A half-mile beyond where the busstopped struggling againstthe slope of the mountain,and past a hushed hamlet with one chatty café,an unseen waterfall became the soundtrackto the 3-D movie I confused with substance.When the cascade was revealedits babble was replaced bythe allegations of cotinga birdsand the pleas of tamarin monkeys.
Or so I imagine—the source of these speech acts was hidden from view.
Blue morpho butterflies with wings as large as bandanasswarmed like I was a rotting mangoas the mist shushed the fauna.
A few features of the morning dominate my memoryand I overlook crucial details.Even if this is the nature of remembranceI apologize to the shapesand colors and sounds and smells I omit.
At a bend of the roadacross the ravine–I recognized the tableau vivantfrom photographs and descriptions.But the monologue of the bigwig at the café–like a voice-over in a film noir—returned to me.I translate:“Do not walk onto the property—the owner will have you arrested…or worse…she’ll shoot you.”
At least I imaginethis was his warning as he spoke so fast…Admittedly I do have the gene for hyperbole.
I walked to the gate and hugged the soggy view:My camera reproducedonly a faint outlineof the mid-century assemblageso memory alone stores the perspective.My dizziness subsidedas I realized what was in front of me:the house Lota de Macedo Soares built in Samambaia.
***
Illustration: Vishnu Prasad