Where Tigers Are at Home (36 page)

“Can you tell me what the hell we’re doing here?” Loredana asked reproachfully.

“What a load of cretins,” Eléazard said, wiping his neck with his handkerchief. “It’s unbelievable! If it was up to me, we’d leave straightaway.”

“What is there to stop us?”

“I promised Euclides I’d make an effort. Anyway, it’s his car so we’ll have to wait to take him home.”

Loredana seemed to hesitate a moment, frowning.

“Please,” Eléazard said gently, as if he had heard her sharp words of objection.

She gave him a searching look and eventually smiled, twisting her lips in a comic manner to show how much she was having to force herself. “OK, But I warn you, I’m going to need champagne, lots of champagne.”

Eléazard had been prepared for the worst. “No problem,” he said, relieved, “I’ll see to it.”

He sat Loredana down at one of the little rattan tables scattered around under the trees and strode off toward the buffet.

Eyes half closed, Loredana watched him heading for the other end of the garden: his linen suit too big for him, his way of walking a touch too lithe, too nonchalant … this strange guy was pleasantly out of place in this milieu. Blotchy-faced apes, irritating females with flabby arms, décolletés marked with liver spots; out-of-breath divers only deigning to plunge into the night out of physiological necessity, for a breath of fresh air, and manifestly concerned to return to the glories of the center of the
fazenda
as quickly as possible; wizened corpses of first communicants, mummies in christening
dresses, a velvety nightmare from a painting by Goya … It was crazy to be out here, in the middle of the Sertão, in the ostentatious, antiquated luxury of this grotesque house of the dead! And all because a fairly good-looking Frenchman had taken her under his wing and she’d gone along with it, because she had nothing better to do rather than out of weakness. Still no news from the lawyer. Yesterday morning, on the telephone, his secretary had sworn to her that he was actively pursuing “her affair,” but she was beginning to have her doubts, wondering about the steps he was taking, suspecting they were just another way of getting out of it, of disguising the fear that had taken his breath away in the blazing sun, in Rome, only a few yards from the hospital exit.

Eléazard reappeared with two glasses and a bottle of champagne. He was accompanied by an amused waiter carrying a tray with enough to satisfy their appetite and more.

“Ah, there you are, ‘the beautiful Italian who’s dying of thirst,’ ” he said putting the plates on the table. “Help yourself, miss, there’s everything you need,” adding, with a wink in the direction of the bottle, “I’ve put three others on the side, just in case …”

“Thanks again,
rapaz
. And don’t let them push you around,” said Eléazard, slipping a banknote into the boy’s pocket. “They’re white, but it’s because they’re shit-scared.”

“You’re one of a kind,” said the waiter, bursting out laughing. “I’ve never seen any like you before.” With conspiratorial look, he pretended to sew up his mouth, gave them another wink and went back to the buffet.

“You know him?” Loredana asked, surprised and amused by the little scene.

“For all of ten minutes. I got to know him behind the buffet table.”

“And what did you say to him to get all this?”

“Oh, not much. A lot of good things about you, and a load of obscene things about the old fogeys around us. But I was preaching to the converted, he and his pals had already noticed you; if you must know, they think you’ve got curves in all the right places, you’re something else and not the least bit of a prude …”

“You’re making it up.”

“Not at all. They don’t miss a thing, you know. It’s a matter of practice. Those are the people—I mean the assistants, the café waiters, barmaids—for a psychological assessment of our world, they know more about it than anyone else.”

“You can add the check-out women in the big stores, hairdressers, grocers, doctors, priests … it all adds up to quite a few ‘experts’ at the end of the day. A few too many, perhaps?”

“Not at all,” Eléazard objected with a smile. “I agree about the doctors; they even have one advantage over barmen in that they don’t just lay bare their patients’ secrets but actually strip them naked. Ask Euclides and you’ll see. Nudity has the same effect as alcohol, it produces a state of intoxication that encourages confession, a mental and linguistic brazenness analogous to the body’s lack of modesty. The priests have missed the boat; if they’d compelled their flock to enter the confessional drunk and naked, they wouldn’t have had to yield their prerogatives. The dimmest of waiters or doctors know more about their fellow citizens than the most charismatic of confessors. The psychoanalysts have got the right idea, but they stopped halfway. They put their clients on a couch to encourage them to speak, but they really ought to make them strip.”

