It's legitimate.
Arthur relaxed.
Mauricio's courteous voice suggested, over the intercom, that they prepare for landing.
The moment they belted themselves in, the plane dropped, then banked steeply as it began sinking toward the ground.
"It's prettier than I thought it would be," Jeremy announced, with his face pressed to the glass. "And it's so cool that we can come here whenever we want."
"With our kids!" Carlo added.
The aircraft leveled its turn and began its final descent.
Moments later, after the wheels barked on the tarmac, Arthur saw him through the window; standing next to a white Lincoln Navigator was one of the tallest men he had ever seen, with the tropical breeze throttling his immaculate white suit and the noontime sunlight glinting off his bald head.
El Gigante.
Chapter 17
"Welcome, my friends, to Ihla Diabo," bellowed the man in a baritone that suggested the lowest tones from an upright bass. "You must be Jeremy."
"Great meeting you," he replied, while presenting his hand. "This is my family's adviser, Arthur Blauefee, and my partner, Carlo Martinez."
They stepped forward to shake hands, but he pulled them into a quick embrace, while kissing each man on the right, then the left cheek. "You Americans are so formal!" he told them, laughing. "Here in Brazil, we are all one family. You must be exhausted from your trip. I'm anxious to show you the progress we've made on our most fabulous resort, but only after I've seen to your comfort; we have the most delicious lunch waiting for you. Come!"
They followed him across the baked, shimmering blacktop to the Navigator, and had barely pulled the doors closed when he gunned the engine and began racing down the runway past the taxiing Gulfstream.
While the man blabbered at Jeremy in the front seat, Arthur watched the two-lane road as it cut through the jungle, then emerged as a black ribbon curling along the lovely waterfront--with waves like rolling mounds of turquoise glass that melted into the sand, or shattered themselves upon the massive, craggy boulders. But the feature that captivated him most, as it drew closer, was that immense rock sitting in the center of the island; clearly the same forces that left Corcovado and Sugarloaf thrusting skyward from Rio's bay had molded a similar anomaly here.
"Excuse me, Dom Fabiano, but how did that weird mountain form?" asked Carlo, as if he had read Arthur's mind.
"It is the heart of the mountain pushed up from earth's belly millions of years ago,"
he answered as some low buildings with palapa roofs swung into view. "Her cloak of dirt has washed away, so only this magnificence of granite is left. But the old Yoruba say she is the work of the orixás, and I like this explanation. Don't you?"
"I'm sorry, but I don't know what an orixá is," Arthur confessed. "They were the gods of the Yoruba, who were the unfortunate souls brought here as slaves from Africa; their presence can be felt all over Brazil, but is still especially strong on these islands."
"Is that the voodoo stuff," Carlo asked, "where they kill chickens and make zombies?"
The man laughed. "The chicken sacrifices are associated with Santeria, my friend.
And although there is some Santeria here in Brazil, most is in Cuba--so I'm afraid you won't be finding many zombies here."
The Navigator slowed for an exit from the main road that curved to the left,between a pair of carved, life-sized figures that flanked the entrance to the first resort. "We found those old orixá statues"--he waved his finger back and forth at the windshield--"on the other side of the island; the one on the left with the pitchfork is Exu the Trickster, and he on the right is Ogum the Protector. They hate each other, so it is considered good luck to place them in pairs--they keep each other very busy."
The road continued through some heavy tropical growth to circle around the back of the resort, where the glass-walled, shaggy-roofed reception lobby came into view. "We didn't want any part of the beach view obscured by roads or vehicles, so the entrance to each resort is on the mountain side of the island," he explained.
"And you'll notice there are no gates, except in the most exclusive part of Brasiliana. We want our guests to be free to explore the island, in the same way they might have visited different areas of the globe before this... political uncertainty changed everything."
As he pulled the Navigator underneath the portico, a pair of young, white-suited attendants rushed to greet them. "I am sorry we have no staff yet," the man apologized, "so I brought two from my own household."
The young men who approached were startlingly handsome twins, whose smiles were as dazzling as they were suggestive.
Likes 'em young, Arthur noted.
Upon disembarking, the group followed Fabiano through the empty lobby to a large poolside table artfully set with white linens, crystal glassware, ornate silver cutlery and plentiful orchids--both in vases and scattered around the table. They sat, and then a procession, by way of the young servants, of fruit, breads, salads and barbecued meats was brought to them, along with a pitcher of blood red sangria with sliced oranges drifting inside.
In the meantime, Arthur looked around.
This resort looked to be about halfway finished, with the walls and roofs of the guest huts assembled, and the dozen-or-so-story hotel tower had most of its windows installed. The pool next to their table--with its infinity edge and soon-to-be-submerged boulders--was just now filling with water, but the landscape around the intricate man-made lagoon, with its canals and bridges and islandlike dining cabanas, was bare. In spite of this, he could see that everything appeared first-rate: the faux-organic design, the generous proportions, the gracious sightlines, the sturdy construction, the professional execution and especially the setting--it was breezy and sunny and captivating and peaceful.
