Or maybe not. Maybe I really am good, but my work just happens to have a positive effect, happens not to make any unpleasant waves in the future. Maybe I’m one of the lucky ones who can accomplish something powerful that doesn’t need to be censored to protect the future.

  Maybe pigs have wings.

  1987

  America

  The author’s novel, Ender’s Game (Tor Books), won both the 1985 Hugo and Nebula awards. A sequel, Speaker for the Dead, was published by Tor in 1986. Both novels were set in a future of space wars, space travel, aliens, and colonization. “America” comes closer to home, and Mr. Card was able to draw upon his firsthand knowledge of Brazil, where he served a mission for the Church of the Latter Day Saints from 1971 to 1973, to create this powerful story.

  Sam Monson and Anamari Boagente had two encounters in their lives, forty years apart. The first encounter lasted for several weeks in the high Amazon jungle, the village of Agualinda. The second was for only an hour near the ruins of the Glen Canyon Dam, on the border between Navaho country and the State of Deseret.

  When they met the first time, Sam was a scrawny teenager from Utah and Anamari was a middle-aged spinster Indian from Brazil. When they met the second time, he was governor of Deseret, the last European state in America, and she was, to some people’s way of thinking, the mother of God. It never occurred to anyone that they had ever met before, except me. I saw it plain as day, and pestered Sam until he told me the whole story. Now Sam is dead, and she’s long gone, and I’m the only one who knows the truth. I thought for a long time that I’d take this story untold to my grave, but I see now that I can’t do that. The way I see it, I won’t be allowed to die until I write this down. All my real work was done long since, so why else am I alive? I figure the land has kept me breathing so I can tell the story of its victory, and it has kept you alive so you can hear it. Gods are like that. It isn’t enough for them to run everything. They want to be famous, too.

  Agualinda, Amazonas

  Passengers were nothing to her. Anamari only cared about helicopters when they brought medical supplies. This chopper carried a precious packet of benaxidene; Anamari barely noticed the skinny, awkward boy who sat by the crates, looking hostile. Another Yanqui who doesn’t want to be stuck out in the jungle. Nothing new about that. Norteamericanos were almost invisible to Anamari by now. They came and went.

  It was the Brazilian government people she had to worry about, the petty bureaucrats suffering through years of virtual exile in Manaus, working out their frustrations by being petty tyrants over the helpless Indians. No I’m sorry we don’t have any more penicillin, no more syringes, what did you do with the AIDS vaccine we gave you three years ago? Do you think we’re made of money here? Let them come to town if they want to get well. There’s a hospital in Sao Paulo de Olivenga, send them there, we’re not going to turn you into a second hospital out there in the middle of nowhere, not for a village of a hundred filthy Baniwas, it’s not as if you’re a doctor, you’re just an old withered up Indian woman yourself, you never graduated from the medical schools, we can’t spare medicines for you. It made them feel so important, to decide whether or not an Indian child would live or die. As often as not they passed sentence of death by refusing to send supplies. It made them feel powerful as God.

  Anamari knew better than to protest or argue—it would only make that bureaucrat likelier to kill again in the future. But sometimes, when the need was great and the medicine was common, Anamari would go to the Yanqui geologists and ask if they had this or that. Sometimes they did. What she knew about Yanquis was that if they had some extra, they would share, but if they didn’t, they wouldn’t lift a finger to get any. They were not tyrants like the Brazilian bureaucrats. They just didn’t give a damn. They were there to make money.

  That was what Anamari saw when she looked at the sullen lighthaired boy in the helicopter—another Norteamericano, just like all the other Norteamericanos, only younger.

  She had the benaxidene, and so she immediately began spreading word that all the Baniwas should come for injections. It was a disease that had been introduced during the war between Guyana and Venezuela two years ago; as usual, most of the victims were not citizens of either country, just the Indios of the jungle, waking up one morning with their joints stiffening, hardening until no movement was possible. Benaxidene was the antidote, but you had to have it every few months or your joints would stiffen up again. As usual, the bureaucrats had diverted a shipment and there were a dozen Baniwas bedridden in the village. As usual, one or two of the Indians would be too far gone for the cure; one or two of their joints would be stiff for the rest of their lives. As usual, Anamari said little as she gave the injections, and the Baniwas said less to her.

