Thomas shifted in his seat, wondering how he was going to justify this speech. He fixed his gaze on the fan turning lazily in the centre of the room.
‘The role of the owner is essentially that of father, the slaves the children. Slaves have the same rights as children — that is, they must do as their “father” tells them. They cannot own property, they cannot vote. In return, they are given a roof over their heads, and protection. As a slave owner I would feel the same duty as a father to protect my slaves, and they would be bound to stay with me as their provider. Now slavery has been abolished, we have been forced to employ Indians, who, I add, sirs, have not been slaves for some time — there was some kind of “protection”, as the monarchy liked to put it, on them. The Indians are not bound by the natural laws of a father and child. The act of paying them has given them a false sense of independence that verges on insolence. Although they can’t live without my wages, they no longer have my protection, either — I do not feel as obliged to them because I employ them for wages instead of out of duty. Do I make sense, gentlemen?’
Thomas could see that, in a strange way, Santos was making sense. Did this then mean he agreed with the man, that slavery was not a bad thing? He would need to consider that some more.
‘With all due respect, sir,’ said John, ‘what natural right is there that you should be the master and they the slave?’
‘Oho, Mr Gitchens. Do we have a socialist on our hands? I suppose you believe all men are created equal?’
‘I do, as a matter of fact.’ John gulped down the rest of his brandy and a waiter stepped forward immediately to refill the glass.
‘Don’t mind him,’ said Ernie. ‘Of course he’s a socialist. It is the right of all the lower classes to believe such a thing. I’m sure it keeps them sane.’
‘And you, Dr Harris?’
‘I confess to being a bit of one myself, old man. But I can see your point of view. I would have to have some time to think about what you’re saying, though. I’ve never been in any kind of position to have slaves under my command. I’m not saying I would want to, but I couldn’t speak about it with certainty until I had, I suppose.’
George snorted. ‘Ernest, the British have enslaved people for centuries. The British Empire could not have spread so far without it. You probably wouldn’t be where you are today without it.’
‘How do you figure that?’ asked Ernie.
‘Now, now, gentlemen. Mr Sebel, you bring up an interesting point. The British Empire has indeed been very powerful. If only Portugal had been half as strong. What did we accomplish? Not nearly as much as we once thought we would, that’s what. Have you ever been to Portugal? What a proud country it once was — so full of hope and expectation! Now it seems to have a sad air about it. An air of disappointment. It never became as great as it once thought it would be. Now the British …’ he trailed away, deep in thought, and sucked hard on his cigar.
Thomas was beginning to feel dizzy with the cigar, and he put it down into the ashtray in front of him.
‘You’re very quiet over there, Mr Edgar,’ said Santos. ‘We are not boring you, I hope?’
‘Oh no, sir!’ said Thomas. He felt himself redden, with all eyes fixed on him. ‘I am interested in your conversation, absolutely. I’m afraid I don’t feel quite worldly enough to join in yet.’
‘And what age are you, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Twenty-seven, sir.’
‘Ah! So young! Young enough to be my son. In fact you are all young enough to be my sons … except perhaps you, Mr Gitchens. How lucky I would feel if I had three sons as fine as you gentlemen.’
Thomas wriggled in his seat, suddenly feeling like a schoolboy praised by his favourite teacher. He saw Ernie and George glance at each other, pride puffing their chests.
‘And do you have any sons?’ asked Thomas.
‘No,’ said Santos. His face clouded. ‘I have no children. My first wife died childless, and as yet my second wife and I have not been blessed.’
‘We haven’t met your wife yet,’ said George.
‘Clara. You will meet her tomorrow. She is a fine young woman, Portuguese. She would be interested to talk to you, Mr Gitchens.’
John started, and looked around as if he had just woken from a dream.
‘Me, sir?’
‘Yes. She is very interested in botany. I have always encouraged her to have interests, just until our first children are born. She has become very interested in plants. Always with her nose in a book about them. I have to stop her from running off into the forest alone to look at them — too many dangers. But if she could accompany you at any time on one of your plant-hunting expeditions, she would be very happy.’
‘Of course,’ said John, and he smiled for the first time that evening.
After dinner, which had been followed by port from Oporto and cheese from Cork, as Santos had proudly pointed out, he led them further into the interior of the building, which seemed endless. They passed through a curtain at the back of the restaurant and then through a heavy door. As soon as it opened a barrage hit their senses. Thomas had noticed during dinner the men who had passed through the dining room, but he didn’t realise it had been quite so many. The room seethed with the conversation of a hundred men, all dressed in evening dress, standing around long tables, sitting about smaller, round tables, or leaning at the bar with drinks in their hands. Smoke hung like a bank of storm-clouds above their heads.
‘And now for some fun, gentlemen,’ said Santos. He handed them each a cylinder of banknotes and gestured into the room. Thomas moved forward and saw the tables dotted about were those of roulette and men playing cards. Gambling.
He began to pick out individual sounds in the roar, much as he had on the first day in the rainforest: the clacking of the roulette wheel, the flick of cards, the laughter of the men, one or two voices raised in anger. Pianola music ground in the corner and somebody whistled along to the tune; somewhere a glass smashed. There were women in the room, too, leaning over the men as they gambled, exhibiting their cleavages. One woman glided past, without looking at him, in a fur coat. Her face burst with colour, but she clung to her coat anyway. She stumbled a little as she went past and Thomas expected to see her at some time in the night faint with heat exhaustion.
‘I have a table for us in this corner, gentlemen, if you would prefer to sit and watch for a time.’ Santos gestured to a large cushioned seat, which curved around a table. Thomas nodded gratefully and they started to move towards it, except for Ernie, who had already disappeared into the crowd.
