Don't Read in the Closet: Volume Four (43 page)

sport—and he wanted to do something to get in shape. After three

years on the team, he’d become damn good at rowing. Over time, he’d

developed his upper body, and now, when he rowed, it felt like he was

dancing on the water. He liked how his body felt, and he liked how he

looked. With all that exercise, his abs were ripped and his chest and

biceps bulged.

This trip to Brazil was the first time he’d been so completely on

his own. In Brazil, he was independent. No parents. No crewmates.

There was no one on the Amazon tour, in fact, who knew anything

about him. And he liked that. In this remote spot, he could become

someone he’d never been before.

Matt had begun to change himself the moment he arrived in

Brazil. For one thing, he’d stopped shaving. In the first five days, he’d

grown enough facial hair to give his face a new shape. On the

morning of the canoe trip, he’d shaped his beard into a goatee. He’d

put on the new clothes he’d picked up in Manaus: a Brazilian tank top,

cargo shorts and sandals. The cargo shorts he bought were real bun

huggers. The tank top was camo military square cut, tight across his

chest. He liked how he looked in these clothes. They made him feel fit

and powerful.

The rhythm of “Jungle Strut” pulsed in his ears. He felt like he’d

become one with the canoe; one with the river; and one with the dense

canopy of trees along the riverbank. He saw something in the corner

of his eye. Up to his right a Marmoset monkey hung by one arm on a

vine beside the river. Matt raised his paddle to wave at the monkey.

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The monkey gazed back at him with an amused look, and wagged its

free arm.

As soon as Matt raised his paddle, he realized the canoe was

moving on its own. He rested his arms, and let the current pull him

along. The other rowers were charging ahead. But Matt preferred to

float along and soak in the scenery. Off to his left he glimpsed the

yellow wings of butterflies and macaws. He closed his eyes. He

imagined himself from up in outer space, looking back at himself on

earth. He could picture just how far he was from Michigan and from

the circumstances of his usual life.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a bend coming up in the river.

In fact, he could no longer see the woman in front of him. As the river

bent to the right, it eclipsed his sightline. He stuck his oar back in the

water and paddled. The current was moving at a good clip. Small

crests of whitewater signaled an even stronger current ahead. The

other canoers must have gotten away from him when they got onto the

rapids. He rowed faster. The river continued to bend out ahead of him

in a long gradual arc to the right. Just ahead, he saw a fork. The river

split into two channels. He had to decide what to do.

It looked to Matt like the main part of the river was on the right.

The current was pulling him that way. He figured that had to be the

main channel. But the left fork was big too, bigger than any of the

other tributaries he’d seen. If the river split into two channels that

went around an island, it wouldn’t matter which way he went. He

shrugged and let the current take him to the right.

He paddled hard. He was coursing down the river at a fast clip

now. But even after ten minutes of hard paddling, he couldn’t see the

others. That bothered him. Something was wrong. It was too late to

turn around. The current was too strong to back paddle. There was

nothing for him to do but get around the island as fast as he could, and

rejoin the group. The others must have taken the left fork.

After fifteen minutes, the river forked again. This time he took the

left channel. That was only logical. He popped the earbuds out of his

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ears. He didn’t feel like hearing more drum music. He listened for

anything that might help him figure out where he was. But all he

heard was the buzz of insects.

Then he looked ahead and his heart sank. Now the river was

curving back to the right. That didn’t make sense, not if it was going

to work its way around an island. Maybe he should go ashore. He

could portage on land to walk back to the main channel. He had to do

something. He couldn’t just keep rowing deeper into the jungle on his

own.

“The hell with it,” he said. “I’m going ashore.” He paddled to the

left bank, to a spot clear enough of trees and vines that he could climb

ashore. He got out of the canoe, tied it up, hauled his backpack out of

the boat, and sat down beside it. He saw thick jungle growth in every

direction. He only had a pocketknife. It would be useless against the

tangle of trunks and vines around him. The reality of his predicament

was sinking in.

It occurred to him that the best thing to do was to stay put. By

now, the rest of the group would have noticed he wasn’t behind them.

The tour guide knew all the ins and outs of the river. He was probably

already on his walkie-talkie calling for help. All Matt had to do was

stay and wait for them to come find him. He should tie something

bright on the canoe, so they’d see it when they came to get him. He

pulled his yellow t-shirt out of his pack and tied it on the end of the

canoe.

Then he surveyed the area around him to decide where to settle in.

The clearing went about thirty feet into the jungle. The trees and brush

beyond stood up like the walls of fortress. That was OK. He didn’t

have to go into the jungle anyway. The whole point of staying put was

to be near the river when the rescue party arrived.

He turned his attention to his backpack. He went through his gear

to see what he had to work with. He’d packed a light hammock. That

was perfect. He could string it up to sleep on if no one came before

dark. Thank God, he had a flashlight. Even better, he had mosquito

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netting and insect repellent. There was also a water bottle and some

energy bars. It wasn’t much to survive on, but it would last a little

while. At the bottom of his pack, he found his journal. He’d brought it

to write about his adventures. Now, at least, he’d have something to

write about.

