A Dog #3
Severino explained that the men fasted until the work was done, and sexual abstinence was required by those involved until the canoe was complete.
If a woman in a 'certain state' even walked by, the bark could split.
Everything the Bacairy did was with intention, and learning the rituals and aspects of daily life different than his was something that Cornelius always loved.
Another group of men were gathered around an enormous length of bark bent into shape over coals, which had been roasting the inner surface for hours upon hours.
An elaborate framework of poles were used to wedge the pliable canoe into place, acting as levers on the sides with cross pieces to keep them from going too far.
It was a tedious process, but by the time late afternoon came around a narrow canoe with a slightly flat bottom was brought into existence.
With an open bow and slightly raised stern, Cornelius was unsure how well the clay built up on the edges would keep water out.
The foreman led them to the water, stoic against the choking heat and annoying insects that always peaked around this time.
Cornelius followed Ant?nio and Severino, while Watt and Maggie walked beside him.
“How do you think those would hold up on Lake Michigan?” Watt asked, nodding to the canoe the Bacairy carried down to the water.
Cornelius chuckled. “On a good day, pretty well I imagine. But the Great Lakes aren’t known for their good days.”
Watt cleared his throat. “Has there been anything like the Big Blow again?”
Cornelius shook his head. The storm of ‘13 was one unlike anything the Great Lakes had seen before, a blizzard for the ages. Hundreds of people died, almost twenty ships were lost and about the same were stranded for ages. Ice cold waves raged over thirty feet high, and hurricane force winds wracked destruction for miles across miles. Thankfully his family hadn’t suffered any losses or major damage, but Harbor Springs had been a frozen hell for a good while there.
In a roundabout way, it had been one of the best winters of Cornelius’ life.
The mills, schools, nearly everything had been shut down, and the entire family was stuck at home for days on end.
There was nothing to do but hibernate, tend to the woodpile and stove, eat good food, and tell stories.
It had been cold despite their best efforts, but Papa’s voice was a smooth, warm balm as he told stories and sang to Mama, danced with her.
And when Cornelius wanted to know how to lead, Papa showed him with a smile.
“Cornelius.”
Cornelius blinked, withdrawing from the tundra of his memories.
He was no longer thirteen, but thirty. He was not home with his family, but deep within Brazil with strangers and people that could be called friends.
And instead of waiting all winter and spring to see Watt again, he was here, with his hand on Cornelius’ shoulder and an inquisitive eyebrow raised.
“Yes? Sorry, I was …” Cornelius’ grip tightened on his cane, and he gestured vaguely with his other hand. “The heat.”
Watt squeezed his shoulder, frowning. Cornelius waited for him to ask more questions, but instead Watt tipped his head towards the river. “They want us to try it.”
“Oh. Okay.” Cornelius gathered his resolve, drawing himself up taller. “Lead the way.”
Turns out, the canoe was more than capable of gliding across the water.
Watt had become a dog, helpless to do anything but follow his master. Cornelius wandered around and took photos of the river, the gardens, the village and government buildings, and so Watt followed.
Cornelius developed all the photos he’d taken since Cuiabá, and so Watt huddled in the makeshift dark room beside him.
Cornelius wrote letters late into the night, and so Watt quietly sketched.
It went on like this for days, not entirely acknowledged save for a few curious looks from Cornelius.
On their last night in the Post, both Severino and Cornelius wrote letters while Watt made the odd shape or two in his journal.
They were left alone in the men's house, a rare moment. He sat cross-legged and hunched over the tense curve of a jaw, the stubborn angle of a nose. Eyes wrinkled with concentration, the creases upturned rather than downcast. Maggie huffed from beside him on their bedroll and Watt sighed. He set his pencil down and ran a hand down Maggie’s spine, studying the sketches from afar.
He glanced at Cornelius, then the paper.
He couldn’t figure out for the life of him what was off, but something was. Was it the arch of his brow?
“Do you have no letters of your own to write, Watt?” Cornelius asked without looking up from his own paper.
Watt flushed, darting a look towards Severino who was studiously focusing on his own letter, albeit with a tiny smile. Watt closed his journal and said, “Ah, no.”
Severino lifted his head. “Surely I need not remind you this will be the last opportunity for correspondence for some time.”
A pins and needles sensation began to crawl up Watt’s spine, and he said, “You do not. I sent all my letters weeks ago.”
“But you have family, do you not? What if—” Severino halted abruptly, as if voicing the worst case scenario might make it true.
Watt opened his mouth to tell Severino it wasn’t any of his business, and it was a close thing. Instead, he muttered, “I have said all I need to, Severino.” Cornelius’ pen paused and it caught Watt’s attention. He glared at Cornelius. “Got something to say?”
Cornelius hummed, lifting his pen from the paper.
He placed the cap against his lips, contemplating him.
The black rubber pressed against the tender flesh there, and the gold of the clip winked in the light of Cornelius’ torch propped up on the ground.
Watt swallowed, but didn’t look away. Finally, Cornelius shook his head, tearing his gaze away from Watt.
He tossed Severino a playful smile and asked, “Who are you writing to?”
Severino gave Watt a quick evaluating look before adopting a smile. He shifted his attention to Cornelius. “Isabela, of course, and the children.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” Cornelius slowly pushed himself to standing. He took a small bundle of photos out of his pack and handed over a portion of them to Severino. “You might want to send some of these back, or keep them. Either way, they’re for you.”