  It was not until the next day that Anamari had time to notice the young Yanqui boy wandering around the village. He was wearing rumpled white clothing, already somewhat soiled with the greens and browns of life along the rivers of the Amazon jungle. He showed no sign of being interested in anything, but an hour into her rounds, checking on the results of yesterday’s benaxidene treatments, she became aware that he was following her.

  She turned around in the doorway of the government-built hovel and faced him. “O que é?” she demanded. What do you want?

  To her surprise, he answered in halting Portuguese. Most of these Yanquis never bothered to learn the language at all, expecting her and everybody else to speak English. “Posso ajudar?” he asked. Can I help?

  “Nao,” she said. “Mas pode olhar.” You can watch.

  He looked at her in bafflement.

  She repeated her sentence slowly, enunciating clearly. “Pode olhar.”

  “Eu?” Me?

  “Voce, sim. And I can speak English.”

  “I don’t want to speak English.”

  “Tanto faz,” she said. Makes no difference.

  He followed her into the hut. It was a little girl, lying naked in her own feces. She had palsy from a bout with meningitis years ago, when she was an infant, and Anamari figured that the girl would probably be one of the ones for whom the benaxidene came too late. That’s how things usually worked—the weak suffer most. But no, her joints were flexing again, and the girl smiled at them, that heartbreakingly happy smile that made palsy victims so beautiful at times.

  So. Some luck after all, the benaxidene had been in time for her. Anamari took the lid off the clay waterjar that stood on the one table in the room, and dipped one of her clean rags in it. She used it to wipe the girl, then lifted her frail, atrophied body and pulled the soiled sheet out from under her. On impulse, she handed the sheet to the boy.

  “Leva fora,” she said. And, when he didn’t understand, “Take it outside.”

  He did not hesitate to take it, which surprised her. “Do you want me to wash it?”

  “You could shake off the worst of it,” she said. “Out over the garden in back. I’ll wash it later.”

  He came back in, carrying the wadded-up sheet, just as she was leaving. “All done here,” she said. “We’ll stop by my house to start that soaking. I’ll carry it now.”

  He didn’t hand it to her. “I’ve got it,” he said. “Aren’t you going to give her a clean sheet?”

  “There are only four sheets in the village,” she said. “Two of them are on my bed. She won’t mind lying on the mat. I’m the only one in the village who cares about linens. I’m also the only one who cares about this girl.”

  “She likes you,” he said.

  “She smiles like that at everybody.”

  “So maybe she likes everybody.”

  Anamari grunted and led the way to her house. It was two government hovels pushed together. The one served as her clinic, the other as her home. Out back she had two metal washtubs. She handed one of them to the Yanqui boy, pointed at the rainwater tank, and told him to fill it. He did. It made her furious.

  “What do you want!” she demanded.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Why do you keep hanging around!”

  “I thought I was helping.” His voice was full of injured pride.

  “I don’t need your help.” She forgot that she had meant to leave the sheet to soak. She began rubbing it on the washboard.

  “Then why did you ask me to . . . .”

  She did not answer him, and he did not complete the question.

  After a long time he said, “You were trying to get rid of me, weren’t you?”

  “What do you want here?” she said. “Don’t I have enough to do, without a Norteamericano boy to look after?”

  Anger flashed in his eyes, but he did not answer until the anger was gone. “If you’re tired of scrubbing, I can take over.”

  She reached out and took his hand, examined it for a moment. “Soft hands,” she said. “Lady hands. You’d scrape your knuckles on the washboard and bleed all over the sheet.”

  Ashamed, he put his hands in his pockets. A parrot flew past him, dazzling green and red; he turned in surprise to look at it. It landed on the rainwater tank. “Those sell for a thousand dollars in the States,” he said.

