He staggered a little as, freed from the cross, he pulled his shirt back on. Then, still breathing hard, he stood and watched first Estevao, then Cristiano, endure the whip, bringing the ceremony to its close. Finally, the whistle and snap of a whip no longer broke the silence at regular intervals. The cessation of the monotonous sound was startling. Sebastien looked at his wristwatch. It had taken approximately an hour and a quarter for the monks to flog thirty-two men.
Cristiano approached Sebastien and placed the flat of his hand gently against the small of Sebastien’s back, touching it through his shirt.
“Well done, primo,” Cristiano whispered. “Are you sore?”
“Not yet,” Sebastien retorted. “Ask me again, in the morning.”
Cristiano chuckled softly. “Come, let’s go into the church. I’m sure my mother is in there, waiting for me.”
Now that the outdoor ceremony was concluded, the square was peaceful, enveloped in the night. The glow of candlelight from the church’s interior spilled out beyond its open doors and fell upon the steps. The ten monks, once again moving in pairs, climbed the steps and entered the church, still identical and anonymous in appearance beneath their pointed hoods. Those townspeople who had lingered outside to observe the flagellations followed them.
Entering the church with Cristiano, Sebastien saw that its interior was nearly filled with people. The focus of their attention was the Bier, which had been carried in the procession, but which was now set down on the floor in front of the altar railing.
In the pool of light thrown by the racks of flickering candles, Sebastien could see the little wooden image of Christ clearly for the first time. It was rather crudely and naively carved, the limbs depicted as still contorted from the cross, not yet straightened from the weight of the sagging inert body. A small white satin pillow with ruffled lace edges had been placed beneath the head to ease the burden of the still-pressing thorns.
No priest seemed to be in attendance, at the moment—at this late hour, devotion was offered by the people, unaided. They stood, sat, or knelt, praying, and gazing upon the distorted features of the little doll-like figure on the Bier, or at the larger wooden image of the Virgin, which maintained its own unblinking vigil nearby. The evocation of suffering and sacrifice, which had taken place two thousand years ago, and half the world away, seemed not remote, but immediate, strongly present in the here and now.
Cristiano saw his mother, standing next to Bienvenida, and guided Sebastien toward the two women. Senhora Erendira broke off her prayers, to greet Sebastien in an undertone. Then she asked Cristiano, “Is it over? You didn’t get hurt?”
“Of course not, Mama. It is like I always tell you—it is nothing.”
Smiling, senhora Erendira addressed Sebastien. “Nothing, he says.”
“Sebastien submitted to the lash, too,” Cristiano said, his voice suffused with pride.
“Indeed?” Senhora Erendira, interestingly enough, did not seem to be particularly surprised.
“I didn’t want to feel left out—that’s all,” Sebastien said, quickly and dismissively.
Cristiano drew his mother aside. “Mama, I wish to speak to you, for a moment. Sebastien, will you keep Bienvenida company?”
“Of course.”
It was a brief conversation. During it, Sebastien looked around the church. He noticed the ten monks, lined up in a kneeling row on the floor on one side of the nave. They had pushed back their hoods, baring their bowed heads, so he could see their faces for the first time. Padre Valentin was at one end of the row. In the soft amber glow of the candlelight, his rapt features resembled a figure in an El Greco painting.
Cristiano escorted his mother back to where Sebastien and Bienvenida stood. Senhora Erendira, returning Sebastien’s smile, seemed to be searching his face for something. Evidently satisfied by what she saw there, she said, simply, “I am glad.”
“I have told my mother about what happened last night, and this morning,” Cristiano explained.
“So there is no further need for deception,” senhora Erendira said. “But we will not speak any more of this tonight. It is getting late.”
“Will this go on all night?” Sebastien asked.
“The brothers, and many of the people, will stay here and pray until dawn,” Cristiano explained. “But we have done our part. Come, let us go. No, wait. I would like to pray before we leave.”
