The wind rang the bells too early in the tower. A panicked bat flitted from one end of the church to the other. Rain pounded on the metal roof during the prayers. Gold glinted. Incense burned. Candles guttered. Ernesto smiled nervously. Stomach turning, I watched the spray of rain from outside spurt under the church door and on to the stone as the promises were exchanged.
By the time it was over, so was the storm, leaving behind fresh air, dripping leaves, and roads that gushed in the evening sunlight with milky-orange water. As usual, the rain brought hordes of frogs out onto the driveway, croaking and belching and slipping about in the mud. The guests’ roaring cavalcade of off-road vehicles smashed them all in a euphoric blare of car horns and klaxons as it sped back to the farm. Their burst bodies lay there crisping for days afterwards.
Silvio’s ingenuity was tested to the full—and not just because of the strain this party was to put on his emergency back-up generator, or the number of vehicles he had to extricate from the avalanching mud. His water chute had been cleaned and re-sprayed and lined with coloured lights, so that guests could shoot themselves through the darkened woodland at speed, as if through a magical night kingdom, the bats and owls of the farm crossing over their heads. Silk lanterns that hung from the trees like ghosts became objects of fascination for all the humming, buzzing animal life. It felt like a betrayal. I felt disappointed in the creatures for not carrying on as normal, for adding to the atmosphere in that way, buying into and acknowledging the event.
And then there was the food.
A theme had been devised, of classics fused with contemporary national influences—meaty river fish, powerful jungle herbs and unexpected rain-forest fruits—but that was just the beginning. A wok station and a sushi bar operated all night. Seafood bars carved from solid ice were deposited round the swimming pool, piled high with crab claws and lobster tails, with oysters and clams. Racks of dripping quail spun slowly in gleaming rotisserie machines. Silvio erected a device that he called the Carousel—a spinning wrought iron cage that ensured that the meat encased within it had constant distribution over the coals beneath and created a downdraught that coaxed from them an even, generous heat. The spinning cuts flew around like colours on a child’s top. It wasn’t the only contribution Silvio made to cooking apparatus. Also flown down from the forest were twenty peacock bass and a pirarucú fish the size of a man, which he entombed in a ditch of glowing coals for the day, roasting it whole. And for the main event, a miracle, engineered by my mother: four hundred perfectly cooked fillets of beef, with a delicate truffle sauce.
By the time the guests had got stuck into all the other food available at the buffet, drunk their fill from the caipirinha bar, and snuffed up whatever else they had brought along to enhance their evening, their appetites had died. In many cases plates were left untouched, as guests were lured to the dance floor by a favourite song. As the music struck up, I swept away the debris of the meal, collecting the intact steaks and pocketing them, munching on them like apples, getting the meat down even when it hurt my throat to swallow, devouring it so it wouldn’t go to waste, trying to get round the tables and clear as many of them as possible so that my mother wouldn’t see them coming back. I carried on for as long as I could, with tears in my eyes at the injustice of it, with mounting pain from all the meat I was dry-swallowing and from the swelling in my stomach.
‘Tidying up, Ludo?’ said Zé, clapping a hand on my back. ‘You have better things to do—like enjoy yourself.’
‘Are you enjoying yourself?’
He sighed. ‘How could I not? Look around you. It is what this place was built for. I suppose I had better give my speech before everyone is completely insensible. Perhaps after something sweet. Come and sit with me.’
As I was talking to him, one of the desserts appeared—piles of slices of watermelon heaped with homemade ice cream. We found an empty table, Zé scanning the area before he sat down to see if there was anyone more important in the vicinity. Realising that I needed to eat quickly so he could be on his way, I began removing the pips from my slice of watermelon with a fork before taking a bite; my mother had taught me that this was more polite than spitting them out.
‘I wouldn’t do that!’ said Zé, staying the back of my hand with a cool palm and a mischievous smile. ‘Try one.’
‘One what?’
‘A pip. You might be surprised.’
