One of the maids, a pretty young girl, now came forward and curtsied to Sebastien, while handing him a bouquet of multicolored flowers.
“Obrigado,” Sebastien said again. He suddenly felt decidedly tongue-tied, whether in Portuguese or English.
Anibal now made the introductions, confining himself to first names. The women presented few difficulties—the housekeeper was Beatriz, the cook and her assistant were Ignacia and Claudia, respectively, and the housemaids were Maria, Marguarita, Elena, and Natividad. The men, however, who vastly outnumbered the women, made up a litany of exotic-sounding names—Adauto, Tadeu, Stênio, Alexildo, Tiago, Edu, Miló, Vinícius, Uver, Estanchino, Ximenes, Oranjinho—the list seemed endless. Sebastien was relieved to hear that at least some of them had more familiar-sounding names—Bruno, Carlos, César, Pedro, Gabriel, Giovani, Ricardo. He despaired, though, of ever getting them all sorted out, to the point that he would be able to successfully match names with faces.
When the roll call was completed, there was once again a silence. Everyone was still looking at Sebastien, expectantly, the men still with their hats in their hands. Everyone was also visibly perspiring, standing there waiting in the hot sun.
Sebastien realized, to his dismay, that he was expected to make a speech.
“Thank you all for being here to welcome me,” he said, in his halting Portuguese. He suspected that his accent was risible, but no one was impolite enough to react accordingly. “I am delighted to be here at last, after having heard so much about Saõ Martinho from my uncle. He was very proud of this place, and of you all—and now, even on such short acquaintance, I can see why.” He was relieved to see that this was the right thing to say. There was an immediate, almost palpable, sense of relaxation from his audience. “I am new here in Brazil, and I have much to learn about your way of life and the work you do. I am eager to learn. Please, let us—” He wanted to say, dispense with all this fuss, but the right idiomatic expression eluded him. A little awkwardly, he backtracked, and said, a little stiffly, “Please, let us dispense with these ceremonies, and do not let me interrupt your normal routine any longer. Or keep you out here in the sun any longer. Thank you again.” He risked a shy smile.
He was rewarded by salvos of applause, and even by shouts and cheers from some of the men. At a gesture from Anibal, the crowd began to disperse, with hats quickly being replaced on heads.
“Let us go into the courtyard,” Joaquin suggested. “Out of the sun.”
The seven women had already filed through a large, heavy wooden door, which Sebastien had assumed was the front door of the house. He now saw, as Joaquin held the door open and gestured for him to precede him through it, that this door led to a little forecourt, partially paved, partially planted with grass, and mercifully shaded by its surrounding walls. The actual entrance to the house consisted of an archway, at the far end of this courtyard. A great bank of purplish-red bougainvillea sprawled over the archway and down its supporting stone pillars. Lemon trees growing in large terracotta pots flanked one side, and there was a small pool in the center with a lead statue of a rearing stallion. The statue was in fact a fountain—a sluggish flow of water trickled, a bit incongruously, from the horse’s open mouth. Through a row of more open archways in the side wall, which was footed by a long bed of canna lilies, Sebastien could see the flat, grassy landscape beyond, stretching out, apparently without impediment, to the distant horizon.
“I am sure you have many questions, senhor Sebastien, and much to discuss with me,” Anibal said, as their little group crossed the courtyard, passing the fountain. “And with Joaquin, as well.”
“Yes.”
“We are at your disposal. But you have had a long journey. Perhaps, this evening, after you have had your dinner—”
“That will suit me, if it’s convenient for you.” They had reached the archway. Sebastien saw that the women had gone inside the house, with the exception of the housekeeper, who had lingered outside, under the mass of bougainvillea. She seemed to be awaiting his orders. “Senhora Beatriz, at what time do we usually have the evening meal here?” he asked her.
“Here in the house? Whenever you wish, senhor.”
“Yes, but what is the custom? What have you usually done until now?”
