Where Tigers Are at Home (7 page)

When she appeared on the veranda, emerging from the gloom, Alfredo broke off. “There she is,” he whispered. “I’ll be back in a minute …”

Eléazard watched him dash over to the Italian woman who had had such an effect on him. She must be about thirty-five or forty, to go by certain signs that stopped him putting her age at less, but without showing the beginnings of biological decline one would expect at that age. Eléazard’s experienced eye noted her firm breasts, unconfined under her T-shirt, long, slender legs and a slim, elegant figure. Having said that, she was far from being as beautiful as that rogue Alfredo had suggested. As far as Eléazard could tell, her almond-shaped eyes and her mouth were a little too big for her emaciated face; and her excessively long and pointed nose added to the lack of proportion.

When, led by Alfredo to a nearby table, she passed him, he gave her a smile of welcome; her sole response was a slight nod of the head. Ignoring that, he added a delightfully rounded pair of buttocks to her assets. “An intelligent piece of ass,” he told himself, slightly annoyed at her indifference, “a
very
intelligent piece of ass.”

In fact Loredana had not been as uninterested in him as he assumed. Of course, it was impossible for her not to notice the presence of a person in the otherwise deserted restaurant. Even before he had become aware of her, she had observed him for several seconds and judged him attractive, that is to say dangerous, which explained her wariness toward him and her reserve when he greeted her with a smile. Not that he was physically especially attractive—in that respect Alfredo came out an easy winner—but she had seen in him, in his look and his way of moving, an unusual “depth of field,” an expression that to her mind defined the sum total of criteria that made a human being more or less worthy of interest. Even though she was still susceptible to the physical charm of a person, be it a man or a woman, it came a long way behind a quality of being, or at least its probability, that she believed she was capable of perceiving at first glance.

Sitting two tables away from Eléazard and placed so that she was looking at him in profile, she examined him at leisure: the self-confidence of a forty-year-old, black hair, just a touch of silver at the temples but high on his forehead in a way that promised some nasty surprises in the future; what was most striking was his nose: a hook nose, not really ugly, but one she had never seen before except in Verrocchio’s
condottiere
in Venice. Without being exactly delicate, the stranger showed no other of the statue’s warlike aspects. He simply seemed sure of himself and cursed with rigorous and redoubtable intelligence. Dante seen by Doré, if she had to choose another artistic resemblance. Moreover, he could even be Italian; Loredana didn’t speak Portuguese very well, but well enough to have noticed a strong foreign accent when she heard him talking to Alfredo.

Suddenly sensing the persistent look directed at him, Eléazard turned toward her. He silently raised his glass to her before
putting it to his lips. This time Loredana could not repress a smile, but it was to excuse her unrelenting stare.

Alfredo had just served the food when the light went out. After having lit several candles, he came to sit with Eléazard again to open a second bottle. It was the moment the mosquitos chose to emerge. As if there were a link between their appearance and the power-cut, they invaded the veranda in invisible clouds and attacked the diners, irritating Eléazard, who was very sensitive to their bites.

“
Pernilongos
,” said Alfredo as he saw him squash one of the insects on his neck. “They don’t worry me but I’ll go and get an incense coil. They’re supposed to drive them away.”

Eléazard thanked him. As Alfredo disappeared into the interior of the hotel he glanced at the other table. Better prepared than he, Loredana had taken out a little bottle of insect repellent from somewhere or other and was rubbing it over her arms and ankles. Seeing Eléazard watching her, she offered him the repellent and came over to hand it to him.

“I bought it in Italy,” she said, “it’s very effective but it smells awful, really awful.”

“You can speak Italian,” Eléazard said, putting on his best accent, “I’m better at that than at Portuguese. And thanks again, I was being eaten alive.”

“You speak Italian?” the woman said in surprised tones. “I never expected that. And then, you’re French …”

“How do you know that?”

“When a foreigner speaks Italian, even as well as you, I can generally tell. Where did you learn it?”

“In Rome. I lived there for a while. But please sit down,” he said, getting up to bring over a chair. “We can chat more easily like that.”

“Why not,” she replied after the briefest hesitation. “Just a moment while I go and get my glass and plate.”

