Tainted Odete

Rogério Sacchi de Frontin

.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Rogério Sacchi de Frontin Werneck

Edited by Rogério Sacchi de Frontin - Petrópolis/ Brazil

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank

you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Tainted Odete is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual

persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

E-mail contact: werneckpress@globo.com.

Cover: Rogério Ribeiro

Translation e proofreading: OneHourTranslation - The World's Leading Professional Translation Service

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

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ISBN: 978-85-914643-1-9

Brazil's National Library Foundation, copyright registration office of the Ministry of Culture:

Number: 519.871 Book: 986 Page: 308 08/02/2011.

Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

.

For my mother Caroland my father Paulo

Chapter I

They were three years of intense passion: from 1915 to 1918. It was in the final year of this period that the physician Miguel Pereira passed away, in the land that had become the embodiment of all meaning in his life, without having ever entertained the thought that the eternally grateful Vila da Estiva and parts of the surrounding area would, after 1920, take after his name. This man - who researched and fought against tropical diseases; who in his youth took up arms to fight for a Republican Brazil; who, in a fit of insanity, burned the original version of his Medical Clinic Treaty when he was stricken by an incurable disease - this man would become immortal. It is best that we stop there, as this is not a biography, but a necessary record of a viscerally mortal sentiment. Loving the earth more than man: this is the start of a war that ends only when we are finally transformed into rotting flesh to be consumed by worms, whose task it is to decompose the tissues that we, for a few short moments of our lives, dare to believe are eternal. For the air that we breathe safely and for which we are grateful, we will become vile-smelling gases; for the earth, we’ll do less harm by becoming nutrients.

On that basis, we must not be deceived by the idyllic and easy-going nature of these pauses: we sensitive souls understand that within lie the entrails that for centuries have digested history’s dark past, which is stored as excrement in the fountains, springs and lakes, entrenched in the furrows of the earth, and raised again on countless occasions. The Tinguá highlands have difficulty breathing, but they will not be mummified. Fresh air, at times icy, comes from the mountains’ large nostrils, and it lightens the burden carried by the almost naked coastal range.

The ranches of the Tinguá highlands and the whole Paraíba Valley have names: the Our Lady of Pity of the True Cross Ranch, Alegre, Palmeiras, Pau Grande - some remembered, others forgotten. However, in the 1840s, the region was so fresh, so clear that it became synonymous with the song of the blue-bellied parrot, with its striking green chest, seeking tender flowers from which to feed; the chirp of the brightly-coloured Aracari flying joyfully over the banana grove; the rustling water washing over rocks; the capybaras bathing in the river; and on dry land, the pebbles stuck in the teeth of a rake.

A drumbeat opens the mournful song of tortured voices, swollen throats, gasping breaths - with wounds and blisters visible on the skin. The scabbed black feet tread the red earth, loosening it. They plant coffee - muddy feet, feet that meet the stones being washed, with sharp edges leaving small and painful cuts. It is the blood that feeds the richness of the cycle, which for some was just as beautiful as those fields of wild plants that are calming to the eye and that relax souls inclined towards leisure.

(***)

The large church doors of carved wood open onto a marble porch. She hears the voice of her sweetheart: Leopoldo Gusmão de Castro. He laughs gently and kisses the mouth of Luana de Albuquerque Dacotta, a girl he met when he was seventeen. Armed with backpacks or suitcases, they climbed mountains, ascended hills, relaxed in cafés on Italian Boulevard, smoked hashish in the port of Amsterdam, and tucked into hamburgers on 55th Street. Love is an animal, but a playful animal: a gazelle, a deer, or small monkeys from condos in Rio de Janeiro that die of thirst at the edge of swimming pools,

where blissfully happy young lovers bathe naked. There behind the wall, you can see through the window or peek through the bars - society is blessing this union. The priest, rejoicing, invokes the word of the Lord:

“Rise up, my loved one, my pretty little thing, and come. My dove, hidden in the folds of cliffs, sheltered from steep slopes, reveal your face, and let me hear your voice. Your voice is gentle and your face enchanting. My loved one is for me and I am for him. He tells me: stamp me like a seal on your heart, because love is as strong as death and passion as violent as the abyss. Your ardours are arrows of fire; they are the Lord’s flames. Torrential rains cannot extinguish love, and rivers cannot drown it.”

The Church of St Francis of Paola is brimming with guests. Ladies of society show off Chanel hats; the younger generation, so full of themselves, wear bright socks and short skirts that barely cover a third of their thighs - they’re funk chicks without a favela. All are blessed, and the men in black and grey suits, briefs and flashy ties, looking jovial. And the girls’ knees. Did you see that mixed-race mulatto girl? A creature of perfection to rival Valentine’s masterpiece, the high altar.

A desperate cry of splitting pain echoes in the dancehall of the Leblon hotel. Leopoldo, so childish, pretends a little too realistically to hang himself with the knot of his own tie. His friends roar with laughter and play along, lifting him off the ground. The white wine from Reno, the German beer, the English whiskey, the French mineral water, all washing down the feast. Luana, while admiring the almost infantile joy of her groom, who would soon turn 30, wants to rescue him. He is a character: quirky and cool. This is the person she has married - handsome, fine lips, orangey complexion and reddish-blond hair. It won’t be long before they’re sleeping in the room at the ranch hotel, laughing at the night, enjoying life, erotically entwined in each other’s arms. Miguel Pereira awaits them the following day, with its cosy country charm smelling of fruit-flavoured jams and sweet compotes. The bride’s body relaxes just imagining the scene: rose petals floating in the hot tub.

