Leonie (59 page)

Comfort
, thought Isabelle, walking through her hotel, and
luxury
. The luxury of only having the best. Not ostentation—that was never what she would seek. The wide sofas were
comfortable
, covered in muted floral chintz in faded corals and greens, or soft brocades in pale watery blues and buttery gold, piled invitingly with cushions. Small tables with peach-shaded lamps, carefully placed to give pools of light, held magazines and books and on one circular table in the salon was an enormous jigsaw puzzle, half-completed and which no guest could resist trying. The whole effect was of a home that had been there for a couple of centuries, but without its inconveniences.

The bathrooms had the most up-to-date equipment and the biggest, softest towels, the beds were the most temptingly comfortable, and the embroidered linens the finest Europe could provide. There were fresh flowers in every room and bedside books for insomniacs and little bottles of water imported from France with a
silver tray on which were brandy and soda and biscuits. Every guest was known by name and their preferences as to rooms, food, and wine, their likes and dislikes and special requests, were kept on file so that when they returned they were greeted as though they had never been away and everything was exactly the way they would have liked it, but without the effort of having to ask.

It was an oasis in a desert—a corner of France blended into Brazil—and it was perfect. At least Isabelle thought it was, and as their ten rooms and eight suites were always full, she assumed her guests thought so, too. And Amélie certainly did. She spent more time here than at home these days. It had been hard for her at first when Edouard had married, but thank heaven Xara had been sensitive enough to understand how Amélie had felt. Now that the baby was on its way, Amélie was as excited as Edouard.

She could see her now at the reception desk talking with Senhor Vasconcellos. I hope he’s not being difficult, she thought, hurrying toward them. Senhor Vasconcellos was one of those men who are born complainers, nothing was ever right while he was here, and yet he always left thanking them for a wonderful stay and promising to be back again soon—and he always was!

“I expect you’ve had a tiring journey, Senhor Vasconcellos,” Amélie was saying. “Paulinho will take you up to your suite—yes, it’s the same one, the Auvergne, and I’ll see that a bath is run for you and send up a tray of tea … camomile, wasn’t it? You’ll find the menu for dinner in your room—we have some marvelous grouse in from Yorkshire that I’m sure you would enjoy.”

Isabelle watched her with a smile. Well, well. Who would have thought it! Vasconcellos was smiling and satisfied, he obviously felt welcome and cared for and that was what it was all about. The fact that it cost the earth was not important, there were always people who would pay for the best.

“Madame la Comtesse”—he bowed over her hand, smiling—“your granddaughter has inherited your charm. She has taken care of everything for me.”

“I’m very happy to hear it, Senhor Vasconcellos. I understand you’re to be with us for a week this time. I hope you’ll be able to lunch with me one day at the Pavillon?”

“But of course, madame, I would be delighted.”

He hurried after Paulinho, and Amélie grinned at her grandmother. “I’m getting quite good at it,” she said triumphantly. “I think I could almost run this place myself.”

“Not quite,” said Isabelle dryly, “but you’re doing very well. You’re learning.”

“Grandmère, when I finish school next term, I don’t want to go to college. I want to work here, with you.”

Isabelle stared at her in surprise. “But Amélie, you could go to America, there are wonderful colleges there for you.”

“I know, I know, but this is what I
like
to do, Grandmère. Please say yes. You
know
how much help I am to you already.”

Her lovely face shone with enthusiasm. She was almost sixteen years old and beautiful. Flesh had finally rounded out her limbs and she was tall, not elegant yet, but with the grace of a young animal, and she approached everything with the same eager energy she always had. Whatever she was doing was the most absorbing thing in the world at that moment and whoever she was with was the most interesting—her attention was total. Whether it was Roberto telling her of his latest exploit on the polo field, or Vasconcellos voicing a complaint, she would fix him with those marvelous tawny eyes and listen with slightly parted lips and such breathless attention that he felt he was the most interesting and important person in the world. Amélie had a devastating charm that at present was totally innocent but, thought Isabelle, once she learns how to use it, we’re in for trouble. Or would be if she weren’t so devoted to Roberto.

