Serra Boca2

Rage erupted in me. I sprang from my bed, jerked my coveralls on -- why I can’t imagine! --, ran to the door and pounded on it shouting: "You bastards!" Since it didn’t open, I ran to the head of my bed and slammed it into the door as often and as hard as I could. Suddenly, it swung open, four guards yanked the bed outside, two more burst into the hut and slammed me against the wall so hard that the framework in the wall knocked the breath out of my lungs and I felt faint. A third grabbed my wrists and held them behind my back, two others grabbed and held my upper arms, while another tied them behind my back. Trying to wrench myself loose, I kicked with my feet, but another guard grabbed them, while still another tied them together leaving a foot of play between them so I could hobble. Struggling, I shouted "You bastards!" so loud that it hurt my lungs.

"Thrap!" shouted a guard glaring me in the face. "Shut up!" as I guessed.

They hustled me hobbling, struggling and shouting all the way to the Ji-Jaw dwelling on the other side of the lake. Everybody was staring. One of the guards ran ahead to tell Stosi Ji-Jaw that they were bringing me. Since the couple received me at once, I guessed that they had anticipated my reaction. As soon as I saw them, I shouted "Peppi?"

They nodded grimly, but serenely.

Standing before them, I repeated less loudly and almost hopefully: "Peppi?"

Pointing heavenly, Djoop Stosi replied: "Lepidoptera Chikkikoppa".

Stunned, I only managed inarticulate syllables.

Ptash Stosi imitated the flight of ji-jaw with his fingers, though less daintily than Suzy. For the first time, he looked sympathetic.

Peppi had transmigrated to his namesake and was fluttering around blissfully in the air with the other spirits freed from their bodily prisons. Suddenly tears burst from my eyes

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and I sobbed my truth about Peppi: his loyalty, his honesty, his intelligence, his physical prowess and his interest in ji-jaw. He had a big family to support. What were they going to live on? Although none of my audience could understand this outburst, they listened more than politely. Noo would confirm that they had guessed and even about Peppi’s family.

Gently, one of the guards took me by the arm and, followed by Noo, they led me to Unh Go. There she asked them to untie my hands and feet. Then she took me by the arm and led me to the same end of her long house, where we sat on the mat facing each other. By gestures, sketches and what little Bocan I had learned, she explained that my friend didn’t conform with the standards of the community. It survived by limiting the population to individuals capable of living together on the resources available in the valley. Since Peppi was my friend, he must have suited the criteria of his own community. An overdose of smosh, the distilled nectar on which ji-jaw fed, had freed his soul so it could animate one of them. It would survive from generation to generation, passing from fertilized egg to crawling caterpillar to dormant chrysalis to flying butterfly. Wherever I went in Boca, the butterfly currently animated by my friend’s soul would flutter over me. I could commune with him by holding a blossom of wik, the blue flower, up so he could suck nectar from it with his proboscis. If I spoke to him, he would hear me.

"But, if he can’t speak to me, how do I know he is in the butterfly?

"You will know because of the attention the butterfly will pay you."

Hindered by my rudimentary Bocan, our discussion foundered on a hidden disagreement. Only later did I realize that Bocans demanded less proof than we do because they encountered less cause for doubt. At the time, I only saw the panhuman anxiety over the extinction of death, which inspired a belief in the eternal survival of self.

In over an hour, I learned more about Boca, and Noo more about the outside world than ever before. What a wonderful teacher she was! She had the gift of learning as she

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taught and teaching as she learned, which precluded pedantry. Another was the pleasure she derived from the exercise, revealed by her happy smile, her sparkling eyes and the sincerity of her voice. Once we had finished our conversation, the little boy and the less little girl came to pay me their respects. As they stood in front of me, I was on eye-level with their genitals, so I rose on my knees and kah-teed with them. Then they left with their little buttocks wiggling as they walked, a spectacle that didn’t seem funny to me as it would have the day before. Already, I was so accustomed to nudity that I had felt perfectly at ease facing Noo on the mat. I asked her to seek Stosi Ji-Jaw’s consent to let me use the radio so I could notify Peppi’s family of his death. Missing members, I explained, inflicted even greater suffering on families than dead ones. I intended to exploit the opportunity to speak with my family too.

The more I conformed with Bocan mores, I calculated, the more Bocans would relax their surveillance of me. The execution of Peppi had reinforced my determination to escape. My only qualms concerned the necessity of misleading Noo. Since I would need at least several months to prepare my escape, I decided to exploit the Bocan reverence for ji-jaw by disguising my research on the species as theology. Although I didn’t need such an excuse for Noo, I certainly did for Zooft. I not only wanted to acquire a thorough knowledge of Lepidoptera Chikkikoppa before I escaped, but also to take extensive data and even, if possible, living specimens with me. A helicopter landing would facilitate my departure, but the danger and the cost discouraged me. And how would the Bocans react? Although our overflights and parachute drop hadn’t provoked any reaction, I certainly would myself if I ran out in the open waving my arms on such an occasion. If I failed to escape, Stosi Ji-Jaw would jail me again or even put me to death. Perhaps they and Rgoorch, their council, had already considered such a possibility and taken steps to prevent it. During my lesson with Noo the next morning, I asked her what the Bocans thought of the overflights and the parachute drop. They interpreted them, she replied, as

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vain and clumsy imititations of birds, butterflies and other flying insects. They also resented them as attempts by outsiders to intrude on them and their valley. The versatility of flight by ji-jaw convinced them of its unimitable perfection, hence its theological significance. I asked her to request Stosi Ji-Jaw’s permission to dedicate myself to observation of these beings and the relations between them and us. The complication of this request shows how much Bocan she had already taught me.

