Page 28 of The Voice of Wild Places
Not without first asking, “How did you know?”
Watt stiffened at the precipice between rooms, then tilted his head in Cornelius’ direction.The movement revealed the faint scar on his cheek, where he’d been nipped by a dog when he was young.Cornelius fixated on the mark, unsure why as he’d seen it for days upon days now.Like reading the same page over and over again, skimming over the same line until it finally jumped out.
“Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“That mole by your ear.”
Cornelius exhaled.“Oh.”
Cornelius stood too, although he had nowhere to go.“Get some sleep, we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
“Are you angry with me?”
“No,” Cornelius said, because he wasn’t angry with Watt.He was with himself, with the impossible task of—
“It was your smile, too.And the terrible way you sang.I don’t think—” Watt ran a hand through his hair.“I don’t think your core's changed, just what surrounds it.You’ve always been Cornelius.You’ve always been curious and mischievous and lonely.”Watt’s mouth snapped shut after the last word, and his eyes widened.
Cornelius chuckled.He suddenly felt scooped out, hollow and exhausted.
“Cornelius, I—”
Cornelius shivered, turning his gaze away which effectively ended the conversation.For good measure, he quietly said, “It's fine.Good night, Watt.”
Watt gave him a solemn nod, and went to bed.Eventually Cornelius turned in as well, but he didn’t fall asleep for a long, long time.
April 4th, 1930
The next day Cornelius was awake, washed up, shaved, and dressed before Watt.He spent his last precious moments of solitude turning Watt’s words from last night over and over in his head.
He was right, of course he was.Cornelius had been shoving parts of himself deemed toomuchinto the dungeons of his soul all his life, when perhaps he should've been embracing them.Instead of severing bits and pieces of himself in order to make himself more palatable, he could’ve been stitching.
He was hyper aware of Maggie watching him.The dog lay outside the bedroom door, which was unusual for she normally slept right beside Watt.Cornelius felt as if the dog could read his mind and was judging him.'Surely you have bigger things to worry about.'
And he did.Rio was on the horizon, and their days of leisure and study would come to an end.First was to complete their necessary duties at the embassy, and then meet their guide and translator, one Senhor Antunes, at the hotel.
The day after tomorrow they’d board the train to São Paulo, riding it for a week until reaching the place where the Paranã melted into Paraguay, at Corumba.Once there, connect with Dr.Afranio do Amaral at the Butantan Institute.Cornelius shuddered at the thought, but obtaining antivenin and the most up to date education was paramount.
And then leave São Paulo on a steamer, via Paraguay to Cuiabá and onto the São Lourenço beyond that, which would take another eight days.
It would be weeks before they reached the point where only their own feet could propel them further, into the depths of the jungle proper.
And only then Cornelius could say that their trip had truly begun in earnest.
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
April 6th, 1930
Watt was quite sure he’d never seen anything like Rio de Janeiro, and he never would again.It wasn’t due to its beauty, although plenty of that lay in the sweeping granite mountains which cradled the sparkling bay and the raucous colors saturating vegetation and animals alike.
For all its rising tourism and bulging population, Rio appeared impossibly tame.The port was situated in the Old City, and they passed the promenade of Rua do Ouvidor, full of quality shops and docile social gatherings in the outside seating of pretty cafes.People lay stretched out on the beach under striped parasols, and they walked down the street without a care in the world.No one rushed here, and they acknowledged each other in passing.
Concrete and stone reigned, from the streets to the buildings.The more modern architecture all looked the same to Watt, enormous square towers with too many windows to count, but the older buildings bore a French aesthetic.The motorcars shone beneath the sun, free from slush and mud and just as orderly as the people who drove them.
The car they rode in was as clean on the inside as it was the outside, and Watt was distinctly aware of the driver eyeing Maggie’s lost hairs clinging to the back seat.When they arrived at their hotel, Watt tipped the driver a few extra mil reis in addition to their fare, which pleased the man far greater than Watt expected it would.
The hotel was neither grand nor in shambles, and situated a bit more inland than the more ostentatious hotels like the Copacabana dwelling closer to the shoreline, which was fine by Watt.He paid for their room and board, and they were shown to their room efficiently but no less courteously.They deposited their suitcases in the room, which had two single beds and the barest of furniture.A mirror, a couple of chairs and a few stands, along with two large dressers.They chatted amicably about the pleasant weather, of all things, before taking turns in the public washroom.