“I’ll go with you,” Sebastien said, as Cristiano began to make his way toward the altar railing.
He followed his cousin and knelt beside him. Cristiano seemed sunk in some profound reverie. Sebastien tried his best to imitate his example.
What should I pray for, that won’t sound presumptuous coming from me? I’ve been handed so much over the years—but I’ve taken it for granted and done so very little that was useful with it. Until now…until now that I’ve come here, and taken over from Tio Gil. I wonder what his assessment of me would be!
Help me to be a better man. Help me to be a good steward, of what has been entrusted to me—Saõ Martinho and its people.
He glanced at Cristiano, who eyes were half-closed and whose lips were still moving slightly in silent prayer.
If it’s not too much to ask if it’s not blasphemous, coming from me…then please give me this man. Sanctify our love.
He was aware of the rustle of cloth and the rattle of rosary beads next to him, on the other side. One of the black–robed monks had come to the railing and knelt before it. Looking up, Sebastien was not surprised to see the monastic habit’s thrown-back conical hood framing the fine, lean face of Padre Valentin.
“My son,” the monk said, quietly.
Whispered conversations were taking place throughout the church. Since no formal service was being held at the moment, no one seemed to insist upon strict silence.
“Father,” Sebastien replied, in the prevailing undertone. “I’m glad to see you again.”
“You sustained the ordeal rather well.”
“Practice makes perfect,” Sebastien said—at the risk of sounding flippant.
“And yet now I seem to see tears in your eyes.”
“If you do, don’t be concerned for me. They may be tears of gratitude. For the gift of humility and hope—two feelings which I haven’t always been too familiar with. But which have now come to me, quite suddenly and unexpectedly.”
“I am glad for you, then.”
“The next time you travel near Saõ Martinho, you must once again be our guest overnight. I have so many things I would like to discuss with you.”
“I will look forward to it.”
Cristiano, done praying, now acknowledged the monk’s presence. The cousins received his blessing before they took their leave of him, and went back to join the two women.
Their little group left the church and found Estevao and Uver talking together on the steps, waiting for them.
Senhora Erendira would not hear of the four men driving back to the fazenda that night. They must all spend the night in her house, she insisted, and have some refreshments now, before they went to bed, and breakfast in the morning. She would not take “no” for an answer, and Sebastien, after token protests, happily gave in.
They all walked back to senhora Erendira’s house, where Bienvenida hustled the four men into her kitchen, for a late-night snack.
“You must eat and drink, to get back your strength,” she insisted as she set sandwiches and beverages in front of them on the kitchen table. She also produced a jar of salve. It looked like the same ointment Estevao had employed, on the night of the flogging at the cairn. “You silly boys will all have sore backs in the morning,” she predicted. “Come on, take off your shirts and let me rub you with this.”
“Ah, Bienvenida, you cannot fool me,” Cristiano teased her as he and his companions complied. “You just want to see which of us has the nicest body, so you can choose one of us for your lover!”
She gave him a smart cuff on the ear. “Well, I would not
choose you, you blockhead!” she retorted. “And what makes you think I would settle for only one lover, when I could have two or three?”
Sebastien smiled. “I take it, Bienvenida, you aren’t particularly impressed by the sacrifice we men just made?”
“Sacrifice!” she scoffed. “All most of you wanted to do was show the girls, and each other, how macho you are. There are men here in this town who should be whipped—just ask their wives!—but they are not the ones who wrote their names on the board.”
Senhora Erendira came into the kitchen, just in time to witness Bienvenida administering the last of her massages, to an appreciative Uver.
“No, don’t get up,” senhora Erendira insisted. “I just wanted to make sure you have everything you need.”
“Oh yes, Mama,” Cristiano assured her.
“Then I am going to bed.”
“It’s very good of you to put us all up, senhora,” Sebastien said. “I hope we’re not too much trouble?”
