Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  “Who are these people?” Jack demanded.

  “Senhora Erendira was Tio Gil’s housekeeper for many years,” Sebastien explained. “He mentioned her often in his letters. She retired a year or two ago, after training another woman to be her replacement.”

  “So how does she rate being handed all that money?” Jack asked.

  “I would imagine Tio Gil left it to her in lieu of, or more probably as a supplement to, a pension,” Sebastien speculated.

  Jack emitted a derisive little snort. “And this other guy, Cristiano What’s-His-Name?

  “Cristiano Lapuente. I recognize that name, too. He’s senhora Erendira’s son. He still works for Tio Gil. I mean, he still works there on the ranch, as far as I know. It’s an interesting coincidence, because my grandfather’s name was Cristiano—not that anybody except Grandma ever called him that. People assumed that his name was Christopher, because everybody else called him Chris. That’s also why Cristiano was one of Uncle Gilberto’s baptismal names. It was sort of a family tradition, you see.”

  Jack grunted. “How fascinating,” he said, making no effort to conceal his sarcasm. “So this Lapuente dude—what’s he done to deserve anything, let alone a hundred thousand in Brazilian money?”

  “Maybe it’s not a question of desert or non-desert, but of Tio Gil wanting to reward a loyal employee,” Sebastien said coldly. “Anyway, maybe we all should stop interrupting and let Ms. Sullivan continue?”

  With unruffled poise, she did so.

  “I give and bequeath the remainder of my property and personal effects, in their entirety, including but not limited to, my shares of stock in The Lion of Lisbon Food Corporation…”

  Chad and Jack were now, quite literally, sitting on the edge of their seats and leaning forward, so as not to miss a word. Even Adrienne looked a little more animated, and interested in the proceedings, than she had up until now. Hervé, who was still sitting back in his chair, looking utterly relaxed, caught Sebastien’s gaze and smiled at him. Only Tiffany remained passive behind her dark glasses, lost in some inner world of her own. Sebastien knew only too well why Chad and Jack were so excited. The shares of stock, alone, were worth a fortune.

  “…my bank accounts, certificates of deposit, and other financial holdings…”

  Money, money, money, Sebastien thought. He supposed he ought to be grateful that he’d always been able to take it for granted. But he sometimes had his perversely ungrateful moments, in which he wondered if so much unearned money was really a curse. When he’d attended, first, private schools, then college, he’d been surrounded, for the most part, by other trust-fund babies like himself. They were “boys and girls from good families,” as the conventional phrase put it, and in most cases the family wealth had done nothing positive for the offspring’s character. In some instances, the financial security, and the freedom from responsibility it encouraged, had resulted in disaster.

  “…my real estate holdings, my land, both developed and undeveloped, and all my other property located in Brazil, including but not limited to, the fazenda of Saõ Martinho, my shares of stock and my controlling interest in the corporation which operates it, and …”

  Saõ Martinho, Sebastien thought, idly, his mind wandering again. That was Portuguese for St. Martin of Tours. When he’d purchased the property, Tio Gil could have changed the name to one of his own choosing. But, perhaps operating on the principle, “if it’s not broken, don’t fix it,” he had kept the old name. Sebastien wondered why the fazenda had been named after St. Martin in the first place. What did St. Martin of Tours have to do with Brazil, or with cattle ranching?

  I never thought to ask Tio Gil about that, he realized, with a pang of regret. I wish I had. It’s too late, now.

  “…to my nephew, Sebastien Antônio Leon, who currently resides in the city of New York, in the state of New York, in the United States of America.”

  Chapter Four:

  Brazilian Real Estate

  There was an abrupt silence in the room.

  Sebastien snapped out of his daydreaming. Everyone was looking at him—expectantly, as though, any moment now, he might do or say something dramatic.

  “Is that all?” he asked, automatically.

  “Yes, that’s all,” Susan confirmed. “That is everything in the will…except for the signature, of course, and the signatures of the witnesses.” She probably would’ve made a good poker player. Her face and voice betrayed no emotion.