Leave the country? Not a chance. The taste of blue Fanta in New Zealand, the unbearable heat of the viewing galleries at the pyramids in Egypt, the green grass and vegetation of the Montevideo beaches - from the most exotic to the most ordinary, Leopoldo and Luana had already done it. New York, Paris, Madrid, Tokyo, and never-ending airport immigration queues. What for? Do you know anyone in this neck of the woods? Do you have a reservation? Which hotel are the lady and the gentleman staying in? When’s the return journey? The hand luggage, the shopping list of presents: perfumes, electronic gadgets, and Victoria’s Secret moisturisers. Never. Not a chance.

“No way. I do not have the patience for that kind of thing. Enjoy yourself, OK? I’m going to have a word with Leopoldo before he decides to hit the town with his friends. Good luck with the bouquet of flowers!”

Luana flashes smiles around the room. She extends a slim arm and takes a glass of champagne from the silver tray, which is so beautiful it seems to have a life of its own. Alongside the rest of the set - the glassware and tableware - it zigzags harmoniously in time as part of an unlikely choreography. Delicate canapés of every colour: red shrimps aflame; oysters au gratin, of no particular tone; the black caviar. The groom is having fun dancing in his close circle of friends. She approaches her loved one, runs her hands along his shoulder and draws him in by his arms. She kisses him softly, a seal, to persuade him to go and visit the tables of admiring glances, little kisses and courteous embraces.

Leopoldo resists as much as he can, claiming to be a little high, suggesting calling the father to complete this annoying ritual. Luana threatens to call off the marriage in a mocking tone. And they laugh a lot. Arm-in-arm, the couple go from table to table to display the happiness that, from that day onwards, would become adult-like and fecund.

At least that’s what Leopoldo’s paternal grandmother thought. There are people without water - Ilka was proof of this. It had nothing to do with the skin drying naturally, the accentuated wrinkles, the loss of strength and the rebirth of cells. The dehydration of the soul in that woman had been clear since her youth. Perhaps, to make up for it, nature had endowed her with two eyes like swimming pools that, every minute, twitched frenetically. Clara married her only son, Felipe, who bore her only grandson. This fact justified the daughter-in-law’s existence.

“What a foolish idea to go to Miguel Pereira on the honeymoon!”Clara agreed with the old woman, also pointing out that Felipe had been the one who

had encouraged Luana and, consequently, Leopoldo to visit this strange destination. The husband liked to talk up the family’s rural past whenever he had enjoyed a few too many aperitifs at the Brazilian Yacht Club in Urca. It was pure fantasy talk, because Clara did not agree with the ranch version as told by Ilka’s son.

So many great places to explore: Madrid, London - Paris or wherever. In fact, recalled the mother-in-law, she and the late Miguel Neto stayed in a fine villa in the Languedoc-Roussillon region, in southern France. The stone house had been a hamlet. It was so idyllic - perfect for newlyweds on their honeymoons, despite having eleven rooms. It was the height of elegance. Clara then added that she had suggested Marseille, Côte D’Azur, even Miami. However, Felipe’s seductive tales had won the day and, the following morning, the married couple would depart for the Fluminense Mountains with the aim of rediscovering who-knows-what. The family ranch had been sold in 1928.

Leopoldo’s great-grandfather, Felipe’s grandfather, Miguel’s father, Mr Leopoldo Gusmão de Castro Neto, had been very well connected in the federal capital in those days, Rio de Janeiro, and in the city of São Paulo. The Our Lady of Boa Hora Ranch, located in the heart of the Tinguá Mountains, had been one of the major players in the region’s coffee boom. The plantations expanded greatly throughout these lands beginning in the third decade of the 19th century. The fortune made was, in large part, reinvested in the purchase of houses and businesses in Rio de Janeiro. At the beginning of the 20th century, the lands began to show signs of depletion. Leopoldo Neto - due to divine intuition, according to many - anticipated the Crisis of 1929, got rid of the ranch, and decided to treat himself to the privileges of the emerging urban lifestyle. Truth be told, we know that he predicted the crash by receiving insider information from prominent politicians in São Paulo. He would never return to the Estiva region, where, at that time, suicide’s shadow hovered like a low-lying cloud. In Rio de Janeiro, he surrounded himself with politicians and opened an engineering company, and the boy Miguel studied in the Polytechnic School. They would continue to ride their luck and earn money for decades through public works.

Miguel, approaching his seventieth year, sensed in his son a lack of skill at managing the family business, and wisely chose to sell the company and invest the capital into more property. Felipe, after a disastrous spell in engineering, decided to study literature. He is currently retired from the federal university.

“But things are different these days, my friend. The world is green, ecological… I hope Clara isn’t listening, because I want to start a company out of Miguel Pereira. Perhaps move into hydroponics. Who knows?”