Anibal intervened. “We work from sunrise to sunset here, senhor. It was senhor Gilberto’s habit to have his evening meal served about an hour after sundown.”
“I see. Well, that must be as reliable as going by any clock. Could we have dinner at the usual time, then, senhora Beatriz? And will you join me, Anibal, and you too, Joaquin?”
“With pleasure,” Anibal said, and Joaquin nodded.
“Might I suggest that we ask Cristiano Lapuente to join us?” the manager said. “He is Anibal’s assistant—his second in command, so to speak—and will also be able to answer many of your questions. Cristiano would have liked to have come with us, to greet you, but someone was needed to supervise the men who are at work out in the far fields.”
“I understand. Of course he will be welcome. I look forward to meeting him. There will be four for dinner, then, senhora Beatriz.”
“Very good, senhor.” She curtsied yet again, then vanished through the archway, into the shadowy interior that lay beyond it.
Anibal offered Sebastien his hand. Transferring the bouquet of flowers from his right hand to his left, in which he already held the bunch of keys, Sebastien shook the foreman’s hand.
“I bid you good afternoon, then, for now. If you need anything in the meantime, senhor, you have only to send for me. Those inside the house know how to reach me.”
Joaquin also shook Sebastien’s hand. “Boa tarde, senhor.”
Sebastien watched the two men leave, by the way they had come. He was, for the moment, alone.
A zebra butterfly came looping across the courtyard and hovered fitfully over a patch of morning glory whose flowers were raising their blue trumpets to the sun.
Sebastien watched the butterfly for a moment, then turned and passed under the archway.
He found himself standing in a sort of vestibule, with a floor of black and white checkerboard tiles. The tiles were flooded with sunlight, penetrating the large panes of glass of a skylight set in the ceiling high overhead. The walls of this space reached all the way up to the house’s roof. He was alone except for one of the cowhands, who had followed him through the front door, and had taken up a position near the threshold, with his arms crossed in front of him—a pose which, along with the short-sleeved shirt he was wearing, put his thick-muscled forearms on display. He stood there motionless, like a sentinel, waiting…for what? For Sebastien to say or do something, no doubt.
It was mercifully cooler inside the house, despite the fact that there seemed to be no air conditioning, at least not in this large open room. The vestibule was virtually devoid of furniture, except for a few side chairs and console tables lining the walls, which were pierced by several closed doors. In the exact center of the checkerboard of tiles, however, under the skylight, was a round, marble-topped table. The table held one object—a striking statue, about two feet tall, of St. Martin of Tours. The bearded saint, on horseback, wore an elaborate and fanciful Baroque concept of Roman armor, complete with a plumed helmet. He had drawn his sword and was using it to divide his cloak in half, so that he could give one half to the naked beggar, who lay on the ground—in imminent danger of being trampled under the horse’s hooves, it seemed—with one arm raised toward the saint in a gesture of supplication. For a presumably impecunious and undernourished beggar, the prostrate figure had a suspiciously robust physique, rivaling the saint’s in its brawny muscularity. All of this was exquisitely carved in great detail, in a single piece of wood, painted in polychrome colors, including bloodred for the cloak and silver and gold for the saint’s helmet and breastplate.
Sebastien took a tentative step toward the center of the room, like a chess piece being moved on the board, and took a good look at the wooden sta
tue. Then he turned and looked at the young ranch hand. He was, Sebastien now realized, one of the ones who had met him at the landing. In fact, he was the one who had helped him first to mount his horse, and then to dismount from it.
He had unfolded his arms and now stood almost at attention. His right hand swung casually in front of him, its thumb hooked in one of his belt loops, its fingers brushing the bottom of his fly. A long sausage-like bulge had begun to work its way down his right denim trouser leg. His thick black mustache seemed to glisten with nervous perspiration, a lingering aftereffect of having just been outside in the hot afternoon sunlight.