Noo replied that this ambition would have to wait until I had completed a program of introduction to the Bocan economy and culture. That afternoon, she told me, I would begin by learning how to grow vegetables. After the midday meal, the guards turned me over to three growers as robust as they were and therefore capable of catching me if I tried to run away and subduing me if I resisted. The head grower, whose name was Doke, gave me a long-handled hoe with a cast-iron blade. He showed me how to uproot the weeds around plants with edible roots and edible leafage as well as vines on which vegetables grew, without damaging the plant or vine. I had never done much gardening and I enjoyed the work, but they were doing it so much faster that each of them reached the end of his row before I had done a fourth of mine. They were teasing me and one even weeded a second row before I could finish my first one. As we worked other rows, Doke gave me occasional pointers. We began to establish the same kind of confidence in each other as Noo and I had. Although he seldom smiled, his features conveyed a desire to share his knowledge with me. He showed me Bocan varieties of carrots and potatoes, lettuce and cauliflower, cucumbers and squash, beans and tomatoes. All were exotic to me. The yellow carrots divided into two or three roots. Though brown like most of ours, the potatoes began a lazy spiral. The tomatoes formed thick, blue rings, while alternating orange and black ringed the cucumbers, which bent into a right angle at the middle. The purple lettuce, which consisted of fibers rather than leaves, domed like a girl’s hair. The raspberry-colored cauliflower sunk into a thick, shallow bowl of leaves. Selecting one of each from harvested piles, Doke washed them in a stream flowing into the irrigation

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ditches and let me taste it. Although most of them had a disconcerting taste, I would eventually learn to enjoy them. My most unforgettable discovery was "baga", a root that looked like a turnip and tasted like a pear. Llama manure, potash from volcanic deposits and compost fertilized the soil around every plant. An intricate system of ditches channeled water controlled by little dams between all of the rows along the contours of the south slope. Year-round exposure to the sun near the equator enabled Doke and his assistants to grow three or four crops a year. I was enjoying this initiation to Bocan agriculture so much that the end of the day disappointed me. We stopped working when a northwestern peak spiked the declining sun. After washing our hoe blades, we stacked our hoes in a shed. Then we went to a bathing pool, in which we lathered and rinsed ourselves. A woman attendant gave us cakes of brown soap and, when we climbed out, towels of woven plant fiber. Again, I had no erection. The guards were waiting for me, so I kah-teed with Doke and his assistants before they took me back to my hut.

After knocking on my door, Noo entered and closed it behind her. Lying on my back, I feared an erection again and again none occurred. I got up and kah-teed with her, then I spread a mat on the floor and we sat down. After much hesitation and debate, the chief couple and Rgoorch had agreed to let me speak to Peppi’s and my families. I had to limit each conversation to a kip, the amount of time the midday sun took to move a thumb’s breadth across the sky. Although I also had to tell her exactly what I was going to say, I took that with a grain of salt. She knew no more English than she had learned from me. Here are the messages that I translated as best I could so she could report them to the chief couple and the council:

For the Chikkikoppas: "This is R. G. Keller in Serra Boca. Peppi was separated from me and drugged to death. He was the best friend I have ever had, I miss him and I sympathize with you. Since I am unable to act myself, I will ask my wife to compensate you to the extent that she can."

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For the Kellers: "Lori, Max and Rob: I miss you all, but there is no foreseeable possibility of reuniting with you. I lost Peppi. Lori: please compensate the Chikkikoppas as generously as possible. And please don’t try to rescue me! That would endanger you as well as me. Your devoted husband and father."

The chief couple approved these messages, but they wanted to witness the transmission together with Rgoorch. I asked for someone to crank the generator so a guard volunteered. Curiosity was competing with suspicion, more of the former in Noo’s case and more of the latter in Zooft’s. I turned the volume up to amplify the cries and sobs of Peppi’s family. Also for mine’s reactions which, though less distaught, moved me. I saw that my listeners understood these emotions, reacted with evident regret and some, including Djoop Stosi, shed tears. There was even some tension in Zooft’s scowl that betrayed effort. When I finished and indicated to the guard, no less moved than others, to stop cranking, a loud silence prevailed. Then Ptash Stosi approached, gave me a sympathetic look, put his hand on my shoulder and, turning to Noo, made a statement. After recognizing a few of his words, I listened as Noo confirmed his sympathy for me. It was clear that Stosi Ji-Jaw, Rgoorch and the Bocan nation regretted the necessity of executing an innocent fellow human in order to ensure its survival. Even Zooft, I think, shared this regret. Even he apparently didn’t suspect me of assuring my family, as I had, of my determination to escape and rejoin them.

Every day, Noo gave me another lesson in the morning and workers introduced me to another, more difficult skill in the afternoon. The schedule, which she discussed with me, suited me so well that my resentment of Peppi’s execution and my confinement diminished. The more I admired Boca, the less I yearned to leave, so I began to feel guilty. Only two guards were escorting me now and they were behaving more like friends. They even joked with me, for instance, about the useful stink of llama manure. The llama component of my education, which I was enjoying, is a good example of my

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naturalization. An afternoon with the herdsmen, another with the carters who used llamas for hauling, another with the butchers who slaughtered them, another with the leatherworkers who treated their hides, another with the furriers and a final one with the mattress makers acquainted me with a vital segment of the Bocan economy.

