by Arthur Rawl
“Perfect, if it’s ready please pour … thank you.”
We touched glasses. Her green eyes sparkling like stars. I was jealous of the glass caressing her lips. A smile danced at the corners of her eyes as if she knew my thoughts, “You should not keep us apart for two weeks. It is too long.”
“We’ll have to make up for lost time.”
Her answer was another smile, one that could have melted a glacier. Still, somewhere in the back of my mind doubts were chipping away at happiness. Why was she here and who else was spying on me? Almost immediately the second question vaporized as I remembered Robin made tonight’s reservation using the office telephone but the first remained as a distant dark cloud at the edge awareness.
“You can stay tonight Querida. Then, we have the weekend.”
A shadow crossed her face, “The Senator wants me to do something for him this weekend.” She brightened, “He will leave a car and driver for me when he goes to the fazenda, his farm outside of São Paulo. Maybe you will come with me. It is also outside of the city.”
The distant dark cloud moved closer, “Where are you going?”
“The Senator collects Japanese porcelain. There is an artist in Atibaia who is one of his favorites.”
“… Brazilian?”
“Maybe … I think he was born in Japan and came here when he was young. I like his things but the Senator is like a crazy man over them.”
“I have trouble seeing that.”
“I said he is not what everyone thinks. The Senator loves his family like everyone else. If he seems different it is because he loves his country more than other people.”
“Let’s talk about us please. I’d love to go with you. How far is it to … Atibaia? I haven’t been out of São Paulo and it will be a nice change for both of us.”
“Atibaia, it is about three hours to the north in the small mountains. It could be less if traffic is friendly. You will not be outside of São Paulo. We will leave the city but not the state.”
“You know the Senator’s friends are having me watched?”
“The Senator told me about what happened. He asked if I had seen you and I said no. He told me you were very lucky and if I cared about you I would help you learn to guard your life more carefully.”
“I’m not sure I understand why he would care.”
“I think he likes you. Maybe whatever you said to him impressed him. I am sure he would not like to see you hurt.”
“He and his friends have … damn, we’re talking about him again. Let’s order.”
“You are upset with me Querido.”
“No, I’m upset with me. Here I am with the most beautiful woman in São Paulo and we’re talking politics and personalities.”
“Not politics Querido, we are talking about the family who has taken me in. If we were talking politics our faces would be red and we would be waving our arms around like all Brasileiros.”
“You’re right. I see it on TV news. Everyone shouting at each other and no one’s listening. Someone told me Brazilians’ first love is gossip, the second is football and the third complaining about politics.”
“The Senator says it is good people complain so the government knows how they are feeling. He says they should complain all they want so they can go to sleep feeling better.”
Dinner arrived along with a second bottle of champagne. Politics and the Senator were replaced by planning for our weekend and then plans for later tonight. The wine brought out a little of the impish girl hidden inside Alana. Her sparkling eyes and easy laughter reminded me of Shelly when we first met except Alana was by far the greater beauty. When dinner was done I suggested we forget coffee.
Alana responded with a grin, “But Senhor, your charutos. I thought we would sit for an hour or two over coffee and brandy while you smoke.”
“Querida, an hour or two would seem longer than the two weeks we missed.”
“But what about sobremesa, dessert?”
“Querida, I think we have something much sweeter in mind.”
Her eyes gave a frank, knowing answer as her hand slid across the table into mine, “Yes Querido, we should go. It is late and tomorrow morning will be here too quickly.”
We walked the half block arm in arm like carefree lovers adrift among the stars. If someone was following I never noticed. Alana filled my every thought, every sensation. The heady scent of her hair, the heat of her body so close to me, the burning touch of her hip as we walked worked their magic. Magic filled with promise for tonight and forever. Yes, maybe there would be a country house filled with kids.
Garden gossip hushed as we crossed to the elevator lobby. Once inside the elevator our lips found each other’s. Time stopped and my heart raced … the door clanked open ending the moment … ending it only long enough to get inside the apartment when the smoldering spark burst into flame. A flame that burned hotter as trembling fingers stripped away clothing. A flame that flared white hot time and again … finally its glowing embers warmed us until morning. Embers that gave birth to rich enchanting dreams that each hoped would grow and mature in our hearts.
“Querida, it’s late and you … have to go to the mountains.”
“I want to stay here … but” pouting, “you are right … we have to go.”
She snuggled against me burying her face in my neck. It would be so good just to stay here and forget everything else. Other people do it and life goes on … but we were not other people, “Come Querida, let’s take a hot shower and then go get something to eat. I’m famished.”
Her eyes sparkling like emeralds in the sun, “If you kept food in the kitchen I would cook for us and we could eat here in bed.”
Not mentioning the kitchen had been filled because if we went back to bed I would not make it into the office, “I’ll tell José to have the kitchen stocked so when we come back Saturday night we won’t have to leave the apartment.”
“We will not come back Saturday. There is a small country place where we will stay. There are no televisions, no telephones but it has big comfortable beds, oceans of hot water and they serve food in the rooms. Saturday and Sunday you will be mine Querido, all mine.”