  Of course the Yanqui boy evaluates everything by price. “Here they’re free,” she said. “The Baniwas eat them. And wear the feathers.”

  He looked around at the other huts, the scraggly gardens. “The people are very poor here,” he said. “The jungle life must be hard.”

  “Do you think so?” she snapped. “The jungle is very kind to these people. It has plenty for them to eat, all year. The Indians of the Amazon did not know they were poor until Europeans came and made them buy pants, which they couldn’t afford, and build houses, which they couldn’t keep up, and plant gardens. Plant gardens! In the midst of this magnificent Eden. The jungle life was good. The Europeans made them poor.”

  “Europeans?” asked the boy.

  “Brazilians. They’re all Europeans. Even the black ones have turned European. Brazil is just another European country, speaking a European language. Just like you Norteamericanos. You’re Europeans too.”

  “I was born in America,” he said. “So were my parents and grandparents and great-grandparents.”

  “But your bis-bis-avós, they came on a boat.”

  “That was a long time ago,” he said.

  “A long time!” She laughed. “I am a pure Indian. For ten thousand generations I belong to this land. You are a stranger here. A fourth-generation stranger.”

  “But I’m a stranger who isn’t afraid to touch a dirty sheet,” he said. He was grinning defiantly.

  That was when she started to like him. “How old are you?” she asked. “Fifteen,” he said.

  “Your father’s a geologist?”

  “No. He heads up the drilling team. They’re going to sink a test well here. He doesn’t think they’ll find anything, though.”

  “They will find plenty of oil,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I dreamed it,” she said. “Bulldozers cutting down the trees, making an airstrip, and planes coming and going. They’d never do that, unless they found oil. Lots of oil.”

  She waited for him to make fun of the idea of dreaming true dreams. But he didn’t. He just looked at her.

  So she was the one who broke the silence. “You came to this village to kill time while your father is away from you, on the job, right?”

  “No,” he said. “I came here because he hasn’t started to work yet. The choppers start bringing in equipment tomorrow.”

  “You would rather be away from your father?”

  He looked away. “I’d rather see him in hell.”

  “This is hell,” she said, and the boy laughed. “Why did you come here with him?”

  “Because I’m only fifteen years old, and he has custody of me this summer.”

  “Custody,” she said. “Like a criminal.”

  “He’s the criminal,” he said bitterly.

  “And his crime?”

  He waited a moment, as if deciding whether to answer. When he spoke, he spoke quietly and looked away. Ashamed. Of his father’s crime. “Adultery,” he said. The word hung in the air. The boy turned back and looked her in the face again. His face was tinged with red.

  Europeans have such transparent skin, she thought. All their emotions show through. She guessed a whole story from his word—a beloved mother betrayed, and now he had to spend the summer with her betrayer. “Is that a crime?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe not to Catholics.”

  “You’re Protestant?”

  He shook his head. “Mormon. But I’m a heretic.”

  She laughed. “You’re a heretic, and your father is an adulterer.”

  He didn’t like her laughter. “And you’re a virgin,” he said. His words seemed calculated to hurt her.

  She stopped scrubbing, stood there looking at her hands. “Also a crime?” she murmured.

  “I had a dream last night,” he said. “In my dream your name was Anna Marie, but when I tried to call you that, I couldn’t. I could only call you by another name.”

  “What name?” she asked.

  “What does it matter? It was only a dream.” He was taunting her. He knew she trusted in dreams.

  “You dreamed of me, and in the dream my name was Anamari?”

  “It’s true, isn’t it? That is your name, isn’t it?” He didn’t have to add the other half of the question: You are a virgin, aren’t you?

  She lifted the sheet from the water, wrung it out and tossed it to him.

  He caught it, vile water spattering his face. He grimaced. She poured the washwater onto the dirt. It spattered mud all over his trousers. He did not step back. Then she carried the tub to the water tank and began to fill it with clean water. “Time to rinse,” she said.

