Where Tigers Are at Home (45 page)

Eléazard seemed to be immersed in a meditation on his shoes. The triumphant ironic glance from Moreira as he put the car into reverse added insult to the bitter taste of humiliation. Finding himself hoping against hope, begging for something from the depths of his distress, he pulled himself together. After all, she didn’t owe him anything. If she wanted to sleep with the guy, she had every right to do so … But what a bitch! A little tart who understood nothing about anything! A slut, a low-class whore!

Pouring his bile over her like that, he realized he was debasing himself and that Euclides was right.

“All right then, we’re off too,” said one of the Americans, the one whose anodyne remark had triggered the governor’s profession of faith. Copied by his companion, he took his leave of all those present—at least of those he assumed were not servants—and went.

That left the two stylish men Euclides had told his friend were from the Pentagon.

“Henry McDouglas,” one said, coming over to them, hand held out (“Matthew Campbell, Jr.,” said the other, like an echo). “One’s as bad as the other, they’ve all slipped away.”

“That’s my impression too,” said Euclides, returning the American’s smile. “We’re the only ones left on board.”

McDouglas looked around the circle of cars. “Impressive collection he’s got.”

“So people say. But my sight, thank goodness, spares me the displeasure of having to have an opinion on that. Let’s just say that it goes with the man. I presume he’s shown you his jaguar as well?”

“You’re a real clairvoyant, I must say!” McDouglas exclaimed, with a laugh that showed all his perfectly descaled teeth. “He even explained it was out of consideration for the animal that he didn’t have a car of the same name … I guess he says that to everyone the first time they come to visit, or am I wrong?”

“No, not really,” Euclides replied. “Everyone’s got their little ways and there are worse ones than that.”

“I understand you’re a journalist?” Campbell said to Eléazard. “Have you been in this part of the world for long?”

“Six years. Two in Recife and four here.”

“That’s some time! Brazil can’t have any secrets for you by now.”

“No secrets is going too far, but I like the country and I make an effort to get to know it better, including its less glossy sides.”

“And what do you think of the political situation? I mean here, in Maranhão. The left-wing parties seem to be on the up and up, don’t you think?”

“Just be careful what you say, Eléazard,” Euclides broke in jokingly. “These gentlemen are from the Pentagon. Anything you say may be noted down and used against you …”

Eléazard took a step back, pretending to be alarmed. “From the Pentagon?
Meu Deus!
” Then, still smiling, “Joking apart, I find that intriguing. What exactly do you do there? If I’m not being indiscreet, of course.”

“None of the kind of things you seem to be imagining. We’re official representatives for Latin America, in a civilian capacity to be precise. We’re sent all over the place to prepare or check out various dossiers, get assurances from our partners, put out feelers, that sort of thing. As I’m sure you know, the Pentagon’s just a business, the biggest in the United States, sure, but a business all
the same. And there’s a few thousand of us solely occupied with routine problems of management.”

“All of which is pretty vague,” Euclides joked, as if to say they couldn’t fool him.

“In fact,” said McDouglas, rolling his eyes as if he was suspicious of everyone, “our mission is to capture the governor of the State of Maranhão! He’s a usurper, impersonated by a dangerous terrorist and we need your help, gentlemen.”

His little spiel almost made him likeable. Euclides apologized for pushing him; he understood very well the discretion imposed by the obligation to maintain secrecy in such circumstances …

“What obligation to maintain secrecy?” McDouglas exclaimed as if it were a good joke. “You’re overstating our importance, I assure you.” Serious again, he went on in professional tones, “You know that Brazil produces manganese, the governor reminded us of the fact just now, but what you perhaps don’t know is that it is an essential part of certain alloys used by the American army. Until now the mineral has been delivered in its raw state, but the Brazilian government seems to have decided to try and process it here. Which would suit us very well, I make no secret of that. I’m simplifying matters, of course, but we’re here to discuss the standards they must stick to if they go ahead with the plan. Nothing top secret in that, as you can see. It’s the Minister for Industry, Alvarez Neto—I’m sure you’ll have seen him—who brought us here. The chance to meet industrialists, bankers, politicians … and to see a bit of the country. You know Brazilia, it’s deadly boring.”

He spoke deliberately, and with his crew cut and suntanned face his warmth and frankness were contagious. To anyone but Eléazard, Euclides’s obstinacy would have seemed the height of discourtesy. “That is reassuring,” he said in feigned casual tones. “For a moment I thought you were here because of this business about a military base on the peninsula.”

