For once, Estevao did not argue with him, but obeyed.
Beside the grave, Cristiano helped him unload the wheelbarrow, and Sebastien took the shovel and began to dig. The soil, still moist from recent rains, yielded easily.
Estevao returned, and he, Cristiano, and senhora Erendira solemnly watched Sebastien as he worked.
“What is in those bags, Estevao?” Cristiano asked.
“A special planting soil, pre-mixed with rose food and manure. And a mulch, to spread on top.”
“The hole should be just a little deeper,” senhora Erendira suggested quietly, “so that the bud union, that thick place where the roots of the bush begin to spread out, is just below the ground level.”
Sebastien nodded.
“Don’t argue with the only experienced gardener among us,” Cristiano joked.
Estevao helped Sebastien to place the rosebush in the completed hole, after carefully freeing its roots from the soil in the plastic pot.
Cristiano stepped forward and held the bush steady, upright in the completed hole, while Estevao knelt down beside Sebastien, slit open the two bags with his knife, and helped Sebastien to combine the planting mix with the soil taken from the hole. They worked with their bare hands, back-filling the hole and pushing the soil firmly down around the roots. They mounded the rest of the soil mixture around the base of the bush, tamping it down, then put the mulch on top. Finally, they plunged their hands into the bucket of water to wash them, and then Estevao carefully poured the water onto the mound of mulch, letting it soak through it into the earth below.
“There,” Estevao said with satisfaction.
“Well done,” Cristiano agreed.
“The rose will do very well. I will tend to it,” senhora Erendira promised.
She looked at the roses and smiled, then looked down at the inscription on the slab, and her smile took on an additional, wistful tenderness, more poignant to observe than any display of grief. She crossed herself. Cristiano and Estevao followed her example, and—after a moment’s hesitation, because the gesture did not come naturally to him—Sebastien crossed himself, too.
“Now we will go to my house, for lunch,” she said. “It is only a short walk from here. We can return those things to the shop, on the way.” Estevao was putting the bucket, the shovel, and the empty bags and plastic pot back in the wheelbarrow. “Bring the horses, Cristiano. They can graze on the lawn.”
“We should call Ignacia, Sebastien, and tell her not to expect you for lunch,” Cristiano advised.
Sebastien remembered his cell phone, took it out, and made the call.
“Is that my old friend Ignacia?” senhora Erendira asked when Ignacia answered. “Let me talk to her, please.”
They made a rather odd-looking procession as they walked through the town, with Estevao in the lead, pushing the wheelbarrow, Sebastien and senhora Erendira walking side by side, with senhora Erendira speaking animatedly into the cell phone, and Cristiano bringing up the rear, leading the three horses by their reins. Senhora Erendira spoke so rapidly that Sebastien couldn’t always follow her conversation with Ignacia, but it was a lively one, punctuated frequently by laughter, and he caught the phrase mestre estrangeiro, “the foreign master,” and knew that it must be a passing reference to himself.
Senhora Erendira’s house was indeed surrounded by gardens, which she showed to Sebastien with a justifiable pride. The two-story house itself was not large. Senhora Erendira lived there alone, except for her housekeeper, Bienvenida, a good-natured woman the same age as her mistress, who didn’t balk at the arrival of three unexpected visitors for lunch. Bienvenida served iced tea, then busied herself in the kitchen, while senhora Erendira entertained her guests in a sitting room that managed to be both elegant and comfortable. Photos, not only of Cristiano, but of Gilberto Leon, were displayed everywhere, on the walls, or propped up on the tables and shelves in easel frames. Sebastien did not think this unusual, considering how long senhora Erendira had kept house for his uncle.
Sebastien saw some photos of people he did not recognize. “And who are these?” he asked.
“My brothers and sisters,” Cristiano said.
“Cristiano’s half-brothers and -sisters, in fact,” senhora Erendira said, in her invariably calm, measured tones. For some reason, she was looking at Sebastien as she said that, as though she wanted to gauge his reaction. And Sebastien almost thought he caught Estevao glancing at him, a bit anxiously, over the rim of the glass of iced tea he was raising to his lips.
