The Voice of Wild Places, page 16
“They only have one room available, but it does have two beds,” he said, his tone grim yet hopeful.
Watt’s brain short circuited at the obvious math. Someone would have to sleep on the floor, or share a bed with someone else. He opened his mouth to volunteer for the floor, but Cornelius processed faster than he did. He said, “Looks like we’re not the only ones wanting to take advantage of the dry season. Watt and I can share.” He gently elbowed Watt in the stomach. “Like we’re schoolboys again, eh?”
It wasn’t the whole truth, and they both knew it. They hadn’t been schoolboys together when they shared a bed, and Watt didn’t even remember—but he did, didn’t he?
The words slapped Watt across the face, branding him with a memory. Cornelius in Watt’s bed, curled up beside him as he told a feverish Watt a story about the ancient Egyptians.
Watt swallowed. Things weren’t the same anymore, and they both knew that, too. And yet he embraced the terrible idea, because it was clear Cornelius would rather share a bed with Watt than Severino, or have the floor become a factor for anyone. “That’s fine,” he lied, trying very hard not to blush.
Severino was too relieved to notice Watt’s plight. His shoulders lowered and he said, “Good, good.”
They settled into their room and resolved to begin their errands manhã, a concept that Watt had hoped to avoid thus far. According to Fawcett, everything in Brazil was done manhã, which led to days, or even weeks long, delays. But today Watt was happy to embrace the prospect. It was mid-afternoon, and yet it felt like seven at night.
The room was larger than Watt expected, but there was no bathroom. That was in the hall, a large communal one shared with the other guests. The beds were large enough for two people, but two people of Watt and Cornelius’ size were a different story, though.
“Window,” Cornelius said, dropping his luggage onto the bed by the window. It faced the street rather than the bush, but Cornelius opened it and stuck his head outside anyway.
Watt flashed an apologetic smile at Severino, who just chuckled and set his bag on his own bed. “I shall see about a shower. It is early enough, there may not be such a wait.”
Watt set his luggage beside Cornelius’ on their bed. The bed. Cornelius pulled his head out of the window and grinned at him, hair tousled and glasses askew. “What?” Watt asked.
Cornelius shook his head, but was unable to shake away his smile. “Look,” he said, but only moved away from the window a fraction.
Watt stared at him for a moment, then knelt on the bed beside him, careful not to knock their things onto the floor. Maggie jumped onto the mattress, sneaking in beside him. She knocked Watt into Cornelius, who momentarily stiffened. Watt glanced sideways at him and said, “Sorry.”
Cornelius merely smiled, and nodded to the window.
Watt looked out the window. At first he only saw the street, buildings, and people. The types were varied, from stiff Englishmen to Turkish shopkeepers, Brazilian locals and otherwise. They walked the streets, outpaced by cars and carriage and fully immersed in their lives. In a way, it was a city like any other. A congested area full of people whose lives bounced off others in the most mundane of ways, like shopping for food or crossing the street.
But beyond the city, was the bush.
It was hard to discern, but it seemed to be what they were promised. Grassland and sparse trees, potential marshland and swamp. Really, it should not have been as exciting as it was.
But oh, it was.
Watt pulled back and looked at Cornelius, returning his smile.
“Watt, you awake?” Cornelius whispered into the vague space between midnight and dawn. Severino’s soft snores filled the room, and the wall was cold beneath Cornelius’ fingertips.
Watt’s foot jerked, heel scraping against Cornelius’ calf. He made a low noise of affirmation, one that barely escaped his chest. A pang of guilt went through Cornelius, and something far warmer.
“Nevermind—it can wait,” he whispered, his palm flush against the wall. After all this time, he’d chosen the middle of the night to have this conversation. ‘Brilliant thinking, Cornelius.’
“S’ alright, what’s keeping you?” Watt murmured, and his spine seemed to vibrate against his own, which was absurd. Cornelius liked it when Watt talked like that. Long words, filled with thought and a hint of Scottish. He couldn’t tell the man that it was his presence keeping him awake, the man had hardly moved all night. Watt wouldn’t—couldn’t—understand that Cornelius was electrified by the man’s body pressed against his, and the idea that after all this time only a few layers of fabric separated them. Cornelius was pretty sure Watt was hugging the edge of the bed, but they were still squished together. How could Watt stand it?
‘Because he doesn’t like you like that. You’re lucky he likes you at all,’ an ugly part of his brain said.
And yet, Cornelius had no choice but to speak exactly what was on his mind. It was his nature. In a low whisper, he asked, “What is a aventiage?”
Watt tensed for a split second before rolling over, careful and quiet yet effortless. Cornelius did the same, but with much less grace. They were face to face now, sharing air and mildly confused looks. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight to reflect in Watt’s eyes.
“A what?”
Cornelius took a deep breath, and he did his best to speak slowly and quietly. “In the last couple of letters you sent me, you kept referring to me as … your aventiage. To be honest I really couldn’t understand much. They were hard to read. Jumbled. I’m not … I understand why you might’ve been confused writing them. But I remember that came up a few times.”
