The Devil's Garden (3 page)

Unusually, Sole did not sit with us. Despite her dress, she preferred to hover and carry though there was no need for her to do so. She was quiet – sullen almost and short with Estrela.
(As so often, I noticed that mother and daughter had in common most of all the knowledge of how precisely to persecute one another.) But I was alone in detecting anxiety as the governing emotion
behind this irritation.

Cordero spoke only to ask questions. I could not gauge his intelligence, nor the nature of his relationship with the Judge, but I was forming the opinion that he was the sort of a man who took a
steady satisfaction in rooting down for the worst of things – perhaps to prove to himself that nobody else was free from the fears and the weaknesses he harboured in his own mind; perhaps
because he found that he could not be sure of anything but the lowest motives. He listened – but only as though he was at some obscure extension of his business. And he had a way of
desiccating personality so that everything we said about ourselves and our work felt immoderate and self-indulgent. When Sole appeared with coffee, I took the opportunity of the interruption to ask
more about the Judge’s work and turn the conversation back on them.

‘Everyone. We are registering everyone.’ He was annoyed to have been distracted from looking at Sole’s legs. ‘Outlaws, smugglers, gun-runners, rat-eaters,
monkey-fiddlers. If it shows up alive . . . we register it.’

‘Surely they need some kind of proof of identity?’ I was not so naive as to believe this, but because of my continued irritation with Cordero, I was determined to be affable with the
Judge. ‘Otherwise anyone could turn up and there would be no record for next time and the whole electoral register would become—’

‘A farce.’ The Judge interrupted me. ‘A protracted farce. Like so much.’ He paused to upend his remaining wine directly into his throat before setting down the stem of
the glass with exaggerated care. ‘Look, most of the people we register are barely human. So how can they have an address? An address . . . An address requires a sense of time and place, a
sense of the world beyond. These creatures crawl out of the forest and stand there smelling of sweat and faeces until the soldiers frighten them away. First they come for the knives, then for the
free drink, then for the televisions.’

‘I think what you are doing is worthwhile.’ Kim spoke to him directly for the first time since we had sat down. ‘Those that want to have a say are getting that chance. We
should let them know about their rights and what those rights mean. It’s all about giving them an understanding of their situation, their choices.’

I tightened. This earnestness was not her true nature and evinced itself when she felt shy.

She sat forward. ‘We should be helping them understand the processes of land registration and the reservations and everything. We owe . . . we owe the indigenous peoples that
much.’

‘They, the
indigenous
peoples’ – the Judge returned the word as though throwing back an undersized fish – ‘are not the slightest bit interested in
registration, or voting, or the sham of their so-called rights.’ He fingered a cigarette from his case, his pale eyes unreadable and unwavering. ‘This entire question is an
embarrassment to all who concern themselves with it. The map claims the Indians live on a reservation and yet they have not the slightest idea that any such place is reserved for them. They
don’t know what reservation means. Who decided this? Not them. They were simply existing. Now their men beg for alcohol and pornography while the women sell themselves for mirrors and
cosmetics. What does that tell us about
Homo sapiens
?’

Kim’s brow needled. ‘Well, I’m not an anthropologist or a campaigner but I believe that people have the right to choose their own . . . destiny.’

The Judge’s match flared as he spoke. ‘Miss Van der Kisten, we hear a lot of this kind of talk in our country. And so we ask ourselves, why do you people come to the jungle?’
He raised his jaw and exhaled towards the sky. His voice had an incantatory quality so that his words seemed to range out into the blackness of the night beyond and to echo on into the silence.
‘Let me tell you. Always, always, it is for one of two reasons: either to find the green hell and to see some kind of a freak show; or to find a green heaven and so rediscover some ancient
truth that you pretend to yourself humanity has lost but that in reality has everything to do with your own feelings of emptiness and worthlessness and nothing whatsoever to do with the Indians or
their lives. And what happens the moment your own way of life is threatened? You retreat – you retreat the better to commune with your narcissistic little sense of entitlement, which simply
will not go away however much you recycle your packaging.’

‘I come for the ants,’ I said, softly. ‘And the food.’

‘We’re scientists,’ Kim said.

‘So you say,’ he smiled. ‘But I have met many of your tribe, Miss Van der Kisten, and they seem to believe because they wear certain clothes and affect an innocent demeanour
that this changes everything. And yet to me – and to most of my countrymen – they remain exactly as they are: the children of a thousand unseen privileges flown in from their own
continents, where their every whim has always been met at the direct and continual expense of the rest of the world, to lecture us . . . to lecture us about rights and restraint. Thank you but no.
We much prefer businessmen – the honest pigs of profit and war.’

In part, he was toying with us and Kim knew it. But she would not be so treated and there was anger entering her voice. ‘You are wrong,’ she said. ‘There are lots of examples
of honest science. And there are loads of aid organizations that achieve real things for the people they’re trying to help. We know for a fact that educated tribes make good decisions about
their circumstances and what they—’

‘What
you
consider good decisions.’ The Judge drew a backhanded curtain of smoke. ‘What
you
consider reasonable and fair and thoughtful. Everything by your
standard, by your laws, by your decree. There is a covert we-know-best in the dark heart of everything you do and everything you say.’

‘That’s just not true.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No. Not always.’

I intervened. ‘The majority of the non-governmental organizations do have good intentions.’

The Judge smiled his scabrous smile again. ‘Doctor,as you will soon discover,this place is the death-mire of good intentions. Ah, yes, you
mean
well. You mean well . . . until you
discover that you do not know what exactly it is that you mean.’

This time Kim was silent.