Severino flipped through them, his smile widening. “Oh, look. These are fantastic, Cornelius. Ah, you get my good side every time. Thank you.”
Cornelius laughed, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Of course, the least I could do.”
Cornelius came over to Watt, limping a little, and sat down beside him. Cornelius offered the rest of the photos to Watt, who took them after a pause. “You don’t have to—” He started, then trailed off as he looked down at himself.
He stood with Cornelius and Severino on the steamer they’d taken to Cuiabá, smiling like a damn fool.
All three of them looked happy. He shuffled the next photo to the front.
Watt stared out the window of their hotel room in Rio.
His hair was a mess and his eyes were wide, lips parted and slightly curled upwards in delight.
The next picture was of Watt again, but sleeping in the hotel in Cuiabá curled in a tight ball around Maggie, who laid in the empty space Cornelius had once occupied.
Watt missed that ridiculously small bed.
The next photo was another one Watt didn’t know had been taken.
Cornelius and Watt stood close together on the banks of the Rio Novo.
Cornelius stared up at Watt, glasses slid down his nose and his lips split into a brilliant smile.
And Watt … he was laughing. He’d never seen himself so happy, and he couldn’t even remember what had been so damn funny.
Of course it had been something Cornelius said, but what?
“Hard to write when all the people that matter are right here,” Cornelius whispered, then smiled tentatively at Watt. “Not to toot my own horn.”
“You must think awful highly of yourself.”
“I do.”
Watt chuckled, shaking his head. He straightened the pictures into a neat stack, unable to look Cornelius in the eye.
Watt was a rational man and knew he’d been acting petulant.
He was nearly forty years old, but in that moment he was a young man again.
Jealous that his friends had received letters from back home and had someone to write to.
It wasn’t just Cornelius that didn’t reply to Watt’s letters while he was gone, but his family too.
“The thing is,” Watt began, glancing furtively between his companions.
He cleared his throat and rested a hand on Maggie's side. “Letters don’t do me much good. Never have. During the war, the only letter I received was from Cornelius’ father.
Even now, when I’m away on long periods for trips or anything like that, I generally don’t speak to my family until I return.
And I don’t have friends. The people back at home are …
I am too different. So no, I have no one to write to. ”
“Besides me, of course,” Severino said without missing a beat. “You are more than welcome to send me letters, Watt. And you too, Cornelius. I hope that we all keep in touch after this.”
Cornelius smiled. “Me too.”
“Yes,” Watt said. “I’d like that.”
Later that night, long after the lights had gone out and the men had turned in, Watt woke in a cold sweat and the echo of gunfire in his ears.
He’d been laying flat on his back with a knee partially pulled up to ease the pressure on his hip, but it was no longer comfortable.
He wanted to move, but it was first instinct to wait.
Eyes closed, it took him a moment to comprehend what he was hearing, but then it registered.
He shouted at his mind to shut off, to stop listening. But he couldn’t.
“Ah, you liked that? It is a highly shortened version of O Espelho, a story by Machado de Assis. I read it once in Gazeta de Notícias, it is one of those stories that stay with you, yes? I still have it, if you'd like to read it someday. It is home with Isabela now.”
“Severino. How long?” Cornelius demanded in a strident whisper.
Severino sighed. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
The strike of a match, followed by an exhalation. “Before I met you.”
“Fuck.” Cornelius snarled, his voice low but deadly. “Then why let me come? It is obvious that you have influence over Joaquim.”
“What does that mean?”
Cornelius blew out a breath, but said nothing.
There was a pause before Severino replied. Slowly, he said, “For one, I am not one to take gossip as gospel. For two, why not? It was not my business to know in the first place, and it changes nothing. You are a good man, Cornelius. Stupid, perhaps. But good.”
Cornelius huffed out a laugh.
After a few moments of quiet, Severino lightly added, “You could stay, you know. Both of you. Joaquim is a good man to work with, and we get along well, do we not? There is plenty of work to do.”
Cornelius immediately said, “Thank you, but I made a promise.”
“I respect that, but it is dangerous country up there. Not only the land, but the people, they are best left alone. I—I don’t want to see either of you lost, or worse, especially for men claimed by the jungle long ago.
It is not worth it. Just say that you’ll think about it, can you do that?
Besides, who is to say the site is not what Fawcett was looking for? Will that not satisfy his family?”
“Severino,” Cornelius whispered, and it was said with such surprise and rebuke that Watt nearly rolled over. “I made a promise.”
Severino sighed. “Cabeca-dura.”
Cornelius hummed. “I can’t argue with you there.” A few moments later, he said, “I'd like that. The story, I mean.”
Severino quietly laughed, and Watt could imagine him fondly shaking his head.
“Do you love her?” Cornelius asked suddenly.
The air was thick with silence for several long moments.
Finally, Cornelius said, “I nearly proposed to my colleague.
It would have been a matter of convenience for both of us.
Protection. But I couldn't imagine being tied to someone I didn't love, so I didn't. Couldn't handle the idea of her rejecting me, either. To be honest.”
“I do,” Severino murmured after a time. “In the same way she loves me.”
Cornelius did not push the matter, but he didn't have to. Even Watt could hear the grey area left behind in that statement. The tent fell quiet, and the smoke gave way to fresher air. Watt didn't fall asleep for a long time, mind gnawing on all the different ways people could love people.