  “You dreamed about an airstrip,” he said. “And I dreamed about you.”

  “In your dreams you better start to mind your own business,” she said. “I didn’t ask for it, you know,” he said. “But I followed the dream out to this village, and you turned out to be a dreamer, too.”

  “That doesn’t mean you’re going to end up with your pinto between my legs, so you can forget it,” she said.

  He looked genuinely horrified. “Geez, what are you talking about! That would be fornication! Plus you’ve got to be old enough to be my mother!”

  “I’m forty-two,” she said. “If it’s any of your business.”

  “You’re older than my mother,” he said. “I couldn’t possibly think of you sexually. I’m sorry if I gave that impression.”

  She giggled. “You are a very funny boy, Yanqui. First you say I’m a virgin—”

  “That was in the dream,” he said.

  “And then you tell me I’m older than your mother and too ugly to think of me sexually.”

  He looked ashen with shame. “I’m sorry, I was just trying to make sure you knew that I would never—”

  “You’re trying to tell me that you’re a good boy.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She giggled again. “You probably don’t even play with yourself,” she said.

  His face went red. He struggled to find something to say. Then he threw the wet sheet back at her and walked furiously away. She laughed and laughed. She liked this boy very much.

  The next morning he came back and helped her in the clinic all day. His name was Sam Monson, and he was the first European she ever knew who dreamed true dreams. She had thought only Indios could do that. Whatever god it was that gave her dreams to her, perhaps it was the same god giving dreams to Sam. Perhaps that god brought them together here in the jungle. Perhaps it was that god who would lead the drill to oil, so that Sam’s father would have to keep him here long enough to accomplish whatever the god had in mind.

  It annoyed her that the god had mentioned she was a virgin. That was nobody’s business but her own.

  Life in the jungle was better than Sam ever expected. Back in Utah, when Mother first told him that he had to go to the Amazon with the old bastard, he had feared the worst. Hacking through thick viney jungles with a machete, crossing rivers of piranha in tick-infested dugouts, and always sweat and mosquitos and thick, heavy air. Instead the American oilmen lived in a pretty decent camp, with a generator for electric light. Even though it rained all the time and when it didn’t it was so hot you wished it would, it wasn’t constant danger as he had feared, and he never had to hack through jungle at all. There were paths, sometimes almost roads, and the thick, vivid green of the jungle was more beautiful than he had ever imagined. He had not realized that the American West was such a desert. Even California, where the old bastard lived when he wasn’t traveling to drill wells, even those wooded hills and mountains were grey compared to the jungle green.

  The Indians were quiet little people, not headhunters. Instead of avoiding them, like the adult Americans did, Sam found that he could be with them, come to know them, even help them by working with Anamari. The old bastard could sit around and drink his beer with the guys—adultery and beer, as if one contemptible sin of the flesh weren’t enough—but Sam was actually doing some good here. If there was anything Sam could do to prove he was the opposite of his father, he would do it; and because his father was a weak, carnal, earthy man with no self-control, then Sam had to be a strong, spiritual, intellectual man who did not let any passions of the body rule him. Watching his father succumb to alcohol, remembering how his father could not even last a month away from Mother without having to get some whore into his bed, Sam was proud of his self-discipline. He ruled his body; his body did not rule him.

  He was also proud to have passed Anamari’s test on the first day. What did he care if human excrement touched his body? He was not afraid to breathe the hot stink of suffering, he was not afraid of the innocent dirt of a crippled child. Didn’t Jesus touch lepers? Dirt of the body did not disgust him. Only dirt of the soul.

  Which was why his dreams of Anamari troubled him. During the day they were friends. They talked about important ideas, and she told him stories of the Indians of the Amazon, and about her education as a teacher in Sao Paulo. She listened when he talked about history and religion and evolution and all the theories and ideas that danced in his head. Even Mother never had time for that, always taking care of the younger kids or doing her endless jobs for the church. Anamari treated him like his ideas mattered.