He carried his gear to the back of the clearing, sat down and

leaned against a tree. He closed his eyes and listened intently. He

didn’t hear anything alarming, just birds chirping and insects buzzing.

That was good. He had no desire to encounter any Amazon wildlife.

There were all sorts of animals in the jungle: snakes, crocodiles,

monkeys. The insects were bad enough. They’d gotten louder since he

arrived, as if they sensed he was there. He took out his Deep Woods

Off and sprayed every exposed part of his skin. For good measure, he

unfurled his mosquito netting and draped it on himself like a snuggie.

Now all he could do was wait. An hour went by. He looked at the

angle of the sun. It would be dark soon. It was time to put up his

hammock. He might as well try to relax. He strung the hammock

between a pair of small trees. He picked up his journal and got in the

hammock. What he’d written so far was tame, compared to what he

was thinking about writing now.

Then he heard something stir. It was faint, barely a flutter. Maybe

it was his imagination. He’d been alone in the clearing for three hours.

The solitude was giving him the heebie-jeebies. Wait! There it was

again: a barely audible rustling sound. He looked around. There was

nothing to see. But he’d heard something move. He was sure of it.

Something was there—just beyond the wall of trees. He lay still in the

hammock—listening. Minutes ticked by. He thought he heard what

seemed like muffled breath. Maybe somebody or something was

watching him.

Matt shook his head. He decided he’d better get control of his

thoughts. He was letting himself get paranoid. If he went on like that,

nothing good would come of it. This was just the kind of place for

delusions. People in unfamiliar circumstances were always imagining

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strange noises, weren’t they? He couldn’t let his imagination get the

best of him. What he ought to do was snap out of it and take a nap. He

could sleep a bit, and by the time he woke up, maybe the rescue party

would have come along. It wasn’t yet pitch dark. He figured he’d

sleep more easily while there was still some light. That way if

something came and woke him, at least he would see what it was.

He put away his journal. He pulled the netting over his legs and

chest. He lay back on the hammock and closed his eyes. He thought

about his dorm room back in Ann Arbor. Back at the dorm, he would

often fall asleep listening to music. That gave him an idea. He reached

down and pulled his MP3 player out of his pack. He queued up a set

of Bach piano preludes. The preludes were gentle. That was the ticket.

He needed something restful, something reassuring. He lay back

again. He settled into the hammock and closed his eyes. The gentle,

profound, fugal melodies tinkled in his ear. And then, while he

imagined himself rowing down the Huron River with his crew team

back in Michigan, he fell asleep.

Something suddenly bumped the hammock. Matt opened his left

eye. A strange man stood over him, pointing a machete at his face.

The man glared at Matt with a hostile expression. Matt opened his

other eye. The man did not speak. He just stood there, brandishing the

machete, as if daring Matt to make a move. Matt was frozen.

The man’s dark eyelashes made the whites of his eyes stand out,

which intensified the effect of his stare. His skin was brown. His hair

was black, but cut short so it was like a coating of black down. The

man was naked from the waist up. His chest was smooth and hairless.

Matt didn’t dare look any lower. He didn’t know what to do. He still

had the earbuds in his ears. The Bach piano preludes were set on

repeat. Even now, one of the fugues was tinkling in his ear in jarring

contrast to the mood of the moment. Matt opened his mouth to speak.

He said, “Who are you?” He couldn’t think of what else to say.

The stranger said nothing. He held the machete perfectly still in

his right hand. With his left hand, he reached out and yanked the

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earbuds out of Matt’s ears. He looked quizzically at the MP3 player

that came up dangling at the end of the headphone wires. Without

taking his eyes off Matt, the man stuck one of the earbuds in his right

ear. His face was expressionless. Nothing broke his stare. He gaped at

Matt like he was studying a strange animal. There was a momentary

flicker in his eyes, as if his attention turned for a second to the Bach

music in his ear. But the flicker quickly vanished. He pulled the

headphone out of his ear. Then he stepped back and motioned Matt to

get out of the hammock.

When the stranger stepped back, Matt saw that he wore tailored

cotton pants. Matt wondered what kind of person he was dealing with.

The man looked Brazilian. His nose was straight, not flat. His skin

was clear and golden brown. His lips fell somewhere between

European and African bloodlines. They were full on the bottom but

not on the top. His pants were tight enough to show he had muscular

thighs and calves. The smallness of his waist emphasized the fullness

of his butt and the V-shape of his torso. His chest and arms weren’t as

bulky as Matt’s. But he looked exceptionally strong. Matt doubted he

could overpower the man, even if he weren’t wielding a machete.

Matt got out of the hammock and stood up. Now it was his turn to

be sized up. The man turned his gaze from Matt’s face to his body. He

felt the man’s eyes pass over his square cut tank top. Then he felt

them move past his waist to his legs. He felt like he was being looked