by Arthur Rawl
“Where’s the Japanese potter?”
“On the hillside after the plaza”
The Toyota groaned as we started up the steep slope. A tire spun free spraying dirt and gravel then it grabbed hold again moving us at three, perhaps four miles per hour. Without four wheel drive the heavily armored Toyota could not have gone more than a few yards. Crawling uphill from rainwater carved rut to rut we finally reached a sun baked, faded green concrete house set back from the road behind a welcoming broad, flat driveway where we turned in and stopped.
Alana jumped out and walked toward a weathered grey wood gate that seemed to magically open as she approached. A man as weathered as the gate stepped out of the shadows and bowed to her. It was the low bow my visits to Japan had taught me was a sign of respect and not simply the fulfillment of a polite duty like the one I received when I joined them.
“Carl, this is Master Namura. He is a great treasure.” She then introduced me to Namura in Portuguese. I understood just enough to know that she said I was a close colleague of the Senator. Namura responded with another bow but this one was the more respectful kind. When I responded with a bow of equal depth and duration as Japanese protocol required Namura’s wrinkled face was transformed by a genuinely warm smile. He said something in hurried Portuguese that went far beyond my limited ability with the language.
“He said you are well trained for a foreigner. I think to him all non-Japanese are foreigners.”
“Please tell him I am honored to meet him and look forward to seeing his work.”
Alana translated and I received another low bow that was answered in kind. Namura then waived for us to follow him into what turned out to be a series of rough open-sided wooden rooms grafted to both sides and the back of the house. The first filled with large bowls and urns clearly intended for household use as planters or for carrying water. The second and largest room had a foot-driven potter’s wheel at its center surrounded by wood racks waiting for green-ware fresh from the master’s hands. Behind the racks was everything imaginable gathered in tight disarray. I remembered being in a room just like this in the outskirts of Kyoto where a small colony of traditional potters carried on time proven ways from the endless past. Even the damp muddy smell was the same. Like the narrow Liberdade street, it was as if we were no longer in Brazil.
Beyond the wheel room was one filled with dozens of barrels and perhaps a hundred pots filled with handmade glazes or the alchemist’s secret ingredients used in their formulation. In the backyard were a mixer and extruder where loaves of clay and porcelain were prepared by assistants under the ever watchful eye of the master. Further away from the house was a square brick structure with a beehive top. Both stained from top to bottom by years of carefully controlled firings deep inside.
Namura seemed to be following my eyes and when I stopped in the middle of the glaze barrels he approached and quietly started talking in Portuguese. Alana was right behind him and started translating.
“I came from Japan as a young man. I remembered what I had seen and the great beauty the masters created. I hoped to be able to make poor copies to remind the Japanese here of their true home. To do this it was right to use the old ways. It was right because of the inspiration from many masters and because of the life it gives to my poor work.”
“I understand Master Namura. When I was in Kyoto a respected old man told me that preserving the old ways gave substance to his work and life. It was his duty to carry on his profession’s history and tradition. It was something he said could not be done in a factory by cold machines but only by the hands of men. I knew he was right because his work was a mix of simplicity and complexity in which even an outsider like me could not help but feel perfection.”
Alana continued translating but now for Namura, “Kyoto is a holy city where people are inspired to reach for perfection. Here in the countryside I have only peace and my memories for inspiration. My work will never be worthy but people seem to like it. I am thankful for this. Now we must give Sra. Alana a rest. My wife has prepared tea … come.”
Namura lead us through the house’s back door, a room filled with stacked dinnerware and shelves filled with carefully arranged porcelain; then a room of large platters and urns intended to enrich any home with beauty. The third and smallest room held a simple table and four chairs with the sole decoration a large framed picture of Mt. Fujiyama reaching its revered white peak above the clouds. Namura indicated that we should sit and then left to be replaced by his kimono clad wife. A woman whose face was as wrinkled as her husband’s and seemed to fit comfortably with the drab color of the cloth carefully draped around her. She carried a tray with a teapot, three tea bowls and a cloth covered plate I assumed held traditional tea cakes.
Mrs. Namura carefully placed a tea bowl in front of Alana, one at the empty place across from me and one in front of her. She then took her seat crossing her hands in her lap, eyes down waiting for her husband. Nomura returned carrying a tea bowl cupped in his hands. He glanced at Alana and then spoke to me.
“This humble bowl is one that holds my interest.” He handed it to me, “I hope you will find it interesting and in its misshapen form and uncontrolled glaze I hope you will find good thoughts and perhaps peace. It is a gift from my wife and this humble person.”
I took the oversized tea bowl and ran my fingers over its uneven surface while examining the clouds of soft, translucent color floating on its surface. I turned it slowly several times looking into the endless space captured between the layers of glaze. “Master Namura, every time I use this its warmth will remind me of this day and your kind gift of peace. Thank you.”