Mostly men contributed to it, while mostly women educated children and youths. I spent an afternoon in the nursery, another in the kindergarten, another in the school for ages five to ten, another in the one for ages eleven to fifteen. All students completed the tenth year, but only the best continued for another five. Together with a few men, the women who worked in education had the awesome duty of selecting mentally or physically unfit children for liquidation, subject to approval by Stosi Ji-Jaw and Rgoorch. They specialized in one of the five age groups and, on the highest level, taught classes of around ten students of both sexes. Entirely oral, instruction resembled the lessons I was receiving from Noo, who herself taught at the highest level. The purpose of education was to prepare all youth for life in the community and contribution to Bocan economy and culture. Children began to learn language and mathematics already in kindergarten. By the time they reached high school, they could understand, express and discuss complicated ideas, do complex calculations for which I needed pen and paper. Study of oral literature, Bocan history, science and the theology of Ji-Jaw began with adolescence. Before puberty, they learned all about sex, conception, pregnancy, birth and birth control. I sat in on a class of five boys and six girls taught by a woman my age. None of us chuckled, smiled or showed any sign of humor over our nudity in such a context; on the contrary, the discussion remained decent, dignified and serious from beginning to end. Even in my graduate courses at ZU, insect reproduction incited smirks and snickers.

After supper a few days later, I heard a knock at my door, a pretty seventeen-year old entered with a sack over her shoulder and, kah-teeing with me, said

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"My name is Sta Kee."

She had closed the door behind her and we were facing each other next to my bed. This time, I did feel my penis rising, but she ignored it. She invited me to have a bath with her and, once I had overcome my astonishment, I accepted. Taking me by the hand, she led me to the public bath. The guards had disappeared. To my relief, only a crescent moon shone and I saw no one else. My penis was swollen, stiff and trembling as I followed her into the pool. When she turned to face me, I kissed her on the lips, which shocked her and she avoided my lips from then on. We lathered, fondled and ducked to rince the soap away. I had never bathed in the nude with any other woman but Lori, so I felt ashamed. Shouldn’t I leave Kee and return to my hut alone? Instead, I threw my arms around her, she hugged me back and we copulated, caressing each other convulsively. I was panting and she was gasping with every stroke. Although my excitement had risen to the level of an orgasm, the water pressure prevented it. Aware of my frustration, she held me under my buttocks and, pushing with her feet, jumped me up step by step until our genitals emerged from the water. A mighty orgasm shook my body, which she held tightly until every drop of sperm had entered her vagina. Once we had washed, she took towels from her bag and we dried each other. Then we returned to my hut arm-in-arm with our hips bumping against each other. I asked her what a sta was.

"A bird."

She demonstrated its swooping flight with her hand and I guessed that it was a swallow.

Twice again in my bed, ours from then on. Kee knew what she was doing, had done it before and did it better than Lori, whose lust frustrated agility. Bocan sex was all the happier and healthier because neither morality nor religion contaminated it. Although I didn’t want to stop, Kee reminded me of tomorrow. A sleepless night would spoil it.

"Let’s sleep together."

"All right!" My enthusiasm surprised me: Bocan marriage consisted of sleeping an entire night together. Divorce in sleeping separately.

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Turning away: "But I already have a wife and two children."

"I know it. They are outside and you are inside."

I turned back: "Let’s spend the night together."

She hugged me. "All right! And let’s have children. They will be like you."

"And you..." Why didn’t I feel guilty? Wasn’t I betraying my family?

A week later, Kee told me that the chief couple had asked all the unmarried girls for a volunteer to marry me. Who didn’t want to marry that handsome outsider? Kee took pride in winning the competition.

The morning after our first night together, I kissed her awake, we hugged each other, we got up and she cooked breakfast for us while I shaved. We were married, happily. Although my outside family occurred to me, I started a habit of postponing my duty to them. After my lesson with Noo that morning, Kee and I moved into another round hut, which the chief couple had assigned to us. As soon as we had our first child together, they would assign us a long house. We would be able to put a ceramic statue of the animal whose name we shared opposite our front door. Noo proposed the condor and laughed at the face I made.

Kee and I were waiting impatiently to see whether she would have her next period. The time went by, the unwanted event did not occur, she gave me an exuberant hug and I shared her enthusiasm. Her family also rejoiced and particularly her little brother Tkatch, always welcome in our hut. As her belly swelled, a doctor and a midwife began to take care of her and I began to learn about Bocan healthcare. This term may surprise you, but the quality of the attention she received astonished me. The diagnosis and treatment of illness suffered from none of the superstitions that plagued isolated nations elsewhere and even some countries with access to modern medicine. Obviously, Bocan doctors knew nothing of medical science on the outside. The equipment and drugs on which they relied were less effective. Yet they had accumulated a few centuries of practical experience including cautious but persistent trial and error. Eugenics and euthanasia also facilitated

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their practice. Though unaware of bacteria, they knew that cleanliness tended to prevent infection. They could amputate gangrenous extremities, remove appendices, perform a Cesarians when the life of the mother or the baby depended on it. Smosh provided them with an excellent anesthesia. They enjoyed no more compensation than the satisfaction of caring for their patients and hearing their gratitude.

Since they received no salaries, fees or bonuses, they had no reason to offer their patients unneeded treatment. Healthy food, drink, exercise and sleep provided them with mostly healthy patients. No pollution, toxic contamination, occupational hazards, spectator sports, prostitution, quacks or phony medicines complicated their task. The only social problem that Boca shared with the outside was addiction. The availability of smosh tempted a tiny minority to excess resulting in petty crime or debilitation. In those days, the guards were locking two addicts up overnight and keeping them under surveillance during the day.

