Go tell it to the dolphins.

It was my first trip to Brazil. The flight from Rio to Manaus in the little twin-engine Cessna Skylight seemed to last forever, and the constant turbulence made me feel queasy.

I flipped through an old in-flight magazine promoting the Sugar Loaf while sipping lukewarm whisky, but my thoughts were drawn to the dossier the newspaper had put together on Manaus Mayor Inacio Oliveira. I was to interview him and find out the truth about his alleged involvement in a corruption scandal.

Oliveira, an ambitious businessman and takeover tycoon, emerged victorious in the local elections on the strength of his campaign slogan, "Mayor of the people, not of animals and the jungle." Progressive Brazilian media accused him of following through on his vow to restore prosperity to Manaus, the impoverished capital of the nineteenth-century rubber boom—at any cost, even if it meant destroying the local flora and fauna.

International human rights organizations accused Oliveira of paying bribes to local police to remove all types of "troublemakers" from Manaus, including ecologists and wildlife experts. Despite Oliveira's denials of any wrongdoing, NGOs began monitoring his movements. However, their powerlessness was apparent as there were no overt attacks on foreigners, and embassies and consulates were hesitant to intervene without hard evidence.

The local Indigenous leaders fared differently, though – their mutilated corpses had washed up on the Amazon's banks, their tongues removed as if to signal that their protestations should not continue. They had been silenced for opposing the development of a new dam and power plant upstream from Manaus, a project backed by Oliveira and his cronies. The project would flood thousands of hectares of fertile land, forcing residents to relocate away from the city, where they had access to education, healthcare, and sources of employment.

It was not exactly Pulitzer Prize material, but it was better than my recent assignments: the tedious coverage of Washington D.C. political fundraisers and reports on how to properly groom your pet llama. I kid you not—the llama grooming piece was the lowest point in my career. But this new story had the potential to be a scoop, so it was a welcome change.

When I started at the newspaper three years ago, I hoped that my background in environmental studies would boost the daily’s editorial line. I believed that I could bring a fresh perspective and make a difference. I was wrong.

I tried to write articles about the true impact of global warming, seeking balance by interviewing scientists, environmental specialists, and climate change deniers. But the editor returned my pieces peppered with scything comments and exclamation marks. As a result, I battled wave after wave of self-doubt, knowing I only had two options: stay put and bear the relentless battering of my ego or move on.

So, when I was offered the trip, my first ever abroad, I saw it as an opportunity to produce an impartial piece that would win the praise of both my colleagues and my readers.

The Manaus airport, an impressionist picture of sharp brushstrokes, greeted me with heavy rain that blurred the outlines of buildings. It reminded me of Degas's "Rainy Day in Paris" as I hurried to find shelter under the awning of a nearby cafe. When the downpour finally relented, I collected my luggage and took a taxi to the Tropicana, an old five-story hotel with a flashing yellow-and-green neon sign shaped like a giant pineapple. 

The receptionist, a moody teenager with pupils so black they melted into the whites, handed me a clumsy-looking key and directed me to the third floor.

I decided to unwind for the rest of the evening. After all, there was no rush. I took a shower to get rid of the clammy sensation that comes with being in the tropics, then settled in front of the TV with a can of Caxias do Sul to watch a Brazilian soap opera. It was like watching an old episode of Dallas, where beautiful women with full makeup and puffed-up hair yelled at each other about a betrayal and an inheritance. Only it was in Portuguese!

My eyes were battling to stay open when a knock on the door drew me back from the brink of slumber.

“Miss Almeida? Someone to see you.”

It turned off the television. The receptionist's face, visible through the crack, was a mixture of admiration and fright. His black pupils dilated, spilling even further into the whites.

“Two gentlemen,” he whispered.

Somehow, I didn’t like the sound of the word ‘gentlemen’.

“Kate Almeida?” one of the visitors asked. He was tall and gangly with a pock-marked face. His midnight-black hair and deep brown eyes betrayed more than a drop of Indigenous blood.

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“You could start by inviting us in.”

Reluctantly, I let them pass. They entered with the confidence of owning not only the Tropicana but also the rest of Manaus. Then, they sat on the bed, taking inventory of the room, scrutinizing me in the process. I had the impression that they liked what they saw.

“I didn’t get your names,” I said, breaking the silence.

“No need for names. Besides, what’s a name? Just a handful of sounds,” the man with the pockmarked face chuckled. 

Although my grandparents on my father’s side were Portuguese, I struggled to understand the gun-fire rapid Brazilian version of the language.

“I guess I’ll have to remain at a disadvantage,” I muttered.

The man smirked.

“I guess you will.”

Something about their demeanor made me uneasy, and I felt safer standing against the window and maintaining constant eye contact with them.