The friend thought it was a risky business to invest heavily in the region. After a long sip of whiskey, Felipe claimed it was riskier to live in the middle of the barbaric jungle of Rio de Janeiro. Leblon is just a haven of tranquillity surrounded by violence on every side. He certainly did not like Barra da Tijuca, that was for sure.

“It’s my destiny, my dear: for me, divorce is a ranch.”Boa Hora. Our Lady of Boa Hora might have been lost, ruined, merely foundations

exposed to the elements, consumed by weeds and undergrowth. The son and the daughter-in-law would have to find some trace of the past, a fragment of crockery, the French footprints, coffee plants, any remnant revealing some kind of grandeur that justified those long, empty days. Another dram of whisky, please.

Black hands, anonymous, with no mouth, no teeth, clear plates with leftover food away from the tables, rejected by the almost-white guests. The confused girl, white, drops a crystal glass. The almost-dry champagne spills on the floor, becoming sticky and interrupting the gentle patter of two chrome-coloured shoes. The black hands clear the paths, cleaning up the shards with a dustpan and a brush. A damp cloth gets rid of the mess. The feet step lightly, and the hands work honestly. Luana lifts up her dress so she can move better, and turns toward the women. She pretends she is going to throw the bouquet three times before finally letting go. The confused girl catches it, kisses it, hugs it, but lets it drop to the floor. The only strike comes from German leather that tears it apart. Black hands pick up the flowers inside a black bag - the orchid, the lilies, and two red roses bid farewell.

Chapter II

Leaving the Rio de Janeiro by Via Dutra highway is always disappointing. The road is only good for getting to São Paulo. The city region, which goes through lowland Fluminense, is as run-down as ever, with no ceremony, elegance, light or make-up. Tire repair shops, seemingly abandoned petrol pumps, restaurants dishing out reheated meat and pasta, and ugly factories - all bordering on hot and bumpy asphalt. By the side of the road, bordering on no-man’s land, there are crosses commemorating the dead - so many dead. Miss you, Zezinho. I’ll always love you, Priscila. Adelmo, beloved son. In the home, also on the periphery, the clairvoyant claims she can trace the beloved son in three days. As much as you may try to add lights or work on it, this is a sad road to drive along. Nobody wants to take it, but people depend on it. It would be better to fly over its deforested jungles, the areas of reforested eucalyptus, the foul smelling smoke, and the corn cake houses.

The Araras Mountains, the terrain of noisy trucks, scented by the burning rubber of braking tires, are now behind us. The entrance is via Japeri. They cross a railway line and continue towards the Sant’Anna - Conrado Valley, Arcádia. It is four in the afternoon, and Leopoldo and Luana are at the foot of the mountain.

The luxury utility vehicle revs up to climb the road and responds to Leopoldo’s skilful driving. On the first bend, the body of the car tilts gently. Inside, there is absolute silence, but it’s not oppressive. That said, it was a good moment to break it. Luana switches off the digital air conditioning, rolls down the power windows, and enjoys the wind blowing in her face. She giggles at her husband and gives him a peck on the cheek. She picks up the CD carrier and picks out Aqualung: “Brighter than Sunshine”, which was their song.

What a feeling in my soulLove burns brighter than sunshine

It's brighter than sunshineLet the rain fall I don’t care

I'm yours and suddenly you're mine

The road is rustic embroidery on a fine and delicate green carpet covering the mountains. The music, the highway, Luana’s delicate blond hair still blowing freely out the window. The car cuts through the fabric of time. Another gift from Felipe.

“Are we nearly there yet?”Entrance Sapucaia Ranch-Hotel, 50 metres.

(***)

(On the shore of a stream, black feet await other feet, so black even after washing in that clear water.)

“Watch out, Leopoldo! Here, here, darling!”The body of the car swerves brutally and the tires sacrifice themselves to quickly

bring the vehicle under control. They got a fright. Luana swears, Leopoldo calms her down. It’s the fading twilight visibility that makes all cats appear brown, except his little blonde kitten. An easy little joke. On the dirt track of a road, a bump - a pothole. A

smaller fright. It’s time to get into a road adventure frame of mind. The woman kisses her husband’s cheek, and he smiles seductively.

“Oh, my sweet hubby!”The rusty blond, with a big nose, warm - and so well hung, completely filling every

little space inside her - that’s a lie. A little bit of him stayed outside. Deliciously hers, her husband was planted inside her, and if any bitch went near him, she would die. These thoughts crossed Luana’s mind. Oh for a kiss, but I can’t now.

.

(The old black man and his wife walk along the path towards the farmhouse. The youngster, a little further ahead, quickly raises her thin arms, which shake and are swollen with earth, and they beckon the celestial ray towards her. Her energy electrifies the whole area. And everyone becomes a shadow. There is light; it can be seen in three windows of the mansion. An oil lamp with gentle flame. Outside, rain pours down as if it were Judgement Day.)

.

The windscreen wiper is set on frantic - moving as quickly as technology permits. The lighthouse is up ahead. The disobedient tires skate along the waterlogged road. Leopoldo steps up a gear and the car, like him, loses control. A jerk and a jolt stop.