I have been calling them guards because they had guarded Peppi and me, but they were also policemen. They enforced a common law enacted by a few centuries of decisions by Stosi Ji-Jaws and stored in the memory of the Bocan jurists. The fundamental principle was prevention rather than punishment. Minor offenses such as shirking work, petty theft and injurious deception exposed the offender to green hair dye, which warned other Bocans against further abuse and authorized intervention to prevent it. Major offenses such as grand larceny, rape and battery resulted in orange hair dye, overnight detention and unpleasant work such as collecting and composting garbage or cleaning toilets and sewer pipes. Terms lasted weeks, months or years according to the gravity of the crime. Deliberate murder as opposed to killing by accident or in self-defense condemned the offender to death by an overdose of smosh. My Bocan education had reached the level of this jurisprudence, which I learned from the head jurist by the same method as Noo’s.

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Accustomed to Bocan time, I was judging the time of day by the proximity of the sun to dawn, midday and dusk. I had left my watch in a case with other useless souvenirs of the outside. One day I noticed that the second hand had stopped. The lack of a replacement battery reminded me of all that I missed: my family, my career, my life... Finding me sad, Kee tried to cheer me up by cheeking, hugging and sweet words. Suddenly tears poured down my face. The present and the past were tearing me apart. The devotion of this beautiful woman, who could have been my daughter, only reminded me of Lori’s, as constant as ever after fifteen years. The child I was expecting, of the two I already had. The giant butterfly had lured me into another life from which no return seemed possible. Although I tried to reassure Kee, I had hurt her feelings and that regret compounded the others. How well she understood me! I tried to make it up to her by doing everything an expecting father could. Assuming her household duties; getting and taking things for her; cooking, serving and cleaning up afterwards; sprinkling sawdust over the floor and sweeping the dust out with it; particularly, observing the development of the foetus. How often she took my hand and put it on her belly! I could feel little feet kicking. Although I really enjoyed that, I had enjoyed it with Lori too.

My beard had dulled my last razor blade to the point where shaving left my face covered with stubble. My beard was shocking everyone who saw me. Stroking my scratchy cheek, Kee urged me to make it smooth again. I took my dull blades to the blacksmith, who had introduced me to his skill a few months ago. I explained that I couldn’t shave it off without a sharp blade. He tried to sharpen them with a file, but they snapped. After a little reflection, he took a piece of flint chipped to a sharp blade and tried it, oh so gently, on a few of my whiskers. It cut them from my skin so cleanly that I neither felt nor suffered a scratch. Pinching them between his fingertips, he showed them to me and grinned. Back home, I started to lather my face, but Kee insisted on doing it herself and

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even on shaving me. She had almost finished one of my cheeks when she knicked me and, seeing a little blood, she made a little cry. Big eyes! I told her to stick a piece of clean soft cloth on the cut and continue. Since her job was weaving and sewing, she easily found a piece, stuck it on and continued shaving me, but more carefully. We had started a daily treat which both of us enjoyed and people stopped staring at me. Kee also cut my hair so that it resembled the mop on all Bocan heads.

My education had advanced to instruction on the economy by the head stewardess. She supervised the distribution of food, drink and other necessities as well as the employment of her fellow Bocans according to need and ability. There was no money or commerce in Boca, no wealth or property, no privilege or subservience. When the head stewardess detected an excess or a deficiency, she intervened to restore equilibrium between supply and demand. If individuals or groups objected to any of her decisions, they could appeal to Stosi Ji-Jaw. Only Stosi Ji-Jaw could overrule her, but that happened only once or twice a year. I admired her ability to manage the economy without any electronics, paper, typing, writing, file cabinets or communications faster than voice or foot. She did all of her accounting in her head, made all of her decisions without the evaluation of alternatives by subordinates, carried them out by going and telling. She needed no assistants, no secretaries, no intermediaries. Her efficiency shamed my administration of the Butterfly Vivarium, for which I had received much praise. She was doing so much more with so much less.

I was learning how storage of the surplus from an overabundant harvest would eventually compensate for a shortage caused by an inadequate one. Suddenly Tkatch appeared out of breath and patting his tummy. His sister was feeling pangs. His big eyes reminded me of hers. The head stewardess was laughing and I would have too if my wife weren’t about to have a baby. I thanked her for her instruction and bolted through the door with Tkatch on my heels. We ran all the way to my dwelling, where I saw Kee’s parents and a midwife

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around her on our bed. Overjoyed despite the pain, she reached for me as soon as she saw me and we hugged each other. The midwife reminded her to keep contracting with every pang, so she resumed, but without surrendering my hand. How snug, soft and warm hers felt! The midwife had all of her equipment and a pot of boiled water ready. Although her technology wasn’t as advanced as it would have been on the outside, her cleanliness certainly was. Tkatch was watching and no one minded. Although Lori had let me watch her deliveries, a curtain had hidden everything until a nurse had held the baby up, spanked, washed and bawling, for us to see. This time, I was afraid the gore would scare or sicken me, but it didn’t. I saw the baby emerge and she was my first daughter. The midwife slapped her fanny, she cried scratchily, the midwife cut the umbilical and washed her. Then she took her to Kee, who looked at her, smiled at her, rocked her gently, then looked up at me. Her smile confirmed that mine was genuine. Taking the baby, I wondered over her puffy little face, tiny arms, bowlegs and shapeless body. How could they ever grow into those of a young woman like her mother? My mother- and father-in-law were on both sides of me admiring her, while Tkatch was standing on tiptoes trying to see her, so I bent over to show him. He tickled her belly, which made her kick and giggle. We all laughed.

