Eu Sou Pobre, Eu Sou Rica

Eu Sou Pobre, Eu Sou Rica

The postdoc student from the department of Meteorological Sciences sat in Gayle’s office, his closed laptop on his lap, a sheaf of papers in one hand.

Gayle looked at the paper he had passed to her, across her ancient, metal, military surplus desk. As a professor of Spanish and Portuguese at the University of British Columbia, she was often consulted on a miscellany of issues relating to either language. There were about 500,000 native Portuguese speakers throughout Canada, though primarily in Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Newfoundland and eastern Quebec.

The postdoc raised his phone, and played for her a beeping, electronic tone version of a song. Twenty-five to thirty electronic beeps, forming a distinct, very familiar, tune.

Gayle confirmed, “Yes, it is a Portuguese folk tune…actually, a very old, traditional, lullaby.

Du Du Nenê

Que a Bode vai pegar

Mamãe foi p’ra roça

Papai foi trabalhar…

Translated to English, it says:

Sleep sleep little baby

Or Billy goat will come and take you

Mommy’s in the garden

Dadd’s away at work”

The hairs on the back of Gayle’s neck had raised. She thought she had left this behind. It had been years since she had heard…or sung…this song. She paused, “How did you come to me?”

Emil replied, “Well, you weren’t my first stop. First, I went to the department of Music. Because of where the transmission is coming from, they thought it was probably a Cree folk tune, and sent me over to Anthro. Nobody in Anthro could confirm it as Cree, but one of the Anthro TAs had spent some time in Brazil, as a child, and thought she recognized the tune. She sent me over to Ethnomusicology, and they referred me to you.”

Emil observed Gayle. He noticed her demeanor had changed since he had arrived. A pleasant, thirty-five to fortyish year old, short, blonde haired woman, seated at her desk, had greeted him. She had stood up and extended herself across her desk, reaching to shake his hand, with a shy, tentative smile, her green eyes, a little sad, perhaps, but warm. Now, her demeanor was tense, her lips thinned and pressed, her face pale, hands clenched, on her lap, her thumbnails rhythmically scratching the middle knuckle of each adjacent index finger, curled on itself. He assumed she was unaware of the movements of her hands.

He proceeded, “I don’t know if your secretary gave you the full message that I left.”

“Go ahead,” her voice, faltering.

“My team has been receiving this transmission for about two months now. My team collects data from weather stations throughout the western hemisphere. For the past two months, this is what we’ve been receiving from the weather station at Fort Severn 89, which is up in northern Ontario, on Hudson Bay. Ft. Severn 89 is a tiny, remote station. The population of the whole village is about 400. With it being so far north, right on Hudson Bay, it’s a valuable weather data source. It’s the location of an old Cree Nation settlement, which is why we all thought it was Cree, at first.”

“I see.”

Emil continued, “Well, here’s what happens. In place of the weather data we used to receive from our observer up there, we hear this tune, twice. After this tune, we receive a sequence of numbers, repeated three times, also in Portuguese. It would have saved us some time if we knew the numbers were Portuguese, but we actually thought it was Russian, at first.”

“Is it always the same numbers?”

“We’ve kept the recordings for comparison,” Emil leans in, his eyes fixed on the floor, then back at Gayle, “There are three parts. The first sequence is always the same. Then there are two more. Of these two sequences, the first halves are identical, with the second halves different from each other. I have to say, the sound quality sucks, which is another reason it was so hard to understand. I haven’t been to this location, but most of these stations are set up in little cottages. Kind of rustic, but secure, and stable, and insulated. The stations are usually inside the observer’s residence.”

“And, this is different, how?”

“Well, first of all, we haven’t been able to reach the station. They don’t respond to our transmissions. The older transmissions, when we WERE receiving weather data, they were very clear. Excellent sound. But…on these transmissions, there are…wind sounds, or some kind of howling, in the background. And maybe some grunting, or growling. It’s weird. And … the child’s voice.” He looked at Gayle, thoughtfully. “Frankly, it freaks me out.”

Gayle shuddered.

Emil met her eyes. “What is it?”

“But why did you come to ME?”

“You speak Portuguese. I was hoping you could help. Not only translate, but also understand if there was any significance to these numbers. The numbers could also be a code, like what the spy numbers stations use. You know, the Cuban Five, who were caught in Miami, spying for Cuba? Or that Lincolnshire Poacher movie?”

Gayle sat for a moment, her eyes closed, thinking, “How remote is this place? Can we get there?”

“We?”

“Well,” Gayle cleared her throat, “I think I need to go.”