“Do they live nearby?” Sebastien asked.
“Two of the boys and one of the girls live here on Marajó. One of my sons lives in Belém, and my other daughter is in Jericoacoara, which is a town on the coast not so very far from here, near Natal. They are all married and have families of their own. I am embarrassed to admit I am a grandmother, several times over.”
“You have six children? And grandchildren? I refuse to believe it, senhora Erendira. You are much too young and beautiful.”
“Ah, such gallantry! Now I know you must be Gilberto’s nephew. I was married when I was quite young, you see. Only Cristiano, my baby, is still living close enough to me that I can see him often.” She smiled at her son. “He is such a good boy. He comes here two or three times a week, whenever he can get away from his work on the fazenda.”
Sebastien assumed senhora Erendira was a widow. She must have been married twice. Since he disliked being the object of too many personal questions himself, he was too tactful to ask for specifics.
Lunch was simple but hearty. The main course was moqueca, a rich stew of prawns, white fish, tomatos, and chili. Cristiano was not above flirting with Bienvenida every bit as brazenly as he had teased Natividad, at one point actually smacking her on her generous rump. She squealed and slapped him right back, on his bearded face, which made Estevao snort with laughter.
“You leave that poor old woman alone,” senhora Erendira chastised her son. “What will senhor Sebastien think?” But then she, too, laughed.
Sebastien came to the conclusion that Cristiano was incorrigibly heterosexual. What a waste, he thought to himself. Oh well, I guess somebody has to do the breeding!
He was reluctant to leave. The house seemed like a refuge, and he found his hostess charming. There was a ladylike, almost patrician reserve about senhora Erendira, but it did not prevent her from radiating a great warmth that made him feel very much at ease in her company.
“We have imposed on your mother long enough, Cristiano,” he said at last. “I promised to spend some time with Joaquin Medeiros, later this afternoon. And I don’t want to rush back, if we don’t have to. I’d like to see a little more of the countryside, on the way.”
“We have plenty of time,” Cristiano told him.
“You must come visit me, senhora Erendira. I can send one of the men for you, in one of the cars,” Sebastien suggested. “Then you can spend as much time with Cristiano as you want.”
“Thank you, senhor Sebastien. But it might be sad to see the house again…without senhor Gilberto there.”
“I had not thought of that. Still…you could bring Bienvenida with you, and stay overnight, or for a few days. Longer—for as long as you wish. As you know, there is plenty of room. You and Bienvenida could each have your own room. All those fine guest rooms, going to waste…the house seems empty. You would have a chance to visit with senhora Beatriz, and Ignacia, and all of your other friends. My uncle’s house will always be your home, as long as I have anything to say about it.”
He was embarrassed to see tears welling up in senhora Erendira’s eyes.
“You are very kind, senhor Sebastien,” she said, wiping them away. “I will consider it. And you must come and visit me again here. This house, too, will always be open to you, as long as I or Cristiano live.”
After the three young men took their leave of senhora Erendira and Bienvenida, Sebastien found himself in a pensive mood as they rode away from Guarás.
“I’m sorry I
made your mother cry,” Sebastien told Cristiano. “I’m afraid I brought up sad memories, without intending to.”
“Women are sentimental. Everything makes them cry. Just mentioning the fazenda, and the main house there, made her cry. She was very happy there.”
A thought occurred to Sebastien. “Did senhora Erendira have a chance to see my uncle— I mean to say good-bye to him—before he died?”
There was a slight pause before Cristiano replied. “Oh, yes,” he said, without elaboration.
Retracing their route, they soon found themselves back on the fazenda’s land. Riding across some open fields, they encountered some of the men from the ranch, who had been rounding up stray cattle, and stopped to talk to them. Sebastien got the impression that the mere fact that he was in Cristiano’s company made the men feel more relaxed around him. They were polite and deferential, but they answered Sebastien’s questions freely and volubly, and even joked and laughed. After fifteen or twenty minutes, the trio of horsemen rode on.
“The sun is getting high in the sky,” Cristiano observed. “We will start back soon. You are not accustomed to this heat, Sebastien. You should not stay outdoors for too long, at first.”