Loredano had not sat down when Alfredo returned with his incense coil. He put it in a small dish and lit it, then quickly sat down with them. Eléazard noted his pleasure at finding the Italian woman sitting at his table. She, on the other hand, seemed annoyed at seeing him joining in the preliminaries of their encounter. For a moment he shared her unexpected vexation: Alfredo had become a nuisance. How human, he thought, to repudiate him in this way; a few words with an unknown woman were enough and a man, for whose company he had expressly come, was suddenly
de trop
. Feeling guilty toward Alfredo, he decided to accept the unfortunate situation.

“Let me introduce myself,” he said to Loredana in Brazilian, “Eléazard von Wogau. I think it better to use the language that allows all three of us to join in.”

“Of course,” Loredana replied, “but you’ll have to make allowances for me. I’m Loredana … Loredana Rizzuto,” she added, grimacing with disgust. “I’m still a bit ashamed of my name, it’s so ridiculous …”

“But not at all,” Alfredo broke in fervently. “I think it’s very beautiful, very … Italian. I’d prefer to have a name like that instead of ‘Portela.’ Alfredo Rizzuto, God, doesn’t that sound great …”

Eunice’s mocking voice was suddenly heard. “Alfredo Rizzuto?! What is it you’ve found now to attract attention to yourself?” She had appeared behind her husband carrying a tray with a slice of tart and a few mangoes. “You must excuse him,” she said to Loredana, “but as soon as he sees a pretty girl he can’t control himself. And now,
Senhor
Rizzuto, stop drinking and come and help me—there’s no more water. The pump must be on the blink again.”

“OK, OK,” said Alfredo in resigned tones. “Don’t worry, I won’t be long.”

Once Alfredo had left, Eléazard and Loredana burst out laughing; his expression when he heard his wife address him like that had been downright comic.

“A funny lad,” Loredana said, reverting to her mother tongue. “Nice, but a bit … clingy, no?”

“It depends. He doesn’t often have the chance to talk to people from outside, so he takes advantage whenever the occasion arises. And then I think he was a bit intimidated by you. That said, he’s far from stupid, you know. He’s not what I’d call a friend, but I like him a lot. Will you join me?” he said, lifting up the bottle. “It’s slightly fizzy, you could swear it was Chianti …”

“With pleasure,” Loredana said, holding out her glass. “Oh, Chianti … You’re going to make me feel nostalgic. But just a minute, let’s go back to the beginning, I’m starting to get things mixed up. How come you’re French with a name like that?”

“Because my father was German and my mother French, so I have dual nationality. However, since I was born in Paris and studied there for the most part, my German roots don’t mean very much.”

“And may one ask what you’re doing in this hole? Are you on holiday?”

“Not exactly,” Eléazard replied, “although my work does leave me plenty of free time. I’m a foreign correspondent, I just have to send a report to my agency from time to time. Since no one’s interested in Brazil, it goes straight into the wastepaper basket and I still get paid. I’ve been living in Alcântara for two years now. You’re a journalist too, from what Alfredo told me …”

Loredana, somewhat flustered, blushed to her ears. “Yes … That is, no. I lied to him. Let’s say I’m here on business. But please don’t go shouting it from the rooftops. If it came out, that is if some Brazilians got to know, it could work against me.”

Loredana was furious with herself. What had got into her? The
shady
lawyer in São Luís (the term she always used for that individual with the manner of a con man) had made her promise to keep it absolutely secret and here she was telling the first person she came across. She had caught herself just in time, but if he started asking questions she wouldn’t be able to keep up the new lie for long. God, what an idiot, what a damned idiot I am, she told herself, going even brighter red.

The blush made her look like a little girl. Eléazard almost paid her a compliment along those lines, but then changed his mind. Nothing was worse than being in a situation like that.

“What business would that be?” he asked with a touch of irony. “If I’m not being indiscreet, of course.”