  “I’m sorry,” Sebastien apologized. “My mind was wandering. Did I hear my name mentioned? Did Uncle Gilberto leave me something?”

  “Did he leave you something!” Chad exploded. “He left you everything!”

  Which may not have been literally accurate. On the other hand, many a true word is spoken in the course of exaggeration.

  “I didn’t catch all of that final part,” Sebastien said to Susan. “Could you read it again, or just let me read it myself?”

  Silently, Susan handed him the document. There was another tense silence as Sebastien perused that lengthy final paragraph, and the tension seemed to thicken once he had finished reading and handed the paper back.

  “Thank you, Ms. Sullivan. So what, exactly, does this mean?” he asked.

  Susan hesitated. “It means—if you don’t mind my speaking quite frankly in front of everybody—”

  “Please do.”

  “It means, Sebastien, that up until now, you have been a young man of independent means, who should have few financial worries—especially if you continue to show the kind of responsibility about money that you have always shown up until now.”

  “It’s nice of you to say so, Ms. Sullivan.”

  “The difference now, Sebastien—what has changed, I mean—is that you are now an extremely wealthy young man, who, barring some unforeseen economic or natural disaster, should have no financial worries whatsoever.”

  Sebastien needed a moment to digest all this. Then, “Oh,” he said. For a moment, he looked and sounded almost dismayed.

  There was another extended pause, after which his mother asked the question that was no doubt on all of the family members’ minds. “How wealthy?”

  “I would hesitate to throw out a figure at this point,” Susan said, smoothly and evasively, “because there are so many individual assets which will need to be analyzed and tallied up. The annual income generated by the stock dividends, and by the various bank accounts and investments alone is substantial—six figures. And the debts, and the costs of settling the estate, appear to be minimal. Mr. Leon was an exceptionally shrewd businessman and financial manager.

  “One of the major assets, of course, is the property in Brazil—the fazenda, as it’s called down there. It’s one of the largest such operations in the area, and it consistently turns in a substantial annual profit. The land alone is worth a small fortune. It has river frontage, which is considered highly desirable down there, for transportation purposes. But it’s the operation as a whole that is so valuable, because it’s a virtually self-sustaining source of income. All of the evidence suggests that Mr. Leon did not have an ostentatious or extravagant lifestyle. He put a great deal of his money into making improvements on the fazenda over the years.

  “I have a separate document here,” she went on, pulling it out, “a sort of property report. It itemizes, among other things, the many offers to buy the property that Mr. Leon received over the years. He always turned these offers down, obviously. Now that he is deceased, more offers have already been presented to the law firm in Belém, asking that they be forwarded to your uncle’s heirs—or rather, to his heir, which would be you, Sebastien.”

  “The vultures are already circling, huh?” Sebastien interjected, cheerfully. And not just down there in Brazil! he thought, glancing sideways at the sour faces of Chad and Jack, who were sitting there listening to this discussion with obvious impatience.

  “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it, Sebastien.” Susan was successfully maintain
ing her poker face. “A more charitable explanation might be that these prospective purchasers thought that your uncle, while he was alive, since he had no wife or children, might be amenable to liquidating some of his assets, so that he could enjoy a comfortable retirement with no responsibilities. They may even have assumed that he intended to return to the United States eventually, to live. Not that he ever seems to have contemplated any such action. In any event, the last time an offer was made directly to Mr. Leon and rejected by him, less than a year ago, to purchase the fazenda—lock, stock, and barrel, as they say—the figure was eighteen million Brazilian reals. Which, at the current rate of exchange, is a little more than ten million United States dollars.”

  Susan paused and glanced at Hector, who was punching numbers into a little hand-held calculator. He handed it to her. Oh, so that’s what he’s here for, Sebastien thought. Not just a pretty face, after all! I stand corrected.

  Susan looked at the calculator and permitted herself a slight smile. “Based on this morning’s rate of exchange, eighteen million reals would be ten million, one hundred and fifty-five thousand, one hundred and forty-six dollars and ninety-six cents, to be exact.”

