An awed hush fell on the grand ballroom as Izabela entered in her spectacular Patou ballgown of shimmering white, which hugged her curves and cascaded into a fishtail train behind her.
As Gustavo embraced her, the guests applauded.
‘You look beautiful, my darling, and every man in the room is jealous that it will be me sharing your bed tonight,’ he whispered in her ear.
Apart from the first dance, for the next three hours she hardly saw Gustavo. They each entertained their own family, and Bel danced with numerous nameless men who all told her how lucky Gustavo was to have caught her on his hook. She drank very little, already sick with tension about what would happen afterwards, a feeling that resurfaced with a vengeance as the guests began to gather near the main staircase to cheer them both on their way upstairs.
‘It is time,’ Gustavo said, appearing beside her, and they walked together through to the front of the crowd.
Gustavo called for silence. ‘Meus senhores, senhoras e amigos. May I thank you for coming and celebrating this great day with us. But now, it is time for me to take my wife’s hand and lead her upstairs.’
A round of whistles and lewd catcalls followed his remark.
‘So, I bid you good evening and goodnight. Come, Izabela.’ He offered his arm to her and she took it. And turning, they walked up the stairs.
This time, once the door to their suite was shut, Gustavo’s approach was not so subtle. Without further ado, he pushed her onto the bed and pinned her wrists against the mattress, covering her face and neck with frenzied kisses and pawing at her beautiful gown.
‘One moment,’ she whispered. ‘Let me turn over and you can undo the buttons,’ she said, relieved that she could roll away from the stench of the alcohol on his breath.
She felt his hands clumsily picking at the tiny seed pearls that held her dress together and felt his frustration as he finally grabbed the material and tore it open.
Pulling the dress away from her body, he undid her brassiere then turned her over, his lips diving straight to her nipples. A hand travelled up her stockinged inner thigh and then ventured beneath the triangle of silk that covered her innermost part.
After a few seconds of further fumbling, he ripped the silk away, then knelt up to undo his own trouser buttons and release himself. Still fully dressed, he pushed his hardness against her tender skin, moaning in frustration when it could not find entry. Finally, using his own hand, he manoeuvred himself to the opening he sought and thrust himself into her.
Bel lay beneath him biting her lip from the pain. The world was black above her as she closed her eyes and took deep breaths to stop the panic. Thankfully, after only a few seconds, he gave a strangely feminine high-pitched scream, and collapsed on top of her.
Bel lay still, listening to the heavy breathing in her ear. His head was next to hers, face down on the counterpane, his entire weight upon her so that she was pinned beneath him, her knees bent over the edge of the bed. Finally, when she made a move to disentangle herself, he raised his head and looked at her.
‘At last, you’re truly mine.’ He smiled as he touched her cheek. ‘Now, you must go and clean yourself up. You understand that the first time—’
‘I know,’ she said quickly, making swiftly for the bathroom before he had a chance to elaborate.
Bel was glad that she and her mother had had the conversation the night before the wedding. For even though her insides ached, when she wiped herself, the tissue remained clear. Taking down her hair, she changed into the nightdress and peignoir that a hotel chambermaid had thoughtfully hung on the back of the door earlier. When she returned to the bedroom, Gustavo was already lying naked in bed. His face wore a puzzled expression.
‘I checked, but there was no blood on the counterpane.’ He looked at her. ‘How can that be?’
‘My mother said that if there wasn’t, it would be because I rode so frequently at the fazenda as a child,’ she said, embarrassed by his blatant enquiry.
‘Ah. Then that, perhaps, explains it. But of course, you were a virgin?’
‘Gustavo, you insult me!’ Bel felt her anger rise.
‘Of course, of course.’ He patted the space on the mattress next to him. ‘Then come and join your husband in bed.’
Bel did as she was told, still smarting from his insinuation.
An arm went around her, pulling her towards him, and he reached to turn off the light. ‘I think we can agree that we are now well and truly married.’