“Good morning Robin, did you get what you needed from Skip?
“No, I haven’t heard anything from him. Nobody’s seen him this morning. He finds a new girl and forgets everything else. Son of a … I’ll add a few things to the report to cover his areas. You’ll have it in fifteen minutes. By the way, how was the restaurant last night?”
“Surprisingly good, the outside table let me smoke without worrying about anyone else and it was nice just watching life in the city for a change.”
“People watching is my second favorite sport after shopping of course.”
“Shopping is still near the bottom of my list where it belongs.”
“Philistine …”
When I read the weekly report the need for some words to cover Skip’s absence had given Robin the opportunity to read and edit before questions from me. She had done a great job and I decided to leave it the way it was.
“What, no changes? I think I better take your temperature. Something’s wrong … or was it someone new?”
At times, particularly when women were involved, she could be worse than a mother hen and at other times she didn’t seem to care about what I was doing. I thought she could be jealous but decided that was my ego making noise. Maybe she was worried that I would make another mistake like Shelly and it would mess up my work and hers.
Robin yelled from the other room, “Pedro Rossi on your line.”
“Good morning Pedro.”
“Good morning my friend, Is all well?”
“Yes, comparatively peaceful. Last week was a little too exciting for me.”
“It was fortunate that … Last year one of my staff was not so fortunate. I send his widow a small pension. It is the least I can do.”
“I thought kidnapping was the biggest risk here.”
“T
here is not so much real kidnapping. Most employees are paid by putting money directly into their bank accounts. When this was started the number of robberies on payday went down and the number of kidnappings went up. Thieves now take workers to bank machines so they can get money. It is recorded by the police as a kidnapping and not a robbery.”
“… and the people who tried to rob me?”
“You know we are not a violent people. Since the borders were reopened there are poor people coming to Brazil from our neighbors for a share of what we have. Many bring drugs and the violence that comes with them. It is not the Brazilian way.”
“They were not Brazilians?’
“Their papers were counterfeit. Maybe they were from Venezuela but we will never know.”
“I won’t ask how you know about their papers.”
“That is easy. The newspaper said two bodies were found in the favela near Villa Lobos. There are always bodies coming out of the slums but they are usually one at a time so two certainly became news particularly when the police said their identity papers were forged.”
“You didn’t call to discuss recent events. How can I help you?”
“Your Sra. Robin has called my office two times looking for your young colleague. My secretary said she sounded distressed. Is everything alright?”
“I think so. Robin puts together a weekly report for New York and wanted input from Skip. She can get a little obsessive about routine things. Skip is still young and very easily distracted by Brazil’s charms. It’s not the first time he’s disappeared for a few days.”
“Ah, to be young and carefree … I hope he is carefree but a bit careful at the same time. I must sound like an old man, forgive me.”
“I’m sure he’ll turn up on Monday morning looking hung over and sheepish.”
“He has an understanding boss.”
“What choice do I have? He’s the boss’s son.”
“Sr. Watson should have taught his son responsibility. His behavior is not a good example for other employees. You have a good weekend my friend. We will talk on Monday.”
“You have a good weekend also. Don’t worry about Skip. He’ll turn up. Take care.”
Skip and his father faded from my thoughts when I left the office. The upcoming weekend with Alana took control eliminating any room for thoughts of work, the deal or Skip. Anticipation tempted and tortured me in ways I hadn’t felt for too long. In the past few years I had spent too many nights alone or surrounded by people who made being alone seem attractive. She was different … genuine … filled with life and living. There was none of the pretext and guile masquerading as sophistication. Alana was simply Alana. She was a beautiful woman working hard to find her way in life. Unashamed and unapologetic for her humble beginnings and powerful protector, when she said something I believed it was the truth or nearly so. In Alana’s case loyalty resulted in silence not lies. Knowing Aranni, I was sure he valued a strong character like hers in those close to him. Without it how could anyone be trusted?
“Take me to Shopping Iguatemi José.”
“I did not think I had Sra. Robin in the car.”
“I need some things and Robin told me it was the place to go.”
“She would know. Her favorites are the Iguatemi and Higienopolis shopping centers. She says Higienopolis is newer but the shops are better at Iguatemi and there are more of them. I would not know because I have not been inside of either one. They are not places where someone like me goes.”
“Which one is closer?”
“With the traffic … they are about the same.”
The entrance to Iguatemi is deceptive, a very large unadorned passage off the sidewalk with the Dutch mid-market department store C&A on one side and my favorite New York Jeweler, Tiffany, on the other. Greeting you are three broad ramps, one in the middle leading down to the lower level and two going up on the sides. Above the ramps a four story atrium funneled daylight into the deepest corners of the air conditioned space. I was accustomed to Europe’s vertical shopping centers but the scale of Iguatemi literally stopped me half way up one of the ramps where I slipped into the motionless head up, staring posture so common among tourists on New York’s Fifth Avenue. I didn’t know what I wanted to buy and the size of this place wasn’t going to make it any easier.
