The Last Place God Made

I had expected the worst of the hotel but the Palace was a pleasant surprise. Certainly it had seen better days, but it had a kind of baroque dignity to it, a faded charm that was very appealing, and Hannah’s name had a magic effect on the Senhor Juca he had mentioned, an old, white-haired man in an alpaca jacket who sat behind the desk reading a newspaper.

He took me upstairs personally and ushered me into a room with its own little ironwork terrace overlooking the river. The whole place was a superb example of late Victoriana, caught for all time like a fly in amber from the brass bed to the heavy, mahogany furniture.

An Indian woman in a black bombazine dress appeared with clean sheets and the old man showed me, with some pride, the bathroom next door of which I could have sole use, although regrettably it would be necessary to ring for hot water. I thanked him for his courtesy, but he waved his hands deprecatingly and assured me, with some eloquence, that nothing was too much trouble for a friend of Captain Hannah’s.

I thought about that as I undressed. Whatever else you could say about him, Hannah obviously enjoyed considerable standing in Manaus which was interesting, considering he was a foreigner.

I needed that bath badly, but suddenly, sitting there on the edge of the bed after getting my boots off, I was overwhelmed with tiredness. I climbed between the sheets and was almost instantly asleep.

I surfaced to the mosquito net billowing above me like a pale, white flower in the breeze from the open window and beyond, a face floated disembodied in the diffused yellow glow of an oil lamp.

Old Juca blinked sad, moist eyes. ‘Captain Hannah was here earlier, senhor. He asked me to wake you at nine o’clock.’

It took its own time in getting through to me. ‘Nine o’clock?’

‘He asks you to meet him, senhor, at The Little Boat. He wishes you to dine with him. I have a cab waiting to take you there, senhor. Everything is arranged.’

‘That’s nice of him,’ I said, but any iron in my voice was obviously lost on him.

‘Your bath is waiting, senhor. Hot water is provided.’

He put the lamp down carefully on the table, the door closed with a gentle sigh behind him, the mosquito net fluttered in the eddy like some great moth, then settled again.

Hannah certainly took a lot for granted. I got up, feeling vaguely irritated at the way things were being managed for me and padded across to the open window. Quite suddenly, my whole mood changed for it was pleasantly cool after the heat of the day, the breeze perfumed with flowers. Lights glowed down there on the river and music echoed faintly, the freedom from the sound of it, pulsating through the night, filling me with a vague, irrational excitement.

When I turned back to the room I made another discovery. My canvas grip had been unpacked and my old linen suit had been washed and pressed and hung neatly from the back of a chair waiting for me. There was really nothing I could do, the pressures were too great, so I gave in gracefully, found a towel and went along the corridor to have my bath.

Although the main rainy season was over, rainfall always tends to be heavy in the upper Amazon basin area and sudden, violent downpours are common, especially at night.

I left the hotel to just such a rush of rain and hurried down the steps to the cab which was waiting for me, escorted by Juca who insisted on holding an ancient black umbrella over my head. The driver had raised the leather hood which kept out most of the rain if not all and drove away at once.

The streets were deserted, washed clean of people by the rain and from the moment we left the hotel until we reached our destination, I don’t think we saw more than half a dozen people, particularly when we moved through the back streets towards the river.

We emerged on the waterfront at a place where there were a considerable number of houseboats of various kinds for a great many people actually lived on the river this way. We finally came to a halt at the end of a long pier.

‘This way, senhor.’

The cabby insisted on placing his old oilskin coat about my shoulders and escorted me to the end of the pier where a lantern hung from a pole above a rack festooned with fishing nets.

An old riverboat was moored out there in the darkness, lights gleaming, laughter and music drifting across the water. He leaned down and lifted a large, wooden trapdoor and the light from the lamp flooded in to reveal a flight of wooden steps. He went down and I followed without hesitation. I had, after all, no reason to expect foul play and in any event, the Webley .38 which I’d had the forethought to slip into my right-hand coat pocket was as good an insurance as any.

A kind of boardwalk stretched out through the darkness towards the riverboat, constructed over a series of canoes and it dipped alarmingly as we moved across.