‘Yes.’
‘I love you, Izabela. This is the happiest night of my life.’
‘And mine.’ She managed to dredge up the expected words, despite the unspoken protest that echoed from the depths of her soul.
And as Bel lay sleepless next to her husband of only a few hours, the cargo ship carrying the head and hands of the Cristo, and Laurent Brouilly, docked at a pier on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro.
35
As Laurent woke from his first night on dry land in six weeks, he found himself and the sheets he lay in drenched with sweat. Even on the hottest days in Montparnasse, he’d never known anything like the intensity of the heat here in Rio.
Staggering over to the table where the maid had left him a flagon of water, he picked it up and gulped it down gratefully, feeling his thirst abate. Walking into the tiny bathroom next door, he ran the tap in the sink and put his head beneath it. Wrapping a towel around his nakedness, and feeling at least a little restored, Laurent padded back into the bedroom and went to draw open the shutters.
Last night, when he’d arrived at the hotel which Heitor had suggested he stay in while he found more permanent accommodation, it had been past midnight and too dark to see where he was. But as he’d lain on his bed, he’d heard the sound of the waves crashing onto the shore and had known he must be somewhere near the sea.
And this morning . . . what a sight greeted him! However far his gaze stretched, spread out beneath him on the other side of the road was the most magnificent beach he’d ever seen. Miles of pure white sand, deserted now as the hour was early, and waves that must be two metres high, rolling in relentlessly in a dramatic climax of white foamy spray.
Even the sight of it cooled his blood; Laurent had always loved swimming in the Mediterranean when his family had gone to their summer house near Saint-Raphaël, and he longed to run out of the hotel, over the road and into the water. But first he must ask whether the sea here was safe; for all he knew, it might contain sharks, or other man-eating fish. He’d been warned before he left Paris that one could never be too careful in the tropics.
Even the very smell of the air was new and exotic. Like many of his French compatriots, the fact that their home country provided them with every form of season – from the exhilarating snow-covered slopes of the Alps to the glorious south of the country with its beautiful scenery and climate – meant that Laurent had never been tempted to travel abroad before.
But now, standing here, he felt ashamed he could ever have thought that no other country had anything more to offer him.
He wanted to explore Rio, but before he did so, he had to meet Monsieur da Silva Costa’s construction manager, Heitor Levy, who had left him a note at the hotel saying he would collect him at eleven that morning. The head and hands of Christ had been taken off the ship yesterday before it docked in the main port, and had been placed on some open land close to the port, where Monsieur Levy owned a small farm. Laurent only hoped that the delicate pieces of the moulds had made the journey intact. He’d carried out a check on them four times a day down in the hold, and now he could only pray that they had survived the unloading.
He began to dress, noticing that his legs were covered in small, circular welts. Laurent scratched them and pulled on his trousers, knowing that some hungry Brazilian mosquito must have done its worst drinking his blood in the night.
Walking downstairs for breakfast, he entered the dining room and saw a feast of exotic fruits laid out on a long table for the gues
ts. He had no idea what they were, but took a sample of each, determined to embrace this new culture; he also took a slice of some kind of delicious-smelling cake, still warm from the oven. A waitress served him some hot, strong coffee and he drank it in relief, feeling comforted that some things were the same here as at home.
At eleven o’clock, he made his way to the reception area, and saw a man standing beside the desk, checking his watch. Surmising correctly that it must be Monsieur Levy, he walked over and introduced himself.
‘Welcome to Rio, Senhor Brouilly. How was your passage?’ the man asked him in decent French.
‘Extremely comfortable, thank you. I learnt all manner of card games and lewd jokes from my fellow sailors,’ said Laurent with a smile.
‘Good. Now, my car is outside and we shall drive to my fazenda.’
As they drove through the streets of the city, Laurent was surprised to see how very modern it was. Landowski had obviously been teasing him when he said that the residents were all natives, running around the streets naked, throwing spears and eating babies, as this city seemed as civilised and western as many in France itself.