“A military base? That’s a new one on me. As you can see, you know a lot more than I do. D’you know anything about that, Matt?”

“First I’ve heard of it,” the other said with a shrug. “Sounds interesting. May we know what it’s all about?”

“It’s a rumor,” said Eléazard, “a vague project the United States is said to be associated with; I read about it in one of the tracts distributed by a Workers’ Party candidate. Some are talking about a base for strategic missiles, others about an arms factory, neither backed up with any evidence. Disinformation for electoral purposes probably …”

“More anti-American propaganda,” said McDouglas, a smile on his lips. “Fair enough, but it’s starting to get tedious, you know. Those clowns are playing with fire: the day our economy crashes I wouldn’t give much for Brazil’s prospects, nor those of South America or even the West in general. Do you think the socialists have a chance in the coming elections?”

“You certainly stick to your guns,” Eléazard quipped. “To answer your question: no, practically none at all. They may well have one or two federal deputies, but then … Moreira will be reelected governor of Maranhão and everything will continue as before.”

“You sound disappointed by that …”

“And you’re not, from what I see,” said Eléazard a touch aggressively. “Personally, my weakness is that I still believe in certain old-fashioned values. I remain convinced, for example, that corruption, nepotism, the enrichment of a few at the expense of all the rest are not normal, even though there are ten thousand years of history to suggest they are. I believe that poverty is not fate but a phenomenon that is deliberately maintained, managed, an abject state that is necessary solely for the prosperity of a small group with no scruples … We tend to forget—everything is designed so that we do—that it is always an individual who changes the course of events, by his decision at a particular moment or his
refusal to act. That is what power is, without that no one would be interested in it, as you well know. And it is those men, I mean those men in power, whom I hold responsible for what happens.”

“Well, well,” the American mocked, “I’m beginning to see why you’re not exactly popular with the governor.”

“It’s mutual, I assure you.”

“You really think that someone else could do better in Moreira’s place?”

“You don’t understand. People aren’t interchangeable, ever. If a man of good will should appear, someone who’s neither a technocrat, nor a number cruncher, nor even a saint or some guru, such a man would achieve more on his own than generations of professional politicians. That may seem all pie in the sky to you, but there are righteous men—or madmen if you prefer—people who are quite simply honest, who refuse to ‘adapt’ to the ‘real world,’ who act in such a way that the real world adjusts to their madness …”

He stopped when he saw the mechanics hurrying back to their places. A few seconds later, just at the moment when the purr of its engine became audible, the Panhard came into the garage and parked in the exact spot it had set out from.

Moreira appeared with the frosty expression of a man who was just managing to control his anger. A few seconds later he was taking it out on the unfortunate mechanic who had dashed forward, clutching a cloth, to deal with the splashes on the windscreen: the car was pulling to the left a little and a strange whistling noise could be heard as soon as he was doing more than ninety; they’d better sort those problems out, and quick, he wasn’t paying them to sit there twiddling their thumbs and he was fed up with all these stupid mulattos …

“So what was it like?” McDouglas asked Loredana, less out of interest than to hide his embarrassment at the Colonel’s boorish outburst.

“Not bad,” she said with a cold smile, “but the car was pulling to the left a little and there was a strange whistling noise when we went a bit too fast …”

Moreira looked at her with a murderous expression, but Loredana merely stared at him with a feigned air of surprise, lips pursed, as if she had no idea what had got into him. Euclides took advantage of the situation to say he’d like to go home now. He was in the habit of rising with the lark and felt exhausted at having stayed up so late.

The Americans took leave of the doctor and his companions with exquisite politeness, unlike the Colonel, who made no attempt to conceal his bad mood.

“What on earth got into you, for God’s sake?” Eléazard suddenly cried as they were heading back to the Ford.

With a reproachful glance for his impertinence and in detached tones that say that a problem has been solved and there’s no point in dwelling on it, Loredana declared, “I wanted to have the chance to slap the guy. I’ve had it. Period.”

And while Eléazard pulled up short, his eyes almost popping out of his head, Euclides gave one of those little giggles in which he expressed his absolute joy at women’s intelligence.