“Come on,” Loredana broke in, “open the bottle instead of talking rubbish.”

“It’s not rubbish,” Eléazard said, doing as she asked. “Just think about it and you’ll see that I’m right.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong. It just that I simply believe no one ever knows anything about anyone. There’s no mathematics of the human brain; it’s not an area with true or false, just masks and fancy dress. Anyone who can look at others believing, honestly or dishonestly, he can escape manipulation is putting on an act; anyone who lets others look at him is putting on an act as well. There’s no way out of it …”

“It seems to me you’re pretty much a pessimist.” He poured the champagne, careful to check the flow as the foam rose. “Anyway, it’s not something that can be proved either way. But there is at least one thing I know about you, you’re even more beautiful in the torchlight.” As if to stop her replying, he stood up on tiptoe, fiddled with a branch above him and placed a stalk with three long, blood-colored flowers in front of Loredana.

She was very close to thinking him corny. However, she decided to assume the compliment was naive and merely shrugged her shoulders, as if to say “isn’t that just typical of you” and clinked her glass lightly against his.

“To Brazil,” she said, without much conviction. Then, briefly looking him in the eye, “And to Father Kircher.”

“To Brazil,” Eléazard repeated, a shadow suddenly passing over his expression. Without really knowing why, though fully aware how absurd his insistence was, he refused to toast the poor Jesuit.

Loredana made no comment and he was grateful for her show of tact. Elaine wouldn’t have hesitated to rub salt in the wound, putting forward all sorts of explanations, going on at him until she made him say something or other, anything just to get rid of her obstinate determination to find a reason for his silence.

They drank at the same time and as Loredana seemed resolved to empty her glass in one gulp, Eléazard did the same, after a brief moment of hesitation.

“
Ancóra
,” she said, wiping her lips with the back of her fingers. “That was just for the thirst.”

AN HOUR PASSED
, devoted entirely to knocking back champagne and running down others. Then they talked about Socorró again and her dealings with the unsavory family of Americans who had just moved into the hotel, wondering what would be the best way of putting an end to such an awkward situation. The second bottle of champagne was almost empty when Loredana held the flowers up to look at them against the light.

“You know what they are?” she asked, her thoughts elsewhere.

“No,” Eléazard admitted, “but they’re not grown for their fragrance, that’s for sure.”

“
Brugmansia sanguinea
, a tropical species of datura. It’s hallucinogenic, fatal in large doses. Some Indians still use it to communicate with their ancestors; in the past they also used to employ it to drug the women who were to be burned alive on their husband’s funeral pyre …”

“You mean all I managed to give you was some poison?” Eléazard joked, putting on a look of annoyance. “And may one hear how you come to know such things?”

Their conversation was cut short by the Countess’s voice behind them: ‘Here I am again. You must excuse me for having monopolized Euclides for so long … He’s waiting for you in the garage.” With a grimace of contempt and looking up at the heavens, she explained, “My husband absolutely insists on showing his collection of cars to anyone who hasn’t seen it before. It’s tedious, but he does it every time. I’ll take you there, if you don’t mind.”

As they stood up to follow her, Carlotta gave the bottle of champagne a quick glance and smiled at Eléazard. “You’re French, I believe?”

While congratulating himself on having hidden the first bottle in the bushes, Eléazard felt a sudden itching sensation in his scalp.

“Don’t worry,” she assured him, taking his arm, “the champagne’s there to be drunk. I’m just glad it’s appreciated.” Her breath stank of alcohol, showing that she, like them, had drunk more than was sensible.

“Tell me, Monsieur Von … Wogau—I hope I’ve got it right?” And after he had confirmed she had not mispronounced his name, she went on, “Would you be related to Elaine von Wogau, a professor at the University of Brazilia?”

Eléazard felt his heart start to pound. A sour taste came up into his mouth. Making an effort to control his voice, he replied in an offhand way, “We’re in the middle of a divorce. If we ever were a ‘family’ it’s in a pretty bad way now.”

