To his relief, Convict kept pace, pausing now and then to inspect and sniff at a tree or a bush—and doing what dogs did.
After stopping at the stream for Convict to drink, the two of them started uphill, on the dirt-and-stone road that would take them to the hostel.
When at last the ground plateaued River spotted his destination on the outskirts of the clearing. It was composed of three buildings: Beluga’s own little house; the barn—though there were no horses anymore; and what Beluga called the longshed—it housed up to twenty guests a night. Beluga’s house was whitewashed, one story and two rooms, with planters that always seemed to offer flowers in a variety of colors at both windows. The longshed was whitewashed as well, with a funny little L-shaped add-on where Maria, Beluga’s housekeeper, lived and worked. The kitchen was there too. Sometimes, the sounds of Maria making coffee in the morning were a bit loud in the shed—but that was all right. Travelers were supposed to be up, drinking that coffee, and on their way—or paying for a second night’s stay.
The barn, where River sometimes slept, was to the right of the shed.
River always thought it touching that—as with Beluga’s own little house—Beluga kept flower beds around the shed and the barn.
Beluga loved flowers. To see him smile when he touched one was something that made everyone else smile as well, those giant hands of his so delicate as he gave a rose petal a gentle brush.
Beluga worked the place himself, alone except for Maria, a tough but kind widow who had lost her husband and two of her children in a flood, but still lived with her faith intact. She had salt-and-pepper hair and had obviously been very beautiful in her youth, though time had brought wrinkles to her face and a thinness to her body.
Beluga’s property sat on a little hillock with lots of land surrounding it, plenty of space for Maria to hang her laundry in the sun and for Beluga to keep a gathering of ragtag chairs where he could sit and puff on a cigar, sip his coffee or brandy.
As River approached, Convict in tow, he saw three backpackers ambling away and Maria coming out of the longshed with a bundle of laundry. Beluga was helping her with the work, hanging sheets on the line.
He looked up and frowned as River walked toward him. He was a massive, broad-shouldered man, six-four or -five and muscular.
“No dogs, you know that.”
“I had to take him, Beluga. He was being beaten and starved.”
Convict sat politely looking at Beluga and wagging his tail.
“I can see the starved part,” Beluga said. “Still, he’s a dog. No dogs. You keep him out here. Besides, I don’t know if I have a bed for the night.”
“I didn’t know you started taking reservations,” River countered.
Beluga rolled his eyes and went to hang another sheet.
“Want some help?” River offered.
Beluga shrugged. River shifted out of his pack and went to hang a sheet.
“So where did you get the dog?” Beluga asked.
“At the market. Come on, Beluga, look at him! He’s a great dog. Obedient and affectionate. And not prissy—I wouldn’t have come here with a prissy little dog, I would have known much better,” River teased. “This is a manly dog. And I had to. The guy kicked him—because he was mad at me for being decent to the poor thing and feeding him. I really had no choice. Honestly—anyone half human really didn’t have a choice.”
Beluga kept working in silence. Then he paused when he went to pick up another sheet. “Probably old fat José. He’s been through a few dogs. Thinks they’ll protect his jewelry—half of it’s fake—and then when they want to be fed, he beats them. Did you hurt José?”
River wasn’t sure if Beluga was hopeful that he had hurt the man or just worried that he might have done so.
“No.”
Beluga hung the sheet and went and sat down in one of the lawn chairs. Convict went to him, shyly, wagging his tail.
“You’re a big boy, you stand tall!” Beluga said, patting the dog. Convict set his nose on Beluga’s lap. “No, no, none of that. You’re not staying here.”
But he kept petting the dog. River grinned. It hadn’t taken long; Beluga could say what he wanted, but he had already been befriended by the dog. But that was Beluga. He was truly a gentle bear of a man, not at all pretty—he had a really crooked nose and his eyes were too small. But River had seen him find a way to help people by pretending they’d paid enough or telling them that a three-for-one-night special was going on when he knew they were really broke.
Better not to say too much at the moment about the man, the market, or the dog.
River sat next to Beluga and pulled out his drawing pad. He didn’t know why, but Beluga liked to watch him draw—he thought that River was good.
Every once in a while, River thought he was okay himself, but he didn’t draw to become a great artist. He drew scenes because he enjoyed drawing, and if he could capture the essence of something that was beautiful or that intrigued him, it was incredibly satisfying.
Once, he’d drawn Beluga, and the sketch was one of his favorites; he was really proud of it. The man’s immense size—and his gentle nature—had somehow come through, along with the character lines in his face and the innate wisdom in his eyes.
Sometimes, Beluga told River that he’d take a few of the drawings in lieu of cash when he wanted a bed for the night.
River hadn’t wanted any kind of a trade, though, for his likeness of the man. That had been his gift to Beluga.
Now, he had something to convey.
River began to sketch the scene at the bridge that morning. He made broad strokes to create the Brazilian scene, the sky, the jagged hilltops, and the mountains beyond. He drew in the foliage and then the bridge with the men standing on it, looking downward, and the man he assumed to be Tio Amato standing by the car, waiting. He could picture Tio Amato’s face in his mind’s eye, and the drawing became more detailed as he drew him in.
Beluga watched him.
“You saw that man—you didn’t take anything from him, did you? That man—he is not like fat Jose.”
“Yes, I saw him. No, I didn’t take anything.”
Beluga tapped the pad. “You don’t mess with this man.”
River turned to him, serious now. “Beluga, what should I do? I think that he killed somebody.”
Beluga waved a hand in the air. “You think? You think? You leave him alone.”
“Beluga, I saw him and his henchmen or thugs or whatever parked at the bridge. They had taken something from the trunk, I’m pretty sure, and they threw it over the bridge into the water. Then those guys,” he stopped to point at the three men, “those guys stared into the water before coming back to this guy—Tio Amato?—and saying something. When I went on down to the bridge, there was nothing in the water but there was something on the wall. Blood, I’m pretty sure.”