The Economy of Light by Jack Dann

color of light chocolate; but the Rio Negro flowed beside us, and its surface was like a black mirror. And like oil and water poured into the same trough, the rivers remained separate because of their different temperatures and speeds. We passed warehouses, factories, oil refineries, sawmills, and as we put distance between ourselves and the city, we passed farms and the occasional white stucco house with red tiled roof, which reminded me of home. There were plenty of fishing boats and barges on the river; some families had tied two, three, and in some cases, four boats together, and they floated down the river like the ragtag retinue of an ancient king. We waved at the passers-by, who were lying in colored cotton hammocks; or drinking caipirinhas , concoctions made with rum, sugar, and lemon; or playing dominoes, which wouldn’t blow away in a stiff wind, like cards. I felt the distance from everything familiar as we went into deeper country. We passed isolated cottages with penned cattle and neatly planted trees and then crossed over to the Rio Negro side, for we were going to take a branch of the Negro, the Rio Branco, north. The shore consisted of a green swatch of vegetation and trees of different hues of green and different heights. We motored toward the Branco and as we went farther into the rain-forest, it became warmer with every mile, and the humidity was so high that my shirt clung to my skin like a transparent wrap. There was nothing to do but stay in one place and try not to move around too much. We kept as close as we dared to the clay river bank, slowly passing by and sometimes under cool, shady canopies of tree branches, roots, and vines. The trees beyond were so closely packed as to cut out the light, a wall of leaf and bole that seemed to rise into the cloudless eggshell blue heavens.
    We passed a few Indians paddling dugouts; the canoes were made out of hollowed-out itauba wood, which was black and hard as stone. By dusk we met a river merchant, a cabloclo with his wife and three daughters, who sold us some gasoline; and then we were alone on the river, which became dark, the color of dried blood, for as the sun set, the sky turned from blue to orange to deep crimson. The color seemed to be visible as a fine mist in the air; it was as if we were passing into a different atmosphere, and ahead of us and far to the left, almost in the center of the river, we saw river dolphins playing, breaking the surface. They came closer to us, as if looking for company, and swam and jumped and splashed and made snorting noises. Then, almost impossibly fast, they left, disappearing into the glassy water.
    Genaro smiled and said, “ Botos . Black ones. You can tell by the way they stick their heads above the water; the pink boto they come to the surface differently. You see their back first. The pink ones, they are almost gone, but where we’re going, they may still live because it’s so far away from the fishermen. After a pause he said, “The black ones are almost gone, too.” He stuffed a loose wad of chewing tobacco into the side of his mouth, chewed for a bit, making sucking noises, and then spat into the dark water. The river seemed to change Genaro, animate him somehow, as if being close to its teeming life gave him life also. The deadness that sometimes clung to him had disappeared; his movements were less cautious and studied, and he was talking, almost to himself, as if for the joy of hearing his voice once again. If I had not known him at the facenda, I would take him to be gregarious, a man who enjoys company, but one who is not altogether giving, one who has been hurt and defeated...one whose defenses are like jaws that snap shut at the merest intimation of violation.
    Night came almost at once, and I imagined I could see after-images of the red sunset on the surface of the river. A full moon bathed river and jungle in a wan, pearly light. We were near the Rio Alatau, which was a tributary of the Branco,