“Gold, precious stones …” (Stop, Loredana, you’re mad. You’ll never get out of it! a voice screamed inside her head.) “But I prefer not to talk about it. It’s an operation that is—how shall I put it—on the borderline of legality … I hope you can understand.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t bother you with that anymore. But take care, the Brazilian police are no angels and I’d be sorry to see you in their hands.” He refilled her glass and then his own. Without quite knowing why, he added, “Don’t worry. I know it’s wrong, but it’s the way things are: if I had to choose I’d always be on the side of the smugglers rather than the police.”

“That’s all right, then. So I’m a
contrabbandiere
, for the moment …” Loredana said with a laugh. Then, with a change of tone but without it being clear whether the remark was connected with what had gone before, she said, “You certainly like a drink. It’s almost …”

Eléazard pursed his lips. “A bit too much perhaps. Is that what you mean? In Brazil the water’s more dangerous than wine and since the idea of drinking Coca Cola fills me with horror … Joking
apart, avoid tap water like the plague; even filtered, it’s still dangerous. There’s new cases of hepatitis every day.”

“I know. I’ve already been warned.”

A flash of lightning followed by a particularly resounding clap of thunder made her start. The echo was still fading in the distance when the downpour hit the patio. It was heavy, violent rain, pattering on the polished leaves of the banana trees with force. The unexpected deluge created a kind of intimacy between Eléazard and Loredana, an enclosure of quiet and togetherness where they were happy to take refuge. The candle dribbled little transparent pearls, the mosquitos sizzled in the flame, bringing a momentary warm tone to the light. To the strong odor rising from the soil, the candle added unusual fragrances of church and of sandalwood.

“Perhaps we could call each other
tu
?” Loredana suggested, after a few minutes of silence enjoying the rain. “I’m fed up with having to make the effort.”

“I was going to suggest the same,” Eléazard agreed with a smile. Abandoning
Lei
, which suddenly brought them closer together, gave him an almost physical sensation of pleasure. “Your repellent really works,” he said, picking a mosquito out of his glass, “I haven’t had a bite since that one ages ago. But it’s true that it stinks to high heaven. I’m sure it would keep off policemen as well …”

Loredana laughed, but it was a slightly forced laugh. She felt guilty at having fooled Eléazard with her silly story of smuggling. The wine was starting to go to her head.

“So what do you do all day when you’re not sending your despatches, which don’t seem to take up much of your time anyway?”

“I live, I dream … I write. Recently I’ve been spending quite a lot of time at my computer.”

“What kind of things do you write?”

“Oh, nothing exciting. I’ve been commissioned to prepare a seventeenth-century manuscript for publication. The biography of a Jesuit father I’ve been working on for several years. It’s a piece of research rather than writing.”

“You’re a believer?” she asked, surprised.

“Not at all,” Eléazard assured her, “but this guy no one’s heard of is an interesting oddity. He wrote about absolutely everything, claiming each time and on each subject to have the sum total of knowledge. That was fairly standard at the time, but what fascinates me about him—and I’m talking about a man who was a contemporary of people like Leibniz, Galileo, Huygens and was much more famous than they—is that he was entirely wrong about everything. He even thought he’d managed to decipher the Egyptian hieroglyphs and everyone believed him until Champollion came along.

“Surely you’re not talking about Athanasius Kircher?” Loredana broke in, visibly interested.

Eléazard felt his hair stand on end. “It’s not possible … It’s just
not
possible,” he said as he looked at her, dumbfounded. “How come you know that?”

“I haven’t told you everything, far from it,” said Loredana in a tone of mystery and enjoying her advantage over him. “I’ve more than one string to my bow.”

“Please …” said Eléazard, putting on a hangdog expression.

“The simple reason is because I’m a sinologist. Well, not quite; I studied Chinese, a long time ago and I’ve read one or two books that talked about Kircher because of his work on China.
Cazzo!
” she suddenly exclaimed. “
Puta merda!
”

“What’s the matter?” Eléazard asked, taken aback by her swearing.

“Nothing,” she said, blushing again. “I’ve been bitten by a mosquito.”

“
Yes … Right … I want all of them, every last one … It’s of vital importance, I hope you understand that. Who?… One moment, I’ll check.”

The telephone wedged between his shoulder and his right ear, in a posture that made his cheek bulge around the receiver, Colonel José Moreira da Rocha unrolled a little more of the cadastral map spread out on his desk.