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Just one fragment of a larger glass serpent. See-through, like a newborn squid or shrimp, but hard and motionless. I’d chase sand fleas through riverside muck, and there was a worming thing, half buried. To think that so wild a creature should be my object! But there are mysteries and powers beyond our understanding that often choose strange receptacles for their dearest secrets. The Gorgon pounced upon her quarry, bundled her shawl into a knot, and tossed it into the basket lashed across her back. It writhed, confused by the sudden surrounding weight. She stared fixedly at the serpent, then drew closer, careful not to make a sound, to stir any rocks, all the while untying her shawl - which she then tossed so that it fell across the beast. She wore a ragged shawl and a basket across one shoulder. I could not die in such a manner (so many intelligent medical men had already foretold another end for me, and how impolite to contradict them!).Ī slight creature with flyaway black-and-gray hair and a grimly set jaw. It came closer and closer, and I realized with horror that my trousers were quite firmly caught upon a bramble. I stepped backwards in careless haste and a rock gave way beneath my foot I fell upon my rear, something tore, and there was the snake, a line of wriggling calligraphy some demonic hand had written into the earth. Then I heard a silken rustle, and beheld, in frightening proximity, a serpent - it unfurled from a ragged hole in the moss, a faint rainbow iridescence clinging to its scales.
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I ventured into the Swamp anyway, and rather enjoyed my solitary escapade into the wilderness, until I found myself caught in circles and stumbled across the same lightning-blasted yew, again and again. It is disheartening, though hardly surprising that her style of artistic production would elicit such reactions. Certain denizens of the township nearest to the Gorgon’s workshop attempted to dissuade me from seeking her out. In his notes, Oken often revisits his first meeting with the Gorgon: a brilliant thing to preserve his memory. In fact, that is why he sought the Gorgon out he needed someone to craft his “monument more lasting than bronze” - i.e. There are people who try to blame Oken’s unhappy demise on the Gorgon, but if you read Oken’s notebooks carefully (and it’s my job to read his notebooks carefully), you know that he was already dying when he first met her. With a little star, I tick the column that was built over the tomb of my father and his colleagues. Though they’re rare so far into Guanabara Bay, it’s the most plausible explanation. I flip the pictures, grabbing a few recent ones to jot down numbers on the pillars, marking those where the incidents have been reported. And less trustworthy outlets speak of monsters swimming along the bay. Both of them mention people or animals walking on the columns’ bases.
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Jornal do Brasil mentions a lot of trash afloat near the columns. O Globo mentions a small navy boat sinking under the bridge. Perhaps a fisherman saw a hand waving desperately for help in the water? How could she be sure without staring into the glazed, distant eyes of a deceased husband? After those days, I convinced myself I’d never look at pictures of the bridge under construction again, those tall columns with their gray, ominous girders jutting out of the stone like the last, frantic gestures of hands begging for help.Įxcept now, twenty years after the accident, I have pictures of the unfinished bridge scattered over my desk. I saw many in 1972, soon after Papai vanished during the bridge’s construction, mostly by peering over my mother’s shoulders while she flipped through documents and pictures, sobbing and wondering if some ferryman could’ve rescued Papai. Have you seen pictures of the unfinished Presidente Costa e Silva Bridge, with its columns telling stories of falls and drownings like tombstones for the never found and the cemented alive?
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