“Fuck, Leopoldo.”The light inside, Luana’s pale complexion, is child-like, but a little trickle of blood

comes from the bruise caused by a small bump against the window. A black stain that hurts and reminds her that the seatbelt was not on properly. A thousand kisses, water with sugar, honey or arnica - Leopoldo cannot do anything to take the guilt away. Even he, such a skilful driver, had been struggling so much with that stretch of road. He was not used to a car of that size, a beast and…

“And nothing, Leopoldo. You have to drive more slowly, or we can take a break until it stops raining. I don’t know.”

“Darling, look at me. Trust me, OK? Luana, you know I’m a good driver. This has never happened before. Please forgive me.”

The girl recalled her old aunts telling their husbands off at the steering well. She remembered her mother’s aunt, Mrs Lady, asking her husband to let her out of the car in the middle of the Rio-Petrópolis highway, after surviving a dangerous overtaking manoeuvre. She played the game, until she got what she wanted. She was left smack bang in the middle of the road to be rescued later by her father, in Duque de Caxias, exhausted, beside the mangrove crab sellers. No, she did not want to be like them.

“Forgive me too.”The rain offered no truce. The windows were closed and the headlights beamed

through bulging raindrops that looked like blue curtains hanging from some invisible door. The couple’s breathing steamed up the windows. It was a comfortable temperature. Leopoldo kissed Luana’s face, caressed her shoulders, found her mouth and her tongue. He took a deep breath and his hands dived in and fondled the ample breasts. Luana, his woman, his hot chick. He runs his hand down her thigh and breathes deeply. Luana exhales, controlling herself and playfully resisting her dear, breathless man. Better not now, in the middle of the road. He should know that. The hotel must be close. That’s true, but crazy love does not think that way, and that scent of a woman. Her lap - that could

forever live over him and be reborn every day, those wide hips of a woman born to reproduce. The husband looks into her eyes: a bunch of children born from such instantaneous pleasure. Leopoldo was part of a strange tradition of ancestry: never less than one and never more than one. The boy was always the first to arrive, the only one to reign: thus it was and thus it shall be.

Leopoldo was the son of Felipe, who was the son of Miguel Neto, who was the son of Leopoldo Neto, who was the son of Miguel. Luana was also an only daughter. Eleven children… suggests the husband. Twenty-two, replies the women in jest. She imagines herself plump, always with swollen breasts full of milk.

“OK. Tradition wins the day. An only son.”

Chapter III

(The kitchen is a spacious rectangle, lit by candles and two iron lanterns that hang from the high ceiling. The flames give the whole scene a reddish-orange tone. On the marble bench, the coriander leaves, the ears of maize, the yams, the chilli peppers, the palm oil pan, the peanuts, the chestnuts, the black beans, the salt, the sliced banana leaves, the sugar, the jars of cornflower and cassava, the pumpkins, the kidney beans. The young black girl has her back turned on the world. She enjoys peeling the beans. She patiently puts each grain in a jar of coconut milk. The kitchen door opens and the arms of the old black man appear with the wooden frame. The lady, bending over, sorts out the chunky sticks, the thinner sticks and the twigs. With practice, she begins to fan the flames rapidly. Blow hard, blow hard.

The young lady delicately takes up the roaming chicken that is aimlessly wandering around the barren kitchen floor. She places her delicate little hand around the bird’s neck and cuts. The chicken screams as blood pours into a bowl.)

.

The rain continues to fall heavily, and Luana remembers reading in some magazine that this was a symbol of fertility. The car negotiates the road slowly and safety, finding a way through. Cleanliness. Lightening rips through the sky. The sudden flash gives the young lady a crystalline and volatile conscience. It is God’s weapon to eradicate all ignorance by abruptly penetrating the earth’s folds. Phallic pleasure, the main creator of life and death. It liberates the soul, the souls. Luana is transfixed by the vision of those passionate lights, deep fascination and fear. She tries in vain to silence the emotions she cannot control. She begins to pray, Our Father. Heaven… hallowed… name.

.

(The last drop of blood drips from the dead chicken. The bowl is full.).

God appears to have heard the girl’s prayers. The water stops falling and both Luana and Leopoldo feel their bodies relaxing. The lightening can only be seen in the distance now and the claps of thunder are much quieter. Luana caresses the nape of her husband’s neck, and a relaxed smile begins to form, when a sudden jarring jolt seems to interrupt the flow of time - these are the seconds of conscience that are providentially stolen from us by moments of great trauma. The car is still leaning heavily to the right, shaking just like an insect trapped in a spider web. Luana screams and Leopoldo, turning towards her, turns off the ignition

“Stop, Luana, stop, fuck!”The hysteria turns into a quiet sob, but she’s convulsing slightly. Leopoldo opens the

car door and, carefully, starts to get out, putting his first foot on the ground, and then the second, without having the same luck: he can’t find the bottom. The man strains a bit too quickly and falls backwards into the mud. Leopoldo?

“Luana, stay where you are. Shit!”“What was it?”

“The car fell into a cattle-grid. And I almost did too. Don’t even think about getting out, no way.”