Clearly the Tylers had another moneymaker on their hands, as long as the necessary details were attended to; the foremost of which, beyond aesthetics, was this eyebrow-raising claim of "guaranteed security."
"Where are the workers?" Jeremy asked, while digging into his berry-topped chicken salad. "I don't see anybody or hear anything."
"They've been given these days off, in consideration of your arrival," Dom Fabiano answered. Then he retrieved a crimson Dunhill cigarette pack from his breast pocket. "They've been working night and day for months, but my wish is to have you appreciate the tranquil mood of our island without the pounding and the drilling and the sawing of the construction workers and their boom-boom-boom!"
He rubbed his temples for effect, then sparked the end of his cigarette with a golden lighter.
"Where do they live, while they're here?" Arthur asked, stabbing a fork into his own salad.
"In the tower," he answered. He pointed, and they all turned to look. "Many of the units are finished, and enough of the infrastructure has been completed so the island is livable; we are only still waiting for cell phone service, which was to have been installed weeks ago but has not." He sucked in a heavy drag and then blew out a white ghost of smoke. "You will be able to stay with us over the next week in Brasiliana, where we put the final touches on your apartment just this morning."
Carlo looked beseechingly at Jeremy. "We're going to stay here for a week?"
Fabiano laughed. "Of course! You must see the colors of the sunset, then hear the singing of the birds in the morning with the sunrise. You need to spend peaceful time here to 'unwind,' as you Americans say."
"But what about Afonso?"
Jeremy touched Carlo's hand. "It'll just have to wait."
" But...you...promised," he hissed.
"Excuse me," Fabiano cut in, "but is there anything I might help with?"
Carlo looked away. "We just had some unimportant plans, that's all."
Fabiano smiled. "Please, you've come such a long way. If there is anything I might do for you, I should be insulted if you did not ask."
"We're good, thanks," Jeremy answered, as Carlo sank fuming into his chair.
Al
l except Carlo ate voraciously while going over the details of the resort; they discussed the conference centers--one large and one small--that would accommodate corporate meetings and special events; and the casinos, which were designed to rival the best of Las Vegas and Monte Carlo.
"Dom Fabiano," Arthur asked, "why is this venture privately financed?"
The man smirked. "Are you wondering why more of your American corporations are not here, with their infinite financial resources and sterile aesthetics?" He closed his eyes and nodded. "It's very simple: We have the funding of a private consortium to be free from your country's endless rules and heavy risks of litigation. And if we had waited for approval from any of the famous resort corporations, we would still be looking at an empty island, instead of what you see now." He leveled his gaze at Jeremy. "Mr. Mortson, your uncle was a brilliant businessman, in spite of what I understand to be significant deficiencies of character. His savvy reputation, as well as his sizable contribution, was the only factor that convinced some of the other investors to participate."
"So who are the other investors?" Arthur asked.
Dom Fabiano took a sip of his sangria, then drew heavily on his cigarette. "You may examine our prospectus for more detailed information whenever you wish.
But I can tell you that we have two banking families from Italy, a sheik from Dubai...one man with large
holdings in a British defense contracting company, and an old, very famous family from Mexico with experience in resort building and construction. And of course the Brazilian family, mine, who owns this beautiful island. But we needed the Tylers for their generous capital, as well as their ability to supply us with computer hardware and software; these are now as important as the beds and the pillows and the fluffy, fluffy towels in a five-star resort." He laughed but then began to cough deeply, as if his lungs were filled with mayonnaise. Then he cleared his throat.
"When it is finished, this island will look still as if it was formed by the orixá's hands, but it will be wired like your Pentagon: card-reader and hand-geometry technologies, long range photoelectric detectors, cameras, monitors, activators, radar, night vision, motion sensors...everything to make our beloved guests absolutely safe."
Arthur leaned back in his chair as Jeremy and Carlo did the same.
"Are we finished with business questions for now?" Dom Fabiano asked.
His three guests nodded.
"Then we must see you to your quarters. After you rest you will join me at my suite for cocktails and dinner; my residence is in the same complex as yours, but I will send one of my meninos to show you the way. And since you are now finished with your meal, we can see more of the resort on the way to your suites; I cannot wait for you to experience all that we offer."
* * *
They followed their wildly gesticulating host through the meandering paths and lush vegetation of Amazonia, then trudged onward to Espanha, where the winding cobblestone streets and the villas with peeling plaster, red-tiled roofs, wrought-iron window grates, and cheerful red geraniums emulated a sleepy Mediterranean fishing village. Finally, they rounded a curve at the end of espanha's waterfront, passed through a pair of open gates, and found themselves gazing at the minimalist, midcentury grandeur of Brasiliana.
Arthur was spellbound.
It reminded him of the Brasilia he had learned about in sixth grade, when the public school social studies books touted it as the world's first master-planned city, a jet-age utopia designed to uplift and edify the unwashed masses. His fascination with the place stayed with him through the years, and it was still his dream to walk between those amazing concrete monoliths--the National Congress building with its twin towers and flip-flopped bowls, and the jet-turbine-inspired National Cathedral--of Brazil's fantastic inland capital.
But this was even better. More... posh.