After eliciting copies of the recordings, Gayle told Emil she would call him the next day so they could coordinate travel arrangements. She lied. After he left, her hands trembling, she simultaneously Google-mapped Ft. Severn 89, while calling her former mother-in-law.

“Isabel. It’s Gayle.”

“Gayle, how nice to hear from you. You were on my mind just now. How are things?”

“Not good.” Gayle explained what she had just learned. “It’s back. But… if it is, maybe Gabriel is, too.”

“Oh, Gayle…” Isabel murmured.

“I know it sounds crazy, but I have to go. I have to know.”

At 5:00 the next morning, Gayle was at the Vancouver BC airport, boarding a flight to Toronto. At 10:00 CST, she met Isabel at the Toronto airport Hertz desk, to pick up the rental car and drive north.

Gayle hadn’t slept the night before, so Isabel drove while Gayle napped. Or tried to. Eyes closed, Gayle reviewed the memories, again, still incensed with herself that she hadn’t acted sooner. She could have saved her happy family, back when she, Tomás and Gabriel had lived near Toronto, and near Isabel.

It had started with the farmyard quilt. This should have been warning number one. Isabel had made it for baby Gabriel. Gayle would tuck it around him at night and would find it on the floor the next morning, while baby Gabriel lay cold, awake, in his crib, staring up at her. Babies have the ability to accuse, wordlessly.

After a few months, she gave up tucking it around the boy, and hung it on the wall, like a decorative tapestry. Isabel had been so insistent about contributing to Gabriel’s nursery décor, and Gayle had not wanted to offend her. Besides, Gayle liked the pastoral innocence of Isabel’s handwork. It was a collage of happy farm pastels, featuring fluffy white chickens, fat yellow ducks in motion, bills open as if they were caught in mid-quack; comical, fat, smiling pink pigs, dancing around the perimeter. In the center, a cavorting Billy goat, surrounded by obedient nanny goats and adorable baby kid goats. Black and white cows, laden with full, pink udder bags, looked on from behind a rustic, wooden fence.

Gabriel hated it. He would avert his eyes, refusing to look at it, even when he was older and played alone, in his room.

The second warning should have been the nighttime sounds, when Gabriel was two. Awake, he screamed, his little body shaking, as if in a seizure. Now a toddler, with words, he screamed about the “wacket” waking him at night. His screams would draw Gayle and Tomás, running, to his room to quiet the hysterical boy. In the beginning, they would scoop him up and take him to their bed. But later, Tomás complained, they couldn’t let Gabriel control the household. He had to learn. He had to grow up and be “a man.”

Gayle didn’t agree but had learned to choose her battles. She and Tomás had come from different cultures. Maybe he was right. So, despite her angst, they stopped responding to the nighttime crying.

Then, later, came the marks in the carpet. This should have been warning number three. And she had ignored them. Sometimes in the morning, in Gabriel’s room, Gayle would note weird indentations in the light blue, deep nap carpet. They looked like some kind of animal footprints. But the family didn’t have any animals. When it first started, she often found Gabriel awake in a corner of his crib, sitting, silently, wide-eyed, withdrawn.

Then later, in his big boy bed, he no longer waked them with his nighttime crying. He slept quietly, with his back to the door, facing the wall. Quiet and still.

The perfect child.

Then, Gabriel disappeared.

That night, Gayle had heard what sounded like voices, coming from four-year-old Gabby’s room. Tomás was out of town, so Gayle and Gabriel had eaten in front of the TV, watching Finding Nemo, for what was probably the fiftieth time, before going to bed.

Gabriel always got a little subdued at bedtime, as if he felt he was being punished. Gayle had asked the pediatrician about this new behavior and was told that this is how kids were. At about four years of age, children reach a new level of awareness that the world continues, when they go to bed. They didn’t want to miss anything and equated being put to bed with missing out on the fun stuff. Gayle had accepted this, though not without some doubt.

She put Gabriel to bed, and stayed a few minutes, singing the lullaby that Tomás had grown up with, and which she had begun singing to newborn Gabriel four years earlier.

Du Du Nenê

Que a Bode vai pegar

Mamãe foi p’ra roça

Papai foi trabalhar…

(Sleep sleep little baby

Or Billy goat will come and take you

Mommy’s in the garden

Dadd’s away at work”)

She brushed the hair away from Gabriel’s forehead, singing, low, slowly and throatily, until she saw his eyes close, and the adorable pink flush of sleep on his chubby cheeks. What a boy. What a dear, sweet, darling boy. She was blessed.