He did, however, find it strange to see the deeply tanned skin of the locals clad in carbon copies of his own country’s modern fashions. As they drove through the outskirts, Laurent saw a large slum town appear on his right.
‘We call it a favela,’ Levy said as he saw Laurent staring at it. ‘And sadly, it has far too many residents.’
Laurent thought of Paris, where the poor seemed almost invisible. Here, wealth and poverty seemed to have separated themselves totally from each other.
‘Yes, Senhor Brouilly,’ Levy echoed his thoughts. ‘Here in Brazil, the rich are very rich and the poor are . . . starving,’ he shrugged.
‘Are you Portuguese, monsieur?’
‘No. My mother is Italian and my father German. And I am a Jew. Here in Brazil, you will find a very large melting pot of different nationalities, although it is the Portuguese who consider themselves the true Brazilians. We have immigrants from Italy, Spain, and, of course, the Africans, who were brought over as slaves by the Portuguese to work on the coffee farms. And nowadays, Rio is experiencing a huge influx of Japanese. Everyone comes here seeking their pot of gold. Some find it, but others sadly do not, and end up in the favelas.’
‘It’s very different from France. Most of our residents are French born and bred,’ commented Laurent.
‘But this is the New World, Senhor Brouilly,’ Levy said, ‘and we will all make it what it is, whatever our original place of birth.’
For the rest of his life, Laurent would never forget the bizarre spectacle of Christ’s enormous head sitting in a field, while chickens pecked at the soil around it and a large cockerel preened itself as it sat atop His nose.
‘Senhor da Silva Costa called me at five this morning, anxious to know his precious Cristo had made the journey safely. So I decided to reconstruct the pieces here and make sure there is no damage. And so far, all is well,’ Levy confirmed.
The sight of the head, last seen as a whole in Landowski’s atelier and now here in Rio thousands of miles away, almost brought a lump to Laurent’s throat.
‘It looks to me as if He was kept safe on His journey. Maybe watched over by heaven,’ said Levy, also moved by the sight. ‘I won’t endeavour to put the hands together yet, but I had a look and they too seem to have escaped without a scratch. One of my workers will take a photograph to mark the occasion for all of us. I will also send it to Senhor da Silva Costa, and Landowski of course.’
The photograph duly taken, and having closely surveyed the head and hands so he too could write to Landowski and reassure him, Laurent hoped the same good luck had befallen his sculpture of Bel, currently sitting in a crate on the dock somewhere inside the main port.
After agonising over the sale, Laurent had taken Landowski’s advice and decided to accept Senhor Aires Cabral’s offer of two and a half thousand francs. Landowski had been right: he could always sculpt another and it was a windfall that was impossible to refuse, whatever the future held.
‘So, your initial mission has been completed successfully, although I am sure you are eager to see the construction site at Corcovado Mountain,’ Levy continued. ‘It is truly something to behold. I am living up there with the workers, as we only have a relatively short time in which to complete the project.’
‘I would love to see it,’ Laurent said eagerly. ‘I’ve struggled to imagine how it is possible to build such a monument on the top of a mountain.’
‘So have we all,’ Levy agreed phlegmatically. ‘But rest assured, it is happening. Now, Senhor da Silva Costa tells me that you are in need of accommodation while you are here. He asked me if I would help you find some, given that I’m sure you don’t speak a word of Portuguese.’
‘No, monsieur, I do not.’
‘Well, it just so happens that I have an apartment going spare. It’s in an area called Ipanema, not far from Copacabana Beach where you are staying presently. I bought it in my bachelor days before my marriage, and have never had the heart to part with it. I would be happy to let you have the use of it for the time you are here. Senhor da Silva Costa, of course, will pick up any bills, just as you agreed in France. I think you will like it as it has a spectacular view and is full of light. Perfect for a sculptor like yourself,’ he added.