"Did you enjoy your trip? Those Cessna planes can be bumpy..."

The other man inquired. He was squat like a coal scuttle, and his cheap, synthetic suit seemed even cheaper and more synthetic on his bulky frame.

“Not bad,” I lied.

“Let’s talk about what brought you here,” the squat one said. His puffy lips looked like they had been injected with Botox.

“Let’s not. I guess you’ll have to remain at a disadvantage here.”

He chopped off my protest with the wave of his hand, raised his brows, and made a clucking sound with his tongue, making his puffy lips look even puffier.

“Not a good idea to start with a disagreement. In fact, a terrible idea. Senor Oliveira was hoping you’d view things his way. Because... that is what you’ve come here for, isn’t it? To write an article about Senor Oliveira.”

Manaus suddenly seemed small. And Oliveira in charge.

“You seem to be very well-informed,” I observed.

He smiled indulgently, as one might at an underachieving student who needs explanations for facts as basic as two plus two is four.

“We know what’s to be known. Senor Oliveira makes it his business to be well-informed.”

“His business is multifaceted, then. Mayor, politician, trade expert, private eye. Have I missed something?’

“No need to be sarcastic,” the pock-marked man said. 

“No need for names... No need to be sarcastic. So, what is there a need for?” I asked. 

“The mayor would like to know what you are planning to write,” he said, casting a probing glance at me as if measuring my breaking point.

“First and foremost, it’s none of his business. But if Senor Oliveira is really that well-informed, he should already know,” I replied harshly.

“Maybe he does. Maybe he knows, and he doesn’t like it. Maybe all he needs is a confirmation. Confirmation that you’ve come to snoop about the power plant.”

"I'm not going to confirm anything! Not for the mayor and not for the Pope!" I exclaimed, getting angrier by the minute.

The squat one sighed with exaggerated sadness.

“ Kate, you don’t mind me calling you by your first name, do you?’ He continued without waiting for my response.

"Let's get one thing straight. As you correctly observed, the mayor knows a lot of stuff. He’s aware that you are a journalist with The Washington Gazette. But your boss believes you're becoming too caught up in the nonsense about climate change and all that crap. He fears, and I have it straight from the horse's mouth," he winked at her, "that your feelings for some environmental groups are, how shall I describe it... Too warm; no pun intended. As a result, your professional judgment may be somewhat misguided. Should I continue?"

My mouth filled with a harsh tang of outrage. Or perhaps it was fear.

“Senor Oliveira would be glad to help you. If you believe in God like I do, he is the answer to your prayers. I have faith in both God and Senor Oliveira. Perhaps in the last one, even more. Neither one makes mistakes. But they can also be spiteful. You know the saying: if you can't beat them, join them and all that blah blah... Join Senor Oliveira's winning band. If you have a good story, he'll pay well. A story in keeping with his lines," he babbled in extremely fast Portuguese, which I was finding increasingly difficult to follow.

"It was good chatting with you, but now I'd appreciate it if you got out of my room," I said, looking at them with more resolve than I felt. The beer I had drank earlier on was burning in my gut, and I was worried I would vomit.

“You’ve overstayed your welcome. By a full ten minutes.”

A nasty laugh gurgled from the squat man's mouth, now twisted into a sneer.

"I still don't think you understand it, so let us put it bluntly. You are the mayor's guest. The Tropicana belongs to him.”

"The damned newspaper!" I cursed silently.

With dozens of hotels in Manaus, they’d chosen this one! But then it dawned on me. It wasn't a coincidence. I’d been set up as yet another way to test my loyalty to The Gazette. Oliveira's arms reached far. And so did my editor's.

The man removed an envelope from his jacket pocket.

"Ten thousand dollars. It should cover a few weeks of sunbathing. Rio de Janeiro, perhaps? Or Miami? Restaurants in Miami are known for their exceptional huevos rancheros and tequila margaritas. And then there are the beaches. Just a few pen strokes, or do you, reporters, use only computers nowadays? It's as simple as that. I wish I could write,” his mouth curved downward in mock pity for his lack of writing skills.

Sweat broke out on my forehead.

“What’s my other option?

The tall man laughed and got up. 

“Try answering it yourself. You have the whole night.”

The squat man tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket, approached me, and grasped my hand in his sweaty palms.

“Until tomorrow, then,” he said, blowing me a noisy air kiss.

As soon as the door closed, I began to shake. I desperately wanted a drink. I popped open another Caxias do Sul. It frothed over the edge and onto my trembling fingers. Despite the alcohol's numbing effect, the bitter taste in my mouth persisted. Outside, the rain was debating whether to become a drizzle or a cloudburst.

