The rain fell with an oily hiss into the earth-colored river. Large heavy drops shattered the placid surface into ripples. Where a moment before he could see the endless vista of jungle crowding the river-banks, now there was only a gray wall of water. The engine of the riverboat droned monotonously as the boat glided upriver against a current so slow it was impossible to determine its direction merely by looking through the open windows of the salon. The salon attendant, his dark Indian eyes impassive as always, lit a kerosene lamp to brighten the salon and brought them a fresh round of Cristal beer, the brown bottles sweating in the humid jungle heat. “Well, at, least the rain might keep the moscas away for a while,” Caine said, idly scratching a mosquito bite on his neck. “Don’t scratch. The slightest break in the skin turns septic in this climate,” Father José rebuked him gently and took a long pull at the warm beer. His large work-gnarled hand wrapped around the bottle was covered with millions of black spots, the vestige of countless borrachudo bites.