“You are no trouble at all. Have you forgotten I raised six children? I enjoy having company, here in the house.” She kissed her son good night and left the room.
After polishing off the rest of the food, and bidding Bienvenida good night, the four men trooped upstairs.
It was Cristiano who proposed that all four of them could sleep in one room. In one of the bedrooms, he supervised pulling the mattress off the bed and setting it down on the floor. Then he led the way to an adjacent bedroom, also unoccupied. They took the mattress from this bed as well, hauling it into the first room and placing it on the floor beside the other mattress.
“This is like a slumber party,” Sebastien remarked as he assisted with the sheets, pillows, and blankets. He then had to explain to his puzzled companions exactly what a slumber party was.
“You see, this is much more friendly than having everyone sleep in a separate bed,” Cristiano said as they all stripped naked and got comfortable under the covers. Sebastien found himself sandwiched between Estevao and Uver, with Cristiano, who lingered to turn out the light, the odd man out. He slipped in beside Estevao.
Friendly was one word for it, Sebastien supposed. He couldn’t help thinking that the group sleeping arrangement was rather evocative of an orgy in the making. Nor, apparently, was he the only one who was entertaining such thoughts.
“I have a suggestion to make, senhor Sebastien,” Estevao announced—sounding formal and indeed rather pompous.
This ought to be good, Sebastien thought. “And what might that be, Estevao?” he asked.
“I think we should all go to sleep.”
“Really?” Cristiano asked. “And what else, exactly, did you think we were all going to do, instead, at this time of night?”
“I don’t think it would be very respectful toward your mother if we engaged in any improper activities while we are under her roof,” Estevao said primly.
Uver let out a sound halfway between a snort and a snicker.
Cristiano seemed determined to bait Estevao. “Improper activities? What, exactly, are you talking about, Estevao?”
“You know. Playing together. Sex,” Estevao specified.
Uver emitted another inarticulate, but highly eloquent, noise.
“And what made you think, Estevao, that anything sexual was going to happen here tonight?” Cristiano demanded.
“I know you,” Estevao retorted.
“It is after midnight on Good Friday,” Cristiano pointed out. “It is now Holy Saturday. Try to curb your sacrilegious thoughts, and go to sleep. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Isn’t that right, Sebastien?”
“Leave me out of the discussion, men,” Sebastien pleaded. “I’m quite tired, and more than ready to go to sleep.” He snuggled happily closer against Uver’s warm naked body, and the cowboy put his arm around Sebastien’s waist—and gave him a not entirely platonic-feeling good-night kiss, full on the lips.
“Sleep well, mestre,” Uver whispered.
“You, too, Uver,” Sebastien replied.
“The flogging…left me feeling a little excited,” Estevao confessed. “I think I am going to have trouble falling asleep.”
“Everything makes you excited,” Cristiano declared. “If you cannot sleep, that is your problem. Don’t bother the rest of us. Boa noite.” Cristiano paused, then added a scathing “You punheteiro, you!”
Estevao made a last-ditch appeal, to Sebastien. “Mestre…?”
“Go to sleep, Estevao,” Sebastien insisted. “Right now. One night without an ejaculation isn’t going to do you any harm.” Which elicited a muffled guffaw from Uver. “It might even do you some good. Think of it as a sacrifice you are offering up, in addition to your submission to the lash. Now, I don’t want to hear another word out of you until tomorrow morning.”
“And me, Sebastien?” Cristiano asked, softly and insinuatingly. “I suppose you want silence from me, as well?”
“You may bid Uver and me boa noite,” Sebastien replied, in the same kind of an undertone.
“Boa noite, Sebastien. Boa noite, Uver. And yes,” Cristiano added, humorously, “boa noite to you, too, foolish Estevao. You may get in here closer to me, and get warm, as long as you promise to be a good boy and behave yourself. If that is possible, which I doubt.”