He saw the amused look in Loredana’s eyes.

“Oh, do forgive me,” the Countess said looking seriously embarrassed. “It’s … I just thought … Oh my God, I really am sorry.”

“No harm done, I assure you,” he said, smiling at her consternation as if it had surprised him. “It’s ancient history by now, or at least well on its way. You know her?”

“Not personally, no. It’s my son who spoke about her, he works with her, at the university. But if I’d known, really …”

“There’s no need to apologize, it’s not important, believe me. So you’ve a son who’s a geologist?”

“Yes, and a brilliant one, from what people say. He was chosen to take part in an expedition to the Mato Grosso with your … I mean with his professor—Oh, God, I really am confused!—and we’ve had no news from him since they left. I know there’s nothing to fear, but you know how it is, you can’t stop yourself worrying.”

“I hadn’t heard about it. My daughter doesn’t tell me anything about her mother. Doubtless she thinks she’s being diplomatic, at
least that’s what I tell myself. But there’s no need to worry, my wife—after all, she is still my wife—” he added in a bantering tone, “my wife is very competent, your boy’s in safe hands with her …”

Loredana observed all this as if she were watching a drawing room comedy. She followed in their wake as a path opened up for the Countess and Eléazard through the crowd of guests. The atmosphere had relaxed: stimulated by the wine, the penguins of both sexes—she clearly recalled their affected airs behind the misted glass in Milan Zoo—seemed less stiff. Having established a sort of territory, they cackled and prattled away with gay abandon, chests puffed out, beaks half-open. They strutted around, they choked with laughter, subject to quiverings and sudden flushes, they confronted each other, crop against crop; under the impassive gaze of the waiters, they revealed important penguin secrets, enjoying a delightful feeling, a mixture of the sense of their own superiority and the pleasure of cornering others in the sad servility of gratitude. The ladies were talking breeding, hatching and nestlings, preening their feathers with knowing looks. A glass accidentally dropped opened up a crater in the throng from which shrill cries flew out but which closed up again almost immediately, like a viscous bubble on the surface of the magma. They discussed strategies for the ice floes, while quaking at the thought of the invisible proximity of killer whales, they worked themselves up into fears as great as the hole in the ozone layer, as torrid as the greenhouse effect, as drenching as global warming. Some were up in arms against the policies of the bears, others, flapping their wings in argument-clinching fashion, denounced the fishes’ unreasonable demands or expressed paternal sympathy with the distant and pathetic caricature of the species on the other pole. But they were unanimous in their admiration for the gulls’ fantastic ability to fly, not without hinting that there was no doubt that with a little more order, morality and conscientiousness the
penguins themselves would have taken flight … Everywhere there was the glint of little stupid eyes inside dark rings.

Leaving the entrance hall by a side door, they walked along under the arcades of a gallery covered in the pink effervescence of bougainvillea. With the servants keeping people out, this part of the
fazenda
was deserted and hardly lit, so that the Southern Cross could be clearly seen, isolated amid myriads of less bright stars.

The Countess stopped for a moment to look at the sky. “All these people make me feel sick,” she said to Loredana, taking a deep breath of the night air, as if to clear her mind and body of the fumes of the party. “I wouldn’t mind a glass of champagne … I don’t imagine you’re in a hurry to see those bloody cars?”

Eléazard offered to go and get a glass and the two women sat on the little wall between the columns. “He’s nice,” the Countess said when they were alone. “I’m annoyed with myself for saying the wrong thing back there.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t think he was offended. Having said that, he never talks about it, which shows it must still touch a raw nerve.”

“Are you an item?”

Surprised by such a direct question, Loredana put her head on one side slightly. “You don’t beat about the bush, do you?” she smiled, knitting her brows. After a short pause for thought, she went on, “No, at least not at the moment … but to tell the truth, I like him well enough for that to be conceivable …”

This declaration left her speechless. She had just expressed, out loud and to someone who was more or less a stranger, a desire she had never admitted so directly to herself yet. While recognizing the reality of her attraction to Eléazard, she was annoyed with herself for having forgotten, if only for a moment, the impossibility of a liaison with him.