Instead of the overscaled, imposing structures Niemeyer had designed, this part of the island, which extended along the most savage topography of the eastern beachfront, out to the superyacht-capable marina, looked intimate. Yet luxurious.
And it had been designed with Brasilia's same ethos: horizontal, unadorned structures with white concrete walls interspersed with reflective plate glass, turquoise reflecting pools with mushrooming shafts of water, and sweeping colonnades that framed views, covered pathways, and bordered cliffs.
He looked at Jeremy and saw that he was grinning.
"Where's the line for Space Mountain?" Carlo asked dryly.
"I think it's cool," Jeremy replied. Then he turned to Fabiano. "How many times a year can we come here?"
Fabiano laughed as he pulled another Dunhill out of its pack. "This is no cheap time-share, my friend. You own a significant part of this paradise, so you and your companions are welcome here anytime you wish." He pushed the cigarette between his lips, then lit the end. "Now let us continue to your suites so that you might rest before dinner; we must all be at our best, so that we might come to know each other more intimately tonight."
Chapter 18
With one scan of the suite, Arthur determined that every detail had been executed in perfect taste: islands of fuzzy white shag floated atop eggshell terrazzo; ivory leather Barcelona chairs faced a simple, low-backed sectional; and a rectangular glass van der Rohe dining table, flanked by white leather Brno chairs, took center stage in front of the generous sliding doors. The lighting was restricted to simple halogen spots, with the exception of twin hanging cigar lamps in two of the corners, and each white wall served as a perfect backdrop for the exceptional reproductions of Franz Kline's black-and-white abstracts from the 1950s. The pairing of such stark, sleek quarters with the cerulean sky, turquoise bay and jagged, rocky coastline was stunning; it felt as international as it was classically chic--an environment suited perfectly to martini-fueled evenings filled with off-key samba, intense conversation and giddy laughter.
He loved it.
The boys had decided on the east bedroom because it overlooked the suite's infinity-edged pool, and Jeremy wanted to swim laps. So Arthur dropped his bag on the walnut credenza in the other bedroom, which lay, to his delight, at the gnarled base of the immense orixá's rock.
Hot bath would be great.
He stepped into the bathroom, with its white marble floors--like huge slabs of petrified blue cheese--and floor-to-ceiling windows. He was ready for a relaxing bath, but after he had shed his clothes, he stood before the full-length mirror to examine his physique, and the sunlit nakedness that met his eyes unsettled him.
His eyes looked baggy and crow stepped, and more salt was visible now in his hair's usual quantity of pepper. He tried a smile, but this only revealed teeth that wanted bleaching. So he stood straighter and glowered at himself; then he clenched his stomach and saw that two cans of his usually visible six-pack had been swiped.
Deflated, he reached over and turned on the shower, soaped his body and then rinsed off hastily. After drying himself, he threw the towel on the floor, then flopped down onto the bed.
He was just tired; that was all. A good nap now and a solid night's sleep tonight would restore him to his usual self.
With the back of his head sinking into the pillow and the familiar, rhythmic fah-boom of the waves outside filling his head, he began to stop worrying about their safety. Instead, he pondered what this resort would mean for Jeremy in the long run; certainly, at eighteen, being involved in an international venture like this was a tremendous challenge. But after practically raising himself, he was more mature already than most adults Arthur had known; he was able to prioritize needs versus wants and dreams versus reality, and to make unemotional decisions--sometimes to the point of stoic blandness.
And he had so much going for him: He looked like a young Hollywood actor, he could be as charming as he was lovely to watch, and he had a lightning-quick, steady intellect. After he had received a proper education, Katharine's money would propel him to heights few in this world ever have the opportunity to gaze down from. He would, essenti
ally, be Cristo on top of Corcovado--with the world worshipping at his feet.
There probably won't be room for me then, but that's OK.
The sea air caressing his naked flesh began to arouse him, so he flipped onto his front and buried his nose in the unfamiliar scent of the crisp pillowcase. He didn't feel like satisfying himself at the moment; he was just too tired. And he was afraid his conscience couldn't take the abuse another forbidden fantasy might invoke, especially under the circumstances of their present housing arrangement.
So he tried thinking of something else--his paltry bank account, improving his morning workout, how soon after they got back before he'd have to see his mother again--but his thoughts boomeranged right back to Jeremy.
The boy loved him; he knew that. And he loved him, too--more than anyone on this earth would ever know. And although he was now the American equivalent of pampered royalty, Arthur had noticed that ever since Bill's death, there had been...a change in Jeremy--in his demeanor, in his walk, even in the timbre of his voice.
For young Jeremy Tyler had killed a man, his own uncle with his own hands, and it showed on him. Not so much that anyone else might notice, but Arthur did--he'd seen that same look on some of the older Marines he'd known from the first Gulf War.
You could see it in their eyes.
A coldness.
That was the only way he could describe it.
Or maybe it was more of... a distance, as clear as the inch between God's and Adam's fingers on that amazing ceiling.
He wondered if Carlo felt it, as well.
Maybe he should ask him.
Nope, that was a little too personal.
He sighed. And then he wished he could...just hold him.
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