The young man was praying, his eyes clenched tightly, his arms waving gently upward. Nate closed his eyes too, and called God's name. God was waiting.
With both hands, he clenched the back of the pew in front of him. He repeated the list, mumbling softly every weakness and flaw and affliction and evil that plagued him. He confessed them all. In one long glorious acknowledgment of failure, he laid himself bare before God. He held nothing back. He unloaded enough burdens to crush any three men, and when he finally finished Nate had tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered to God. "Please help me."
As quickly as the fever had left his body, he felt the baggage leave his soul. With one gentle brush of the hand, his slate had been wiped clean. He breathed a massive sigh of relief, but his pulse was racing.
He heard the guitar again. He opened his eyes and wiped his cheeks. Instead of seeing the young man on the pulpit, Nate saw the face of Christ, in agony and pain, dying on the cross. Dying for him.
A voice was calling Nate, a voice from within, a voice leading him down the aisle. But the invitation was confusing. He felt many conflicting emotions. His eyes were suddenly dry.
Why am I crying in a small hot chapel, listening to music I don't understand, in a town I'll never see again? The questions poured forth, the answers elusive.
It was one thing for God to forgive his astounding array of iniquities, and Nate certainly felt as though his burdens were lighter. But it was a far more difficult step to expect himself to become a follower.
As he listened to the music, he became bewildered. God couldn't be calling him. He was Nate O'Riley - boozer, addict, lover of women, absent father, miserable husband, greedy lawyer, swindler of tax money. The sad list went on and on.
He was dizzy. The music stopped and the young man prepared for another song. Nate hurriedly left the chapel. As he turned a corner, he glanced back, hoping to see Rachel, but also to make sure God hadn't sent someone to follow him.
He needed someone to talk to. He knew she was in Corumba, and he vowed to find her.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
THE DESPACHANTE is an integral part of Brazilian life.
No business, bank, law firm, medical group, or person with money can operate without the services of a despachante. He is a facilitator extraordinaire. In a country where the bureaucracy is sprawling and antiquated, the despachante is the guy who knows the city clerks, the courthouse crowd, the bureaucrats, the customs agents. He knows the system and how to grease it. No official paper or document is obtained in Brazil without waiting in long lines, and the despachante is the guy who'll stand there for you. For a small fee, he'll wait eight hours to renew your auto inspection, then affix it to your windshield while you're busy at the office. He'll do your voting, banking, packaging, mailing-the list has no end.
No bureaucratic obstacle is too intimidating.
Firms of despachantes display their names in windows just like lawyers and doctors. They're in the yellow pages. The job requires no formal training. All one needs is a quick tongue, patience, and a lot of brass.
Valdir's despachante in Corumba knew another one in Sao Paulo, a powerful one with high contacts, and for a fee of two thousand dollars a new passport would be delivered.
JEW SPENT the next few mornings at the river, helping a friend repair a chalana. He watched everything and heard the gossip. Not a word about the woman. By noon on Friday, he was convinced she had not arrived in Corumba, at least not in the past two weeks. Jevy knew all the fishermen, captains, and deckhands. And they loved to talk. If an American woman who lived with the Indians suddenly arrived in town, they would know it.
Nate searched until the end of the week. He walked the streets, watched the crowds, checked out hotel lobbies and sidewalk cafes, looked at the faces, and saw no one even remotely resembling Rachel.
At one on his last day, he stopped at Valdir's office and collected his passport. They said good-bye like old friends, and promised to see each other soon. Both knew it would never happen. At two, Jevy drove him to the airport. They sat in the departure lounge for half an hour, watching as the only plane was unloaded, then prepped for reboarding. Jevy wanted to spend time in the United States, and needed Nate's help. "I'll need a job," he said. Nate listened with sympathy, not certain if he himself was still employed.
"I'll see what I can do."
They talked about Colorado and the West and places Nate had never been. Jevy was in love with the mountains, and after two weeks in the Pantanal Nate understood this. When it was time to go, they embraced warmly and said farewell. Nate walked across the hot pavement to the plane, carrying his entire wardrobe in a small gym bag.
The turbo-prop with twenty seats landed twice before it reached Campo Grande. There, the passengers boarded for Sao Paulo. The lady in the seat next to him ordered a beer from the drink cart. Nate studied the can less dun ten inches away. Not anymore, he told himself. He closed his eyes and asked God to give him strength. He ordered coffee.
The flight to Dulles left at midnight. It would arrive in D.C. at nine the next morning. His search for Rachel had taken him out of die country for almost three weeks.
He wasn't sure where his car was. He had no place to live, and no means to get one. But he couldn't worry. Josh would take care of die details.
THE PLANE dropped through the clouds at nine thousand feet. Nate was awake, sipping coffee, dreading the streets of home. The streets were cold and white. The earth was blanketed by a heavy snow. It was lovely for a few minutes as they approached Dulles, then Nate remembered how much he hated the winter. He wore a thin pair of trousers, no socks, cheap sneakers, and a fake Polo shirt he'd paid six dollars for in the Sao Paulo airport. He had no coat.
He would sleep somewhere that night, probably in a hotel, unsupervised in D.C. for die first time since August 4, die night he'd staggered into a suburban motel room. It had happened at die bottom of a long, pathetic crash. He'd worked hard to forget it.
But that was the old Nate, and now there was a new one. He was forty-eight years old, thirteen months away from fifty, and ready for a different life. God had fortified him, and strengthened his resolve. He had thirty years left. They wouldn't be spent clutching empty bottles. Nor would they be spent on the run.
Snowplows raced about as they taxied to the terminal. The runways were wet and flurries were still falling. When Nate stepped off the plane into the tunnel, winter hit him and he thought of the humid streets of Corumba. Josh was waiting at the baggage claim, and of course he had an extra overcoat.
"You look awful," were his first words.
"Thanks." Nate grabbed the coat and put it on.
"You're skinny as a rail."
"You wanna lose fifteen pounds, find the right mosquito."
They moved with a mob toward the exits, bodies jostling and bumping, a shove here, a push there, the throng squeezing tighter to fit through doors. Welcome home, he said to himself.
"You're traveling light," Josh said, pointing at his gym bag.
"My worldly possessions."
With no socks or gloves, Nate was freezing on the curb by the time Josh found him with the car. The snowstorm had hit during the night, and had attained the status of a blizzard. Against the buildings the drifts had reached two feet.
"It was ninety-three yesterday in Corumba," Nate said as they left the airport.
"Don't tell me you miss it."
"I do. Suddenly, I do."
"Look, Gayle is in London. I thought you could stay at our place for a couple of days."