Watt blinked, long and slow. His fingers twitched in the space between them, brushing against the sheet. They’d be so easy to take, and nothing Cornelius hadn’t done before. But that was before. This was after.
Voice thick, Watt said, “I don’t know if it makes me feel better or worse that you received them after all. I never knew, but I’d always hoped that you didn’t. Before, anyways. I’d thought maybe that was why …”
‘Why you didn’t write me back, a soldier heading off to a war and unsure of return.’ He didn’t say it, but it hung between them all the same.
“I kept all the letters you sent me. I—” Cornelius shut his eyes, unable to say what he needed to with Watt staring at him like that. “I was so angry with you. I thought why should I answer your letters if you never answered mine? But I wish, now, that I had written you back. How cruel of a person am I not to have done so?”
“I understand, I—”
Cornelius opened his eyes, despite the burn in them. “No. Please don’t forgive me for something I haven’t forgiven myself for yet.”
“I never received yours, you know. I didn’t know they existed until last month.” Watt blurted out, then bit his lip.
Cornelius blinked. “What?”
Watt grimly explained his situation with the mysterious package and the state the letters were in. He said, “I know it sounds absurd, but I swear that’s the truth.”
“But who kept them from you?” Cornelius asked. His voice shuddered, and his heart raced.
“I don’t know. I thought maybe my father, but he would’ve let them burn.”
Cornelius felt like he couldn’t breathe. Oh, he’d been such an asshole. All this time, all these years. Cornelius whispered, “You never knew. They never told you, and you don’t …” He shook his head a little. “But we had a whole conversation, you and me. I thought at least you would’ve remembered that.”
Watt shivered, and his beard scratched against the pillow. “I’m sorry Cornelius, I don’t remember things well, especially from that time. All I know is that I was forbidden to see or talk to you again, or any of your family, and we never visited Harbor Point after that year. I fought for you, I really did. But it wasn’t enough. I should’ve tried harder to find out what happened, to reach you and tell you that I missed you. But Father was so …” Watt sighed. “I’m truly sorry.”
Cornelius closed his eyes, fighting tears. A tentative hand rested on his jaw, and a thumb wiped at his tears. Cornelius inhaled and opened his eyes, surprised. Watt startled and began to pull his hand away. Cornelius reached up, laying his hand over Watt’s and securing them both in place on his cheek.
Watt swallowed. Stammering a little, he said, “I—I believe what I was trying to say was my—my aventurier. I’m not the best at writing in French, and it w—was … disorienting, over there.”
Oh, hell. Cornelius’ heart was on the verge of collapse.
He wasn’t sure how it began, but their joined hands drifted from his jaw to the space between their chests. Watt stared at him with such intent, Cornelius thought he was about to be kissed. But no, Watt didn’t feel like that about him. They were simply feeling familiar, vulnerable.
That was all.
Cornelius smiled. “Oh.”
Watt’s fingers tightened around Cornelius. “For what it’s worth, I think we would’ve been friends back then.”
Barely audible, Cornelius said, “Me too.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Can I ask you something else, first? About the letters.”
“Yes.”
“Who …” Cornelius wasn't sure why it mattered, only that it did. He had to know. “Who is Cher Ami? What was she like?”
Watt blinked in surprise, then a smile crested his lips. “Oh. Cher Ami. I'd nearly forgotten about him, although I'm not sure how. He saved our lives, you know. God, those days were a mess. One miscommunication and inflated ego after another led us into such chaos that eventually we were being fired upon by our own troops. The artillery.” Watt's smile faded, and he sighed. “There were eight others, but only Cher Ami made it back, with the message and in bad shape. He lost a leg, and suffered a chest wound that later turned fatal.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry.” Cornelius immediately regretted asking. There had been a letter from Watt after he'd made it out of there, pages upon pages of which were filled with mostly incoherent scribbles focusing on someone named Cher Ami. The emotion behind his words had been nearly enough to make Cornelius crack. He'd always assumed Cher Ami was a woman, but the French always were the more interesting sort. Once again, he wished that he'd buried his pride and written Watt back.
“He lived a good life, and did his duty. I visited him a few years back, actually. It's … odd, seeing him on display like that. But at least others can learn about him, I suppose.”
“Oh?” Cornelius asked, confused.
Watt frowned. “At the Smithsonian.”
“I … think something has been lost in translation here.” Cornelius tried.
Understanding dawned on Watt's face, and he chuckled quietly. “Cher Ami was a messenger pigeon, not a human.”
“Oh.” Cornelius' cheeks immediately flushed. “Oh. That—that makes much more sense.”
Their soft laughter filled the room, and a giddy sort of feeling rose in Cornelius' chest. Watt playfully hushed him when Severino's snores changed tempo, and they smiled at each other. After a few moments, Watt said, “Do I get to ask my question now?”
Cornelius nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“Why Sawyer?”
The atmosphere shifted from quiet joy to grief. Cornelius closed his eyes on reflex. He swallowed against his leaping heart, then said, “For Papa. Sawyer … it pays homage to him and his work. I won't be carrying on the family name, but this is—it's a way for me to be close to him. To where I come from.”