Alana translated and Namura’s grin widened into a smile. A nod acknowledged both my appreciation of his work and my thanks. Another nod and Mrs. Namura served tea. Other than the slight hum from the ceiling fan the room was filled with silence and the calm that comes when time stops and the world along with its cares fade away. Magically simple green tea was transformed into a supernatural elixir with the ability to bring shimmering warmth to every corner of mind and body. An elixir giving Namura’s cup the warmth of life that touched my fingers drawing my thoughts to it and then losing them in its haze of delicate color and shadow.
Later when we left my cup was presented to me a second time … cradled in a lined box wrapped in tan brocade silk and tied with thick, soft dark brown cotton rope. In the back of the Toyota was a larger box wrapped in the same fabric and tied with the same rope, the Senator’s new treasure.
“It will be less than 30 minutes to the guest house Querido.”
The meager village seemed more inviting in the deepening colors of afternoon sunlight. Tiny, lost in an unremarkable valley, the small gathering of houses was far from modern Brazil lost somewhere in yesterday’s simplicity.
“Thanks for bringing me along. Namura was worth the trip. He brought his home, Japan, with him … a very impressive man.”
“Here Brasil feels like Japan. In the hills of Santa Catarina, the people made life like Germany. That is Brasil Querido. It is a place for everyone. Maybe it can be a place for … for us.”
Her smoldering green eyes met mine but all I heard myself thinking was São Paulo wasn’t London and would never be. Heartbeat by heartbeat the noise of the road grew louder filling the space between us until her eyes fell away.
Chapter 14
We slowed turning onto an unmarked ramp leading to another narrow country road. Like the road to Atabaia the paved surface evaporated almost immediately. But, unlike the road to Atabaia it narrowed to a country lane through dense woods filling both sides with deep shadows broken only by an occasional ray of light. Tree limbs arching over the road turned the afternoon sun to a dappled glow dimly lighting the way forward. The uncharacteristically straight, level country lane pointed across a level plateau until it reached a distant vanishing point. Green, cool, the plateau was different in every way from hot, dusty Atabaia valley not so many miles to the south.
&nbs
p; Alana broke the heavy silence, “The guest house is a few minutes more.”
“It’s in the middle of the forest?”
“Not really … you will see. It will spoil your first look if I tell you more.”
“Not even a hint?”
“I’m not sure you deserve more … wait and be surprised.”
Our eyes met. A shadow of doubt replacing the usual sparkle that played impishly in the depth of bottomless green pools, “What is it Querida?”
Uncertainty staining her face she looked down at her hands, “Nada …”
Surprisingly the window behind me felt cool on my back as I turned toward her, “There is something … what is it?”
“… nada.”
Alana always radiated energy. She seemed immune to care and worry. Seeing her downcast was unsettling. She was herself with Namura. Whatever upset her must have happened since we left. But, nothing had happened. Nothing I could find as every minute of the last half hour flashed past. Could it be something she knew before we left that was now coming closer? My eyes snapped to the growing brightness in the far distance. Would she tell me if there was danger? Was she only loyal to Aranni? If I understood anything about Alana it was her ability to compartmentalize anything she did not want to deal with. Was there something …?
The glow at the end of the road brightened as the smooth dirt road passed behind us brought whatever was waiting closer. The closer, the brighter until the dot of light leading us on became glowing mist. We left the forest behind entering a small clearing closed in on three sides by steep granite cliffs. From one of these towering walls a waterfall rumbled to a lake below filling the air with vaporous clouds the sun’s heat carried up and over encroaching trees. Across from the falls resting comfortably in a pool of shade below a grove of tall straight trees was a low, rambling stucco building clothed in the deep yellow of the Imperial Portuguese court now seen only on Portugal’s palaces and the grandest mansions of São Paulo’s exclusive Jardims.
“I thought places like this only existed in Hollywood fairy tales.”
“No Querido, in Brasil they were real long before Hollywood existed. The guest house was built by Imperator Don Pedro hundreds of years ago as a place for hunting.”
There was an edge on her voice that hadn’t been there before. It was a mix of national pride I had heard in so many countries and something else … not anger … perhaps disappointment.
“I … we could use some coffee. Bouncing around in the back of this car has become tiresome.” Alana nodded her agreement without turning from the window.
The SUV rolled to a stopped under a white portico extending from the building’s center accompanied by the crunching of the deep, raked gravel under its tires. Three women in matching crisp white shirtdresses were lined up like waiting soldiers at the bottom of the broad stairs leading up to a wide, white columned veranda. The car doors opened and cool air heavy with the scent of moss and flowers rushed in driving away the somber, stifling mood. I heard Alana release a deep sigh … her hand touched mine, “This is a magical place. It is where the outside world disappears and dreams come alive.”
The sparkle once again dancing in her eyes brightening her face. Her step so light there was no sound as she floated across the wide red-purple gravel driveway. Gravel raked as carefully as that in Japan’s sacred shrines. Callously, disturbing the gravel’s tranquility, I followed after her as if I was one of the empress’s retainers. She stopped at the top of the stairs, turned, her hand held out to me, “Come Querido, this is our place, our time to forget”. Later I would wonder whether she was saying goodbye but at that moment all I heard was an invitation.