At nine Saturday morning I was in the Garden waiting. Now nine-twenty; the sun had been up for hours. Free of the weekday smog to filter its energy the sun felt hot when a heavy Toyota Land Cruiser rolled to a stop at the curb. The passenger side front door swung opened and a tall, blonde heavily-muscled man wearing dark glasses stepped out with the grace of a leopard in flight. His black short sleeved shirt was not graceful sliding up to expose the automatic holstered at his right hip. My hand stopped moving toward the weekend bag waiting on the patio bench and I stepped back into the cool, ever-present shadows.
Blinding sunlight reflected off the blackened rear window as the back door was opened. “Querido, it is me. I am sorry we are a little late.”
Almost overcoming my initial concern, I went down the stairs to the sidewalk. The hard metallic click of the electric gate closing behind me had a disturbing finality to it even though Alana’s captivating smile was clearly visible inside the open car door. Handing my bag to the waiting blonde storm trooper I stepped into the car, “It’s nothing my dear. Waiting for a beautiful woman adds to her mystery.”
“Am I a mystery Querido?”
“… always. I see we won’t be alone.”
“Where we are going is very … very simple and the people are poor. The Senator always worries about my safety.”
The solid thud of the door closing beside me could only come from heavy armoring, “I hope your little surprise has more than one room.”
Alana flashed one of her perfect smiles, “It has more than one and our room is in a most quiet place. I brought coffee, bread and cheese just in case you haven’t had breakfast.”
“Thanks, you know how slowly I get moving in the morning. Do you have a map? I like following the route as we drive. It helps me remember the trip better.”
“No map.” Grinning with a sparkle from those captivating green eyes. “It is a very easy trip even though it takes hours. We go to the Marginal and drive west to state road number three. Then we go north and west for more or less two hours until a sign says Atabaia. From there it is only a short ride to the town. It is a very small town but pretty. The artist’s workshop is through the town and up the hill on the other side.”
“… and the place we are staying?”
“No more than two miles more on road three towards Belo Horizonte. They will have lunch waiting for us.”
It took us thirty minutes to get to Route 3 and another twenty until we started climbing the mountains enclosing the plateau choked by ever-expanding São Paulo City. Six lanes dropped to four and then two as we went higher and the road changed from a long straight line to a twisting Amazonian serpent. On our left were small fields cut into thick green forest. On our right sprawled São Paulo far below sparkling gaily in the smog free weekend sun. From time to time the sameness was broken by rough looking roadside restaurants surrounded by car parks littered with heavily laden freight trucks similar to the smoke belching diesel giants we passed as they crawled downhill toward the city and the port of Santos beyond.
“What’s in the trucks?”
“Almost anything, food … wood from Amazonia … sugar, anything except iron and rolls of paper. The Senator says paper and iron are too heavy and go by the limited and more costly train service. Everything else travels in and out of the interior by truck.”
I remembered the military chose to improve the roads and not build more railroads. It was cheaper and faster. I wonder whether they would have made another choice if they could have seen today’s São Paulo traffic. Trucks on their way through the city to Santos and the port turned driving into a tedious, almost impossible task on the few larger roads. “I read somewhere a new road around
the city has been started. It said after two or three years there will be no more of these trucks going through downtown but recent history would argue traffic wouldn’t be eased for another decade.”
As if reading my mind, “Many things get started here Querido. Now some take longer than planned to be finished. Others seem to just stop and wait. The Senator says it is one of our biggest problems. He also says this was not the way before re-democratization. Then only a few people were involved in setting priorities for the whole country so decisions were more simple and results faster.”
Two hours and the road began to flatten and the view of sprawling São Paulo disappeared behind a green wall ever pushing in trying to eradicate the tracing of asphalt left behind by road-builders. Both sides now marked here and there by a small business of one kind or another all sharing a tired, sepia toned, sunbaked look. Behind them sloping fields cut from the dense green tangle were home to a few grazing animals. Without fencing or a clearly defined shape a tilled plot would appear here or there testifying to some farmer’s attempt to scratch out a living. Following my eyes Alana offered it was the same here in the mountains when São Paulo City was no more than a sleepy country town and Brazil’s wealth and power were in the north.
Above us an endless blue sky dominated by an unforgiving sun approached its zenith … our destination had to be close. We slowed as we passed over a slight rise and then pitched awkwardly down and to the right onto a poorly banked exit ramp. The ramp bordered by a wide dirt and gravel area provided a necessary safety zone for when typical Brazilian drivers lost in dreams of piloting their way through the grand prix misjudged the turn’s geometry. At the bottom we passed under the main road and on to a narrow, hard-packed dirt and gravel road clearly displaying signs of becoming a stream-bed during the rainy season.
A few twists, a few turns and an unbroken series of ruts and bumps later Atabaia appeared in a small valley between two heavily overgrown hillsides. It took quite a bit of imagination to call the collection of sunburned buildings a town. Two or three narrow streets each with less than five worn white-washed houses on small enclosed plots planted with fruit trees, tilled soil, chickens and pigs led to a central plaza. Perhaps the combination general store and post office below a faded sign ‘Mercado General de Atabaia’ filling one side of the small plaza was just enough to justify calling this hidden settlement a ‘Town’.