I did. Solid, dark chocolate.
‘They’re French. We had them made especially.’
‘Someone had a boring job putting those in,’ I said.
‘I can’t imagine it,’ Zé agreed. ‘Whoever did it must have the patience of a saint. Now, I think I ought to give my speech before conditions deteriorate further.’
He was right. Looking up I could see two guests tearing down a string of red and yellow paper lanterns and chucking it in the pool. If he didn’t speak now he would lose his audience.
During the speech—a sparkling number, with plenty of proprietorial references to ‘my Melissa,’ a couple to her new husband, and one mention of me—things continued to fall apart. Several girls were thrown into the pool fully clothed, one of them glancing her head on the side. Two men tried to play football with a ball they had doused in petrol and set on fire. Others lit handheld fireworks that spurted hot wax as they detonated low over the heads of fellow revellers. The water chute, overrun with those eager to discard their outfits, and others who didn’t bother, was suddenly running beyond its capacity. The plunge pool at its base seethed with bodies. The playground had been overrun by contenders with high expectations, and never had so much been asked of it. The only thing more shocking than the abundance of it all was the manifest indifference of those it was meant to impress.
After I had congratulated Zé on his speech, I tried to warn him about what was going on. ‘There are people trying to walk across the lily pads. They’re smashing them to pieces.’
‘Are they?’ he said, grinning. ‘I’ve always wanted to do that. You shouldn’t worry so much. This place can take it.’
I found Ernesto devouring a slice of watermelon and fretting about his father-in-law.
‘He hasn’t spoken to me,’ he said. ‘And he barely mentioned me in his speech.’
‘I’m sure that wasn’t deliberate.’
‘It was. And I know why.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He offered me a job yesterday, and I turned it down.’
‘You turned down a job with him?’ I said. ‘That must have paid a fortune.’
‘He wanted me to give up my studies, and take a business course so I could work for him. But that’s not me. I want to work for myself.’
‘He’s just sulking because you refused him. He doesn’t like it when things don’t go his way.’
‘And have you seen him and my parents? They’re best friends all of a sudden.’
Whatever Zé’s initial misgivings about their son, he knew Gaspar and Olinda well. They were his kind of people. He had entrusted the well-being of his daughter to them and their beach house many times. They were on fine terms, and working the event as a pack.
‘It’s a disaster,’ Ernesto went on, ‘I’ve annoyed him before the marriage even starts.’
‘I think you did that before today, when you got her pregnant.’
‘Shut up, will you? We’re not talking about that.’
‘How is anybody going to explain where this baby came from when it appears? The truth will come out eventually.’
‘Well, it’s not coming out now. If there was one thing I could do that would piss Zé off more, it would be to release that little bit of information.’
‘Stop worrying about it. You’re family now. He has to like you.’
‘I guess you’re right. Have you seen my wife?’ he said, looking around him.
‘I’ll go and look for her.’
I had no intention of finding his wife — at least not for Ernesto — and I needed to see my mother. I feared tha
t she was being taken for granted as much as the place. Never had she been treated so conspicuously as a servant, and I hated it, so much so that I was angry with her for putting up with it.
‘Look at my son all dressed up,’ she said, sweeping a speck from the shoulder of my jacket. ‘You look so perfect—anyone would think this was your wedding. Where have you been all this time?’
‘Busy. Not as busy as you though. The food is incredible. Everyone is saying so.’
‘I’m glad you came to see me. I have been wondering how you are.’
‘I’m fine. I didn’t even have to make a speech.’
‘I don’t mean that,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I mean, how are you about Melissa getting married?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ludo. Who do you think you’re talking to here?’
‘She’s my sister.’
‘We both know she’s more than your sister.’
‘That’s an unhelpful thing to say.’
‘She’s pregnant, isn’t she?’
‘Mamãe. Lower your voice.’
‘You can’t hide that sort of thing from me.’
‘Just keep quiet about it.’