A few hours later, Gayle had gotten up to pee. Back in bed, unable to go back sleep, she reached out for her audio book and earbuds, but even her book couldn’t distract her. It was only when she gave up and removed the earbuds from her ears that she heard the voices. Was Gabriel singing to himself? She heard first his sweet little voice, and then a deeper one, as if he were playing both parts in the musical dialogue. Then she thought she heard a thumping and wondered what that was. But, having been chastened by Tomás so often for running into Gabriel’s room, she lay there, listening. She didn’t want to upset the boy, or undermine Tomás’ parenting, and have to start the nighttime training all over again.

The thumping went on for a few more minutes. It reminded her of the sounds a dancer may make, sporadically rhythmic and organized, with intervals of randomness. Gabby’s child-boy voice, interspersed with the deeper, child-man’s voice he was making, though she couldn’t make out his words. What was he doing?

Finally, she heard no more sounds from Gabriel’s room. Still awake, Gayle couldn’t resist looking in on him. She smiled, as she gathered her robe around her, walking down the hall to Gabriel’s room. She would share this with Tomás. Whatever their four-year-old was doing in the middle of the night would surely amuse Tomás.

The first thing she noticed, as she neared his room, was the closed door. Gabriel hated sleeping with a closed door. Opening it, the second thing she noticed was that his night light was off. Doubly weird.

“Gabriel,” she whispered, checking to see if he might still be awake. There was no answer. She walked to his bed, the room now lit only by the nightlight in the hall, streaming in from behind her through the open door.

Gabriel’s bed was empty.

She looked around the room, “Gabriel?” No reply.

In two steps, she was at the doorway, flipping the light switch on. No Gabriel. The windows were closed, and there was an unpleasant, fecal smell in the room. She screamed.

The police came quickly. She knew they must suspect her. Even in her terror and panic, she could understand why. She was here, and Gabriel was not.

She called Tomás, while the detective went back into Gabby’s room again. She sobbed, unable to have a coherent conversation with poor Tomás, who promised her he would return immediately. Soon, Isabel arrived, so Tomás must have called his mother and implored her to pop over and check in on his family in his absence.

The detective came out to the living room, scrutinizing Gayle, silently. Finally, he said, “And the carpet?”

Gayle shook her head, not understanding.

“The marks, in the carpet. What are they?”

Gayle got up, still crying, now silently, and followed him back to Gabby’s room, followed by Isabel.

She looked, “I…I don’t know. I’ve seen these before. I assumed he had some toy that he used to make them, but I’ve never…I don’t know.”

Isabel looked in, from behind Gayle, her face showing first confusion, then clarity, “Hoof prints. Goat. Very large goat. I recognize them. We had goats, back home.”

It wasn’t until days later that Gayle realized the quilt no longer hung on the wall.

But Gabriel was gone. Soon, Tomás left her, as well. Later, Gayle moved to Vancouver, away from the reminders.

Gayle felt a shift in the movement of the car and opened her eyes. Isabel was crossing three traffic lanes, exiting the freeway. “I need coffee. And we need to talk.”

Gayle nodded, and sat up, rolling her neck and shrugging her shoulders to release the tension.

Inside the rodeo-colored, molded plastic establishment, they sat down with their coffees and really looked at each other, for the first time.

“Are you okay?” asked Isabel. Isabel was in her late fifties, well put together, with clear skin, a well-formed, straight, slightly long nose, a wide mouth, with strikingly bright, brown eyes framed by beautiful black eyebrows. Her face was one of those ageless beauties. She would have passed for mid-thirties.

“I don’t know.”

Isabel nodded. “Do you have these numbers that you say follow the beeping tunes, in these broadcasts?”

Gayle nodded silently and bent to retrieve the printouts that Emil had provided. “I also have audio recordings, on my laptop.”

Isabel reached for the printouts and reviewed them. She saw the musical transcription of the notes for:

Du Du Nenê

Que a Bode vai pegar

Mamãe foi p’ra roça

Papai foi trabalhar…

Du Du Nenê

Que a Bode vai pegar

Mamãe foi p’ra roça

Papai foi trabalhar…

Followed by groups of number sequences:

19-2-6-10-4-22-23-9-16-10-12-19

19-2-6-10-4-17-23-22-7-15-19-13

Isabel asked, “Explain to me, again, what this student said about numbers stations. I don’t understand them.”

Gayle explained, “A numbers station is a station that transmits numeric sequences. People can receive the transmissions. It’s a way of communicating a message secretly. Since World War II and through the Cold War, the receivers were frequently agents, stationed out of country. They receive the numbers, and refer to a master document, to help them associate the numbers to letters or words in this document, like, a decoder.”