‘Thank you, Monsieur Levy. I am overwhelmed by your generosity.’
‘Well, we shall go and visit it. And if it suits you, you can move in later today.’
By late afternoon, Laurent was the proud tenant of a spacious, airy third-floor apartment in a beautiful block near Ipanema Beach. The graceful high-ceilinged rooms were elegantly furnished and when he opened the door to the shady balcony, he could see the beach in the distance. The warm wind brought with it the unmistakeable smell of the ocean.
Levy had left him there to settle in after they’d retrieved his suitcase from the hotel, telling him he’d be back later to introduce him to the maid who would cook and clean for him during his stay.
Laurent wandered wide-eyed from room to room, the luxury of having such space all to himself after his squalid attic room in Montparnasse, let alone the thought of a maid to wait on him, almost too much to comprehend. He sat on the enormous mahogany bed and lay back, enjoying the breeze from the ceiling fan that brushed his face like tiny wings. Breathing a sigh of contentment, he promptly fell asleep.
That evening, as promised, Levy brought Monica, a middle-aged African woman, to see him.
‘I’ve warned her that you don’t speak any Portuguese, but if you agree, Monsieur Brouilly, she will clean the apartment, shop for provisions in the local market and prepare your evening meal. Anything else you need, there is a telephone in the drawing room. Please, call me at any time.’
‘I really can’t thank you enough for your kindness, Monsieur Levy,’ Laurent replied gratefully.
‘You are our honoured guest here in Brazil, and we can’t have you reporting back to Senhor Landowski and the rest of Paris that we live like heathens,’ Levy smiled, raising a knowing eyebrow.
‘Indeed not, monsieur. From what I’ve seen so far, I think you are more civilised than us in Paris.’
‘By the way, did your own sculpture arrive safely?’ Levy enquired.
‘Yes, it is at the dock, and the authorities said they will notify the buyer and arrange for it to be delivered to him.’
‘The Aires Cabrals are doubtless away on honeymoon. They married only yesterday.’
Laurent stared at Levy in shock. ‘Mademoiselle Izabela was married yesterday?’
‘Yes. Their photograph is on the front of all the newspapers here today. She looked most beautiful. It was a high-society wedding indeed. It seems the subject of your sculpture has done well for herself.’
Laurent felt physically sick at the news. The irony of arriving in Rio on the very day Izabela had married was almost too much for him to bear.
‘Well, I
must be off. Goodnight, Senhor Brouilly.’
Levy left him for the evening, reminding him that he would collect him at two o’clock on Monday afternoon to take him up to the construction site at the top of Corcovado Mountain. Monica was clattering pans in the kitchen and a wonderful smell was emanating from it.
In need of a drink, Laurent pulled a bottle of French wine out of his suitcase, uncorked it, and took it out onto the terrace. Hoisting his feet up onto the table, he poured it into a glass and sipped it, the flavour reminding him immediately of home. He watched the sun setting behind the mountains, his heart heavy.
‘Izabela,’ he whispered to the air, ‘I’m here, in your beautiful country. I came all this way to find you, but now it seems it’s too late.’
36
A week after her marriage, Bel arrived back from her honeymoon tense and exhausted. They’d spent it in the region of Minas Gerais, in an old and once-beautiful house belonging to Gustavo’s great-aunt and uncle. The weather had been stifling, and without a sea breeze or altitude to lower the temperature, the air had been so hot it had felt as if it was burning her nostrils when she inhaled it.
There had been endless dinners to endure as she was introduced to elderly members of Gustavo’s family who’d been too frail to attend the wedding. All of these things she could have coped with, if it hadn’t been for the nights.
One thing her mother had not told her was how often the bedroom loving was meant to happen. She had presumed perhaps once a week, but Gustavo’s appetite seemed to be insatiable. Even though she had done her best to relax and try to enjoy some of the intimate things he liked to do to her – things that no one had ever explained to her and still made her blush just to think of them – she had not succeeded.
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