Juan stared at the oldtimer. Was this a indication? Hell! Who played the same music he did in this dessert? Forgtotten biy the saints? At the gates of hell? Could the old man lead him to this mysterious singer?
'Amanha, vou levar o senhor para lá... It's just a 50 miles from here... you know the old singers cabin lies more in the wilderness... way off the road... tomorrow i'll take you there,' said the oldtimer again.
 That night Juan drunk intensely, while his spirit wandered over lost highways, and back in a time, in fact a period he wanted forget. Moments of fame and fortune, hookers, teddybears, lost loves, just like the lost of his mother and pills. Early next morning he woke up beside Doeria, a sixty-three year old hooker, his company for the last hours. Her fleshy body was naked and he smells the cheap parfume, mixed up with sweat. Her hang-tits were like cow-udders and her buttocks like a grand mauseleum of pulp. Around her eyes where black stains, constructed by make-up who found the way to her copious mouth, so her face was a abstract painting of Salvador Dali and gaved her flabby cheeks a impression of putrecent kaki-fruit.
 Anyhow she tried to let him screw her, because the night was without potential, and it made her ambitious again. She did all she could to raise his feelings, but he felt himself like almost dead. His cock felt like a dyin' breed, and he felt like a galley-slave of which only the paddles were missing. Water! Fresh sweet water and his guitar, were his only thoughts. In the meantime the good hooker Doeria made her tries to let his willy sing again... what became succesfull after a while... yep, Juan was only human... They make love like rabbits in a hurry, she stood up, get dressed, with a lot of shocking words and asked her money. Juan gaved the podgy Doeria his last dinheiro. He remebered her like a echo, a female ghost out from his onexplainable situation. Right, there's no doubt, she was the woman which dragged him upstairs, the hooker Doeria.

He heard the screaming of Filinho behind the door. It was about time to leave and visit the old singer. Juan his head was a mess, his brains misplaced fragments which were collapsing by each move he made. He cleaned up his Gibson, kissed and embraced her and stumbled downstairs. It was hot outside, like hell, in spite the early hour. The sun was a climbing and the evil spirit would be attacking today.
 This was the dry Brazilian land. He got in to a old truck which made putterin' sound when it hitted to road. The blue-sky had a nuance, transparent and there was no string which disturbed the blue carpet. The cactuses seemed pale pieces of art, bizarre little trees on the road to hell and beside that road laying bones of rotten animals, the Vulture's buffet.
 The road was rough with some deep gaps and the oldtimer sung a song wich Juan couldn't understand, something about birds and women, a sad song. When they passed a dry riverbed Juan felt unwell and emptied his stomach. Ten minutes later they passed Sete Coraçôes. The cabin of the old singer lay one kilometer more to the west, a small house made of clay and painted in pastel blue; beside the cabin was a little coral, decorated with a roof of red tiles with two horses standing in the shade. Two barking dogs welcomed them, when the old truch arrived and the old Filinho was cursing at his old automoblie, he named 'old rusty'. A older woman walked up to them en shook hands with the oldtimer. He introduced Juan and drove off on his old Rust. She showed Juan the way into the cabin where it was simple and comfortable and cool like a shady cave.

continued....