  Chad gasped. “For a cattle ranch?”

  “Well, not just any cattle ranch. A cattle ranch with, and I quote, ‘electricity, a landing strip for small planes, two wells, five springs, one dam, and eleven rain-fed ponds…a main house with fourteen bedrooms including all amenities, a remote house, a manager’s house, a foreman’s house, a workers’ house, a housekeeper’s house, and a bunkhouse…an office building, a barn, a machine shop, and miscellaneous outbuildings, working pens, corrals, and storage sheds’ …unquote.”

  Now it was Adrienne’s turn to emit a gasp. “Did you say…fourteen bedrooms?”

  “That’s what it says here, Mrs. Leon-Marcoux.”

  “For one man? One man who lived alone?”

  “Not exactly alone, from the sounds of it. This fazenda would seem to be quite an impressive little self-contained community. And I gather that it’s common, in rural Brazil, for landowners to entertain their friends and neighbors, and people who come to do business with them, by putting them up for days and even weeks at a time.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” Sebastien said. “Tio Gil often mentioned the house parties he hosted, in his letters. Maybe we could turn the place into a dude ranch,” he joked. “You know, for tourists?”

  “What we’re going to do is sell it,” his mother insisted. “Right away. Turn it into cash. Contact whoever it was who made that last offer, and tell them that now we’re ready to sell.”

  “That is certainly one of Sebastien’s options,” Susan said, coolly. She was too diplomatic to place any audible corrective stress on the word Sebastien’s. “My advice to him would be not to rush into anything, but to make an informed decision. After consulting his own financial advisors, of course. And, realistically, even if this property changed hands for ten million dollars, that doesn’t mean you’d suddenly have ten million dollars in your pocket, Sebastien. Tax issues aside, the Brazilian government is notoriously strict about allowing cash and certain kinds of liquid assets to be taken out of the country.”

  “Well, I’ll sleep on it,” Sebastien said breezily. “I do think that’s good advice, though, Ms. Sullivan.” A thought struck him. “So…do I really own cattle, like one of those cattle barons in the old Western movies you see on TV?”

  “You own not only cattle and horses, apparently, but chickens and pigs, which are raised on the fazenda as a food source…and herds of water buffalos, which are also popular livestock in that part of Brazil.”

  “Cool. How many head of cattle do I own?”

  “Oddly enough, considering all the other documentation we’ve received from the law firm in Brazil, I don’t have an exact figure. But I imagine the smart money would bet that you shouldn’t have to spend much on steak in the foreseeable future. You can have all you want, any time you want, for free.” Susan was loosening up a bit and allowing her innate sense of humor to show through her professional veneer.

  Chad looked as though he was about to explode. “Can’t we contest this?”

  This question, which was directed at Susan, took her by surprise and tested even her poise. She hesitated for a moment before answering. “On what grounds?”

  “The old man must’ve been crazy.”

  Sebastien glared at Chad. “Tio Gil was not that old, and he definitely was not crazy.”

  “His estate ought to be divided equally among all the survivors,” Chad declared.

  Sebastien didn’t wait for Susan to respond to this, but jumped right in. “What are you, all of a sudden, some sort of a jailhouse lawyer? And by what stretch of the imagination are you one of my uncle’s ‘survivors?’ Your Dad was married to my Mom for what, all of five years, before she got wise to him? And even then she had to pay him off to get rid of him.”

  “Sebastien,” Adrienne pleaded.

  “Sure,” Chad seethed. “Now that you’re loaded, you think you can start to push people around.”

  “I was ‘loaded,’ as you put it, before, now that you mention it,” Sebastien said, with a cheerfulness that Chad found infuriating. “But don’t give me any ideas. God knows I could probably buy and sell you, a hundred times over, cheaply enough.”

  Chad stood up. “I don’t have to stay here and listen to this!”

  Sebastien smiled sweetly. “No, I guess you don’t.”

  Chad stormed out of the room.