“If the senhor wishes, I will show him the house,” the young Brazilian said, smiling more broadly and revealing his white teeth. “I have had your luggage taken to your room. No doubt you would like to see your room, first? I will unpack for you, while you are settling in.” He had a rather slow, deliberate way of speaking, but his English was virtually without accent.
He was a brutally handsome boy of about twenty-four or -five, sturdily built with that bushy black mustache, black sideburns, and a mop of straight black hair. He wore little gold hoops in his pierced ears. His jeans and shirt clung to his lithe yet muscular body, revealing the sensuous curves of his broad chest and firm, rounded buttocks. Sebastien could feel his groin heating up and his treacherous, all-too-easily aroused cock swelling and straining against his boxer shorts as he curiously studied the young man in front of him.
He felt emboldened by the fact that the other man was staring at him just as unapologetically, obviously interested in assessing the physical appearance and demeanor of his new employer.
Sebastien spoke first: “And your name is? I know we were introduced back there at the dock, but I have just been introduced to so many of the other men, all at once, that I’m afraid I’ve already forgotten your name.”
“I am Estevao, senhor. Estevao Prazeres.”
“And what do you do here, Estevao? I mean, what kind of work? I suppose you help to take care of the cattle?”
“Yes, when that is necessary. But now that you are here, I will be your valet.”
“My valet?”
“I see you are traveling without one. Perhaps you have left him behind in the United States…or he is traveling here separately, and will arrive soon?”
“I have no valet.”
Estevao’s black eyebrows arched almost imperceptibly at this revelation, although his facial expression did not otherwise change.
“It is customary—here in Brazil—for a gentleman in your position to have a valet.” The clear implication was that whatever might be the practice back in the United States was totally irrelevant.
“I see,” Sebastien said, cautiously and noncommittally.
“I served your uncle in that capacity. Now I will serve you.”
Estevao, Sebastien had already discovered, had a remarkable way of inflecting his statements so that they incorporated unspoken subtexts. In this case, the subtext was, This matter is a done deal, and not subject to negotiation.
“If you will forgive me, Estevao…I mean you no offense, but you seem to me to be what we call ‘the outdoor type,’ where I come from. You hardly strike me as being the house servant type.”
“We do not make such distinctions here at the fazenda,” Estevao said, calmly. “Except for the women, who work here in the house, everyone does whatever work is needed. I am quite capable of doing anything that the other ranch hands can do. I have in fact worked alongside them, these past few weeks, because there has—sadly—been no need for my usual services, since your uncle’s death. I am very strong.” It was a statement of fact, not a boast, and by way of illustration, Estevao extended his arm and suddenly clenched his fist and tensed his bicep muscle, which bulged so massively it looked as though it might split a seam in his short-sleeved shirt. “You may put me to the test, if you wish. Set me a task, and I will perform it.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. I have no reason to doubt what you are telling me.”
“I shall be your bodyguard, as well.”
Sebastien was startled. “My bodyguard? Do I need a bodyguard?”
“Should you choose to leave the fazenda, and ride out into the more isolated parts of the island…it would be advisable not to go alone. I will accompany you.”
“Why do you think that would be necessary?”
“This is a wild country, here on the island. There are wild animals. There are jaguars and pumas, in the more densely forested areas, and although they usually do not bother us, occasionally one strays here, hoping to prey upon the cattle. And I do not wish to alarm you, senhor, but there have been incidents, very few of them, in the past—”
“What sort of incidents?”
“The stealing of cattle, for example.”
“Cattle rustling, as we call it where I come from. I suppose, when you catch cattle rustlers here, you string ’em up?” Sebastien joked.
Estevao was not amused. “We have our own ways of dealing with such matters. And…forgive me, but the owners of other fazendas, or members of their families, have—very rarely—been the object of kidnap threats, by criminals who threaten to take them prisoner, unless they are paid money. That will not happen here,” Estevao said, decisively. “I can shoot, and fight. You need have no fear.”
“I must say, Estevao, you appear to be multi-talented.”
