“Pardon me,” Jaspin said.
The Inner Host men sprawling on the steps of the bus moved aside, making room for them to go in. Inside the bus the air was thick and stale, and there was the sour smell of some strange incense on it. They had pulled out all the seats and had divided the bus with brocaded curtains into three small rooms, an antechamber, a chapel in the middle, and living quarters for Senhor Papamacer and Senhora Aglaibahi down at the back.
“You wait,” Bacalhau said.
He pushed aside the heavy curtain and went through into the chapel. The curtain closed behind him. Jaspin heard faint conversation in Portuguese.
“Can you understand what they’re saying?” Jill asked.
“No.”
“What do you think’s going on?”
Jaspin shook his head. “Don’t have the slightest,” he whispered.
After a moment Bacalhau reappeared with a couple of other members of the Inner Host who had been inside. There was never a time when seven or eight of them weren’t hovering close by the Senhor. Jaspin couldn’t tell whether the role the Host was meant to play was that of apostles or bodyguards, or some of each. The Inner Host was made up entirely of youngish dark-skinned Brazilians, eleven lean cool unsmiling men who could pass just as easily for bandidos as holy apostles. There were a few Africans in the high councils of tumbondé also, Jaspin knew, but they didn’t seem to rate the same access to the Senhor. Jaspin doubted that it was a racial thing, since the Brazilians were pretty much as black as the Africans; more likely Senhor Papamacer simply felt more comfortable with people from his own homeland.
“You come,” Bacalahau said, beckoning.
They followed him into the dark musty interior of the bus. Jaspin struggled for breath. Last night when he had been in here it had seemed disagreeably hot and stuffy, but now, down amidst the blazing afternoon heat of the Valley, it was downright stifling. Every window was shut, the smoke of a dozen sputtering candles was rising in the chapel, there seemed to be no ventilation at all. Jaspin came close to gagging. He looked helplessly at Jill, but she didn’t seem to be bothered at all by the foulness of the atmosphere. Her eyes had that glow again. It frightened him to see that look in her eyes.
Senhor Papamacer sat crosslegged at the far end of the bus, silent, waiting. To his left, along the side wall, was Senhora Aglaibahi, the divine mother and living goddess. The long narrow chamber was set up much like the room in which the Senhor had interviewed Jaspin back in Chula Vista: the darkness, the heavy draperies, the candles, the green-and-red rug, the little wooden images of Maguali-ga and Chungirá-He-Will-Come.
The Senhor made a tiny gesture of greeting with his left hand. His eyes came to rest on Jill. He studied her without speaking for what felt like forever.
“The woman,” he said at last to Jaspin. “She is your wife?”
He reddened. “Ah—no. A friend.”
“I thought a wife.” The Senhor sounded displeased. “But you travel together?”
“As friends,” Jaspin said uneasily, wondering where this was leading. He glanced toward Jill. She seemed off in some other world.
The Senhor said, “You know, I have the power of making you man and wife before all the gods. I will do this.”
Jaspin was caught off guard. His cheeks grew even hotter. What the hell was this? Marry? Jill?
Cautiously he said, “Uh—I think it’s best if she and I just remain friends, Senhor Papamacer.”
“Ah. Ah.” Jaspin felt a cold torrent of disapproval surging behind Senhor Papamacer’s timeless expressionless features. From a million miles away the Senhor said, “As you wish. But it is good, being man and wife.” Another barely perceptible gesture, this time toward the silent Senhora Aglaibahi. Jaspin’s gaze followed the Senhor’s hand. Senhora Aglaibahi sat without moving, scarcely seeming even to breathe. She seemed like some temple figurine, larger than life, something made of polished black stone: one of those Hindu goddesses, Jaspin thought, all breasts and eyes. She wore a vaguely sari-like white muslin garment that was so loosely wrapped around her that it plainly displayed the swaying globes of her bosom, the soft folds of her belly. Her dark skin was shining in the candlelight as though it had been oiled. Even after a week among these people the Senhora remained a mystery to Jaspin, a lovely voluptuous woman who might have been thirty or, just as easily, fifty. Tumbondé mythology had it that she was a virgin, but there was something else in the teachings about the ability of gods and goddesses to replenish their virginities as often as desired, and Jaspin doubted very much that the Senhor and the Senhora were living together in chastity. As he stared at her, the Senhora smiled. He imagined himself suddenly being drawn toward those dark-nippled breasts and given the milk of Senhora Aglaibahi to drink.