When we reached the other end the cabby smiled and slapped the hull with the flat of his palm. ‘The Little Boat, senhor. Good appetite in all things but in food and women most of all.’

It was a Brazilian saying and well intended. I reached for my wallet and he raised a hand. ‘It is not necessary, senhor. The good captain has seen to it all.’

Hannah again. I watched him negotiate the swaying catwalk successfully as far as the pier then turned and went up some iron steps which took me to the deck. A giant of a man moved from the shadows beside a lighted doorway, a Negro with a ring in one ear and a heavy, curly beard.

‘Senhor?’ he said.

‘I’m looking for Captain Hannah,’ I told him. ‘He’s expecting me.’

The teeth gleamed in the darkness. Another friend of Hannah’s. This was really beginning to get monotonous. He didn’t say anything, simply opened the door for me and I passed inside.

I suppose it must have been the main saloon in the old days. Now it was crowded with tables, people crammed together like sardines. There was a permanent curtain of smoke that, allied to the subdued lighting, made visibility a problem, but I managed to detect a bar in one corner on the other side of the small, packed dance floor. A five-piece rumba band was banging out a carioca and most of the crowd seemed to be singing along with it.

I saw Hannah in the thick of it on the floor dancing about as close as it was possible to get to a really beautiful girl by any standards. She was of mixed blood, Negro-European variety was my guess and wore a dress of scarlet satin that fitted her like a second skin and made her look like the devil’s own.

He swung her round, saw me and let out a great cry. ‘Heh, Mallory, you made it.’

He pushed the girl away as if she didn’t exist and ploughed through the crowd towards me. Nobody got annoyed even when he put a drink or two over. Mostly they just smiled and one or two of the men slapped him on the back and called good-naturedly.

He’d been drinking, that much was obvious and greeted me like a long lost brother. ‘What kept you? Christ, but I’m starving. Come on, I’ve got a table laid on out on the terrace where we can hear ourselves think.’

He took me by the elbow and guided me through the crowd to a long, sliding shutter on the far side. As he started to pull it back, the girl in the red satin dress arrived and flung her arms around his neck.

He grabbed her wrists and she gave a short cry of pain, that strength of his again, I suppose. He no longer looked anything like as genial and somehow, his bad Portuguese made it sound worse.

‘Later, angel – later, I’ll screw you just as much as you damn well want only now, I want a little time with my friend. Okay?’

When he released her she backed away, looked scared if anything, turned and melted into the crowd. I suppose it was about then I noticed that the women vastly outnumbered the men and commented on the fact.

‘What is this, a whorehouse?’

‘Only the best in town.’

He pulled back the shutter and led the way out to a private section of the deck with a canvas awning from which the rain dripped steadily. A table, laid for two, stood by the rail under a pressure lamp.

He shouted in Portuguese, ‘Heh, Pedro, let’s have some action here.’ Then he motioned me to one of the seats and produced a bottle of wine from a bucket of water under the table. ‘You like this stuff – Pouilly Fuisse? They get it for me special. I used to drink it by the bucketful in the old days in France.’

I tried some. It was ice-cold, sharp and fresh and instantly exhilarating. ‘You were on the Western Front?’

‘I sure was. Three years of it. Not many lasted that long, I can tell you.’

Which at least explained the Captain bit. I said, ‘But America didn’t come into the war till nineteen-seventeen.’

‘Oh, that.’ He leaned back out of the way as a waiter in a white shirt and cummerbund appeared with a tray to serve us. ‘I flew for the French with the Lafayette Escadrille. Nieuport Scouts then Spads.’ He leaned forward to refill my glass. ‘How old are you, Mallory?’

‘Twenty-three.’

He laughed. ‘I’d twenty-six kills to my credit when I was your age. Been shot down four times, once by von Richthofen himself.’

Strange, but at that stage of things I never doubted him for a second. Stated baldly, what he had said could easily sound like boasting and yet it was his manner which said most and he was casual in the extreme as if these things were really of no account.

We had fish soup, followed by a kind of casserole of chicken stewed in its own blood, which tasted a lot better than it sounds. This was backed up by eggs and olives fried, as usual, in olive oil. And there was a mountain of rice and tomatoes in vinegar.