“Oh,” Watt said. “Oh, Cornelius.”
Watt moved closer. Cornelius, quite sure he was not reading the situation correctly, remained still. He was glad for his second intuition, for Watt merely brought their foreheads together. They could have kissed. It would have been so easy. Neither of them seemed to be breathing, but Cornelius knew he had to be because his heart was racing a million miles an hour.
But they only laid together. Quiet, hands entangled between them. Foreheads pressed together and noses aligned. There was nothing romantic about it, not really. And yet, Cornelius had never felt more intimately touched in his life. They lay there in the moonlight, Severino’s snores and the distant sounds of a city at night lulling them into a sense of ease. Of comfort.
Cornelius had started to drift off to sleep when Watt murmured, “You know, I do remember you telling me stories. I wish I remembered the rest, I really do. But I’m convinced listening to you got me through it, you know. I always thought you’d become a writer some day, or an actor.”
Cornelius chuckled. “No, it’s as you say. I was born to be an aventurier. But a man can be good at many things.”
“Thank you, Cornelius.” Watt grinned, and Cornelius thought he could almost feel it.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Cornelius whispered.
May
Hen House
May 12th, 1930
They left Cuiabá after a month, and not a moment too soon. Not only were they behind schedule, but Cornelius thought if he had to sleep beside Watt and keep his hands to himself for one more night he might perish. He’d never gone so long without releasing his … frustration, and sharing a room with someone else for three months made self relief impossible, let alone a bed.
Cornelius had a passion for all things that made him feel alive. Alcohol, cigarettes, danger, and a good fuck. Since all he had to cope with life now were cigarettes and danger, he was eager to dive into the latter.
He hadn’t drank since that dreadful night in São Paulo, and while he had plenty of desire to drink more, his will for now was iron clad. His discussions with Watt helped immensely, in fact they helped so much that he was wanting things he could never have.
The time in Cuiabá had been well spent, albeit boring and tiresome. They secured seven mules and the feed and time needed to fatten them up for the journey ahead, playing a game of hurry up and wait while they did so.
Watt spent most of his time sketching and collecting little treasures, namely rocks. Cornelius spent most of his time writing, developing, and watching Watt as he worked. Severino was also an artist, his preferred tool a pen rather than a pencil like Watt. He wrote and sketched the most organized journal entries Cornelius had ever seen, and had quite literally taken notes on his style.
They all sent final letters, exercised daily, and sighted in their guns in the back country. Surprisingly, Cornelius was a better shot than Watt. Cornelius thought to tease him about it, but after seeing the way Watt’s hands shook around the handle of his .44 revolver, he decided against it.
They walked nearly every day, stretching muscles that had gone lax during weeks of travel. Severino joined them as well, and the tension between him and Watt had practically dissipated by now. As had most of the animosity between Cornelius and Watt, although what now existed was an awkward sort of air that neither of them knew what to do with.
They sent back items they would no longer need such as suits, and resupplied as efficiently as possible. Cornelius had taken inventory of both his and Watt’s packs more times than he cared to admit. They contained thus:
Cornelius
2 small diary notebooks
compass
pencils
protractor
ruler
Marble's hunting knife
wrist watch
waterproof belt
2 traveling outfits
extra pair of boots
map
Kodak Eastman
film
powdered developer
two cases of cigarettes
flask
mosquito net
oiled poncho
fish hooks and 100 ft of line
iodine
antivenin and first aid kit
4 lbs xarque
hammock
coffee
.38 pistol
bullets
matches
Watt
small diary notebook
sketchbook
compass
.44 revolver
bullets
Pencils
Pipe and tobacco
Camillus tl-29 Pocket Knife
Pocket watch
Flashlight
2 traveling outfits
Extra boots
Map
Machete and scabbard
Ken-L rations
Small Tin Bowl
2 lbs rice
2 lbs beans
Sweetened condensed milk
Hammock
mosquito net
pot
two mugs
Oiled poncho
striker and flint
Matches
It felt like too much and not enough all at once. Severino seemed to approve, and Cornelius figured he would be the ultimate authority on the matter, given how many trips he’d made back and forth. He’d asked the man if he minded trekking in and out of the bush, and Severino had only smiled. “I’m the man Joaquim sends when things are needed,” he’d said, and that was that.
They had their meeting with the Inspectoria de Protecção aos Indios on the second day there, providing the necessary paperwork to show they had permission to visit Bacairy Post and whatever potential people they may come across, Bororo, Paresí, or otherwise. It was not as easy to dive into the Amazon and meet her people as it used to be, but Cornelius was not complaining.
Brazil was understandably weary of foreign explorers claiming grand humanitarian and scientific purposes. Most often such explorers experienced great hardship which made for great headlines, and if they did come across any findings, most were not made public or if they were, it was in an adventure novel. Fawcett’s recent disappearance and the rescue missions sent after him had created exactly the sort of publicity they did not want. Not to mention that Brazil had their own brilliant scientists and explorers.
Cornelius keenly felt like the fox in the hen house, and tried to not think about it too much. Harming the Indigenous peoples was not in their plan, and they were aiding the archaeological dig, if only for a short time.