The birth of a child likely to conform with Bocan standards called for celebration. Celebrations took place on the fifth day of a five-day week when all but essential work ceased. Everyone was welcome and the two criers, one for each village, announced the party on both sides of the lake. The Sta men helped me bring supplies from the storehouse to the area outside our dwelling. Except for Kee, the Sta women prepared food and drink with fruit salad for desert. They mixed fruit juices to make a party drink they called "tuka", spiking the adult portions with smosh. I stood beside Kee seated with Gahma, our baby, in her arms to receive our guests, with whom we kah-teed. Some of them tickled Gahma’s belly making her giggle. We were at the entrance to our long house with our splendid new ceramic swallow behind us. It looked as if it had been frozen in flight.

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Across from us, musicians assembled, harmonized their instruments and began to play. With his fingers and the heels of his hands, one beat five leather drums in a semi-circle around him from the smallest on one side to the largest on the other. Two plucked and three bowed cords strung across wooden C-shaped frames. One plucker and one bower braced larger instruments against the ground, while the other plucker and the other two bowers held their smaller ones against their hips. The larger of two ceramic horns formed a loop and the smaller one, a quarter loop. Each player blew into a leather bladder connected to the near end of the tube. He controlled the air pressure by manipulating the bladder with his hand. The flexible tubes of a double flute resembled the antennae of the giant butterfly. A ceramic snake, the only reed instrument, made a nasal wheeze that made little children giggle. A soprano and a baritone sang along with the music and louder only when the music required it. Rarely did all of these musicians play a piece together, since some would take a drink, eat a bite or simply chat with friends while the others played. Mostly beloved traditional melodies assembled them all. The pieces lasted from five to ten minutes. They would began with all of them playing whatever they pleased, but gradually they began to join each other. After a minute or two, a single melody dominated so the chaos diminished. It might be a solo, a duet or even a trio, but always with accompaniment and occasionally all of those present played together. The sound reminded me of boiling water, except that the tone, the timbre and even the rhythm varied constantly. Though usually traditional, the melody was sometimes spontaneous and the development was always spontaneous. The singers improvised and sometimes even created both the words and the music they sang as they performed, yet none enjoyed any individual prestige. I would learn to love and admire this music. Since I have no musical talent, I can’t reproduce it. But how I miss it!

I miss the dances too. The only dancing I had ever done was the kind I had enjoyed with Suzy and Lori. Even then, however, facing each other at a distance of two feet, twitching

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and twisting, turning this way and that had seemed ridiculous to me and still does. Maybe doing something ridiculous together is what teenage boys and girls on the outside enjoy most. But not in Boca. Nor did the older people leave dancing to the younger, because it had cultural as well as entertainment value. Whether traditional or original, the dances involved groups rather than couples. For instance, the women’s movements would contrast with the mens’, but harmoniously; likewise the girls’ with the boys’ when children danced. The whole group would raise their arms over their heads and touch their hands while bending to one side and then to the other. But one subgroup would alternate with the other in raising and touching or in bending sideways. The group or subgroup would form a turning circle or figure eight or even marching ranks. Lines of dancers would cross each other and, when they did, the dancers rarely bumped into each other or even hesitated to cross an intersection. No individual or couple dominated and, although couples formed occasionally, none remained together long. Both individual and group movements were graceful. Hardly did I regret the strutting and stomping, the belligerent stances and gestures, the gymnastics and acrobatics of various outside traditions! Sometimes the dancers formed dynamic tableaux, such as an inner circle of women moving in one direction and an outer one of men moving in the opposite one. When each woman was next to a man, the contra-rotation paused and the couples kah-teed. Then they put their hands on each other’s shoulders and spun all the way around before the circles advanced to the next such position. The men accentuated the muscular precision of their steps; the women, the graceful imprecision of theirs; the children, the playful novelty of theirs. The first time I watched this dance, I was spellbound.

A group of young women gathered to dance and Kee stood up. Imagine my surprise when she gave me Gahma, asleep, to hold and ran out to join them! Two days after her delivery! Neither her parents nor anyone else shared my alarm, so I tried to keep it to myself. Kee danced as enthusiastically and energetically as the others, much to my

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admiration and pride. Yet I was relieved when the dance ended and she returned out-of-breath, flushed and exuberant to take Gahma, still asleep, back.

The next day, I began one of the few remaining "courses" in my education, the history of Boca. The rigor of the head historian who taught me this oral tradition impressed me. In him, I recognized a fellow scientist. How carefully he distinguished between fact and fancy! His criteria not only required multiple and diverse sources, but also conformity with natural possibility. According to him, the earliest known ancestors of the Bocans had fled their homeland on the Pacific Coast to escape an invasion by indians from the north. Around a thousand of them who had escaped the conflict and the massacre that followed it fled eastward. Nothing was known of the leader or leaders who enabled them to find their way across the Andes, except a theological tradition that I would learn from Zooft. By the time they discovered Boca, the weather, exhaustion, starvation and disease had reduced their numbers to a few hundred, the present figure. Yet death had eliminated all of the physically and mentally weak. Recognizing the advantages of settling in the valley, the survivors sought a way to descend and finally slid down a steep slope on loose earth. This very descent started a landslide that buried some of them and bared a sheer cliff. The head historian pointed it out to me. Ever since, the Bocans had been celebrating the Arrival, one of the three most important events in their history. They knew it had happened one thousand sixty-seven years ago because they had begun to count then. The second important event was the Eruption, a minor volcanic explosion four-hundred and twenty-seven years ago that burned their huts down, destroyed their crops and killed all but seventeen of them, who immersed themselves and a few llamas in the lake. Eleven of the survivors were women and most of these were younger and more robust than the men. They imposed rule by a chief couple elected by a Rgoorch of as many women as men, three of each in those days. Rebuilding the economy had taken the Bocans ten years and their population, twenty. They had taken advantage of the opportunity to rebuild their economy somewhat as I had discovered it.