Ten thousand dollars. Rio sounded fantastic. And I’d never been to Miami either, not even on my college spring break. My vintage Toyota Corolla was in desperate need of a tune-up. My student loan could also use a helping hand. And my job would be safe. That’s what they wanted me to do, wasn’t it? To conform and show my loyalty. Others had done worse things for less. Who gave a damn about the Amazon, anyway? And perhaps the things they said about the mutilated bodies were false. The power plant also seemed like a good idea—cheap electricity for the locals. And jobs.

I walked out of the room past the receptionist, who bowed his head and pretended I was merely a gust of wind blowing through the open door.

Manaus was deserted, and the rain finally decided to stop. Pools of water steamed on the sidewalks while frogs croaked a throaty concerto.

The Amazon's spilled ink reflected a woolly balloon of the moon. The same river would soon flood hundreds of hectares of land, submerging everything beneath its surface. The whispers of waves lapping the shores begged me to move closer. 

I stood in semi-silence, watching what seemed to be a cheesy set for a Wagnerian spectacle. The Nibelungs, perhaps. Or Lohengrin. A massive plaster swan would appear at any moment, the orchestra would blare, lights would chase away the darkness, and a black-clad soloist would intone the 'Grail Aria.'

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

A voice behind me startled me out of my trance.

I spun around. It belonged to a small woman whose white triangular face peered out of a moist sleeker.

"Dolphins come to the riverbank on nights like this one. I've always wondered what makes them feel safe here.”

"Dolphins? I thought they were sea creatures,” I replied.

“The Amazon is teeming with pink dolphins - adorable creatures that are both small and incredibly agile. You know what the legend says? After the rain, they transform into humans. It is rumored that many children born out of wedlock in Manaus have been fathered by them.”

A tingling sensation rose from my toes, as though I were standing barefoot on ice. The woman’s physical presence made me nervous, and I was sure her round, piercing eyes could see right through me, into me, and touch my heart that was cantering violently against my ribs.

“Do you come here often?” I finally asked.

“Like the dolphins, only after the rain,” the woman laughed. Her laughter was infectious, making me feel instantly more at ease.

She added after a pause, "Is there something worrying you? A problem?"

“Not really, it’s just...” I stammered.

An overwhelming need to tell her everything, to unburden myself, and to relieve myself of the suffocating shame washed over me.

"Yes. There is something. You see..."

“There! They're here!"

The woman interrupted me. 

"The dolphins!"

The river rippled. A pointed nose emerged. Then another one. More and more of them disturbed the black surface, their gay chatter joining the frogs’ guttural tune.

"You know why I'm here?" the woman asked, then continued without waiting for an answer.

"To talk to them, to know I’m not alone. They are the only ones who understand."

Her raincoat rustled as she inched closer.

“Maybe that’s what you should do. Tell it to the dolphins.”

 I gazed at her, perplexed. Her small, round eyes glowed like blazing cinders on a bed of extinguished ashes.

“It helps to tell someone, you know. They can’t respond, but they will listen. And it will be up to you to make the final decision.”

Her hand rested on my shoulder, gently propelling me towards the Amazon.

"Go on, tell it to the dolphins."

 I felt compelled to take a few steps forward. Part of me thought it was ridiculous. I was a no-nonsense journalist, a factfinder. My world was not inhabited by mystical dolphins playing in the waves. But there was something about their joyous chatter that drew me in. As I watched them frolic in the water, I felt a sense of peace wash over me, reminding me that sometimes it's okay to embrace the magic of the moment. Part of me did want to believe in castles in the air. Or dolphins chattering in the water.

Everything was black, and only the stars, like tins of condensed light, blinked in the now cloudless sky and reflected in the river. The dolphins babbled, poked their noses through the surface, and sank again amidst a whirlpool of bubbles. I began to speak.

Suddenly, everything became clear. No matter how hard Oliveira and others like him tried, some things could not and would not be changed by human action. Some things would always remain sculpted in the bark of trees, marked on the sky by comets that passed every hundred years, engraved in every leaf and every blade of grass along the banks of the Amazon. And scribbled on the water by dolphins.

I also realized I couldn't continue on the path I'd been on for the past few years. I had to let go of the idol who wore Armani suits, smelled of Issey Miyake, and whose name sometimes was money and sometimes betrayal of principles. I could see his feet—they were made of clay. 

 I turned to thank the woman, only to find her gone. I could hear the whisper of her raincoat in the mist, but perhaps it was the last raindrops falling from the trees.

I started to walk back to the Tropicana. It was nearly midnight, yet I was eager to begin. At once, before it all blew up in my face. Before I was seduced into conformity again. I was glad that I had told everything to the dolphins. I knew exactly what kind of article I was going to write, and I was well aware that my editor wouldn’t like it. And neither would mayor Oliveira.