Read Online Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates by Tom Robbins - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tom Robbins
Tags: Satire
Ads: Link
walk—to a huge colpa or clay lick
that was visited daily by hundreds of parrots and macaws. The guide could not
imagine a more pleasurable or compatible retirement home for Sailor, and
Switters had to admit that such a locale would provide video footage destined
to win Maestra’s personal Oscar. She’d be ever grateful. Briefly, he
entertained a vision of himself lying on a bearskin rug before the Snoqualmie
cabin’s stone fireplace, the Matisse oil—now his own—pulsating like a blue
chromosphere of massive meaty nudity above the mantel. (Dare he include Suzy in
that cozy fantasy? Better not.)
“What about predators? You know, uh,
ocelots, jaguars, big vivid serpents?”
“There are those, Señor Switter, and
also the accurate arrows of the Kandakandero, these Indians who use the bright
color feathers for to decorate their bodies. But with so many birds from to
choose in the big, big forest, it would be like the odds of the national
lottery.”
“Lots of birds, but only one well-fed
white boy from downtown North
America .”
Juan Carlos laughed. “Do not worry.
The Kandakandero are the most shy tribe in all Amazonia . They will hide from you.”
“Yeah? Too bad. I might interest ’em
in one of our John Deere chicken-pluckers. I’m certain it’ll do its job on
toucans and macaws.”
“So, you will go?”
Switters shrugged. There are times
when we can feel destiny close around us like a fist around a doorknob. Sure,
we can resist. But a knob that won’t turn, a door that sticks and never budges,
is a nuisance to the gods. The gods may kick in the jamb. Worse, they may walk
away in disgust, leaving us to hang dumbly from our tight hinges, deprived of
any other chance in life to swing open into unnecessary risk and thus into
enchantment.
Legend has it that Switters went
into the Amazon wearing a cream silk suit, a Jerry Garcia bow tie, and a pair
of white tennis shoes. To set the record straight, he wore a suit all right, he
wore suits everywhere and saw no reason to make an exception for Amazonia; but
his trouser legs were tucked into calf-high rubber boots, purchased for the
occasion; while his one bow tie, leather, designed not by Garcia but by
Eldridge Cleaver, and which he wore only to meetings and functions attended by
aging FBI men who’d yet to forget or forgive Cleaver’s Black Panther Party, was
in the drawer where he’d left it in Langley, Virginia.
To further straighten the record, he
hadn’t, at that point, the slightest intention of putt-putting to Boquichicos
in a riverboat. Once in Pucallpa , he’d
simply hire an air taxi, fly in, release Sailor, fly out. It would dent his
vacation funds but would definitely be worth every cent. With any luck, he’d be
back in Lima the following morning. This he did not mention to Juan
Carlos, being by nature and profession a secretive person, though it was
unlikely the guide would have objected.
To the contrary, for all of his
concern about the parrot and its mistress, Juan Carlos expressed equal concern
for the safety and comfort of Switters. “I am happy, señor,” he said as they
parted company in the hotel lobby, “that you have not the big enthusiasm for
our jungle.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because of danger. No, it is not
anymore like the Amazon you see at the cinema, not so wild and savage along the
big rivers, not so many animals anymore, not the headhunters or cannibals. If
you are staying on the river, walking the short walk into the colpa and
returning the same route, then you will be perfectly safe. More safe than Lima , to be frank. But some Norteamericanos they want to
leave the river, leave the trail, run into the forest like the movie star, like
the Tarzan. Big mistake. Even today, the jungle she have a thousand ways to
make you sorry.”
“Don’t worry, Juan Carlos, it’s not
my scene,” Switters said sincerely, having no inkling of what lay in store for
him.
In bed, he tried to pray because he
thought it might
that was visited daily by hundreds of parrots and macaws. The guide could not
imagine a more pleasurable or compatible retirement home for Sailor, and
Switters had to admit that such a locale would provide video footage destined
to win Maestra’s personal Oscar. She’d be ever grateful. Briefly, he
entertained a vision of himself lying on a bearskin rug before the Snoqualmie
cabin’s stone fireplace, the Matisse oil—now his own—pulsating like a blue
chromosphere of massive meaty nudity above the mantel. (Dare he include Suzy in
that cozy fantasy? Better not.)
“What about predators? You know, uh,
ocelots, jaguars, big vivid serpents?”
“There are those, Señor Switter, and
also the accurate arrows of the Kandakandero, these Indians who use the bright
color feathers for to decorate their bodies. But with so many birds from to
choose in the big, big forest, it would be like the odds of the national
lottery.”
“Lots of birds, but only one well-fed
white boy from downtown North
America .”
Juan Carlos laughed. “Do not worry.
The Kandakandero are the most shy tribe in all Amazonia . They will hide from you.”
“Yeah? Too bad. I might interest ’em
in one of our John Deere chicken-pluckers. I’m certain it’ll do its job on
toucans and macaws.”
“So, you will go?”
Switters shrugged. There are times
when we can feel destiny close around us like a fist around a doorknob. Sure,
we can resist. But a knob that won’t turn, a door that sticks and never budges,
is a nuisance to the gods. The gods may kick in the jamb. Worse, they may walk
away in disgust, leaving us to hang dumbly from our tight hinges, deprived of
any other chance in life to swing open into unnecessary risk and thus into
enchantment.
Legend has it that Switters went
into the Amazon wearing a cream silk suit, a Jerry Garcia bow tie, and a pair
of white tennis shoes. To set the record straight, he wore a suit all right, he
wore suits everywhere and saw no reason to make an exception for Amazonia; but
his trouser legs were tucked into calf-high rubber boots, purchased for the
occasion; while his one bow tie, leather, designed not by Garcia but by
Eldridge Cleaver, and which he wore only to meetings and functions attended by
aging FBI men who’d yet to forget or forgive Cleaver’s Black Panther Party, was
in the drawer where he’d left it in Langley, Virginia.
To further straighten the record, he
hadn’t, at that point, the slightest intention of putt-putting to Boquichicos
in a riverboat. Once in Pucallpa , he’d
simply hire an air taxi, fly in, release Sailor, fly out. It would dent his
vacation funds but would definitely be worth every cent. With any luck, he’d be
back in Lima the following morning. This he did not mention to Juan
Carlos, being by nature and profession a secretive person, though it was
unlikely the guide would have objected.
To the contrary, for all of his
concern about the parrot and its mistress, Juan Carlos expressed equal concern
for the safety and comfort of Switters. “I am happy, señor,” he said as they
parted company in the hotel lobby, “that you have not the big enthusiasm for
our jungle.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because of danger. No, it is not
anymore like the Amazon you see at the cinema, not so wild and savage along the
big rivers, not so many animals anymore, not the headhunters or cannibals. If
you are staying on the river, walking the short walk into the colpa and
returning the same route, then you will be perfectly safe. More safe than Lima , to be frank. But some Norteamericanos they want to
leave the river, leave the trail, run into the forest like the movie star, like
the Tarzan. Big mistake. Even today, the jungle she have a thousand ways to
make you sorry.”
“Don’t worry, Juan Carlos, it’s not
my scene,” Switters said sincerely, having no inkling of what lay in store for
him.
In bed, he tried to pray because he
thought it might
Similar Books
