year in our rivers. Their farm soil is not good, so the companies use many sprays and fertilizers to grow crops. We get the chemicals. Many of the big farms dam up rivers to create new pastures. This upsets the flooding cycle. And mercury is killing our fish."
"How does mercury get here?"
"Mining. To the north, they mine gold, and they do it with mercury. It runs into the rivers, the rivers eventually run into the Pantanal. Our fish swallow it and die. Everything gets dumped into the Pantanal. Cuiaba is a city of a million people to the east. It has no waste treatment. Guess where its sewage goes."
"Doesn't the government help?"
Jevy managed a bitter laugh. "Have you heard of Hidrovia?"
"No."
"It's a big ditch, to be cut through the Pantanal. It is supposed to link Brazil, Bolivia, Paraguay, Argentina, and Uruguay. It is supposed to save South America. But it will drain the Pantanal. And our government is supporting it."
Nate almost said something pious about environmental responsibility, then remembered that his countrymen were the biggest energy hogs the world had ever seen. "It's still beautiful," he said.
"It is." Jevy finished his coffee. "Sometimes I think it's too big for them to destroy."
They passed a narrow inlet where more water entered the Paraguay. A small herd of deer waded through the floodwaters, nibbling at green vines, oblivious to the noise from the river. Seven deer, two of which were spotted fawns.
"There is a small trading post a few hours away," Jevy said, getting to his feet. "We should be there before dark."
"What are we shopping for?"
"Nothing, I guess. Fernando is the owner, and he hears everything on the river. Maybe he will know something about missionaries."
Jevy emptied his cup into the river and stretched his arms. "Sometimes he has beer for sale. Cerveja."
Nate kept his eyes on the water.
"I think we should not buy any," Jevy said, and walked away.
Fine with me, thought Nate. He drained his cup, sucking down the grounds and grains of sugar.
A cold brown bottle, perhaps Antartica or Brahma, the two brands he'd already sampled in Brazil. Excellent beer. A favorite haunt had been a college bar near Georgetown with foreign beers on the menu. He'd tried them all. They served roasted peanuts by the basket and expected you to throw the hulls on the floor. When his pals from law school were in town they always met at the bar and reminisced about the old days. The beer was ice cold, the peanuts hot and salty, the floor cracked with hulls when you walked, and the girls were young and loose. The place had been there forever, and during each trip through rehab and sobriety it was the bar Nate missed most.
He began to sweat, though the sun was hidden and there was a cool breeze. He buried himself in the hammock and prayed for sleep, a deep hard coma that would take him past their little stop and into the night. The sweating worsened until his shirt was soaked. He started a book about the demise of the Brazilian Indians, then tried to sleep again.
He was wide awake when the engine was throttled down and the boat moved close to the bank. There were voices, then a gentle bump as they docked at the trading post. Nate slowly removed himself from the hammock and returned to the bench, where he sat.
It was a country store of sorts, built on stilts-a tiny building, made of unpainted boards with a tin roof and a narrow porch where, not surprisingly, a couple of locals were lounging with cigarettes and tea. A smaller river circled behind it and disappeared into the Pantanal. A large fuel tank was braced to the side of the building.
A flimsy pier jutted into the river to dock the boats. Jevy and Welly eased along the pier, carefully, because the currents were strong. They chatted with the pantaneiros on the porch, then went through the open door.
Nate had vowed to remain on the boat. He went to the other side of the deck, sat on the opposite bench, stuck his arms and legs through the rail, and watched the full width of the river go by. He would stay up on the deck, on the bench, with his arms and legs locked in the rail. The coldest beer in the world couldn't pull him away.
As he had learned, there was no such thing as a short visit in Brazil. Especially on the river, where visits were rare. Jevy bought thirty gallons of diesel fuel to replace what had been lost in the storm. The engine started.
"Fernando says there is a woman missionary. She works with the Indians." Jevy handed him a bottle of cold water. They were moving again.
"Where?"
"He's not sure. There are some settlements to the north, near Bolivia. But the Indians don't move on the river, so he doesn't know much about them."
"How far is the nearest settlement?"
"We should be close by morning. But we can't take this boat. We must use the little one."
"Sounds like fun."
"You remember Marco, the farmer whose cow was killed by our plane?"
"Sure I do. He had three little boys."
"Yes. He was there yesterday," Jevy said, pointing to the store, which was disappearing around a bend. "He comes once a month."
"Were the boys with him?"
"No. It's too dangerous."
What a small world. Nate hoped the boys had spent the money he'd given them for Christmas. He watched the store until it was out of sight.
Perhaps on the return leg he'd be well enough to stop and have a cool one. Just a couple, to celebrate their successful journey. He crawled back into the safety of his hammock, and cursed himself for his weakness. In the wilderness of a gigantic swamp he had had a near brush with alcohol, and for hours his thoughts had been consumed with nothing else. The anticipation, the fear, the sweating, and the scheming of ways to get a drink. Then the near miss, the escape through no strength of his own, and now in the aftermath the fantasy of renewing his romance with alcohol. A few drinks would be fine because then he could stop. That was his favorite lie.
He was just a drunk. Run him through a designer rehab clinic at a thousand bucks a day, and he was still an addict. Run him through AA in the basement of a church on Tuesday nights, and he was still a drunk.
His addictions gripped him, and desperation settled around Nate. He was paying for the damned boat; Jevy worked for him. If he insisted that they turn around and go straight to the store, they would do so. He could buy all the beer Fernando owned, load it on ice below the deck, and sip Brahma all the way to Bolivia. And there wasn't a damned thing anyone could do about it.
Like a mirage, Welly appeared with a smile and a cup of fresh coffee. "Vou cozinhar" he said. I'm going to cook.
Food would help, Nate thought. Even another platter of beans, rice, and boiled chicken. Food would satisfy his tastes, or at least divert his attention from other cravings.