“I’m fine,” Sebastien protested. “Can’t we ride on just a little farther?”
“If you like.”
Estevao spoke up. “We can show senhor Sebastien the reservoir, which is just ahead. It will be cooler there. We can rest there, and rest the horses, before we head back.”
Cristiano nodded. “An excellent suggestion, I think.”
Sebastien had forgotten that the list of the fazenda’s amenities, which Susan Sullivan had read aloud that day in her office, had included “a dam.” He was now curious to see it. He pictured, in his imagination, some small-scaled, crude earthworks, perhaps reinforced by boulders and logs.
They rode slowly through a wooded area, taking advantage of the intermittent shade overhead. As the trees thinned, they found themselves in a vast open area once again.
Sebastien saw up ahead a great flat sheet of water, shimmering in the sunlight, with sloping grassy banks surrounding it—except where a low wall of concrete, somewhat taller than a man, bordered the water and in fact held it back. A spillway at the top of this wall allowed the water to overflow through it in a sluggish waterfall, which fed a stream that meandered away, through boulders and gravel.
“There it is,” Cristiano said. “The reservoir and the dam. It was one of the first big projects that senhor Gilberto undertook, years ago, when he first bought the fazenda. This was once a shallow little gorge, with the stream running through its bottom. Now, you see, it is a great basin of water, which we can draw on whenever we need it.”
Sebastien was speechless. Of all the surprising things he had encountered in Brazil so far, this was perhaps the most astounding. I actually own a dam. A reservoir and a dam!
“We can tie up the horses there, in the shade under those trees, and let them graze,” Estevao said.
They did so, and Cristiano led Sebastien over to where the side of the dam nearest to them emerged from the earth. Sebastien saw that the top of the dam was perfectly flat, about two feet wide, and looked reasonably safe to walk on. There was a little steel platform with a safety railing, about a third of the way across. The platform was built around a mechanism consisting of a vertical shaft topped by a wheel. The wheel was secured by a heavy chain and padlock.
“That is how the flow of the water is controlled,” Cristiano explained, pointing to the wheel.
“Who has the key to that padlock?” Sebastien asked.
“You have one, on your key ring, in your bedroom,” Estevao informed him.
“Anibal has another, and Joaquin keeps a third, in the office building,” Cristiano said. “As you can see, now, with all the rain, we keep the spillway partially open, so that the level of the reservoir does not rise too high.”
A light breeze had sprung up, rippling across the surface of the reservoir, and stirring the grass, the shrubs, and the leaves of the trees.
“It is cooler here,” Sebastien remarked. “It’s beautiful, as a matter of fact. Very peaceful.”
“Shall we swim?” Estevao asked.
“Isn’t that what you had in mind when you suggested we come here?” Cristiano teased him.
“Of course.”
“You swim here?” Sebastien asked.
“All the time,” Cristiano said. “You will swim with us, will you not?”
They had no bathing suits, which didn’t seem to be an issue. “We have no towels,” Sebastien pointed out.
Cristiano smiled and shrugged. “They are not necessary. The sun will dry us, very quickly, afterward.”
“Ah…is it safe?” Sebastien asked.
“The water is very clean.”
“That’s good to know, but that’s not what I meant. Is there anything alive in it that we need to worry about? Such as anacondas, or piranhas?”
Cristiano burst out laughing, and Estevao’s lips twitched as he forced himself not to laugh.
“Anacondas and piranhas!” Cristiano exclaimed. “In the reservoir?” It was obvious that both he and Estevao found the idea hilarious.
“So I guess you’re telling me that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about,” Sebastien said ruefully. The norte-americano mestre had evidently betrayed his ignorance.
“You need only worry about sunburn, with your fair skin,” Cristiano assured him. “Should you be attacked by any anacondas or piranhas, Estevao and I will protect you. We will defend you with our lives.”