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The Attempt, the third event, occurred one hundred and fifty-four years ago, when nine discontents tried to escape from Boca. A couple resented the euthanasia of their retarded child. A brother and sister, that of their mother who was suffering from a probable cancer of the uterus. Two young men, their employment in agriculture instead of a skilled trade. A smosh addict, deprivation, and a kleptomaniac, sewer cleaning. The ninth was probably a homosexual unable to find a lover and fearful of detection. They all met one night near the biggest of the holes in the eastern wall, through which water from the lake flowed into waterfalls on the other side. They tied one end of a long rope to an upright stone and the other to a short log. One of the young men was pushing the log through the hole, when a night watchman saw the others. He alerted the guards, who came running after the young man had passed through the hole holding onto the log. The other young man was holding the rope waiting for a jerk that would signal to him and the others to start pulling themselves through the hole. That jerk never came. Apparently the water pressure had broken the first young man’s grip on the rope so that he had fallen to his death. The guards arrested seven of the other eight, but the suspected homosexual had run away. They would find him half dead from a fall in an attempt to climb the east wall. They promptly euthanized him. They seized some ceramic jars in which the fugitives had stored food. The fugitives had sealed the screw tops by inserting a strip of cloth between the threads. But they had left one of the tops off and covered the jar with cloth tied down around the sides. One of the guards held a torch over it, while another removed this cloth. Two giant butterflies, a male and a female, flew up, cremating themselves in the flames with a loud hiss.

Horrified, the guards and the fugitives accused each other of incinerating the souls of their ancestors, but only the fugitives believed in their innocence. They had also shaken the conviction held ever since the Arrival that it was impossible to leave Boca.

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What if they had tied the young man to the log so he could see what was on the other side and then pulled him back so he could tell them? They might have found a way to climb down. Would anyone who wanted to flee Boca keep the secret of its existence? Intrusion would follow and, sooner or later, exploitation and occupation. The Attempt therefore revealed the need for laws against killing butterflies and trying to leave Boca. With the consent of Rgoorch, five women and five men by then, Stosi Ji-Jaw adopted such laws, which imposed the death penalty. The decision marked the beginning of a statutory supplement to the common law overseen by a head jurist.

Yet the common law forbade ex-post-facto punishment and it didn’t condemn the cremation of giant butterflies or attempts to leave Boca. It only punished infractions that tended to undermine the social and economic harmony of the community. How then should the would-be fugitives be treated and, above all, dissuaded from trying again? Stosi Ji-Jaw chose prevention and reintegration instead of punishment. They put all seven of the survivors under guard, but without restricting their activity as long as they behaved. Once each had convinced them of a sincere commitment to live the rest of his life in Boca, they discontinued the surveillance. They encouraged the couple who had lost their retarded child to try again for a healthy one and the couple succeeded. They assigned the siblings who had lost their mother to work in the hospital ward that admitted patients suffering extreme pain. A few months on this job convinced them that their mother had been treated as humanely as possible. The chief couple let the young man who had wanted to practice a skilled trade try some, but they disappointed him so he decided to return to agriculture. The head farmer, who welcomed him back, found him more assiduous than before.

On the other hand, Stosi Ji-Jaw failed to reform the kleptomaniac and the addict after they had served their terms. Assuming that moral discipline would cure kleptomania, they asked the head priest to reform the thief. Since the head priest derived his morals from

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his religion, however, he sent the kleptomaniac to spy on follow Bocans and report the ones who failed to do their religious duties, such as feeding wik to giant butterflies every day. Yet the spy not only detected such sins, but also stole from the sinners on the assumption that their immorality justified petty theft.

Stosi Ji-Jaw attributed addiction to a lack of self-discipline, so they sought a Bocan disciplinarian capable of curing the smosh addict. A woman who taught children how to dance seemed appropriate and she accepted the task of reforming the addict, also a woman. The discipline of dance to which the addict willingly submitted did distract her from smosh for a while. In her zeal to excel in this art, however, she sprained her ankle one day. While waiting for it to heal, she had to sit and watch the children learning how to dance. Depressed, she yielded to her vice and went on a smosh binge. Worried by her absence, the dance mistress looked for her and found her inventing a dance inspired by her intoxication. Seated, lying or perched upside down on her shoulders, she was waving her arms and legs and wagging her head in harmony with a music only she could hear. Also rolling, turning, twisting, bending, even shuddering and without putting any weight on her ankle. Enthusiastic, the dance mistress praised this innovation to everyone who would listen and eventually to Stosi Ji-Jaw and Rgoorch. The latter faced a difficult decision: on one hand, the addict had invented a new kind of dance even more beautiful than the traditional one; on the other, she could do it only when she was in a smosh trance. Beauty or health? Rgoorch persuaded Stosi Ji-Jaw to put the addict back under guard and keep her away from smosh. But also to encourage her to develop, perform and teach her trance dancing to others. After ten days of trying in vain to do it without smosh, however, she swallowed an overdose of the drug she had hidden in her family statue. A guard found her dead the next morning.

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Zooft taught me the final course in my Bocan education. I expected suspicion, scorn and dogmatism from him. He expected arrogance, condescension and bigotry from me. He surprised me by a friendly welcome and I surprised him by my curiosity about Bocan theology. Yet neither of us fooled the other. Although I learned the oral tradition he taught me, I considered it a myth and he realized that without saying so. In their eastward migration, according to him, the Bocans’ ancestors didn’t know what route to take and they had no guide to lead them. Hence confusion and dissension when they reached the foothills of the Andes. Their anxiety was all the greater because the indians who had conquered their homeland coveted youthful slaves: young women for concubines and young men to sacrifice to their gods. These savages slaughtered children to terminate the race and mature adults to eliminate excess hunger and thirst. As soon as they had finished pillaging the refugees’ homeland, therefore, they would pursue them. After a sleepless and chaotic night, the ancestors looked westward at first light to see if an army of enemies was coming after them. Instead, they saw a giant butterfly fluttering towards them and a voice thundered down on them:

"Tiss tchak!" or "Follow me!".

