From the river to the sea

An homage to Mario Henrique Leiria

The world is like an abandoned house and we are the termites eating it away. I think my beam is the most important thing in the universe but the wall has several beams and there are dozens more walls, and millions of houses to eat that never heard of me or the fact I like to drink White Russians while watching YouTube. Yes, I feel I am a White-Russian-drinking termite.

By the way, it reminds me of the story of the Shun Zu Production Company and its owner, Mr. Saakadze—a story in which I ended up involved.

Mr. Saakadze was an old-school aristocrat born in a Rococo palace of the 18^th century and brought up by wet nannies. His father was a gambler and the family lost everything except the Rococo palace which he sold to start the Shun Zu Production Company. Mr. Saakadze had every reason to be thrilled with his success. The agencies in the capital of city-state were abuzz with excitement over Shun Zu Production House’s remarkable pets, and there was always chatter about how these animals could transform the tensest boardroom´s atmosphere. In the tech sector especially, where KPIs could make or break a quarter or even a semester, it was almost a given that, by the time investor meetings rolled around, one or two Okawango Siamese cats—creatures bursting with charm and creativity—would be padding around the room, weaving their magic. Okawango pets weren’t cheap, but no one questioned the price. Their effect on a room was undeniable.

It was a rare day when he did not sell half a dozen pets to meet the city’s high demand. Just that morning, he had completed a sale for a one-of-a-kind rabbit, directed and nourished by the famed Alois Moravec. This rabbit had that unmistakable, postmodern style of the trans-Siberian rodents—fast, edgy, and full of life—that audiences loved.

With such a steady stream of clients, Shun Zu’s reputation continued to soar, with frequent praise for the pets’ uncanny ability to change anyone’s mood. Mr. Saakadze’s productions were the secret ingredient to his clients’ success, and he knew it better than anyone.

Then the unexpected happened. Mr. Saakadze was feeding a cockatoo parrot when a famous doctor walked into his production company and explained what he wanted with medical precision, a collection of real, live animals—no AI replicas—for the grand reception ceremony of his health startup’s investors. He wanted to make a strong impression and required at least 21 pets. Cost was no object. He expected all the animals delivered to his penthouse the very next day.

Mr. Saakadze felt a surge of panic. His production company had never faced such a tight deadline to assemble 21 unique pets in such a short time. He quickly sketched out a potential lineup: five Burmese cats, two Senegal parrots, four Australian plainhead canaries, three veiled chameleons, five goldfish, one Tibetan mastiff, and an Azawakh hound. He spent the entire afternoon calling every reputable zoosmith director he knew. Unfortunately, he hit a wall. Some directors, were overbooked, others did not have the right animals, and a few were tied up with larger, exotic commissions—game for hunting lodges or rare creatures like elephants, giraffes, tigers, and Komodo dragons. The required invoices and transport times made them impossible options.

By evening, desperate, he messaged me on WhatsApp asking for help. While preparing a White Russian, I decided to reach out to Vaschel Zalkind—the director from Osaka. As you know, Osaka is renowned for its strange phenomena. Just off the top of my head, I remember a 5-kilogram chickpea, a 17-month-old Colombian astronaut, and a five-legged crocodile.

Zalkind was in his sauna but reassured me, as always, that he could arrange everything if I stopped by in the morning. I texted Saakadze right away, telling him to stay calm and hold his horses (so to speak). The next morning at 10 a.m. sharp, I met Zalkind. He had managed to gather all the pets—except for the veiled chameleons, which, unfortunately, do not thrive in Osaka.

I asked Mr. Saakadze for a bit more time, and I suddenly recalled Rajendra Nigam—the atmospheric, evocative, and masterful Bangladeshi director renowned for his fast execution. If anyone could meet the deadline, it was Nigam. Fortunately, he was available and agreed to help. Mr. Saakadze lent me the company car, and within half an hour, I was back with five veiled chameleons. I even had two extras, which I gave to my nephew Rodrigo. They were quite a sight—alert, attentive, and ravenous, devouring every fly in the office. Likely some of Nigam’s finest work.

The following day, I called Mr. Saakadze to find out how things had gone with the doctor and his financiers. To my surprise, it had turned into a fiasco. During the reception, they discovered that the goldfish were speaking in an ancient subaquatic Semitic dialect from a region currently under international sanctions—from the river to the sea. Though the goldfish had come from an aquarium, it did not matter. Osaka is not what it used to be.