The wheels stop turning. Not a cloud in the sky, and their mobile phones do not have any reception. The safety mechanism cannot be activated, and the motoring world seems to have forgotten entirely about this road that would have been a dirt track before the rain. Luana carefully manages to get out of the car and joins Leopoldo in the beacon-like protection of the headlights. She looks for something comforting in her handbag. She finally takes out a mashed up pack of cigarettes. More than a month without smoking, why not now? She is clean of the drug. They had made a promise, and they would break it together, without an anti-depressant or adhesive - in the race, changing habits, acquiring others, running around 17 kilometres a day. Why go around with this shit so close and so tempting?

“I don’t know. I think it was intuition. Look at it this way, Leopoldo. We are stranded on a dirt track, which is now mud. We don’t even know if we’re near the hotel.”

Leopoldo points at a sign lit up by the light from the car: Sapucaia Ranch-Hotel 5 km. Impossible to take a stroll in this quagmire. Luana lights a cigarette and the husband takes the packet off her. Don’t even think about throwing them away. He takes one for himself.

“Where’s your willpower?”“It’s hidden away at the bottom of your handbag. You’ve got a nerve.”They make fun of their own weakness. Only then, feeling more relaxed, do they

realise that there’s a gate right in front of them. It was difficult to keep the cattle grid in good condition; it was only two beams of wood.

“Man, this is a curse from your mother, don’t you think?”“That’s no way to talk about your little mother-in-law.”“Go to Paris, Luana. It’s great at this time of the year.”“It is great. Low season.”Luana clenches her fists and gives Leopoldo a few playful blows, which paralyse

him, so she can then kiss his mouth. Couldn’t that be the entrance to the ranch hotel, the warm bath, the country feast, the bowl of fruit, the sweetly scented bed sheets? And they’d make love.

The gate is open. And if we go and ask for help? The farmhouse in the distance has lights on. Maybe they’ve got a tractor. A telephone! Better not. People can get a fright. What if they welcome you with bullets? Better not to risk it, but the wooden rail of the cattle grid where they were sitting inside the car suddenly begins to sink further and, scared, they end up risking the farmhouse.

“That’s not a cattle grid. It’s an elephant grid, a jeep grid, a tractor grid, a fucking everything grid.”

“Come on, Luana. Let’s not complain too much. The people in charge of the upkeep of that thing are the only ones who can help us now.”

.

(The young black girl grinds the toasted corn, turning the handle of the grinder firmly and safety. With her two hands, one with palm oil, the other holding honey, she carefully soaks the ground maize.)

.

Leopoldo and Luana walk towards the farmhouse. Between the glimmers of the still heavy clouds, there are streams of light reflected by the full moon. The windows, there are three on each side, reveal comfort gently lit by fire. The lights on the second floor are switched off. Candles, maps - the electricity was probably cut off by the storm. The wind is gentle, cold, and permanent. Their breaths are short and heavy, nostrils running, their pace quickens, but the target does not seem to get any closer.

“I don’t think we’re ever going to make it to that house.”“That’s funny. I’m getting the same feeling, Luana.”The church ceremony was perfect. The lilies, the fine dresses, the kind smiles, the

nodding heads, the grave stares of the oldest relatives - the little cries of the only baby helped to bring some joy to the atmosphere. The pianist began safely and slowly with Chopin’s Sonata Opus 62; the calm and triumphant organ performed Handel’s Serse Largo. When exchanging the wedding rings of white gold, another little cry. Luana liked the feeling of being in charge of an event, organising all the usual things so she could surprise everybody joining her on her special day, the day the girl became a woman. It’s getting damn late. Fucking dirt road. Bloody ranch-hotel. And we’re never going to make it to that house.

“Let’s go back, Leopoldo. I’ve had enough!”“Where, Luana?”“Walk five kilometres to the ranch-hotel - I don’t know!”With no rain, and with help from the moonlight, it seemed reasonable. It won’t be

that bad. Could they even get a ride? End this odd and pointless adventure once and for all. A hot bath, a hearty dinner.

“Luana, I can’t see what time it is.”A half turn. The breathing of the married couple is frozen for a few seconds so the

animal can sniff excitedly around them. It was there, really close. The smell of fear can never be hidden from a dog that would not open its mouth if there is nothing to be devoured. The silent growl shows how it feels about strangers.

“Luana, look slowly at the house again. No fast movements.”“Oh my God.”The dog growls louder. It must be showing its sharp white teeth, gnashing, drooling -

with the full moon contributing to its mad confidence.“Don’t say a thing, and no crying. Lower your head and walk, Luana.”Now, a powerful bark seems to clamour for blood, fresh and raw flesh. The dog

senses the presence of inferior beings in its territory. Luana and Leopoldo sweat, despite the almost icy wind. Fear has a smell.

“If he appears in front of us, don’t look into his eyes, whatever you do.”“We’re going to cry for help.”“Only when we’re closer to the house.”The married couple walk looking at the ground. The dog goes silent - they can hear

his paws splattering in the mud as he follows them. They breathe deeply, trying to recover enough balance to think straight in the midst of the chaos surrounding them.

.