The Judge extinguished his cigarette. ‘I myself am a keen anthropologist,’ he said, suddenly genial. ‘An amateur, no doubt, but I have read my Durkheim and what fascinates me .
. . what fascinates me is that it is always the same with young women: the good-looking ones, they secretly want you to admire them for their minds; and the intelligent ones, they want you to
admire them for their bodies. Now why would that be? But I see by your face you are offended.’

Felipe’s eyes were watering.

‘I am not offended.’ Kim blew her hair from her forehead. ‘We are all entitled to our opinions.’

‘I’m afraid to have an opinion, you must know something of which you speak. But please . . .’ Kim had risen and the Judge’s face lit up in a disarming expression of
conciliation. ‘I am a contrary man and I make no claim for superiority. I, too, am looking for a big house on a pretty hill wherein I can indulge myself and pretend great spirituality while I
forget about the rest of the world. Consider me an idiot.’

I stood noisily and began to collect plates. I had been aware that the Colonel was watching us throughout. He had not spoken – almost so as tacitly to encourage us, I thought. Such
conversations with strangers – officials – were at best uncertain and at worst dangerous. And everything bled into everything else: land rights into land reserves, the un-contacted
tribes, the recent killings; the reserves into questions of agriculture, science, conservation, development, energy, resources; these, in turn, into narcotics, policing, the guerrillas, arms and
the government, the president.

‘Kim, it’s our turn to wash up,’ I said.

Cordero rose and addressed Felipe abruptly: ‘Do you speak the language of the local tribe?’

‘No.’ Felipe nodded and then shook his head.

‘They are called the Matsigenka,’ Kim said. ‘Or perhaps you mean the Yora or the Ashaninka or the Ese Eja or the Harkmbut?’

‘Sole speaks Ashaninka and a little of some of the other languages,’ I said. ‘Or there is a neighbour of ours who is Matsigenka – his name is Tupki.’

Cordero nodded curtly. ‘The men will make their own provisions. But we take breakfast at seven.’

‘You had better tell Jorge,’ I said. ‘He prefers to take breakfast at noon.’

‘Surely we’re all going to dance now?’ The Judge started laughing to himself. ‘We eat, we discuss, we dance. Please tell me that you have music.’

‘I hope you will be able to help us in our efforts, Dr Forle.’ Cordero spoke to me like I were another man’s choice for promotion. ‘I am sure there are things that you
and your colleagues know about this area that might be useful. I’m assuming we will be able to rely on you. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see my men. We have work to do. There are
problems.’

VII

And they are very successful. More than any other creature, the ants saturate and dominate the terrestrial environment. There are something like thirteen thousand species with roughly that
number again yet to be discovered. Their total population is probably underestimated at ten thousand trillion individuals.

We call them ‘eusocial’ insects, meaning ‘truly social’. Some ants farm, some use tools, some fight terrible wars, others enslave and still others are inquilines
– disguised interlopers who rely on their hosts for food and shelter. There are ants of every adaptation and form one can imagine: from a strangely motionless species to those with mandibles
that shut like trap doors in less than a millisecond, the fastest animal movement on Earth.

The combined dry weight of all the ants on the Earth is about the same as that of
Homo sapiens
.

VIII

I was awake. The air was stifling-close and the night full of sound. Yet distinctly, I heard the voices that must have woken me: unrestrained, then laughing.

I cast back the sheet and climbed carefully out from under my net. I put on my boots unlaced. I did not light my lamp, but crossed the floor and stood to one side of my porch window in the
darkness.

There were two men sitting on Sole’s steps. Behind them, Sole’s light was burning. I shrank back. I could see shapes through the translucent calico of her curtains. The shadows came
together in the window and I could not be sure if the one were laying hands on the other or the two merely crossing paths. I was afraid to make sense of what I saw. We did not force our way into
one another’s huts in the night. We hung around the
comedor
, we drank, we smoked, we went to bed. We tried to sleep in the merciless heat. We did not lock our doors. We woke early to
catch the only moments of cool that the jungle allows. We went to work.

The shadows parted and closed again. Sweat seeped my sides. I resolved to turn on my light and march out but the door opposite was thrown open and Sole was framed a moment: she was bare-armed
and bare-legged, her black hair untied; I recognized the long white cotton shirt that she liked to sleep in. A man appeared behind her. He was wearing a military cap and there was a gun in his
belt. She moved aside and gestured him to get out. I stood deeper into my darkness.

She was remonstrating. Her hair fell in her eyes. The man finally stepped outside and she closed the door behind him. As the other two rose, I saw that one was wearing what I took to be a
pilot’s headset. In the semi-darkness, it made his head appear much larger, grotesquely square. There was low laughter. Cigarettes were lit. Sole’s shadow moved behind the calico.
Perhaps they were arresting her, I thought. But for what?

Abruptly, the man with the cap discarded his cigarette, took both the stairs in a stride, pushed open the door and went back inside. Sole’s voice was raised. I had never heard her shout
before. More exchanges – louder now. Then Sole was coming out, leading the way. She was wearing her jeans. She passed the other two, ignored their flashlight, and walked hurriedly up the path
towards the
comedor
.

I cursed myself for not going immediately. I was sure that the man had snatched open the door deliberately to catch her as she dressed. I stumbled on my laces and lit my lamp. I tried to yank my
trousers on over my boots. But I had to sit, take the boots off, pull the trousers on, and then put on my boots again.

Outside, the night sounded like the teeth of a thousand combs thumbed over and over and the walls of the jungle loomed tall and black. I hurried towards the
comedor
. The other huts were
dark. The solar lamps were running down. I should have gone back to fetch my torch. On our familiar path, I was suddenly an impostor. And it struck me then that these last weeks had been false and
this . . . this was merely a righting. I passed around the kapok tree.