The woods became thicker and opened briefly, only to close again. Annie tripped over a root, got up, and continued onward. Go on, she repeated to herself, advancing little by little. Faster at first to be sure she wouldn’t be found, then more slowly because she had been walking for such a long time with no sign of the man after her, almost an hour, perhaps, moving aimlessly wherever it seemed easiest to walk, tripping again, getting scratched here and there, but what did it matter because it was what would continue to save her. It was obvious, she told herself, it was the dense woods that would welcome her once again, hide her and let her stay there, silent and covered with scratches, for as long as she wished. The treetops closed off the sky and cut her off from all sound, from the motorcycle and the footsteps of the man, yes, the trees shielded her from the two gunshots she had heard when still near the square; she had tripped over a rock and tumbled down a ravine, until a tree trunk stopped the weight of her body and she suspected that she had a broken arm. But no, she could still move it, along with her legs and all her bones. Only her forehead and shoulders were bleeding, and the rest ached. She rose carefully and saw she was in an area the man could get to quickly if he was crazy enough to jump. And if she knew a little about men, she knew this one wasn’t the kind to plunge headlong into impenetrable woods. Even so, she walked faster and faster, without the courage to turn on the flashlight of her cell phone for fear it would give her away.
She only turned it on much later, having walked for a good length of time and wondering how long she would stay there, whether for a few hours more or for days or for the rest of her life, for the forest was the size of a forest, even if it was in the middle of a city, and she was the size of a person even if she wished at that moment to be the size of an ant or a coati digging its lair. The cell phone couldn’t get a signal and the battery was almost dead, but its light helped a little, especially to tell the time: approximately three fifteen. Soon it would be dawn, and if the man didn’t suddenly appear, she would have a better idea of where she was and what to do.
She stopped for a moment, sat on a rock, took a deep breath. If she only knew about Jonas. If she only had more coke. She needed to pull herself together. An opening in the canopy of trees admitted the sky and a few stars. A little bit of coke, just a sniff. It was tough thinking about it. She would get home and Jonas wouldn’t be in the neighboring house, waiting for her with the lines already laid out. Jonas had to appear, and the thought that he might be dead or at least missing a finger impelled her to stand up and resume the trek.
It was beginning to dawn and her phone had died some time ago. Maybe she was exaggerating things. Jonas might already have texted her, might be waiting at home for her. But she might take days to locate him, even if she found a clearing soon, some open space in the vegetation. She quickened her pace, she was getting close. She almost didn’t believe it. If she could get back to the park she was almost certain she would know how to get to her house. She knew the area well enough, every belvedere, every square, every nook. True, she could be a long way from the entrance, but it didn’t matter. She walked farther and farther, almost ran, and finally spotted the square with the stone knee wall with its drawings of balloons, facing the city. It had to be the Excelsior belvedere, one of those she had visited most during the last several weeks. It was her territory and only a forty-minute walk to where she lived.
It had been a long time since Annie felt like crying. She did so at that moment, but controlled herself. She went to the wall and caught sight of the city from above; a light mist covered the peaks of Tijuca Mountain and the smaller Tijuca Mirim. Below, the start of morning merged with the lights of night, dotting the bay and the bridge to Niterói. The favelas were sparsely lit and Maracanã Stadium was visible. The streets were filling little by little with cars that would not come through those remote roadways in the heights of the forest, and the city began to revive, distant from the gringa covered with dirt and blood, her arm twisted and her skin gashed, the arrogant gringa who now wanted to speak Portuguese, understand what had happened, and, for the love of God, snort a little coke.
In the future she would understand. For now, she allowed the city to follow its routine after admiring it and grasping it as the city that would never be hers in its beauty and its small monstrosities, but no, Annie was exhausted and needed to sleep. Turning her back on the belvedere, she began slowly walking home. She ignored the calls from the guard at the entrance gate to the woman with blotted makeup and wearing a miniskirt who looked as if she had been raped by tree roots, who eventually climbed the steps of her own porch, opened the door, dragged herself to her bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, and closed her eyes.
She couldn’t sleep, however. With her phone turned on and charging, there was no message from Jonas, no message of any kind. She thought of going to his house and ringing the doorbell, but he lived with his parents and she didn’t have the strength to take a shower, tend to her wounds, and make herself minimally presentable for a possible encounter with his mother.
Instead, she telephoned. One call, two, nothing. On the third, someone answered and hung up immediately. That was suspicious, but Annie lacked the energy to try to do anything about it. She just sent him a message, U alright? At home already? Pls tell me everything is okay, and closed her eyes. She must have dozed, for she awoke with a small start to see a recently arrived message: is good. i arrive my house. i love you.
Annie refused to investigate. She could have wondered why Jonas had sent a message instead of answering the phone. She could have wondered why his almost native English had become transformed into that grammatical horror show. And why would he speak to her of something as alien to the two of them as love? But Annie didn’t want to, couldn’t investigate. She was spent. Satisfied with the rough draft of a reply, she ignored the scratches burning her aching arm. She couldn’t do anything more, she could only ignore them just as she ignored everything else about Jonas, as she ignored the fate of the old man and the finger kept by the man without a pinky, the couple screwing in the car and her next snort, ignored everything because her body wouldn’t let her anymore, and calm like the fields of Kansas after a snow, she closed her eyes and slept.
The Enigma of the Victrola
by Arnaldo Bloch
Jacarepaguá
1
Which came first, jacaré (the alligator) or Jacarepaguá (the place)?
In the bar where I was celebrating my fiftieth birthday, after extensive planning, I introduced the mystery that had engaged me since childhood, and whose solution I had found at last. All that was missing was to test the solution.
The first guest to enter the discussion was an ardent biologist, an experienced tender of turtles.