(Without a doubt, it is beautiful when the macho male shows off for the female. Nature offers them means such as the lion’s mane, the peacock’s feathers. She has to choose the strongest and most attractive to continue the species. However, the exhibition,

even without the intention of reproducing, for the male and the female, is obviously always exciting. The father always wants to feel young, youthful, to defend his female from the evils of the world - and do so for her whole life, if possible. And then there is the old man, the impotent black man, smoothing his high-waist trousers, ironed white shirt and jacket. The tie looks good on him, according to the mirror reflecting his wife’s proud smile, in a long, purple-coloured dress, with long, baggy sleeves. Even in a comfortable wooden chalet, his shoulder is still cold. They look at each other and smile. They’re dressed elegantly. As if he were a suitor, his tough black hands look gentle with two pretty golden earrings with inlaid rubies and sapphires on the ears of his beautiful wife.

“She’s going to be really proud of you, Aurora.”“Let’s go down, Felinto. It’s almost time.”

Chapter IV

(In the dining room, the young black girl runs her hand over the linen of the Portuguese tablecloth, making it smoother, removing all creases and wrinkles. Her head always lowered, her body seems to fluctuate with the delicacy of her movements. She takes the warm plates from the little wooden trolley, arranging them on cast iron chafing dishes, made hotter by the coals. Banana leaves, red and yellow daises surround a purple orchid; more of them, little white flowers, surrounded by red roses - all the ornaments are displayed on rustic clay plates, providing a harmonious contrast with the French porcelain dinner set with floral motifs. The Austro-Hungarian cutlery has smooth handles coated with pearls.

Those fine hands, it seems, gather an incandescent ember from the chafing dish. They lift it close to the young face - the black mouth forms a smile illuminated by the heat. Without showing pain or suffering, she walks towards the fireplace and throws the ember onto the firewood and twigs. The fire fights air and slowly comes to life.)

.

“Help, please.”“Oh, Leopoldo. He must be nearby.”“Hey, you’ve got an angry dog here outside. Could you open this door?”“For the love of.”Aurora, a black lady, opens the door quickly and ushers the young couple inside.“Shoo Aklasu, outside, outside.”Nothing is heard from the dog. Aurora shuts the door and smiles comfortingly at the

married couple.“We’re so sorry, Madam, for arriving like this.”“Please accept our apologies. My God, what a fright!”“Calm down. Take deep breaths.”“Are you alone here Madam? Are the owners of the house away?”Luana, Luana, she always lost control of the situation, got distracted by something.

She didn’t mean it. She was nearly always right, but sometimes she just lost it. It was a matter of seconds. There was something in the air, some great humiliation. Aurora lowers her eyes and then raises them elegantly. A benevolent smile forms and she extends a hand to the girl.

“Aurora, pleased to meet you. The lady of the house.”Oh my God, oh my God. Leopoldo doesn’t know what to say, where to look. If only

he could push Luana into a dark room, as punishment, her mouth gagged, kneeling on corn. How careless, the stupid idiot! One minute the lady saves us, the next she’s humiliated. And he hated himself even more because, in the first instance, the question had not seemed foolish. It had seemed natural. Leopoldo tried to catch Luana’s gaze and scold her into torturous silence.

“I must be going crazy, Madam. Please forgive me. I’m stupid. Nothing makes much sense.”

The colours do not make sense. If only it could be blamed on dizziness. That would help. But Luana was transparent, honest in the extreme. She would not be able to fake it.

“Calm down my girl. Relax. It wasn’t the first and it won’t be the last time this kind of misunderstanding happens.”

“Look, I’m very sorry. It was a very impolite thing for my wife to say.”Luana’s vision becomes blurred. A sharp pain comes over her confused soul. Her

words do not come out, and, choking up, she starts crying.“I’ve made a fool of myself. It’s all so confusing. The road, the car falling into the

cattle grid, the dog.”Aurora puts an end to the dramatic scene in a friendly and good-natured tone, already

taking the young lady by the arm.“Oh no! The cattle grid at the gate. Please, we’re the ones who should be

apologising. I’ve been on at Felinto about that problematic cattle grid for years. But he doesn’t seem to listen to me.”

Leopoldo apologises. He lost control - the rain, I don’t know. Like a baritone starting to sing his first aria, Felinto arrives with strong strides.

“No, no, mister. In terms of apologies, I’m the one who needs to say sorry. I always put off until tomorrow what I could be doing today. A pleasure to meet you.”

With a wife’s authority, Aurora emphasises that she believes this is her husband’s biggest flaw. Perhaps his only flaw. Luana says that part of the cattle grid has no rail. The left side, which seemed to be supporting the car, almost collapsed. They didn’t want to trouble them further. A simple call to the insurance company and that would be it. The Via Dutra highway is nearby. My boy…

“Leopoldo...”“Leopoldo. My wife Aurora and I made a choice in this life: to live without

electricity and without a telephone. The little strange habits of old people.”“Speak for yourself, Mr Felinto.”“Cool, interesting, ecologically perfect. An eccentric choice, without a doubt.”“Almost religious, I would say.”They would wait for steady weather. They would sleep in the car until sunrise. The

ranch-hotel would take the necessary action.“Not a chance. Tonight, you’re our guests.”After a polite rejection, they both felt secretly relieved to be entering a comfort zone.

