“So how is He?” Roy asked. “How is God?”
“He still resides in Miami, and knows your mother socially. It’s not a very warm acquaintance, despite her devotion to the church. It’s an appropriate one, however, unlike yours with Fiona.”
“Exactly what’s on your mind, De Souza?”
“There’re a few matters I’m concerned about.”
“I assure you there is nothing to worry about. Fiona told me everything. It’s nothing but schoolgirl drama.” Roy winced. “She still has a bit of a crush on you.”
Fiona and Dr. Traboulay were now silhouettes against the dark-blue light, talking to one another. The doctor had straightened from his hunched position and now faced Fiona, who stood attentively a few feet away, arms folded.
“Good. Very good, Roy. Now tell me about our resident zoologist. Or is it anthropologist?”
“Harmless,” Roy said. “For Christ’s sake, you’re really tense. Get a massage or something.”
“I’m leaving the matter entirely in your hands, Roy. I’m leaving for Miami tomorrow. I’m taking the good word to Him. I have faith in you. As does He.” De Souza coughed. “Roy?”
“Here.”
“I did warn you about our mutual lady friend.”
“Yes. Say hello to my mother.”
Roy tossed the cell onto the car seat and began walking toward Fiona and Dr. Traboulay.
The zoologist was speaking: “It was Conrad, my dear, who said, ‘All ambitions are lawful except those which climb upwards on the miseries or credulities of mankind.’ To that we must add the animal kingdom, and the remaining beauty of this island. If we lose it, we lose ourselves.” The doctor’s words trailed into the evening air.
It was cool. The mountains were dark, austere.
Roy, do you love me? He was trying to think.
The jaguar stopped pacing. The zoo’s nocturnal captives were restless in the dark. He sensed their movements, confined as his own, and stood tall on his hind legs, front paws against the cage, observing. The moon had not yet risen. A scent of salt lingered on the sign the man had attached to the upper part of his cage. No one had been around then, and the man, who spoke Latin — sounds similar to those that accompanied the first genuine intrusion into the jaguar’s environment over five hundred years ago but that afternoon a gentle music — had given him salt, which the jaguar licked from his palm. Then the man attached a black wooden sign onto the jaguar’s cage, weaving a strong cotton string, tied to nails in the board, around the bars. Now in the night, the jaguar, standing seven feet tall, his nocturnal instincts aroused, was looking through the bars, his heavy head and jaws near the sign. Occasionally, smelling a faint hint of salt, the jaguar licked the sign, his eyes half-closing, affectionate almost.
The moon rose.
In careful white script, the sign read:
For centuries, the jaguar has been associated with human fears and desires. In Mesoamerica, around 1200 B.C., Olmec art was dominated by human-jaguar forms resembling werewolves. After the Mayan conquest, images of the jaguar, balam, thought to be the manifestation of the night sun under the earth, guarded tombs, temples, and thrones. The Aztec culture’s warrior elite was called the Jaguar Knights. Aztec tradition included human sacrifice, in which jaguar-headed altars received the still-beating hearts of victims. The word jaguar comes from Amazonia, where Guarani Indians tell of a beast, yaguara, that attacks with one leap. The jaguar frequently subdues its prey in such a manner, killing quickly by biting into the skull or neck as opposed to strangulation, the preferred method of most large cats. The jaguar is South America’s most powerful predator, and it grows larger in southern Amazonia; some males measure eight feet from nose to tip of tail and weigh over three hundred pounds.
This jaguar’s title is Lord of Olmec, after the Olmec culture. Call him Olmec.
I remain yours faithfully,
Dr. E. Traboulay
Resident Zoologist and Conservationist
Toward an opening in the trees on the other side of the zoo, the yaguara was looking, his gaze as steady and penetrating as though he had sighted prey.
Had the yaguara been able to leap through the cage, through the air, and into the trees and beyond, across the night sky, flying in a magical bound to what lay in the distance across the sea, he would come to the coast of South America. He would land on a long wide and beautiful beach, the moon lighting it as if its sand were made of salt or crushed diamonds. He would run along the beach, hearing the sound of waves, enjoying the scent of sea and the soft sand beneath his paws. Soon he would angle toward the jungle, running to its dark green billions of leaves tinted by moonlight. And there he would be.
Yaguara.
Eric’s turn
by Rian Marie Extavour
Tunapuna
Eric’s lips pulled back and he inhaled sharply as the liquid heat slid over his tongue. He blew strands of steam from the soup, and sipped the next spoonful cautiously, letting it trickle to the back of his throat. He gazed intently at each spoonful of the murky yellow liquid with the occasional dumpling, carrot, and oh-so-rare corn. The warm soup pushed against the cold in his body, temporarily evicting the uninvited guest and making him shudder. He would not feel so cold if he had worn his blue jacket, but after Jerry had jeered at him last week about the “old rag” causing the office staff to erupt in laughter, he had decided it was time to leave it behind. For three months he had succeeded in hiding the shredded lining of the overused pockets, but now the shoulder seams were beginning to tear, and a week ago the zipper refused to align.
At the time he had simply shrugged his shoulders, bowed his head, and chuckled along as he usually did. Answering Jerry would only lead to more humiliation. He certainly wasn’t going to ask them to adjust the air-conditioning. Besides, the jacket was the only thing he had left of her. Wearing it not only kept him warm in the office, but it allowed him to feel closer to her. It was the one thing she had not taken when she left, and every day he would breathe into it trying to catch a remnant of her perfume. Now the jacket lay at home bundled under a cardboard box waiting for his return.
“Ey, Mopey Dick, you call the football association yet?” a voice asked. “The minister waiting on the budget.” Ryan stood over Eric’s desk cradling a stack of folders and tapping his foot.
To Eric, this gray-brick, two-story office complex housing the ministry felt like a prison with its creamy walls and sleepy sentinels, too old or too fat to run after any perpetrator. Its manicured presence seemed to mock the neighboring Regional Corporation to the back, whose yard was littered with mud-caked tractors, backhoes, and dumptrucks. In front, the busy Eastern Main Road bustled, slowing only on Sunday evenings and holidays. Eric felt trapped. His release would come later at his favorite bar, Spektakular-4-Rum — the only place that would still give him credit. As long as he hid there, the pressures of wife and work remained at bay.
“No, I’ll get to it after lunch,” he answered, turning his back to Ryan.
“I’ll let her know,” Ryan replied smugly before walking off. Eric’s failure would be another feather in his colleague’s cap of ambition. Maybe this time the minister would understand and send Eric back to the messenger department.
No one in the office understood how he had been promoted to clerical duties. He was disorganized. His work was always behind schedule causing delayed payments of community funds. This embarrassed the entire department that, prior to Eric’s arrival, had prided itself on its efficiency. For the five months that Eric had worked in this office, he had pretended not to notice the cold stares and sudden silences whenever he appeared. He was certain they were all conspiring to get him transferred, and he also knew that this current post was the head messenger’s way of getting rid of him after years of trying.