Hannah never stopped talking and yet ate and drank enormously with little visible effect except to make him talk more loudly and more rapidly than ever.

‘It was a hard school out there, believe me. You had to be good to survive and the longer you lasted, the better your chances.’

‘That makes sense, I suppose,’ I said.

‘It sure does. You don’t need luck up there, kid. You need to know what you’re doing. Flying’s about the most unnatural thing a man can do.’

When the waiter came to clear the table, I thanked him. Hannah said, ‘That’s pretty good Portuguese you speak. Better than mine.’

‘I spent a year on the lower Amazon when I first came to South America,’ I told him. ‘Flying out of Belem for a mining company that had diamond concessions along the Xingu River.’

He seemed impressed. ‘I hear that’s rough country. Some of the worst Indians in Brazil.’

‘Which was why I switched to Peru. Mountain flying may be trickier, but it’s a lot more fun than what you’re doing.’

He said, ‘You were pretty good out there today. I’ve been flying for better than twenty years and I can’t think of more than half a dozen guys I’ve known who could have landed that Vega. Where did you learn to fly like that?’

‘I had an uncle who was in the R.F.C.,’ I said. ‘Died a couple of years back. He used to take me up in a Puss Moth when I was a kid. When I went to University, I joined the Air Squadron which led to a Pilot Officer’s commission in the Auxiliary Air Force. That got me plenty of weekend flying.’

‘Then what?’

‘Qualified for a commercial pilot’s licence in my spare time, then found pilots were ten-a-penny.’

‘Except in South America.’

‘Exactly.’ I was more than a little tight by then and yet the words seemed to spill out with no difficulty. ‘All I ever wanted to do was fly. Know what I mean? I was willing to go anywhere.’

‘You certainly were if you drew the Xingu. What are you going to do now? If you’re stuck for a job I might be able to help.’

‘Flying, you mean?’

He nodded. ‘I handle the mail and general freight route to Landro which is about two hundred miles up the Negro from here. I also cover the Rio das Mortes under government contract. Lot of diamond prospecting going on up there these days.’

‘The Rio das Mortes?’ I said. ‘The River of Death? You must be joking. That’s worse than the Xingu any day. I’ve been there. I took some government men to a Mission Station called Santa Helena maybe two years ago. That would be before your time. You know the place?’

‘I call there regularly.’

‘You used a phrase today,’ I said. ‘The Last Place God Made. Well, that’s the Rio das Mortes, Hannah. During the rainy season it never stops. At other times of the year it just rains all day. They’ve got flies up there that lay eggs in your eyeballs. Most parts of the Amazon would consider the pirhana bad enough because a shoal of them can reduce a man to a skeleton in three minutes flat, but on the Mortes, they have a microscopic item with spines that crawls up your backside given half a chance and it takes a knife to get him out again.’

‘You don’t need to tell me about the damn place,’ he said. ‘I’ve been there. Came in with three Hayleys and high hopes a year ago. All I’ve got left is the baby you arrived in today. Believe me, when my government contract’s up in three months you won’t see me for dust.’

‘What happened to the other two planes?’

‘Kaput. Lousy pilots.’

‘Then why do you need me?’

‘Because it takes two planes to keep my schedules going or to put it more exactly, I can’t quite do it with one. I managed to pick up an old biplane the other day from a planter down-river who’s selling up.’

‘What is it?’

‘A Bristol.’

He was in the act of filling my glass and I started so much that I spilled most of my wine across the table. ‘You mean a Brisfit? A Bristol fighter? Christ, they were flying those over twenty years ago on the Western Front.’

He nodded. ‘I should know. Oh, she’s old all right, but then she only has to hold together another three months. Do one or two of the easy river trips. If you’d wanted the job, you could have had it, but it doesn’t matter. There’s a guy in at the weekend who’s already been in touch with me. Some Portuguese who’s been flying for a mining company in Venezuela that went bust which means I’ll get him cheap.’

‘Well, that’s okay then,’ I said.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Go home – what else.’

‘What about money? Can you manage?’