The tension was considerably reduced and their attention was drawn to the interior of the house, which seemed like a period scene. There, in the hallway, a carved wooden staircase wound upwards. The doors of the high-ceiling rooms were cushioned in turquoise, the walls full of oil and watercolour paintings: pastoral country landscapes, portraits, sea views, of urban scenes. The mosaic floor was reminiscent of a chessboard. The silver gas lamps revealed the anachronistic beauty of the wallpaper and the artistically finished windows. All so old, for sure, but it looked new: the cleanliness, the shine, the smell of aromatic oils. To keep it all so well preserved, they must have employees. Luana was charmed by a French window with a central door enclosed by two display cases. Above it, a cream-coloured marble buffer streaked with black. Aurora held a lamp close so Luana could see it more clearly.

“They’re china dolls. How amazing!”“China, cloth, straw… Look at this.”“Wow, that’s amazing. It looks real.”“Golden clusters. A baroque angel.”

The base of the body is wooden; the doll’s face is white, imitating marble; glass eyes and a wig, made, amazingly, with human hair.

“While the ladies entertain themselves with the ornaments, please join me for an aperitif in the library.”

“Very well, Mr Felinto.”“As well as the aperitif, a fine cigar from Bahia.”“Wow, I’ll stay here forever.”Luana continues to walk around the ranch rooms in enchanted wonder. None of the

museums she had visited around the world had been able to bring so much life and heartbeat to historical pieces.

“I’m glad you like it!”“Wow, look at this. Silver.”“It’s a Hungarian tea set, if I’m not mistaken.”“Do you use it?”“Whenever I can. I like a little cup of tea in the late afternoon. Like the English do.”“Mrs Aurora, you know, it’s a privilege to live like this. In the cities, people have no

quality of life.”Just thinking about Rio de Janeiro’s chaotic traffic was enough to make Luana want

to cry again. The car doesn’t get out of first gear and the traffic reporter Genilson Araújo offers no encouragement. Red Line, Yellow, Lagoa-Barra, Botafogo - the closed, armoured windows. The fear of being mugged, of being kidnapped, of a stray bullet. Nothing could be better than life on the ranch, hidden away from everyone. At least on the perfect honeymoon it would be like that.

“More than beautiful!”“For me, and for my father-in-law too, I would die to live in a place like this. I like

the peace, the tradition. Leopoldo is more the city-type. He’s just like his mother and grandfather.”

The family line is like that: for a time, stay hidden beneath coatings of paint on the surface. But maturity arrives, and with it, cracks and splinters start to reveal everything - all the good and all the bad within the family tree that created us. The roots.

“Would you like a little drop of jabuticaba fruit liquor?”“Yes please, Mrs Aurora.”The finest sugarcane liquor, sugar crystals from the north, preferably, with whole

jabuticabas, round and juicy like cherries that explode black and purplish in the lands of this blessed place - one of the richest coffee ranches in the region, founded in 1846. A chalice as well - and I’ll have some.

“Wow, what a fine liquor!”

(***)

In the library, there are around ten bookcases with books of varying thickness. Good, thick, and dark wood. A ladder nearby with rollers made of the same material is stationary, taking up the left corner of the 15-metre-long wall, the same length as the case displaying rare items. Damsels evoking God and nature live inside the case, bearing witness to the purity of their feelings in relationship to the noble and decadent nobleman. They reside alongside indigenous heroes that give up their blood to their earth so the nation becomes strong and fearless, plants with fantastic hallucinogenic and curing powers, and snakes and other animals given new life by the odd feather and a splash of

water - and musical scores, and agreements made in amity. Among other titles, there’s The Pleasure of Lusitano, Convalesced Portugal, The Unmasked Ballplayer, Epistle on Despotism, The Well-being of Girls and Ladies, Leonor of Mendonça, The Guarani, Floating Foam, Macarius. And many more. They must be a range of particularly special editions, because they still have the care and sophistication of old works, even if they are new - really new. The pleasant smell of the paper gives that away.

“Do you like reading, Leopoldo?”Felinto takes a book in his hands and gives it to the young man.“A great deal. You don’t know how much. At home we’re compulsive readers.”“Then you’ll be able to appreciate this Martins Pena, edited in 1846.”“The Soul Brothers. What a suggestive title.”“It’s not that grand. A play on words, a light comedy from our great playwright.”“What’s impressive is how new it looks.”“It’s the zeal, the love of letters.”It’s the time for the cigar ritual. They make themselves comfortable in armchairs

with high backrests, even if they have to sit up a little straighter in the chair. In between them rests a large, bronze neo-Latin ashtray. Felinto hands Leopoldo a Bahian cigar and lights it with a golden lighter. He then lights his own. They take long and satisfying drags.

“That’s something special, Mr Felinto. It’s got a really distinct flavour.”There are little details that only a few people can detect: a natural inclination for the

pleasures of life - those produced and made by genius. A taste for quality, for comfort, for wealth.

“You’re made for life on the ranch.”“Look, Sir, I’m more the city type, a world apart from these things. My father, yes,

he loves all this. Luana too.”“Maybe she’s enchanted, unlike you. Something tells me that inside that chest of

yours, there’s a powerful and energetic rancher asleep.”From the little he knows, Leopoldo tells the family history that had a ranch in this

region, called Our Lady of Boa Hora. The great-grandfather sold it in 1928, before the crisis that killed all the coffee producers the following year. The company had been founded by his ancestor the Baron of New Brook, Mr Leopoldo Gusmão de Castro.

