SOMETHING TOOK THE HELICOPTER and shook it like

a jackal worrying a carcass. The bishop gripped the aluminum

supports on either side of his seat and hung on for dear life.

“Clear air turbulence,” the pilot observed laconically, and

resumed chewing his gum.

“Merda!” the bishop muttered. He regretted the vulgarity

as soon as he’d said it.

“What’s that, Your Excellency?”

The bishop’s eyes darted to his right. In his fear and discomfort,

he’d forgotten the microphones, forgotten the

headphones, forgotten that the man could hear every word

he said.

And what if he had? Was it not true? Was the helicopter not a

merda, a great stinking, steaming merda? And who was the pilot,

anyway? What had he ever done in his blessed life other than to

learn how to fly the merda? How dare he criticize a man who might,

God willing, be a future prince of the Church?

The pilot, whose name was Julio, and who wasn’t criticizing

anyone, had been distracted by a flock of vultures wheeling

in graceful curves over the approaching river. He honestly

hadn’t heard what the bishop had said. He opened his mouth

to repeat the question, then shut it again when he saw the

cleric’s mouth set into a thin line.

Julio had a paunch, sweat stains under the arms of his

khaki shirt, and a habit of chewing gum with his mouth open,

all of which Dom Felipe Antunes, the Bishop of Presidente

Vargas, found distasteful. But it was nothing in comparison

to Dom Felipe’s distaste for the helicopter.

The bishop glanced at his watch, wiped his sweaty palms

on his silk cassock, and resumed a death grip on the aluminum

supports.

Forty-seven blessed minutes in the air. Forty-seven minutes.

“It won’t be long now, Your Excellency.”

Was that amusement in the man’s voice? Was he enjoying himself?

Did he think fear was funny?

On the floor beneath Dom Felipe’s feet there was a thin (he

was sure it was thin) window of Plexiglas. He tried to avoid

looking down, but some perverse instinct kept drawing his

eyes back to that dreadful hole in the floor. They were over the

river now, sand bars protruding through chocolate-colored

foam. The sand looked as hard as the rock-strewn banks.

Do helicopters float?

A rowboat drifted in mid-river, two fishermen aboard, a

huge net piled high between them. They looked up at him,

shielding their eyes against the morning sun. One waved.

Reflexively, Dom Felipe waved back. Then a flash, like

the strobe on a camera, caused him to snap his head upward

and seek the source of the light.

Excerpt ends.