“And if we don’t have the decoder document?”

Gayle shook her head, “We must. We just don’t know it.”

Isabel took her reading glasses out of her purse, took a long draw of coffee, and studied the printouts.

19-2-6-10-4-22-23-9-16-10-12-19

19-2-6-10-4-17-23-22-7-15-19-13

Gayle resumed, “Often, the transmission pattern is,” she pulled another sheet of paper out from under the others, “…first, there’s a prelude. Which, I believe, is the lullaby that we heard. A lot of these stations were identified by the prelude they played, to signal the listeners that a message was to begin.”

Isabel nodded, understandingly, “Okay, assuming that is what this is all about, what would occur next?”

“The prelude gets the listener’s attention. Then, the numeric identifier of whatever this decoder document is, usually a page number of a document, common to both the transmitter and the receivers, called a ‘one time pad’. Followed by a recitation of the numbers, which, of course, is the message, itself. The numbers to be decoded into the actual message. This sequence is usually repeated at least twice.”

Isabel looked at Gayle, thoughtfully, “Without a pre-arranged one-time pad, or decoder document, as you call it, shouldn’t the decoder document be one that would be obvious to us?”

“Yes, but…”

“If this is who, or what, you think it is, wouldn’t that lullaby, that you called the prelude, also be a clue?”

Gayle smiled tiredly, “This is why I called you. You are miles ahead of me. You cut right through it. That connection hadn’t occurred to me, but now that you say it, I think you’re right.”

“So, if the lullaby is a clue, in Portuguese, and is specifically a song you used to sing to Gabriel. Where does that take us?”

Gayle frowned, “Well, you know ‘Du Du Nenê’. It’s the same song you sang Tomás, and who knows how many generations of mothers sang to their children? It’s an anonymous, public domain song, used to get our attention. I guess the decoder would also be a common song, and also in Portuguese.”

Isabel agreed, “Seems reasonable. And clearly, if this is what you think it is, we are intended to figure it out. And, we are intended to visit this broadcast station, right?”

Gayle shrugged, “I assume. But I’m operating on hope. And fear. Mostly hope. I don’t have much logic right now.”

Isabel pulled out her cell phone, “I’m going to call a friend of mine whose daughter teaches at a Portuguese day school in Toronto. Sounds like we’re looking for children’s songs. You’d think I would know them, but I haven’t thought about children’s songs since Tomás was a baby.” It appeared to Gayle that someone must have picked up on the other end, as suddenly Isabel was speaking quietly into her cell. After about ninety seconds she disconnected, and told Gayle, “Esmerelda will text us links to some likely songs. Shall we drive north, and discuss on our way up?”

About an hour and a half later, 130 miles north of Toronto, Isabel’s phone buzzed, signaling receipt of a series of text links to Portuguese children’s songs.

They pulled over again at another roadside restaurant, Gayle taking her laptop and bag, with her papers, and Isabel following with her purse, a notebook and her cell.

Isabel aks, “If this is who you think it is, what would his pattern be?”

“I’m no expert. Backwards. Upside down. The opposite of right. The opposite of good.”

Isabel nodded, thoughtfully, and opened her notebook to a blank page. On the left-hand side of the page, she made a column, going down the page, of the twenty-three letters of the Portuguese alphabet. On the right hand, she began at the bottom, and numbered them, going from the bottom to the top. In this alignment, the letter Z was assigned a number 1, the letter A was assigned a number 23.

“So, let’s see,” said Isabel, and opened the first text link.

Atirei o pau no gato-to

Mas o gato-to não morreu-reu-reu

Dona Chica-ca adimirou-se-se

Do berro, do berro que o deu

Miau

Miau miau miau

Miau miau miau

Miau miau miau

Miau miau miau

While Isabel assigned numeric values to each of the letters in the first stanza of Atirei o pau no gato-to, Gayle did the same with the second song, on another sheet of paper. Neither of these translated renditions made any sense, the first a song about throwing a stick to a cat, and the second a Portuguese translation of “Wheels on the Bus”. The sequence of letters extracted from either song made no sense.

When Gayle saw the name of the third song to analyze, the hair on the back of her neck raised, as did the hair on her forearms. This was it. Eu sou pobre. She looked at Isabel, in fear, whispering, “Eu sou pobre, Eu sou rico.”

This children’s song was sung in answering rounds, the first singing, “I am poor” answered by a second group with, “I am rich”. In a latter stanza, the Rich group sang, “I would like one of your children,” and the Poor group responded with, “Take whichever one you like.” The song ended with all of the children, holding hands, circling and dancing.