A sparsely furnished reception salon dominated by an immense black marble urn filled with a rainbow of tropical flowers greeted us from its spot in the middle of the white marble floor. The air felt cool as if air conditioned but nothing in the room suggested the presence of anything as modern as electricity. Candelabra stood on corner tables; their tall candles casting flickering light on paintings of Portuguese grandees and filling the room with the scent of perfumed wax. In keeping with the classical room no visible vents marred the off-white painted walls. No fans hung from the high frescoed ceiling.
Waiting for us near the urn was a tall, painfully thin white haired woman dressed completely in black. Her severely pulled back hair, the cut of her floor length dress, the heavy gold housekeeper’s chain reaching from her neck to a pocket hidden in the folds of her dress … she looked like so many women captured in paintings by Spanish and Portuguese masters three or four hundred years ago now filling classical museums across Europe. Trusted women of little importance carefully hidden in the shadows behind their masters and mistresses by artists providing testimony to the power of their clients and the need to fill space in unfinished portraits.
“Bom dia Donã Alana. Bem-vindo Senhor.” She clapped her hands and two young girls appeared. “Almaço depois de trinta minutes.”
Alana turned to me, “She welcomes you and says lunch will be ready in thirty minutes. The girls will take us to our room.”
“Obrigado Senhora”, answered by a slight nod of our hostess’s head.
The girls led us down a long hall with stucco walls and exposed beams painted red-orange like those of the reception room. Also like the reception room, the beams on one side framed paintings of stern-faced men from antiquity and framed widely spaced widows on the other. Unlike the reception room’s marble floor, thick carpets silenced our footsteps as we covered the fifty or more paces to the hallway’s end.
Our suite consisted of a large sitting room with a small bedroom. Both traditionally furnished with the only light coming from windows facing out on an enclosed garden.
“Senhor …” one of the girls took my hand and led me through the bedroom to a suite of bathrooms connected by a large soaking tub set into the floor. When I turned around she was gone and Alana was in the doorway.
“They will unpack our bags while we are having lunch. She showed you the bath so you could wash for lunch.”
“How nice of her,” remembering my visits to Japan where the attending girls did more, “What else do they do?”
“… only housekeeping.”
“Good, that means they’ll know when to leave.”
“They have already gone.” With an impish smile, “But, we have to get ready for lunch.”
“What if I’m not hungry for lunch Querida?”
“We are expected and it would not be correct if we did not go.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes Querido. I have been here many times with the Senator and his family. This is a small place and meals are specially prepared for each guest.”
“The Senator comes here?”
“Naturally, he owns it.”
Why was I surprised? Aranni was among the most powerful men in Brazil so he could live like a king or emperor if he chose to. His São Paulo home was of grand scale judging by the Garden and the little I had seen of inside. A former imperial hunting lodge seemed appropriate. “Does he have other little homes like this tucked away in other quiet corners of the country?”
“Not like this but he does have others.” Her voice lowered to nearly a whisper, “The Senator does not like people to know about his homes. He worries about his family and their safety. We should get ready for lunch now.”
“Does he know we’re here? You and I …?”
“Yes … I asked permission for us to use the house.”
“You asked …” First uncomfortable with the loss of privacy then feeling stupid for not realizing Aranni had to know because we were using his car and employees to do his errand, “Where’s lunch Querida?”
“The patio is outside the dining room. It is only you and I. We alone and have the house for us these two days.”
The patio outside the dining room was small perhaps fifteen feet square with three wrought iron tables and four chairs each. Our table was in a shaded corner. Suspended from the t
rees above on ivy covered cables were planters filled with orchards whose tendrils filled with small white and red flowers and deep green leaves reached down toward bushes below. The gentlest of passing breezes was rhythmically moving the planters and assisting the orchards in perfuming the patio’s air with tropical sensuality.
Lunch passed quietly with knowing looks and promising smiles. We must have looked like honeymooners to the almost invisible staff who were too well trained to openly notice anything other than the task at hand. Chilled white wine, a salad with cold chicken, fruit and coffee prepared and all served at a level of quality equal to Paris’ best.
Two hours after leaving our room we were back on the sheltered terrace surrounding the small pool outside of our suite. The sun hot, the air cooled by a fresh breeze and a high sparkling mist creating a feeling almost like being at the seashore. Lunch had been private, no, intimate punctuated by eyes meeting and talk about nothing important but everything else entwining our lives and perhaps our futures together much as school kids in their first relationship. Now she was face down on a flattened chaise naked as the day she was born so her tan would not be marred by ‘ugly’ lines … comfortable and free as if we were alone on some deserted island. Her skin glowing in the sun made it impossible for me to concentrate on anything but her.
“Are there more of these little hideaways Querida?”
“Brasil is a big country. Do you want snow for skiing or to be by the sea? Maybe you would like the grasslands for bird hunting or the jungles for tigers? There are places like this in all parts of the country. I am sure you have them in Inglaterra … England.”
“Honestly, not like this. It’s magical. It’s heaven on earth complete with a perfect angel Querida.”