‘And you can’t bear it, can you? That’s why you’re running off to the United States.’
‘I thought you of all people would find the idea of my turning down the opportunity to go to the United States unthinkable.’
‘Of course. So long as you are doing it for the right reasons.’
I paused, suppressing a shout. ‘Thank you for your advice. You should get back to work now.’
I wanted to go back, to say sorry immediately. I got as far as the kitchen door. Then I saw her shrug sadly, grab an icing squeezer from a waitress, and start putting the finishing touches to a mountain of cakes. The look of concentration on her face rekindled an old instinct—I knew she was not to be disturbed. I turned to go again. My last sight of her that evening was a glimpse down a long corridor stacked high with shiny aluminium pots, her forehead beaded with sweat, setting out petits fours, and I never did apologise.
Tramping out from the kitchen and down to the pool area, I saw the tree house ladder hanging from the foliage of the fig tree. I bolted up there, a wounded animal retreating to a trusted refuge.
My blood fizzing with regret at what I had said, and the vestiges of the anger that precipitated it, I sat breathing heavily, my legs crossed and my eyes tightly shut, inhaling the woody aromas of the tree house, hoping to be spirited away by them to simpler times.
Feeling the lumpen shapes of three or four steaks in my pocket, I took one out, rotated it in my hand, and bit into it. The outer crust of charred flesh and cracked peppercorns made black marks on my palm. I closed my eyes, and chewed, concentrating on the black, bloody flavours, hoping if not to be taken away to childhood then at least to be transported by the meat.
The band had started playing. Called Funkcetera, they were a successful outfit at the time, specialising in wacky outfits and polished, anodyne music. Looking down, I could see the dance floor near the pool undulating with multicoloured, disco-lit revellers. I relaxed, enjoying my place of safety, and decided to stay there hovering over the reception like a ghost for the rest of the evening.
A distant pop sounded, and the music went dead, along with the lights. Suddenly the farm was a flickering darkness of lanterns and scandalised laughter. It was Silvio’s worst nightmare. The power grid, unable to cope with the demands of the party on top of the storm, had given out. At least it had happened after most of the food had been served.
There was warmth in the unforeseen darkness, in my comfortable hiding place in the dripping trees. The smell of wet forest was suddenly sharper in the air, and the sounds of the night rose to a higher pitch, as if this reassertion of nature over man and his pleasures was that apparent, that physical. And with no town nearby to light up the skies, the darkness away from the feeble light of candles and lanterns was almost total.
I knew exactly how long it would take to get the power back. Silvio would be careening down the hill to the backup generator with his torch. He’d have to get down there, hope the generator room wasn’t flooded, possibly refuel the machine and spend a few minutes getting it started up. We had about half an hour of this lamplit magic.
I could hear Ernesto’s voice as he searched the party for his wife. There were roars of laughter and volleys of sarcastic remarks.
‘Good start, Nesto! You’ve lost her already!’
‘She couldn’t face it! She’s run away into the night!’
A slithering sound in the darkness. Someone hoisting herself up the ladder. Who else could it be?
‘Shh.’ A whispered giggle. Her teeth glinting in the darkness, she planted a big kiss on my mouth, tasting of vodka and lime juice. I licked my lips, delighting in her proximity, in the coconut warmth of her skin.
‘Drink?’ she said, handing me a cold glass, clinking with ice.
‘You’re drinking? You shouldn’t—’
‘Oh, shut up. It’s my wedding day.’
I took a gulp of the drink. It was powerful, delicious.
‘You’re supposed to be congratulating me,’ she said. ‘Not hiding up here.’
‘You should be careful of your dress,’ I said. ‘It’s not meant for tree climbing.’
‘It’s done its work,’ she said. ‘It concealed my bump. It got me married. I can destroy it now. Before my husband rips it off.’
I paused, swallowing. ‘I was just enjoying being above it all for a second.’
‘I knew you were here. I saw you disappearing.’
