Nowhere People

Lucinho Constante, president of FUNAI, needs another two years to finish creating the plan that he has been presenting at government seminars as ‘the brand new, rationalised synthesis of the most successful programmes for the inclusion of indigenous peoples in the western world’. From Canada to New Zealand, he is testing the results (and he is sure he is headed in the right direction). He hates bureaucracy, he hates civil servants, those who have passed the public examinations and those with tenure, he hates the idiocy of the sertanistas who claim to be protectors of the forest and are really nothing but loudmouths with no ability to listen to, and support, their own families, who make endless claims about their love for the tribes that continue to hold out against the white man, but who lack the serenity to remain alert to the more fundamental demands of the day-to-day. He hates the alienation of academics, that breed that should be helping to discuss solutions, those fat peacocks; he hates those who don’t mind killing and those who don’t mind when others kill. He can’t bear to hear any more about the Raposa Serra do Sol reserve; he can’t bear to hear yet again that in nineteen such-and-such governor so-and-so liberated whatever lands in order to plant rice, soya, to extract timber; he can’t bear to hear any more about the Federation of Indigenous Organisations of the Brazilian Amazon, about the Central Coordinating Organisation of Isolated Indians. His trips to Porto Alegre are his way of hanging on to what sanity he has left. Dealing with Indians, defending them while encouraging some willingness to compromise, is a fool’s errand. A waste of time, sometimes it’s just a waste of time. He didn’t want to stop outside the hotel, he thought all the commotion looked unusual. He spotted the man, he was higher up than the others, wearing a kind of wooden armour. He asked the taxi driver to keep going. He called Antônia. They agree to meet in a more discreet restaurant in Menino Deus.

When Antônia leaves the Sheraton she realises at once that someone there knew, probably all of them knew, that she and her boyfriend had arranged to meet in that restaurant. The one in charge (she knows who it is: that brainless Catarina) approaches and tells her it’s no use changing restaurant, they’ll find out, they’ll follow them. At the restaurant in Menino Deus, Antônia describes what happened. The president of FUNAI wants to know whether they were really filming, if it was one of those demonstrations with slogans, because when he’d gone past and been suspicious he hadn’t seen anything like that. She tells him it was a group of people standing around a guy wearing a kind of armour made of straw and wood, and that he tried to approach her but hotel security came and she quickly got into a cab.

Lucinho Constante means well, but he is cornered (he can’t quite articulate his research and networking strategy to the global authorities making advances in the field of solving indigenous problems). From that day on, he has tried to be more cautious. It is all going well, yet tomorrow, at this same late hour, a foreign journalist will track him down and, right at the beginning of the interview, will ask him why it was that about six months back he’d stated that the Indians in Brazil own too much land.

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ready to destroy

‘You know something, man? I liked that rumour about you working miracles,’ said Spectre. ‘The club employee having that fainting fit was perfect, and him reviving like that, telling everyone you’re special — oh go fuck yourself it was pure Hollywood.’ The Guy has already started closing all the windows in the very large house. ‘He was just really tired, worried about his family. I don’t know what more there is to it,’ he replied. ‘We need to use that guy again, that guy is awesome.’ It had been a while since Spectre had got this excited. ‘We’re keeping him out of it,’ the Guy replied firmly. ‘We’ve got everything lined up and ready to go, my friend,’ said Spectre. ‘What for?’ The Guy was having trouble closing one of the latches. ‘Don’t you get it? We’ve got everything we need to establish our own church.’ The Guy finally managed to turn it and shut the window. ‘I’ll give you a few days to think about it, we don’t have to decide anything now. We’re doing fine. We’re not in any hurry,’ said Spectre. ‘I don’t need to think about it,’ retorted the Guy. ‘If it’s up to me, the most you’re going to get is a martyr,’ the Guy replied impatiently. Spectre laughed. ‘A martyr? Really? Well, a martyr works for me … You see? We work like a Swiss clock.’ A long silence followed. ‘You know this isn’t going to last,’ insisted Spectre. ‘But the point is that I’m not going to need much more time,’ said the Guy, taking him by surprise. The Guy finished closing the windows. ‘Can you tell me what you’re planning?’ Spectre wanted to know. ‘No. You do your part, I’ll do mine.’

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