‘Just about.’ I patted my wallet. ‘I won’t be taking home any pot of gold, but I’ll be back in one piece and that’s all that counts. There’s a hard time coming from what I read of events in Europe. They’re going to need men with my kind of flying experience, the way things are looking.’

‘The Nazis, you mean?’ he nodded. ‘You could be right. A bunch of bastards, from what I hear. You should meet my maintenance eingineer, Mannie Sterne. Now he’s a German. Was a professor of engineering at one of their universities or something. They arrested him because he was a Jew. Put him in some kind of hell-hole they call a concentration camp. He was lucky to get out with a whole skin. Came off a freighter right here in Manaus without a penny in his pocket.’

‘Which was when you met him?’

‘Best day’s work of my life. Where aero engines are concerned the guy’s the original genius.’ He re-filled my glass. ‘What kind of stuff were you flying with the R.A.F. then?’

‘Wapitis mainly. The Auxiliaries get the oldest aircraft.’

‘The stuff the regulars don’t want?’

‘That’s right. I’ve even flown Bristols. There were still one or two around on some stations. And then there was the Mark One Fury. I got about thirty hours in one of those just before I left.’

‘What’s that – a fighter?’ I nodded and he sighed and shook his head. ‘Christ, but I envy you, kid, going back to all that. I used to be Ace-of-Aces, did you know that? Knocked out four Fockers in one morning before I went down in flames. That was my last show. Captain Samuel B. Hannah, all of twenty-three and everything but the Congressional Medal of Honour.’

‘I thought that was Eddie Rickenbacker?’ I said. ‘Ace-of-Aces, I mean.’

‘I spent the last six months of the war in hospital,’ he answered.

Those blue eyes stared vacantly into the past, caught for a moment by some ancient hurt, and then he seemed to pull himself back to reality, gave me that crooked grin and raised his glass.

‘Happy landings.’

The wine had ceased to effect me or so it seemed for it went down in one single easy swallow. The final bottle was empty. He called for more, then lurched across to the sliding door and pulled it back.

The music was like a blow in the face, frenetic, exciting, filling the night, mingling with the laughter, voices singing. The girl in the red satin dress moved up the steps to join him and he pulled her into his arms and she kissed him passionately. I sat there feeling curiously detached as the waiter refilled my glass and Hannah, surfacing grinned across at me.

The girl who slid into the opposite seat was part Indian to judge by the eyes that slanted up above high cheekbones. The face itself was calm and remote, framed by dark, shoulder-length hair and she wore a plain white cotton dress which buttoned down the front.

She helped herself to an empty glass and I reached for the newly opened bottle of wine and filled it for her. Hannah came across, put a hand under her chin and tilted her face. She didn’t like that, I could tell by the way her eyes changed.

He said, ‘You’re new around here, aren’t you? What’s your name?’

‘Maria, senhor.’

‘Maria of the Angels, eh? I like that. You know me?’

‘Everyone along the river knows you, senhor.’

He patted her cheek. ‘Good girl. Senhor Mallory is a friend of mine – a good friend. You look after him. I’ll see you’re all right.’

‘I would have thought the senhor well able to look after himself.’

He laughed harshly. ‘You may be right, at that.’ He turned and went back to the girl in the satin dress and took her down to the dance floor.

Maria of the Angels toasted me without a word and sipped a little of her wine. I emptied my glass in return, stood up and went to the rail. My head seemed to swell like a balloon. I tried breathing deeply and leaned out over the rail, letting the rain blow against my face.

I hadn’t heard her move, but she was there behind me and when I turned, she put her hands lightly on my shoulders. ‘You would like to dance, senhor?’

I shook my head. ‘Too crowded in there.’

She turned without a word, crossed to the sliding door and closed it. The music was suddenly muted, yet plain enough a slow, sad samba with something of the night in it.

She came back to the rail and melted into me, one arm sliding behind my neck. Her body started to move against mine, easing me into the rhythm and I was lost, utterly and completely. A name like Maria and the face of a madonna to go with it perhaps, but the rest of her…

I wasn’t completely certain of the sequence of things after that. The plain truth was that I was so drunk, I didn’t really know what I was doing.

There was a point when I surfaced to find myself on some other part of the deck with her tight in my arms and then she was pulling away from me, telling me this was no good, that there were too many people.