There was a rustle of the bedclothes as Estevao immediately took advantage of the offer. The four men lay there in the darkness in silence, nestled closely together. Sebastien could hear his three companions’ breathing, slow and almost synchronized.
This is so nice, Sebastien thought. So warm. Even in his increasingly drowsy state, he was startled by a further realization. Here I am in bed with three gorgeous men…not having sex, for a change…not even thinking about sex, also for a change! And yet I’m still happy…so happy and content. These guys are my friends. My family.
Then, stealthily, a hand reached out, exploring. It touched his hip under the covers and quickly moved up to find his arm and stroke it lightly, before it slid down his arm to his wrist—brushing past Gilberto Leon’s gold and emerald bracelet, which Sebastien had gotten into the habit of wearing—and grasped his hand. Even in the near-pitch darkness, Sebastien knew whose big hand that was, with its work-calloused fingers—it was Cristiano’s. He returned his cousin’s grip, interlacing their fingers together, pressing their palms together. Then, with Uver casually embracing Sebastien, and Cristiano hugging Estevao against him with his other arm, they all drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two:
An Informal Celebration
“Spend some time with your mother,” Sebastien urged Cristiano, over the hearty breakfast cooked and served by Bienvenida the following morning. “Stay here in Guarás today, and overnight. You can take your mother to Mass on Easter Sunday—and then I’ll send Uver in the car, to pick you up. You’ll be back at the fazenda just in time for the Rochas’ Easter dinner.”
“But you will need me today, to supervise the men,” Cristiano protested.
“Nonsense. My dear Cristiano—no one, not even you, is indispensable. Although I will concede that you are more indispensable than most. We can manage for one day, and one night, without you. I’ve made good use of the time I’ve spent, watching you and the other men at work. I know what needs to be done. And I’ll have Anibal to advise me, if I get stuck.”
Sebastien persuaded Cristiano to go along with this plan, and he saw that senhora Erendira was pleased.
There was a wistful expression in Cristiano’s dark eyes when he and Sebastien parted. Sebastien, noticing it, gave his cousin a reassuring smile.
What he wanted to do was kiss Cristiano goodbye, but he restrained himself.
Patience…they say you have to wait, for good things to come to you…all in good time.
Back at Saõ Martinho later that morning, Sebastien, well aware that there was a shortage of hands on this holiday weekend, spent virtually all of the morning and afternoon outdoors, trying his hand at whatever work needed to be done. Now that the idea h
ad been put in his head, he was eager to test himself—to prove something to himself, and to Cristiano. Estevao remained at Sebastien’s side and devoted an hour or so in the late afternoon to teaching his master how to rope a steer. The steers in question pulled Sebastien off his feet and dragged him through the dust and dirt more than once, but he soldiered on, and at the end of the session Estevao declared that he had done very well—for a norte-americano.
After his exertions, Sebastien treated himself to a long soak in a hot tub. By now, he thought nothing of having Estevao in the bathroom with him while he bathed, conversing with him.
“It’s unusually quiet, for this time of day,” Sebastien remarked. “No futebol game, for one thing.”
“No. As you can see, senhor Sebastien, the fazenda appears almost desolate. So many of the men are spending the weekend with their families. And, as you know, it’s mostly the unmarried men who volunteered to remain here, to stand guard and to care for the herds and the other livestock. Most of them are out in the fields today, and senhor Rocha is supervising them. His wife has warned him to stay out of her kitchen, as she begins the preparations for the dinner tomorrow.”
“And you, Estevao, are among those who have stayed here.”
“I have no family,” Estevao said, with a touch of melancholy in his voice. “And, even if I did, I would have preferred to remain with you.”
“Thank you, Estevao. Tomorrow we will be the Rochas’ guests for Easter dinner. I am looking forward to that. We must find some way of amusing ourselves, this evening.”
“I am glad you have suggested that, because—”
“Yes? Did you have something in mind, Estevao?”
Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove) Page 44