A FEW HOURS
later, after the last guests had finally left, while the servants were still busy restoring order to the
fazenda
, the governor had shut himself in his study to smoke one last cigar. Delightfully tipsy, with dark rings under his eyes from fatigue, he finally had the time to examine the model that had been delivered that afternoon. Crafted in meticulous detail, it represented on a scale of 1/1,000 the project of a vast seaside resort Moreira had been working on for months. Like a little boy with his nose pressed against a shop window at Christmas, he did not tire of
examining his dream, of admiring its scope, its spectacular prospect. Surrounded by coconut trees, the eighteen stories of an immense, crescent-shaped building towered up facing the Atlantic: freshwater and seawater swimming pools, tennis courts, a golf course, catamarans, a helicopter pad, nothing had been forgotten to transform this expanse of jungle into a first-rate tourist destination. As well as the five restaurants and the luxury shops on the ground floor, there was even a beauty salon, a health spa and an ultramodern center for thalassotherapy. The Californian architect, who had been charged with giving shape to his desires, had produced something well beyond his expectations, sculpting the tropical forest so that all that was left were a few civilized patches of greenery, among which the bungalows and sports installations were arranged harmoniously. The golf course alone would have justified the huge advance that had already been paid to him: it would be one of the finest on the international circuit and definitely the most exotic. Clearly all that would cost a fortune—twenty-five million dollars at the lowest estimate—but the first hurdle had been overcome: just before the festivities that evening to celebrate this three-dimensional fantasy, the banks had undertaken to guarantee three-quarters of that sum, with the result that they could start clearing the ground in a fortnight’s time, as soon as the funds were released.

Entirely absorbed in his rapture, the governor was indulging in visions of a happy future. The region would enjoy an unparalleled revival: several hundred jobs created immediately, not to mention the subsequent spin-off from all those rich tourists who would have nothing better to do than deluge the Sertão in a shower of dollars more effective than any rainfall. It was a godsend that would finally allow them to restore the old baroque districts of São Luís, transform Alcântara into a jewel of colonial architecture and attract even more visitors to this out-of-the-way place.
Yes, everything was possible, and all thanks to his creative imagination! There would be a certain amount of friction because of the launching base, some whining from ecologists desperate for a sit-in outside the Palacio Estaudal, but eventually reason would prevail: these two projects, his and that of the Americans, were a rare opportunity for Maranhão, the only one which would allow it to escape its congenital poverty.

That he should make a lot of money out of the projects was only fair. The influx of American technical and military staff would not have been sufficient on its own to give the region the shock treatment it needed. It would owe its revival to its governor’s presence of mind alone, to his managerial and entrepreneurial skills. In our lives we encounter certain combinations of circumstances to fail to exploit which would be an insult to destiny. When he heard—from the lips of Alvarez Neto and under the seal of secrecy—of the existence of these negotiations, the whole process, which had just been completed, had immediately appeared to him with blinding clarity. On the very evening of his interview with the minister he had started to buy up the land provisionally selected by the Americans for the installation of their experimental missiles, as well as all the parcels surrounding them, so that he could sell them on at a high price when the time came; the aim of this speculation was not merely to make a fantastic profit, but to underwrite his real-estate project. Contacting the architect, meeting him in Palo Alto, setting up the financial arrangements had not been easy, far from it! The small landowners needed a lot of persuading to sell their patches of land, the architect took ages to send him his plans, then the banking pool had done its bit, criticizing his valuations, demanding more guarantees to the point where he had had to agree to mortgage the
fazenda
and his collection of cars, the only assets of which he was sole owner. Everything else belonged to Carlotta: the steelworks in Minas Gerais, the seafront
apartments in Bahia, the 35 percent of Brazilian Petroleum … a fortune he managed for her and which their son would one day inherit. The Alzegul inheritance! What a load of nonsense. He never thought of Mauro without falling into a kind of impotent, bitter rage, rather as if he had fathered a legless cripple or a child with an atrophied brain. An intellectual crammed full of books, an Alzegul through and through, incapable of distinguishing between a balance sheet and a working account. Yes, disabled, with no knowledge of reality apart from his petrified memory, ancient, sterile, outside human time, outside his own life … A paleontologist! And since it summed up all his disappointment and misfortune as a father, the word twisted his lips, as if it were an insult. All that money lying idle. For what, for whom? If only they would allow him to pump the money into business enterprises! That and that alone would have a profound effect on the world. His son, his wife, all those who were always making speeches but never got their hands dirty—nothing but a load of jerk-offs who never produced anything, who only made ripples by spitting in the water! But the Earth went on turning without them and would consign them to oblivion in its slow metamorphosis.