When I returned to the village at nightfall, a group of warriors offered me some chuchuwasi. They were happy, very happy, and wanted me to be happy too. I accepted their offer and took a drink.
“Not bad,” I said.
The chuchuwasi was not dissimilar in taste to cherry liqueur — I liked it. I drank a second glass, then a third and a fourth. Two hours later I was completely drunk and as happy as they were.
I don’t remember how I made it back to my bed nor what I got up to during the hours spent with the warrior drinkers of chuchuwasi. To judge by the mocking looks I received when I woke up, however, I assume my behavior must have been rather comical.
“Ah, so you’ve opened your eyes at last,” said César.
“I had no idea my head was made of ground glass.” I moaned. The slightest movement made my temples pound. I had no alternative but to remain lying on my bed.
“It’s odd your head should hurt so much. I can’t imagine why it should,” said Laura ironically. I saw that she was smiling and had emerged from her dejection of the previous days.
“The worst thing must have been the uncertainty,” I thought. “Now that she knows what really happened, she feels better.”
“I think I’ll just go back to sleep for a bit,” I said.
“Oh no you won’t,” said César. “We’re leaving. The Ashaninka are taking us back to La Atalaya.”
“When?” I exclaimed, sitting up. I had suddenly forgotten about my headache.
“Right now. The canoes are ready,” said Laura, pointing to the window. I stood up and looked outside. The group charged with our return was waiting in front of the tantootzi. I counted six canoes and fifteen oarsmen.
“It looks like we’ll have quite an entourage,” I said.
“Like royalty,” smiled César Calvo.
Laura went over to the old woman who had helped us with the domestic chores and presented her with a lock of her fair hair; she should keep it as a souvenir, for she had been very kind to us all. Then we rejoined the Ashaninka who were to accompany us down the Unine.
Before we set off into the jungle, we looked back toward Pullcapa Ayumpari’s tantootzi. He was standing at the entrance, watching us.
“Wait just a moment. I’d like to thank him,” said the wise man of Iquitos. Asking one of the oarsmen to accompany him, he went off to perform that final act of courtesy.
“What did he say?” we asked when he came back.
“He simply wished us a good journey,” sighed César Calvo. It seemed to me that it pained him deeply to leave that good father of the Ashaninka.
We looked back at the village one last time, waving to the men and women who had gathered outside the huts. Then we went down to the river.
The jungle, so silent during the rainy season, was once more full of life, and, as we were carried swiftly down the Unine, we listened to the songs of all the inhabitants of the Upper Amazon, the song of the arambasa, of the papasí, of the carachupausa, of the duck known as the mariquiña, of the shy panguana that dies after laying only five eggs, and of the blue parrot known as the marakana. And of the huapapa, and of the wankawi, and of the great yungururu.
We were carried swiftly down the Unine to the sound of the songs of all these birds and of a hundred more and of another hundred still.
But we heard not only the songs of the birds, we also heard the fish in the river that, from time to time, approached our canoes and followed us with the same tenacity as I, at that moment, followed my memories; and my memories were of a tantootzi and a shirimpiare and the hands that had healed my ankle and a book by Rousseau and a medal from the army placed on a mound of pebbles.
And suddenly the scream of a makisapa rose above the other songs of the jungle, startling me.
“The medal, of course!” I cried, and the two Ashaninka in my canoe both laughed out loud.
At last I’d found the missing piece to the jigsaw puzzle of my memories. How could that medal possibly still be so golden. And the ribbons? How could they have preserved their color in a climate like that of the Amazon? Hadn’t it been over a year since Dr. Sheldon had disappeared into the jungle?
All the answers pointed in one direction.
The Ashaninka said good-bye to us as soon as we reached the Ucayali, leaving us their finest canoe and showing us how best to row in order to make our way downriver. Then they rowed back against the current, glad to be able to return to their village.
“They seem so happy!” exclaimed Laura.
“Well, we’re headed in quite a different direction,” smiled César Calvo, getting into the canoe.
“To La Atalaya!” I said in a tone of voice intended to be carefree. But the answer I had stumbled upon while we rowed down the Unine continued to rankle; my voice failed me and I merely succeeded in sounding lugubrious.
To avoid the risk of colliding with the many uprooted trees left behind by the previous months of flooding, we proceeded very slowly down the Ucayali. By the time we reached La Atalaya, it was nearly night.
A little later, I was sitting in the same place Laura had sat before we left for the Unine, the same place from which she had looked out at the jungle and, hearing the song of the ayaymaman, had wept. I could find no peace there either.
The wise man of Iquitos came out of the shack and sat down beside me.
“Yes, I’m thinking about him too,” he said.
“About Pullcapa Ayumpari you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Thomas Sheldon,” I said sadly.
César Calvo nodded.
“I first became suspicious the day he spared your life. A true Ashaninka could never have done that. That’s why I went to thank him this morning, because I wanted to see his face. The colored clay can hide a pale skin, but not the eyes. And, of course, his eyes were blue, the typical blue eyes of an Englishman.”
“But how did he come to be shirimpiare?”
“Well, he is a doctor. He probably arrived at the village, taught the previous shirimpiare a few things and then the latter no doubt adopted him as his son and named him his successor. I’m sure that’s what must have happened.”
“There’s just one thing I’m not sure about, César. I don’t know if I should tell Laura. And I’m sure you know why.”
Then we heard a cough. Someone wanted to warn us of their presence.
“César’s right. Thomas cured the old shirimpiare, who then gave up his post to him. He tells me so in this letter I’ve just found among my clothes.”
Laura was standing behind us, holding a piece of paper in her hand.
“I thought you were asleep!” I exclaimed.
“I heard everything,” said Laura, looking me in the eyes.
For a moment the three of us were silent.
“What should we call you from now on?” I asked at last.
“By my maiden name. Laura Sligo.”
Then she spoke much more directly than I had dared to.
“Thomas tells me you’re in love with me. Is that true? Don’t forget we have César Calvo here as our witness.”