And echoing back from the mountains in the east: "Tiss tachk" in many repetitions.

So the Bocans followed the first ji-jaw they had ever seen and, the longer they followed it, the less they looked back to see if their enemies were following them. Yet the slopes were steep; the boulders, formidable; the air, frigid; the wind, biting and the snow, treacherous. Many thousands of exhausted and hungry people, who had never climbed mountains before, quickly exhausted what food they found as they advanced. A small number of mountaineers could have picked enough berries, killed enough game, even caught enough trout to survive such a trek. On the contrary; exhaustion, disease and starvation reduced the Bocans’ ancestors from thousands to hundreds in a few weeks. Yet every time hardship discouraged the survivors, Ji-Jaw fluttered over them and the voice thundered down on them:

"Tiss Tchak", rumbling many echoes in the east.

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Then other big butterflies began to follow the thunderer and the number increased until, a few days later, there were as many overhead as people underneath. That very day, the refugees discovered "Ji-jan Sho", the Valley of the Giant Butterfly. As they contemplated it from an overlook, the astonishment, the exaltation and even the regret that so many of their fellows hadn’t survived to share this revelation with them kept them quiet and still. But then they noticed the Thunderer, who was hovering above and ahead as if impatient. And then the other butterflies who were fluttering overhead in excited circles. Spontaneously, the Bocans’ ancestors imitated them by running in circles and flapping their arms and yelling:

"Tak! Tak!" or "Joy! Joy!"

Thus originated the dance, the music and the story of The Arrival or "E Fost."

Once the Bocans’ ancestors had arrived in the valley, the Thunderer told them that they would enjoy the privilege of transmigration to giant butterflies and henceforth eternal metempsychosis. Yet this privilege depended on isolation from the outside world. If any Bocans exited or any outsiders entered, it would threaten the purity of the race. The Thunderer also appointed one of them as his prophetess, empowered her to enforce this law, charged her with the transmission of his revelations and told her that he would inform her of her successor.

My affection for my Bocan wife and daughter, Kee’s devotion, our happy intimacy, my pleasant relations with her family, an increasing number of friends, the confidence of Stosi Ji-Jaw and most of Rgoorch, above all, my admiration for the only kind of utopia I thought possible overshadowed my fidelity to my first family, my commitment to a career in science, my resentment of Peppi’s execution, my confinement in Boca and my determination to escape. The more my distractions postponed a decision, the more my scheming diminished. Lori, Max and Rob in Concordia; research and teaching at ZU; life in

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America and the outside world? Mere debt and duty? Further encouragement in Boca soothed my shame. Kee was pregnant again to the delight of her family, our friends and the chief couple. My contribution to the gene pool of the community convinced them that my commitment to life in Boca was sincere. Noo and Doke persuaded the chief couple to let me dedicate myself to research on ji-jaw as my contribution to Bocan economy and culture. Stosi Ji-Jaw even appointed me to Rgoorch, so I could defend myself against Zooft if his tolerance in teaching me his theology proved merely tactical. Yet I had to avoid drawing any public conclusions from my research that appeared to challenge his doctrine or the revelations he pretended to have received from his divinity. Noo told me that he had urged Stosi Ji-Jaw to execute both Peppi and me. Ptash Stosi had agreed, but Djoop Stosi disagreed, so a member of Rgoorch had proposed a compromise: execute Peppi and spare me.

I persuaded Stosi Ji-Jaw that the equipment Peppi and I had brought with us would facilitate my research on ji-jaw. Since they let me have it back, I also asked for permission to use the radio. I could tell my former family that, having joined the Bocan community, I had a Bocan family and was living a Bocan life. I would urge them to replace me by another husband and father. Ask them not to come or send anyone to free me. Warn them that I would not cooperate with any attempt to take me away. Hardly did I convince myself! Wouldn’t Lori assume that I had been coerced? I really wanted her to know that I was alive and well. As soon as I had finished, Zooft accused me of this motive, but Stosi Ji-Jaw and most of Rgoorch paid him no attention. They had heard such accusations by him too often before. The contact I could still make with Lori confirmed that she had hardly abandoned me. The distress my listeners could hear in her voice troubled them, except for Zooft and his friends. Although I felt like a hypocrite reciting the message I had rehearsed, she assured me that she loved me and would never abandon me. Ending the conversation soon enough to avoid raising suspicions was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.

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Before I had left for the expedition to Serra Boca, I hired an electronic engineer to alter my manual generator so I could use it to recharge the batteries in my camera and videorecorder as well as to power my radio. Since, understandably, Stosi Ji-Jaw didn’t trust me with the radio, I had a lot of trouble explaining why I needed the generator. They finally agreed to let me show Doke and Zooft how useful this equipment was. Accompanied by my good and bad angels, I went to a dense growth of wik, the blue flower on which the ji-jaws fed. As they watched, I took many photos and much video footage, fascinating Doke and horrifying Zooft. His face resembled a Halloween mask. What if such gadgets revealed something about Ji-Jaw that the Thunderer had never whispered in his prophets’ ears? I showed them and, later, Stosi Ji-Jaw and Rgoorch the photos and videos I had taken. Since only a few could watch the small viewers at a time, I ran the batteries down, but cranking them back up confirmed the need for my generator. My visual evidence convinced the chief couple and Rgoorch, except for Zooft, that my equipment was indeed useful without the radio. Soon I was devoting every workday to observation of the giant butterfly and even most of every restday, although I had to work in our dwelling then. If Zooft had discovered that I was violating his sabbath, he would have reported that as evidence of my impiety. I was using my electronic equipment as much as I could while I could.