“Well, Grandmère?” pleaded Amélie. “I really don’t want to go away to college. I want to stay here with you and …”

Her voice trailed off. Had she been going to say Edouard, wondered Isabelle, or Roberto? “I’ll speak to Edouard,” she promised, “though I’m not sure he’s going to like it, Amélie, you know he thinks you should go to college.”

Amélie beamed. “If you just tell him how much help I could be to you, he’s sure to give in.”

“We shall see. Oh, by the way, there’s a letter for you from Sebastião. It came this morning. It’s on the shelf over there.”

“Fantastic!” Amélie grabbed the letter and tucked it into her pocket. “See you later, Grandmère,” she called, heading for the beach.

She always took his letters to the beach to read. She would open them facing the green immensity of the Atlantic, feeling that surely she must be facing France and that made her closer to him somehow. Of course it was silly, but she’d always done it, and now that she was older she felt superstitious about it. She cast off her
sandals, leaving them beneath a palm tree, and ran barefoot across the wide stretch of still-warm sand to the water’s edge, facing it symbolically and ripping open the envelope. Three pages—oh, good, it was a long one, and about time, too; it had been ages since she’d heard from him. He was in Italy! Gosh, he was
so
lucky, Paris and now Italy. He was traveling with his friend, they were in Venice, he was making sketches for her—the bridges, the gondolas, the palazzos, and piazzas, all were glorious. He thought of her and missed her, she could write to him Poste Restante, Roma, where he was going next. He hoped things were better between her and Roberto.

She stuffed the letter back in its envelope and sank down onto the sand, knees crossed, chin in her hand, staring at the horizon. Roberto. She hadn’t seen him in over a week. Of course, he was studying for his exams, and she knew that they were very important. Getting into a good university depended on it. “Oxford,” he’d said grandly, “or Heidelberg”—he always chose the romantic-sounding places, but never seemed too sure what he wanted to study. He would think about it later, he said, after the exams. Oxford, she remembered bleakly, was lost in the middle of England somewhere. She’d lose him if he went there, just as she had lost Sebastião, except that she couldn’t trust Roberto to write as dutifully as he did. The only advantage was that it would get him away from Diego. It’s not a contest with Roberto as the prize, she thought, it’s just that I love him. What will I do when he leaves? She stood up, brushing the sand from her skirt. Well, he hadn’t gone yet, she’d go see him this evening and wish him luck on the exam tomorrow.

Diego and Roberto walked along Rua Ouvidor deep in conversation, oblivious to the passersby. They were an attractive pair, Diego dark and swaggering and Roberto blond and athletic, both deeply tanned from a summer spent on the
fazenda
and their year-round outdoor life. They stopped at the Café Miltinho and took a seat at one of the tables outside.

“Two
cafezinhos
and two Cachaça,” commanded Diego to a passing waiter.

“I’m not having Cachaça,” said Roberto, “and neither should you.”

Diego shrugged indifferently. “What’s the matter? Think you might get drunk on one Cachaça?”

Roberto sighed. “I know I won’t,” he said, “but I also know it won’t stop at one and we’re supposed to be studying for the exam tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on, Roberto, you’re taking it all too seriously. You know you’ll breeze through the exams.”

“That’s the trouble, I don’t know, and if I keep wasting my time with you I know I
won’t!
Listen, Diego. How much time have we put in this week? My father thinks I’m at your place studying with you—and yours thinks you’re with me!”

Diego laughed. “Come on, stop worrying. You’ll get a C, you always do.”

“But I need at least a B to go to Europe … and it would really please my father.”

“Why bother, Roberto, he’ll be happy with a C. If you get more, he’ll expect it every time. Just do enough to keep them happy, that’s what I say.”

“Damn it, Diego, I
want
to go to Europe next year!”

Diego hunched his shoulders angrily, drinking the Cachaça in one gulp. “Terrific,” he scowled, “you’ll be off enjoying yourself in Europe and I’ll be stuck out in the wilds on the
fazenda.
”

“Maybe if you worked a bit harder you’d be able to go, too.”

“There’s no chance! The estate’s in a mess. My father says he needs all the help he can get. Why did this country ever get rid of its slaves?” he added nastily. “The Chinese immigrants are no good and the Italians are even worse—none of them can work—and now he expects me to go home and help out. Goddamn it, it’s not fair!”