I allowed myself a glance at what I could see of her face in the dark. ‘You look—’
‘Shut up. You don’t need to say anything like that.’
‘But you do.’
Her hair. The child’s plastic watch.
‘You smell amazing too.’
‘You smell of dinner. How many steaks have you eaten?’
‘Too many.’
She laughed and took another swallow, and we sat side by side, staring down into her wedding, listening to the shouts and giggles of guests as they stumbled around in the gloom.
‘Why didn’t you look at me in the church?’
‘Sorry. There was a candle. It looked like it was about to set fire to the flowers. I didn’t want the place to burn down.’
I shifted awkwardly, suddenly aware of how long I had been sitting cross-legged, and feeling the onset of a cramp. ‘I should get down to Silvio at the generator. He’s probably knee-deep in mud.’
‘In the absence of my husband, his best man has to look after me. I think you’d better stay here.’
‘I expect Silvio could do with my help.’
‘I’m serious. Stay with me.’
‘We can’t stay up here. You have to get back to your wedding.’
‘Not now. I mean don’t go to the United States. Stay with me.’
‘You’re going to have a family now. I couldn’t stay living with you even if I wasn’t going away.’
‘Are you telling me you haven’t thought it?’
‘Thought what?’
‘That it could be our family?’
‘Unless the gestation period for a human baby has gone up by over a year, I think that is very unlikely.’
She laughed.
‘Don’t say stuff like that,’ I said.
‘Sorry.’ Her hand found mine in the dark. ‘So, you’re really abandoning me.’ Her damp lips brushed the back of my knuckles in a half kiss.
The lights came back on. A microphone whined feedback from the stage. A huge cheer went up. Reality kicked back in like the accelerating drone of a new cine-reel kicking into action. A voice from the stage through the microphone. Sorry for the technical hitch, everyone! Now for the second part of tonight’s show!
‘Maybe you should go,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it will be good for you. I’m going back to work. You can finish the drink.’
&nbs
p; Crawling across the floor to the ladder, she left the glass on the wooden floor of the tree house, the smells of vodka and limes in the air, droplets of condensation sliding down the outside. If I could live for ever in a single moment of time, this might be it, looking at that half-full glass she left behind for me—that tiny, longed-for pulse of goodwill in my direction—still ice-cold, her handprint glazing over on its surface.
The rain and the blackout had sent everyone to a higher pitch of excitement. Something about the calm of the power cut (how many furtive moments were stolen during that half hour?) meant that when the electricity came back on, the guests felt the need to compensate, and began a more violent process of destruction. We were in for a long night.
I drank the rest of the vodka, too fast, so the alcohol made me reel, and the cold brought on a headache. Then I came down the tree house and made my way down the hill towards the generator, so that I could show Silvio I had at least intended to help him fix the problem.
I ran into him on the way up, his suit spattered with mud. He looked old, and his breath came out in a wheeze.
‘Looking good,’ I said.
‘It’ll brush off when it dries. I’m still respectable enough, aren’t I?’
‘I was coming to see if you needed any help.’
‘You’ve got more important things to do than help an old man start an engine.’
‘I haven’t. Sorry not to be here sooner.’
‘I wasn’t expecting you.’ He put an arm round me fondly. ‘Come on, let’s go and have a strong drink. The worst that could happen has happened, so there’s no reason for me to stay sober. And your mother and I have hardly seen you.’
‘I’ll meet you up there in ten minutes,’ I said.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Quick walk,’ I said, carrying on past him down the hill. ‘Pour me a strong one. I’ll be right there.’
‘Don’t think too much,’ he called after me. ‘You’ll hurt your head.’
I couldn’t be sure I had found the right spot, but when I guessed that I was close to where Melissa and I had made our jungle hideaway fourteen years before, I sat down at the foot of a tree in the rain, watching leaves dancing in the drops. I grimaced, and stretched out my arms, and begged any forest spirits who might be listening to bring her back to me, whatever the cost.
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