I couldn’t replace my batteries once I had exhausted their rechargeability or procure additional CDs once I had filled them with data. Preoccupied with photography and video, I had no time for drawing and painting, so I requested an assistant who could do that for me. The chief couple assigned a Bocan artist skilled in drawing and painting ji-jaws to do it for me. A talented and pleasant woman, she nonetheless embellished certain details of her subject at the expense of accuracy. Her butterflies’ eyes resembled those of Bocan children, her antennae were even longer and more flexible than the real ones, her wings froze in dramatic but imaginary positions, her pink covered more space than her emerald green. How many times did I distinguish between art and science? Although she seemed

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to understand, art kept winning and science, losing. Yet my appreciation of her talent throttled my impatience.

I started sketching myself, without letting her see me, but it was taking time I needed for other work. Tkatch saw me and watched. Maybe he could learn to draw and paint accurately. I gave him a sheet of paper on a clipboard and a stick of charcoal. Eager to learn, he sketched some ji-jaws from memory and each new one better than the old one. I praised them, critiqued them for accuracy and suggested that he sit down near some wik bushes and sketch ji-jaws as he saw them. Taking this advice, he continued to improve until he convinced me that he could eventually sketch and paint for me. Imagine his enthusiasm! Proud of him, Kee and their parents also encouraged him, but I asked them to keep his talent a secret so my official artist wouldn’t be offended. What if she complained and Zooft heard of her complaint?

He had already objected to my attempts to usurp divine creation. To assure my official artist’s allegiance, I organized an exhibit of her work on a restday, which attracted many admirers. Although Stosi Ji-Jaw praised this innovation, Zooft objected. His opposition discouraged me from killing butterflies or even caterpillars and chrysalises. Yet scientific investigation of the species required dissection and even vivisection. I explained the problem to Doke, noting that I knew of no outsiders who believed in a butterfly God. Zooft hadn’t convinced him, he confided in me, that God fluttered over Boca and nowhere else. We had a naughty laugh. He told me that smoke from burning wik put giant butterflies to sleep and even asphyxiated them if they breathed too much of it. He helped me use this technique secretly to examine specimens, which we examined with my portable microscope. Unknown in Boca, glass and magnification amazed him. With the permission of Stosi Ji-Jaw, we had built a small hut where I could do my research. We were secretly breeding, raising and examining ji-jaws there.

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I had long since run out of paper, so Kee was supplying me with the Bocan equivalent of papyrus. Writing notes resulted in stacks of it. I began to draw conclusions and contemplate a study of Lepidoptera Chikkikoppa. My writing fascinated everyone except Zooft and a few friends of his. After watching as I wrote, Tkatch began to copy some of it. I taught him how to pronounce the English he copied and translated it into Bocan for him. How gifted a student he was! This instruction delighted Kee and her family, who began to foresee a brilliant future for him. Kee’s belly was swelling again and she was holding my hand over it so I could feel the foetus kicking. Gahma was standing up on her wobbly bowlegs and trotting this way and that with a big smile on her little face. Not only was she uttering yelps that we tried to interpret as words, but also earsplitting screams over the least obstacle to her wishes. My family integration reinforced my integration in the community, whose friendship and esteem I enjoyed to Zooft’s chagrin. I was happy, maybe even happier than ever before. Good riddance to the tribulations of my life in Concordia and my career at ZU! No students, tests, term papers, exams or grades; no grant applications, colleagues, administrators, waste or corruption; no annoyances such as committee meetings, cocktail parties and graduation ceremonies; no need for plumbers, electricians, roofers, etc.; no family disagreements or quarrels! Lori and I had seldom quarreled; Kee and I, never. My only worry was how to publish my book. The more I repressed it, the more it nagged me, but I kept drowning it in my happiness. Noo must have guessed my predicament because she arranged for me to give a course on ji-jaw to the most advanced class in her college. I embraced this opportunity although it delayed writing my book. What greater joy for a scientist than an opportunity to discuss his research with intelligent, eager and well-prepared students! So what if they didn’t know how to read or write?

Lunchtime on a sunny workday. Kee was home with Gahma on pregnancy leave and I came over from our little laboratory for a half hour. The midwife, who had examined her

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that morning, had said that she only had a week to wait. She put my hand on her belly to feel the kicks and, since Gahma wanted to do it too, put hers on the other side. The blows made Gahma giggle, which made us laugh too. I tousled my little girl’s hair with my other hand. At that very moment, we heard an airplane rumbling towards us. I stood up and ran to the door, followed by Kee and Gahma holding her hand. We saw a high-wing monoplane with a radial engine flying west over the northern slope. The double red lightning stripes along the blue side confirmed that it was the De Havilland Beaver in which the bush pilot had flown Peppi, our photographer and me over Serra Boca. I could see it skidding, lurching and dropping, hear the motor accelerate and see the airplane restablize before turbulence hit it again. I remembered the pilot’s struggle with the controls and the sweat on his brow. Kee had grabbed my upper arm. Lori was up there with the boys, she had raised the money to pay for this overflight, she was determined to rescue me. The rumble indicated that the Beaver had turned over the west wall and was coming back over the southern slope. Stay or go? The hesitation was tearing me apart. Suddenly I was running out in the open, waving my arms and shouting at the top of my lungs. When I reached open ground, however, the Beaver was already flying over the eastern wall and headed in the direction from which it had come.

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