Roberto knew that the Benavente
fazenda
was in trouble and it wasn’t the only one, serious labor problems and a couple of poor seasons were wreaking havoc on many of the old coffee estates. “If my father were in trouble I’d help him,” he said.

Diego looked at him calculatingly. Did he really mean that? Yeah, he probably did. He’d give up going to Europe to work on the
fazenda
if his father needed him. There was a side to Roberto that was unquestionably stupid—or maybe “soft” was a better word, the exploitable side. “It’s my father’s fault the
fazenda
is in trouble, why the hell should I have to suffer because of it?”

“Working on the
fazenda
is hardly suffering.”

“It is when you hate it as much as I do. My brothers both got lucky, they were old enough to escape before this happened. Now
there’s only me left—and my sister, but she’s no help. God, I can’t stand her, she’s not even pretty.”

“That’s not fair, she’s all right, and Amélie says she’s very sweet.”

“Sweet! Amélie
would
say that! Damn it, why did we have to get stuck with such useless girls? Listen, Roberto, do you remember what I said before, about Madame Susana’s? Let’s go where they’ve got real girls!”

Roberto stared at him. The vision of scarlet garters on soft white thighs and long black-stockinged legs flashed through his mind; he dreamed of them every night, thighs and soft breasts and how they would feel, and what she would smell like.

“Susana knows me,” bragged Diego, catching the hesitation in Roberto’s eyes, “she’ll fix us up with some real beauties. I tell you, Roberto, this Swedish one I had before was fantastic … she was insatiable … I had to screw her all night.”

Roberto gulped the Cachaça. “I don’t have time, you know I’ve got to work tonight. Besides, we don’t have any money.”

Diego pulled out a wad of greasy notes from his shirt pocket. “What do you call that?” he said, waving it in front of Roberto’s nose.

“Where did you get that?”

“I saved it up for a rainy day! Jesus, what does it matter where I got it? It’s here, I have it. Let’s go!”

“I’ll bet it’s not enough for Madame Susana’s anyway.”

Diego frowned, counting it quickly. He was right. “Well then, I know another place, a little cheaper, a little rougher, a little more … exciting? They let you do whatever you want there.” He smiled. “Come on, Roberto,” he whispered. “They’ll look after us … lovely girls, two, maybe three at a time.” He leaned closer. “You can’t imagine what they may get up to … you’re going to love it, Roberto.”

Roberto felt himself tremble at the thought, but he couldn’t go, he shouldn’t go. Oh, my God, two girls or even three—what must they do to you?

Diego pushed back his chair and tossed a couple of coins into the saucer on the table. “Well,” he said, “
I’m
going.…”

“Wait,” said Roberto, pushing back his chair hurriedly, “wait for me.”

The dingy marble stairs leading to the Hotel Orfeo were protected from the eyes of curious passersby by a rattling bead curtain
and an enormous doorman. He leaned against the wall, burly arms folded, his peaked cap with Hotel Orfeo inscribed across the front in faded letters tilted over his eyes, seemingly unaware of anyone or anything. Sweat beaded his massive chest, staining his white shirt, and he scratched the day-old growth of beard on his chin contemplatively, gazing at the dusty sidewalk.

Diego walked confidently to the door and stopped suddenly, staring down at the large foot that had appeared between him and the stairway. “You kids got money?” The doorman’s eye flickered over them.

Roberto stared at him nervously; his flat tone held a threat. “Sure.” Diego produced the wad of notes. “We’ve got plenty. You know me, I’ve been here before.”

The foot was removed indifferently and the doorman went back to contemplating the sidewalk.

“Are you sure about this place?” whispered Roberto, following Diego up the stairs. “It looks a bit rough to me.”

“Wait,” said Diego over his shoulder, “you’ll see, it’s the best place in Rio.”

A dusty velvet curtain covered the entrance and he pushed it aside, swaggering confidently into the room. Roberto hovered wide-eyed behind him. The place was festooned from floor to ceiling in deep dusty red velvet looped with tarnished gold cords and fringes and lit by dim glass chandeliers. Their thin glimmer illuminated the bored, painted faces and naked breasts of the dozen or so girls sitting around on the sofas lining the walls. It was intolerably hot. A couple of lethargic ceiling fans whirred monotonously, doing little more than moving the dust. Beads of sweat trickled between the pointed breasts of the girl as she came toward them.