Yet when he walked into the village of Agualinda, he felt eager to see her again, and when he found her-the village was small, it never took long-he could not erase from his mind the vivid memory of how she looked in the dreams, reaching out to him, her breasts loose and jostling, her slim hips rolling toward him-and he would bite his cheek for the pain of it, to distract him from desire.
It was because he was living with Father; the old bastard's goatishness was rubbing off on him, that's all. So he spent as little time with his father as possible, going home only to sleep at night.
The harder he worked at the jobs Anamari gave him to do, the easier it was to keep himself from remembering his dream of her kneeling over him, touching him, sliding along his body. Hoe the weeds out of the corn until your back is on fire with pain! Wash the Baniwa hunter's wound and replace the bandage! Sterilize the instruments in the alcohol! Above all, do not, even accidentally, let any part of your body brush against hers; pull away when she is near you, turn away so you don't feel her warm breath as she leans over your shoulder, start a bright conversation whenever there is a silence filled only with the sound of insects and the sight of a bead of sweat slowly etching its way from her neck down her chest to disappear between her breasts where she only tied her shirt instead of buttoning it.
How could she possibly be a virgin, after the way she acted in his dreams?
"Where do you think the dreams come from?" she asked.
He blushed, even though she could not have guessed what he was thinking. Could she?
"The dreams," she said. "Why do you think we have dreams that come true?" It was nearly dark. "I have to get home," he said. She was holding his hand. When had she taken his hand like that, and why?
"I have the strangest dream," she said. "I dream of a huge snake, covered with bright green and red feathers."
"Not all the dreams come true," he said.
"I hope not," she answered. "Because this snake comes out of--I give birth to this snake."
"Quetzal," he said.
"What does that mean?"
"The gathered serpent god of the Aztecs. Or maybe the Mayas. Mexican, anyway. I have to go home."
"But what does it mean?"
"It's almost dark," he said.
"Stay and talk to me!" she demanded. "I have room, you can stay the night."
But Sam had to get back. Much as he hated staying with his father, he dared not spend a night in this place. Even her invitation aroused him. He would never last a night in the same house with her. The dream would be too strong for him. So he left her and headed back along the path through the jungle. All during the walk he couldn't get Anamari out of his mind. It was as if the plants were sending him the vision of her, so his desire was even stronger than when he was with her.
The leaves gradually turned from green to black in the seeping dark. The hot darkness did not frighten him; it seemed to invite him to step away from the path into the shadows, where he would find the moist relief, the cool release of all his tension. He stayed on the path, and hurried faster.
He came at last to the oilmen's town. The generator was loud, but the insects were louder, swarming around the huge area light, casting shadows of their demonic dance. He and his father shared a large one-room house on the far edge of the compound. The oil company provided much nicer hovels than the Brazilian government.
A few men called out to greet him. He waved, even answered once or twice, but hurried on. His groin felt so hot and tight with desire that he was sure that only the shadows and his quick stride kept everyone from seeing. It was maddening: the more he thought of trying to calm himself, the more visions of Anamari slipped in and out of his waking mind, almost to the point of hallucination. His body would not relax. He was almost running when he burst into the house. Inside, Father was washing his dinner plate. He glanced up, but Sam was already past him. "I'll heat up your dinner." Sam flopped down on his bed. "Not hungry." "Why are you so late?" asked his father.
"We got to talking." "It's dangerous in the jungle at night. You think it's safe because nothing bad ever happens to you in the daytime, but it's dangerous."
"Sure, Dad. I know." Sam got up, turned his back to take off his pants. Maddeningly, he
was still aroused; he didn't want his father to see. But with the unerring instinct of prying parents, the old bastard must have sensed that Sam was hiding something. When Sam was buck naked, Father walked around, and looked just as if he never heard of privacy. Sam blushed in spite of himself. His father's eyes went small and hard. I hope I don't ever look like that, thought Sam. I hope my face doesn't get that ugly suspicious expression on it. I'd rather die than look like that.
"Well, put on your pajamas," Father said. "I don't want to look at that forever." Sam pulled on his sleeping shorts. "What's going on over there?" asked Father. "Nothing," said Sam. "You must do something all day." "I told you, I help her. She runs a clinic, and she also tends a garden. She's got no
electricity, so it takes a lot of work." "I've done a lot of work in my time, Sam, but I don't come home like that. " "No, you always stopped and got it off with some whore along the way." The old bastard whipped out his hand and slapped Sam across the face. It stung, and the
surprise of it wrung tears from Sam before he had time to decide not to cry. "I never slept with a whore in my life," said the old bastard. "You only slept with one woman who wasn't," said Sam.
Father slapped him again, only this time Sam was ready, and he bore the slap stoically, almost without flinching.
"I had one affair," said Father.
"You got caught once," said Sam. "There were dozens of women."
Father laughed derisively. "What did you do, hire a detective? There was only the one."
But Sam knew better. He had dreamed these women for years. Laughing, lascivious women. It wasn't until he was twelve years old that he found out enough about sex to know what it all meant. By then he had long since learned that any dream he had more than once was true. So when he had a dream of Father with one of the laughing women, he woke up, holding the dream in his memory. He thought through it from beginning to end, remembering all the details he could. The name of the motel. The room number. It was midnight, but Father was in California, so it was an hour earlier. Sam got out of bed and walked quietly into the kitchen and dialed directory assistance. There was such a motel. He wrote down the number. Then Mother was there, asking him what he was doing.
"This is the number of the Seaview Motor Inn," he said. "Call this number and ask for room twenty-one-twelve and then ask for Dad."
Mother looked at him strangely, like she was about to scream or cry or hit him or throw up. "Your father is at the Hilton," she said.
But he just looked right back at her and said, "No matter who answers the phone, ask for Dad."
So she did. A woman answered, and Mom asked for Dad by name, and he was there. "I wonder how we can afford to pay for two motel rooms on the same night," Mom said coldly. "Or are you splitting the cost with your friend?" Then she hung up the phone and burst into tears.
She cried all night as she packed up everything the old bastard owned. By the time Dad got home two days later, all his things were in storage. Mom moved fast when she made up her mind. Dad found himself divorced and excommunicated all in the same week, not two months later.