Thorne avoided looking at the flyblown limbs, which were twisting synchronously in the breeze. “Mac, this is no time for ‘information please’ unless of course you wanna swing with the locals—if you catch my drift.”
“I’ll pass.”
“I figured as much. Personally, I am thinking more in terms of breakfast. Jeet?”
MacCready shook his head.
“In which case, we should head back to—”
“And what’s Joseph doing with boots on in your church?”
Thorne gave an embarrassed shrug. “Yeah, that would be the less than subtle influence of the gold miners on the artist they commissioned to do the sculpture. Seems that after a night of much pinga—which is the local bug juice—these guys all decide that boots would be a nice touch. Funny thing is, after they start talkin’ up the benefits of premature burial, the artist gets all enthusiastic about it, too. Now, personally, I think he got the laces all wrong but what do I know from sculptures? So, did you bring those cigarette papers?”
Mac could not suppress a laugh. His friend might have gone native, but the basics had apparently remained unchanged. Thorne had always been a congenial guy, yet even his friends acknowledged that he was also a guy whose brain had some “unique rewiring.” MacCready knew this was primarily due to the botanist’s legendary penchant for smoking or eating most of his subject matter on a regular basis. He also knew that Bob Thorne had learned many things as a graduate student in New York—most of which had very little to do with being a graduate student in New York.
“You’ll get your papers, but not until you answer the leg question.”
Thorne shook his head. “The legs, huh,” he said quietly. “Ya know, Mac, I’m not sure I know how to Begin this Beguine but believe me, this is yet another long story. Let’s talk about it somewhere safer—like my place—over breakfast and a smoke. And speaking of which, there is someone I am very pleased to have you meet, which is the real reason I’m stayin’ here.”
As they crossed the plaza, Thorne threw an arm around his friend’s shoulder, “So tell me all about my funeral—was it cheery-like, or was it heavy on the waterworks?”
CHAPTER 6
Yanni
God gives all men all Earth to love,
But, since man’s heart is small,
Ordains for each one spot shall prove
Beloved over all.
—RUDYARD KIPLING
Chapada dos Guimar?es, Brazil
Bob Thorne had indeed settled in. His house was simple—a single-level, wooden construction that was almost impossible to see through a blanket of flowering vines. MacCready noticed that, in addition to the brilliant colors, there was movement everywhere. Hummingbirds would suddenly appear, hover over a flower for a moment, and then, just as suddenly, disappear. There were butterflies as well—dozens of intermingling species that formed a swirling dance of blue, yellow, red, and black.
Stepping onto the porch, MacCready saw that it too was full of flowering tropical plants of seemingly infinite variety—each contributing to a captivating smell that managed to avoid being overpowering. Most surprising of all, the place was spotlessly clean. Housekeeping had never been one of Thorne’s strengths, but his habits were apparently changing. MacCready was about to discover why.
A young woman stepped out of a back room. She had waist-length, shiny black hair and moved with a strange grace that MacCready found to be vaguely feline. As Thorne rushed over and took her arm, Mac noticed that she was at least three inches taller than the botanist.
“Mac, this is Yanni. Yanni, this is Mac, my old friend from New York.”
The woman stepped forward and bowed slightly. She was dark-complected, with features that seemed distinctly Asian, clearly those of some indigenous Indian tribe.
And her eyes—were they really violet?
Thorne cleared his throat and Mac realized, too late, that he had been staring. “Bom dia,” he blurted out, returning Yanni’s bow, while mentally running through his list of Portuguese phrases.
She seemed to be examining him as he might examine some new species of insect. MacCready glanced down at his filthy jungle attire.
Great first impression, he thought, deciding to charm his way out of it. “Yanni, meu nome é Mac,” he pronounced slowly.
“Yankee fan, right?” Yanni replied. The accent was one hundred percent Flatbush Avenue.
MacCready’s double take nearly caused him to pull a neck muscle. Did I just hear that? he thought; but the broad grin on his friend’s face all but screamed “setup.” He decided to play along. “Yep, Bill Dickey’s number-one fan,” the zoologist announced.
Yanni waved her hand as if shooing away a bothersome fly. “Dey stink even more den you,” she said, before turning away with a smile that only her husband could see.
“Now, of course, Yanni prefers da Bums,” Thorne said, struggling to keep a straight face. “So Mac, about these cigarette papers.”