Jill said, unexpectedly, astonishingly, “I will be his wife if that is your will, Senhor Papamacer.”
“Hey, wait just a—”
“It is a good thing, yes, being man and wife. You do not want this, Jaspeen?”
He faltered and did not reply. He felt as though he had stepped in the path of a runaway steamroller. Marrying Jill was the last thing in the world that might have been on his mind when he walked into this bus five minutes ago.
“If you wish to attain the further knowledge, Jaspeen, you must go onward into the mysteries. And for this you must make the marriage.”
Oh, so that’s it, Jaspin said to himself.
Slowly he began to understand, then. Things had been starting to turn a little unreal, but now they were making sense again. This is mysticism country here, he thought. The Senhor is talking the sacred marriage, the hieros gamos, ye olde ancient primordial fertility thing. You want to learn the inner secrets, you have to go through the initiation. There are no two ways here. Jill must have grasped that intuitively. Or maybe she’s simply a better anthropologist than you are.
Plainly the Senhor was waiting for an answer, and only one answer was going to be acceptable. The steamroller had gone by, and he was flat as a tapeworm now.
He felt helpless. Okay, he thought. Okay. Go with it. Ham it up, Jaspin told himself. Rejoice, rejoice: you have no choice. In the most humble tone at his command he said, “I place myself in the Senhor’s hands.”
“You will take this woman in the marriage?”
Yes, yes, I will, certainly I will, he started to say. Whatever is pleasing to you, Senhor Papamacer. But he couldn’t get the words out.
Jaspin turned toward Jill. Her eyes were glowing again. But not for me, he thought. Not for me.
He shook his head. For God’s sake, he thought, am I really going to marry her, now? This scrawny goofed-up stringy-haired shiksa, this True Believer, this ragamuffin intellectual groupie? The idea was beyond belief. Everything in him balked at it. A voice within him cried out, What the fuck are you doing, man?I place myself in the Senhor’s hands. What? Married? On five seconds’ notice? To her? He imagined the scene, bringing her home to his parents. Mom, pop, this is my wife. Mrs. Barry Jaspin, yes, indeed. I was just waiting for the ideal mate to come along all this time, and now here she is. I know you’ll love her. Yes. Yes. And then he thought, Stop being an asshole. This isn’t anything legal. It won’t mean a thing outside this bus. You can walk away from it any time. Marry her and be done with it, and think of it as part of your anthropological research. A tribal ceremony you’re required to undertake so that the chief will go on allowing you to observe the other tribal rituals. And then he thought, Forget all that. Put from your mind all these thoughts of self and all this scheming for advantage. If you have any genuine hope of yielding yourself to Chungirá-He-Will-Come at the time of the opening of the gateway, you must obey Senhor Papamacer in all things. Jaspin felt his knees beginning to shake. He had come to the truth about this thing at last. He might not be doing this for love, but he also wasn’t doing it out of any cynical fingers-crossed-behind-the-back notion that he was acting purely for opportunism’s sake. No. That was just the rationalization that he was using to hide from himself what was really going on. But now he forced himself to admit the real story. He was doing it because beyond anything else he yearned to have his mind and soul flooded and possessed by Chungirá-He-Will-Come; and unless he obeyed Senhor Papamacer in all things that would not happen to him. So he would do it. For God’s sake.