She must have made the obvious suggestion – that we go to her place – because the next thing I recall is being led across that swaying catwalk to the pier.

The rain was falling harder than ever now and when we went up the steps to the pier, we ran into the full force of it. The thin cotton dress was soaked within seconds, clinging to her body, the nipples blossoming on her breasts, filling me with excitement.

I reached out for her, pulling all that ripeness into me, my hands fastening over the firm buttocks. The sap was rising with a vengeance. I kissed her pretty savagely and after a while she pushed me away and patted my face.

‘God, but you’re beautiful,’ I said and leaned back against a stack of packing cases.

She smiled, for the first and only time I could recall in our acquaintance as if truly delighted at the compliment, a lamp turning on inside her. Then she lifted her right knee into my crotch with all her force.

I was so drunk, that I was not immediately conscious of pain, only of being down on the boardwalk, knees up to my chest.

I rolled over on my back, was aware of her on her knees beside me, hands busy in my pockets. Some basic instinct of self-preservation tried to bring me back to life when I saw the wallet in her hands, a knowledge that it contained everything of importance to me, not only material things, but my present future.

As she stood up, I reached for her ankle and got the heel of her shoe squarely in the centre of my palm. She kicked out again, sending me rolling towards the edge of the pier.

I was saved from going over by some sort of raised edging, and hung there, scrabbling for a hold frantically, no strength in me at all. She started towards me presumably to finish it off and then several things seemed to happen at once.

I heard my name, clear through the rain, saw three men halfway across the catwalk, Hannah in the lead. He had that .45 automatic in his hand and a shot echoed flatly through the rain.

Too late, for Maria of the Angels was already long gone into the darkness.

3

The Immelmann Turn

The stern-wheeler left on time the following morning, but without me. At high noon when she must have been thirty or forty miles down-river, I was sitting outside the comandante’s office again for the second time in two days, listening to the voices droning away inside.

After a while, the outside door opened and Hannah came in. He was wearing flying clothes and looked tired, his face unshaven, the eyes hollow from lack of sleep. He’d had a contract run to make at ten o’clock, only a short hop of fifty miles or so down-river for one of the mining companies, but something that couldn’t be avoided.

He sat on the edge of the sergeant’s desk and lit a cigarette, regarding me anxiously. ‘How do you feel?’

‘About two hundred years old.’

‘God damn that bitch.’ He got to his feet and paced restlessly back and forth across the room. ‘If there was only something I could do.’ He turned to face me, really looking his age for the first time since I’d known him. ‘I might as well level with you, kid. Every damn thing I buy round here from fuel to booze is on credit. The Bristol ate up all the ready cash I had. When my government contract is up in another three months, I’m due a reasonable enough bonus, but until then…’

‘Look, forget about it,’ I said.

‘I took you to the bloody place, didn’t I?’

He genuinely felt responsible, I could see that and couldn’t do much about it, a hard thing for a man like him to accept, for his position in other people’s eyes, their opinion was important to him.

‘I’m free, white and twenty-one, isn’t that what you say in the States?’ I said. ‘Anything I got, I asked for, so have a decent cigarette for a change and shut up.’

I held out the tin of Balkan Sobranie and the door to the comandante’s office opened and the sergeant appeared.

‘You will come in now, Senhor Malllory?’

I stood up and walked into the room rather slowly which was understandable under the circumstances. Hannah simply followed me inside without asking anyone’s permission.

The comandante nodded to him. ‘Senhor Hannah.’

‘Maybe there’s something I can do,’ Hannah said.

The comandante managed to look as sorrowful as only a Latin can and shook his head. ‘A bad business, Senhor Mallory. You say there was a thousand cruzeiros in the wallet besides your passport?’

I sank into the nearest chair. ‘Nearer to eleven hundred.’

‘You could have had her for the night for five, senhor. To carry that kind of money on your person was extremely foolish.’

‘No sign of her at all, then?’ Hannah put in. ‘Surely to God somebody must know the bitch.’

‘You know the type, senhor. Working the river, moving from town to town. No one at The Little Boat had ever seen her before. She rented a room at a house near the waterfront, but had only been there three days.’