  Tiffany suddenly spoke up again. “Who got all the money? Was it the gay boy?”

  “Let’s go, honey,” her husband told her. “We’ll go shopping now. God knows this was a fucking waste of time.”

  Jack was, at least, gracious enough to say good-bye to the others, and to shake Sebastien’s hand—although his face still betrayed his disappointment.

  Hervé, who by contrast was smiling, as though he found the entire situation highly amusing, approached Sebastien. “Congratulations, Sebastien.”

  “Thank you, Herv.”

  “So now it looks as though you have all the more reason to make your trip.”

  “Yes,” Sebastien replied thoughtfully. “That was good timing on my part, if I do say so myself. Now—since I actually own property down there—at least I’ll have a place to stay. I guess they can put me up in one of those fourteen bedrooms.”

  “I hope you have yourself one hell of a good time. Do me a favor, will you? Something that won’t cost you much?”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Send me a postcard from Brazil.”

  Chapter Five:

  Below the Equator

  Sebastien stood on the deck of the Kirsten Flagstad, the Norwegian-registered container freighter which had been his home for the past few weeks. All around the long, narrow, white ship, the calm blue-green waters of the Atlantic stretched out toward the horizon as far as the eye could see, with one conspicuous exception—at a single point in this 360-degree circumference, the shoreline of Brazil broke the visual monotony.

  In the distance, on the mainland, a city could be glimpsed—barely—rising just above the dense growth of treetops. The skyline protruded noticeably higher in only a few places. These included the towers of the cathedral, an occasional smaller church spire, and a few high-rise office and apartment buildings. The houses in which the majority of the populace lived were all built close to the flat land, and from the perspective of those standing on the deck of the ship, they were almost obscured from view by thick green foliage. This slight break in the jungle was the old city which, in the days before the airplane, had controlled the traffic of the mouth of the Amazon River. It had at first prospered, but then, as an inevitable result of the supremacy of the cargo plane, had declined somewhat. To some cosmopolitan-minded Brazilians, this town was a provincial backwater of no great allure. But it retained a faded charm. Through its port still passed a considerable amount of commercial traffic, because the old shipping lane
was still a reliable resource for those whose business brought them into contact with the upper basin of the Amazon. Many of these merchants still preferred to bring the rain forest’s immense variety of wild products to the rest of the world by sea.

  For three hundred years this land had been the battleground of Spanish, Portuguese, French, Dutch, Indians, and eventually, Brazilians. Perhaps it was no longer considered worth fighting for—which, for its inhabitants, was no doubt just as well.

  The city had originally been named Santa Maria de Belém, “Holy Mary of Bethlehem.” It was the capital of the State of Pará, sometimes also called Belém, although more commonly Pará. Tio Gil, Sebastien remembered, had used that terminology in his will. In modern times, the town was known as simply Belém, for short.

  Sebastien had taken advantage of his time on board the ship to brush up on his geography, supplementing the guidebooks he’d packed in his luggage with searches on the Internet.

  Natural forces beyond man’s control had dictated the location of the port which was his destination, placing it not at the mouth of the Amazon proper, but upon the Rio Pará—a smaller outlet of the great river which washed south of the vast Marajó Island. On the north side of the island, where the torrents of muddy brown Amazon water rushed into the Atlantic, opening a mouth one hundred and fifty miles across, the moon did strange things with the ocean. The tides did not move with the orderly ascending and descending rhythm which allowed man his customary scientific calculations and illusions of mastery. They had their own capricious way, and man, forced to admit that his technology had its limitations, looked on helplessly. With the tides of the full moon, the ocean backtracked into the Amazon with such violence that the waters could rise into a wall thirty feet high. The Amazon was overpowered and its current reversed for no fewer than four hundred miles, flooding the surrounding land. At one time in the region’s history, the indigenous Brazilians would retreat quickly from the high water with their few belongings, but obviously the residents of a city could not do likewise. And any ship sailing in or out at flood time would probably be swamped. It seemed simpler to have the port of the Amazon built in a more stable and sheltered location.