“I have worked hard to develop the skills I need to take care of a gentleman.”
“I don’t doubt it. I’m sure you are very good at your job.”
“It is kind of you to say so, senhor. You will judge for yourself. Then I will resume my duties as valet at once.” It was not a question.
“Please do.”
“Shall I take you to your room?”
“Sure.”
Estevao closed the distance between them and began walking toward the far end of the vestibule—slowly, with Sebastien falling a half-step behind him.
“What is this statue?” Sebastien asked, pausing beside it.
“It is Saõ Martinho, the cavalier—Saint Martin of Tours, as they say in English—the patron of the fazenda, and the protector of the house. The statue is an old one. It was carved in Portugal.”
“I don’t see a staircase,” Sebastien observed. “There is an upstairs here, isn’t there?”
“There are staircases, and a freight elevator, in the rear part of the house,” Estevao explained. “The second floor of the house is used only for the servants’ quarters, and for storage. All of the other rooms are here on the ground floor. There is a wine cellar, but no real basement. Because of the possibility of flooding.”
“Are there often floods here on Marajó, during the rainy season?”
“Yes,” Estevao admitted. “But it is not a problem, here on this part of the fazenda. We are on higher ground than most of the surrounding countryside. The flood waters have never reached the house. If they ever do—” Estevao shrugged. “We would carry as much of the furniture as we could up to the second floor, and wait it out.”
“I see.”
Estevao pointed to two doors in the left wall. “That is the mud room…and the cloakroom, where visitors and guests may leave their hats and coats.”
“The mud room?”
“One gets very dusty and dirty outdoors, here. Especially during the rainy season. It is often necessary to change one’s footwear—and sometimes all of one’s outer clothing—before leaving, or entering, the house.”
“I see.”
Estevao now gestured toward the doors on the right. “The drawing room and the smoking room are there. Through them, one may pass into the dining room, the breakfast room, the game room, and the library.”
Before Sebastien could react to this recital, Estevao had opened one of the double doors at the far end of the vestibule, and gestured for Sebastien to precede him, into another space with a tiled floor that lay behind the doors. Broad, long corridors led to both the left and to the righ
t. Side chairs and small tables, all of the latter holding vases or statues, lined the walls at regular intervals. The walls themselves were adorned with large paintings, predominantly of landscapes, although Sebastien was not surprised to see some pictures of cows, steers, bulls, and horses among them. The effect was of an elegant hotel rather than a private dwelling.
“The guest bedrooms are in that wing,” Estevao said, indicating the left corridor. “There are ten of them. And the family bedrooms—four, in total—are this way.”
Sebastien followed him down the hallway on the right. Through open doors which the two men passed, Sebastien was able to get a glimpse of what he assumed was the gaming room—he saw a huge billiards table in the center of the space, and several groupings of small tables surrounded by chairs, suitable for card playing or other games—and the library, its walls lined from floor to ceiling with massive, old-fashioned wooden bookcases filled with books. There were broad tables, armchairs upholstered in leather, and a large globe standing on a tripod. Both rooms were equipped with large and quite modern-looking ceiling fans, switched on at the moment, rotating slowly and virtually silently.
“The senhor used this room as his office and study,” Estevao explained, indicating a closed door. “And here is the master bedroom.”
They entered a rectangular space that was considerably larger than some entire Manhattan studio apartments. It had three ceiling fans, spaced out in a straight row overhead. The wall opposite the entrance was pierced by no fewer than four pairs of floor-to-ceiling French windows, opening onto a terrace. All of the windows were slightly ajar, the heavy outer drapes were pulled back to either side, and the second inside sets of gauzy curtain material, which were still drawn across the windows, fluttered in the light breeze. An oriental rug in a subdued, intricate pattern covered the entire floor. Sebastien could see that the furniture was massive and old-fashioned, in a range of dark woods. There were two huge armoires, each large enough for a man to step inside without stooping, and other oversized pieces.
Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove) Page 16