Estevao had already tossed his hat onto the grass and was unbuttoning his shirt. “In all seriousness, senhor Sebastien,” he said casually, as he shed the shirt, then unbuckled his gun belt. “There is the slight possibility of a caiman wandering here, to drink or bathe. They do not usually come this far from the wetlands closer to the river, but once or twice I have seen a stray. That is one reason why it is good we have our guns.” Estevao carefully folded the gun belt and set it down on the ground, beside his hat, making sure the holster was on top. Then he sat on the grass and began to pull off his boots—followed by his socks, his jeans, and his undershorts.
Cristiano was also busy stripping. So the three of them were going to go swimming, naked, in a body of water where there was the slight possibility that an amphibious reptile with claws and a mouthful of sharp teeth might join them. In which case, Sebastien wondered exactly how effective a safety measure it would be to have firearms deposited on the bank, some distance away.
Cristiano, stark naked, walked across the grassy slope, then out onto the top of the dam, and continued walking along it, past the platform, until he was standing approximately in the center. The breeze whipped his long hair about. He raised both arms and used his fingers to comb his hair back from his face, which he lifted toward the sun, his eyes closed. He was obviously enjoying the feeling of the hot sun beating down upon his naked body—enjoying it almost as much as Sebastien was enjoying the very provocative sight of him, standing there. Cristiano was male-model handsome, with the kind of physique that might have graced an underwear or swimwear fashion layout. Taking a leisurely sidelong glance at Estevao, Sebastien saw that the other young Brazilian was no slouch in the physique department, either. Either he or Cristiano could pass for an Adam, in this sun-drenched Brazilian Eden.
“Ah, Cristiano,” Sebastien called. “Aren’t you afraid somebody might come along and see us?”
The Brazilian shrugged. “Who would come along, as you put it, except for some of the men, riding past? None of the women who work on the fazenda would ever have any reason to come here. And no one in the countryside, man or woman, would be shocked to see a naked man sunbathing, or taking a swim. Come, join me,” he urged. “We can dive from the dam. The water is deepest, on this side of the wall.”
Sebastien, feeling very pale and naked indeed, gingerly walked out onto the concrete, which was hot from the sun under his feet. He stood beside
Cristiano, who opened his eyes and smiled at him.
“I will dive first,” Cristiano said as he turned to face the reservoir—where Estevao, paying no attention to the two of them, had already waded into the water and immersed himself, and was now performing a brisk breast stroke, his glistening brown body cutting through the water and creating a wake. “You will see, it is quite safe.” Cristiano launched himself into the air and hit the water feet first, plunging beneath its surface.
Sebastien watched, a bit anxiously, for him to reappear. It seemed to take a long time, but suddenly Cristiano bobbed up again, his head and shoulders breaking the surface. He shook his head vigorously, his wet hair whipping back and scattering a rain of droplets.
“Faz muito frio! Ah, it’s so cold!” he reported, sounding exhilarated. “It’s wonderful…come on, Sebastien, come on, jump in!”
Sebastien did so. Compared to being out in the warm dry air, with the sun beating down on his skin, the sudden immersion in the water did seem shockingly frigid at first. He could feel his penis and testicles shriveling in instinctive self-defense. Shivering but refreshed, he began to swim, in slow circles, with Cristiano bobbing up and down like a human buoy at their center.
Cristiano romped about in the water beside him, reminding Sebastien of one of the tritons on the dining room table’s centerpiece. With his wet hair and beard, the Brazilian did indeed resemble some mythological creature, more at home in the water than out of it, rather than a mere human being. Estevao, Sebastien noted, was now floating lazily on his back, with his eyes closed and his arms and legs spread wide. His genitals bobbed about freely, sometimes just above the surface, sometimes submerged but still visible.
When they finally got out of the water, they simply sat or stood on the grass on the bank, allowing the baking sun to dry them—which it did, as Cristiano had predicted, within minutes.
They were getting dressed when Estevao began to engage in a little roughhousing with Cristiano, slapping him smartly on his bare ass when Cristiano bent over to retrieve his undershorts and step into them.
“Ah, you dirty boqueteiro, you!” Cristiano exclaimed. “Sneaking up on me behind my back. You’re not going to get away with that!”
Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove) Page 23