Isabel quickly wrote the lyrics, assigning each letter the numeric value from her own, hastily created decoder sheet, in which Z was number one and A was number 23. Nauseous, Gayle had rushed to the restroom, her hand held tightly over her mouth.

When Gayle returned a few minutes later, she saw that Isabel had taken the printouts from Gayle’s briefcase and circled sequences: there were two similar but distinct sequences following the “I am Poor and I am Rich sequences”:

I am Baphomet

I am Gabriel

I am Baphomet

I am Gabriel

“Who…what is Baphomet?” Gayle asked, shakily.

“A demon, in goat form,” whispered Isabel.

“We’re doomed,” said Gayle, and then corrected, “I’m doomed. I’m going up there. You don’t have to.”

Isabel smiled, motherly. “Tomás left, but I cannot. I know. I know you think he blamed you, exclusively, but when he saw Gabriel’s carpet, he knew. He knew. And if Tomás were still alive, he wouldn’t want you to do this alone.”

They still had nearly 600 miles to drive to reach Ft. Severn 89. They would arrive late. It was already 2:00 in the afternoon. The earliest they would arrive would be midnight.

Gayle was driving now, while Isabel alternatively scanned items on her phone, and gazed out the passenger window. A couple hours farther north she made a call. Gayle heard her speaking, in low tones, to someone. Gayle was fluent in Portuguese, but Isabel’s voice was low, and sounded like perhaps she had slipped into a regional dialect, or slang. After a few moments, Gayle surmised it was Isabel’s priest. Isabel disconnected, “Someone needs to know what we’re doing, and where we’re going. I’m assuming you didn’t tell anyone.”

Gayle smiled, crookedly, “Well, I kind of told that Meteorology student to wait for my call today.”

They were quiet again. The farther north they drove, the more barren it got. And the later it got. And the darker it got.

At 9:00 they stopped for gas at the last available service. At 10:00, Isabel leaned over to turn the radio on. “We need to stay awake.”

An eerie, static-filled, ambience suddenly filled the car, like a heavy gas that poured in through the speakers and took form. Wind howled over the airwaves and through the static and wind, they heard the sounds, as of a child’s voice:”

19-2-6-10-4-22-23-9-16-10-12-19

19-2-6-10-4-17-23-22-7-15-19-13.”

Gayle shrieked. It was four-year-old Gabriel’s voice, but distorted. She drove, in terror, further into the oblique darkness. She struggled to breathe. The broadcast continued, the tinny, child’s voice speaking at them, repeating,

“19-2-6-10-4-22-23-9-16-10-12-19

19-2-6-10-4-17-23-22-7-15-19-13”

Occasionally numbers were lost to them by the static, the howling or the wind.

By the time they pulled into the desolate village on the shore of Hudson Bay, they were shaking and weak, anxious to get out of the car, away from the sounds. And the smell.

“I didn’t get directions to the observer’s house….to the station,” Gayle breathed.

“I’m sure we’ll find it. It wants us to find it.”

Gayle looked, stricken, at Isabel, “I guess so.”

They walked together, to the nearest house. It was empty. They proceeded to the next. Empty, as well. As was the third. And the fourth.

They all still had furniture and appliances. One of the homes even still had a TV on, though no broadcast was being picked up, just an imageless field of static.

On they walked and found the same thing at each abode.

Finally, at the end of the town, they walked uphill. The structure at the top had lights, like a cell or a transmission tower next to the house.

Gayle shuddered. She didn’t want to go farther, but also couldn’t turn around and go back.

Gayle went first, stepping in front of Isabel, staying Isabel, with her left hand, as one would do to protect a small child from an unfamiliar person, or animal.

“Gabriel,” she called, as she knocked.

The door swung open, at her touch.

The interior was dark. On the far side of the room, she saw the glittering of small, flashing lights at a large broadcast control panel.

In front of it was a shadow, or a black hole, partially obscuring, or perhaps absorbing, the lights from the radio control panel.

Gayle sensed, rather than saw the figure, turning, to confront her. Glowing red eyes held her.

The next day, driving back to Toronto, Isabel was anxious to return the rental car. She didn’t want to pay for an additional day. As she pulled into the Toronto Airport Hertz office at 11:00 that night, she noted that the odometer registered that she had traveled 11 miles.

A day well spent. And thankfully, she had not encountered any “weather” on this eleventh day of November. Indeed, she led a charmed life. Smiling to herself, “Eu sou rica.”