“Beautiful ranch. Today only ruins are left. The baron is a major figure in local history.”

“Oh really?”“Yes. I will tell you some of his achievements later...”“Oh, well. I didn’t inherit this love of land, of plantations.”Youngsters feel their pulse, but they almost always ignore their heartbeat. This takes

time, delaying instant pleasure, silencing all those inner voices to open these sensations that flow in our blood. From one hour to the next, we are consumed by memories and desires that seem alien - like a clot that bursts, an unrestrained haemorrhage.

“And very talented.”Leopoldo is reflecting on those images when he is interrupted by the entrance of

Luana and Aurora, who are already like old friends. The girl is delighted with just stumbling across this miniature Alexandria. It’s so chic! Goodbye memories, computer games, button C and button V. In the library, we have control over things, the pages, the

volumes, organising them by subjects, titles, genres. We can catalogue the whole collection in accessible files, which we can change. The energy expended is the researcher’s, and of the book and the author. My automated kingdom for this library of atoms.

“I’m trying to convince your husband to leave the city and come and live in the country.”

“I hope you’re successful, Mr Felinto.”“Imagine, dear husband, having these charming youngsters as neighbours.”“I hope that happens.”“Luana, how cowardly! You arranged some lawyers. Is this some kind of trick?”The delicious aroma of food wafts in the air, penetrating nostrils and awakening the

visitors’ empty stomachs. The hostess invites everyone to go to the dining room. The table is set, and the talk could continue there.

The table has sixteen places. Both luxurious and fine: rustic chinaware and delicate porcelain paint a pretty picture. Steam rises from the serving platters. The gas lamps are turned off to provide room for the candelabra with yellow and red candles that reveal just how beautiful the moment is. The backing of one of the chairs, where Mr Felinto will sit, above the height of his head, projects from a large painting on the wall. It’s an oil painting. An image of an adolescent black girl, dressed like a little angel for her first communion, in fully embroidered lace. Her arms are placed in front of her body as if she were holding a child. A black satin ribbon is tied over her eyes, covering them. The background is a disturbing dark green, which looks like slime on water.

While taking their seats in the places indicated by Aurora, Luana sees the figure of a woman pass by the door, giving her a small fright. Only Luana sees it, and she lets out a little cry. And everyone is concerned by her confused state. No it’s just that, just that. You didn’t see anyone passing down there, quickly, as if…

“As if floating, is that it?”“Exactly, Mrs Aurora.”“Don’t worry. You don’t understand how shy these country folks are. It’s the servant

we have living with us. She’s always running, hiding from everyone.”“You’re right: the little black girl seemed to be floating!”Felinto forces a laugh. Aurora smiles just a little.“She knows there are unfamiliar people here. If she could, she’d creep away. She’s

so shy.”“Yes, those people are like that.”“Right, Leopoldo. Those people are that way.”The food is eye-catching. The dishes and cutlery served as starters are enjoyed

slowly so the pleasure never seems to end. Slices of pressed bananas, fried and dried, which should be eaten with a seasoned avocado; small bean cakes fried in palm oil; greens, tomatoes and onions, macerated rice dumplings. The main course: Chicken stew. Luana has almost finished her plate:

“Wow, this white rice with the sauce from that chicken is divine.”“You have to know how to make it. When mixing the vinegar with the chicken’s

blood, you can’t stop chopping.”Blood - that was blood? That sauce that seemed perfect, unbeatable, was made up of

plasma, erythrocytes, leukocytes, and platelets of a dumb chicken, which had lost its way,

perhaps in the coop, pecking at scraps and crumbs, with its wings cut - who knows - so it couldn’t fly around. Now she’d be digesting blood, a bird vampire. She suddenly feels sick. Then she regains control.

“Well done, nice and fresh. You want to be a country woman but not eat chicken in red sauce?”

“Chicken stew.”It is only for a fraction of a second, but Luana intensely wishes she’d never met

Leopoldo and his childish sense of humour.“If you don’t want any more, my girl, leave it. You were on your second course,

after all.“You won’t be offended?”“Funny, she does not think oysters are nasty.”He was going to answer for this. Oh, was he ever. Luana’s cheeks turned red

whenever someone got on her nerves. But she had to control herself so as not to unleash foul language in her husband’s direction. He was going to praise the juice because it was so good, and then he would help to clean the blood from her mouth.

“It is the aluá, an African drink. Fermented pineapple juice.”And to finish, a pan of toasted corn pudding arrives, with palm oil and honey. A true

delicacy to swill around the corners of your mouth and taste with the tip of your tongue. Bananas, papayas, and guavas are also equally delicious.

“That was a feast fit for a king.”“A man of the earth, Leopoldo; a man of the earth.”Luana’s attention is drawn to the painting of the young black girl. Is the blindfold

over her eyes perhaps a reference to the blindness of justice? Not exactly. That painting portrayed the image of Odete, a type of saint, known in the region as Tainted Odete.

“A tainted saint? Why is she not immaculate?”“She had a very beautiful and sad life.”“She lived here on this ranch.”“Really, I was wondering.”“Felinto must tell you the whole story of Odete, but over a nice glass of banana-

flavoured sugarcane liquor. OK?”“Yes please. I’m not going to be driving again today.”

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