Champagne sat on the table in a bucket of ice. Santos popped the cork with a whoop and poured the frothing liquid into glasses. Thomas was already woozy from the rich dinner and the alcohol but he accepted a glass to be polite. John, beside him, took a large gulp of his and wiped his mouth. Thomas hadn’t seen him drink so much before.
‘A toast to your expedition, gentlemen!’ Glasses crashed together and the smile Santos bestowed on Thomas was so warm he felt it settle inside him. He followed his host’s lead and downed the glass in one. After Santos had refilled it, he became bold.
‘Another toast, to our gracious host!’ He laughed at the unintentional rhyme.
George joined in on the toast with a genuine if slightly serious nod, and knocked his champagne back with the rest of them.
A handsome woman in her forties approached the table and Santos stood and grasped her hand. He leaned down to kiss her gloved fingers.
‘Senhora da Silva,’ he said, ‘you look quite exquisite tonight. Won’t you join us for a moment?’
Her black dress rustled as she sat, and she cast appraising, black-rimmed eyes over the table of men. ‘These are your English guests, Senhor Santos, no? Which is why you speak English to me.’
Santos introduced them by name, while the woman’s headdress — a tall feather, which reminded Thomas of the horses that had brought them — waved about above her. When she spoke she revealed larg
e pointed teeth, but when she smiled, she kept her lips tightly clamped over them.
‘Would you like me to send some of my girls over for the company of the gentlemen?’
‘Why not?’ said Santos. ‘Ask Ana and Maria to join us.’
Senhora da Silva rose again with more rustling, gave a courteous nod with closed eyes and walked away, noisy skirts trailing.
Thomas found that his hands trembled and he asked Santos if he had a cigarette; he had left his back at the house.
‘Well, Mr Edgar, I do have a cigarette, but it is perhaps not the kind of cigarette you are used to. It is a local one, made from a different kind of tobacco. It is from the dried bark of the ayahuasca vine. Would you care to try it?’
Thomas nodded. He could see the women — Ana and Maria, he presumed — approaching the table. Santos reached into his jacket and pulled out the cigarette; Thomas took it quickly and lit it. The first inhalation scorched his lungs and he coughed. The woody smell was unusual, like the smoke of a log fire.
Santos laughed. ‘Yes, it takes some getting used to, I’m afraid. There is ordinary tobacco in there as well. You’ll soon like it.’ He winked.
Thomas had no chance to answer, as the young ladies were upon them. Santos welcomed them and they squeezed into the booth, one next to George, as Santos had let Maria in before he sat back down again, and the other next to John. Thomas sat between George and John.
The girls spoke no English, so conversation was stilted, and Santos soon ignored them and instead questioned George about his life in London. George did most of his work for the Natural History Museum, but Santos was also jealous of the full life he led in London society.
‘Do you see much opera, sir?’ he asked.
‘Yes, some,’ George replied. ‘I prefer the theatre, but opera can be just as good. I saw a performance of Puccini’s Tosca not long before we set out here. It was superb.’ Maria sat very close to George and stared up into his face as he spoke. Her little round face wore a rapt expression, as if she couldn’t wait to hear what he said next. Thomas thought she could only be faking it; she couldn’t possibly understand him. George noticed her looking at him and leaned his face away slightly, bending his body like a spoon.
‘Puccini!’ exclaimed Santos. ‘How wonderful! You know we have an opera house here in Manaus, Mr Sebel?’
‘I have heard of it, yes. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to come here. I understand it’s magnificent.’
‘Yes, it is.’ Santos glowed. ‘You know I had some hand in the building of it myself. I am one of its patrons.’
‘How often do you have performances?’
‘Alas, not as much as we would like. Some of the performers have died from yellow fever, and it has been difficult getting really talented singers from Europe to agree to come.’
‘That’s terrible,’ murmured George, with one eye on Maria, who was now leaning into him — the gesture could more accurately be described as snuggling — and trying to drink from his glass.
Thomas finished the cigarette. Ana, who sat next to John, gave him a shy smile as he reached for his glass and he returned it. He surprised himself by feeling genuine warmth towards her. John was talking softly to her in Portuguese, but her body language was not as forward as Maria’s — if anything, there was more of a father–daughter aspect to their interaction; there were easily enough years between them for it to be so. Her eyes were now downcast, and John appeared to be gently admonishing her. He patted her hands, covering both of hers with one of his. His knuckles were as big as acorns over her delicate pink gloves. He turned heavy eyes to Santos.
‘If you please, sir, I think I should like to go home now. I’m very tired, and I have some work I would like to do before I go to sleep. I thank you for your incredibly kind hospitality.’
‘Mr Gitchens, you disappoint me. You and Ana seem to be getting on tremendously. But very well, I will not come between a man and his work. My driver is outside — he will take you.’
George jumped to his feet, startling Maria, who gave a squeak.
‘I’ll come with you, John.’
‘Mr Sebel as well! You haven’t even had a turn at one of the tables. Oh, you do disappoint me, sirs.’
Thomas would have liked to leave at that point, too — he was beginning to feel most peculiar — but it was now his duty not to disappoint their host further.
‘I hope we have not offended you, Mr Santos,’ said George, glowering at John for getting in his request to leave early. Clearly George had been planning it for some time, hoping to slip away quietly, unnoticed.
‘No, Mr Sebel, you have not offended me.’ Santos gave him a huge smile to prove it and clapped him on the back. ‘You have had a long day; there will be plenty more opportunities for us to enjoy ourselves while you are here.’
George’s jaw visibly tightened at this prospect but he managed a weak smile. ‘Thank you for being so understanding.’ As he spoke he removed his glasses, which had become misted, and wiped them on his handkerchief before wrapping the wires around his ears and returning them to his nose.
‘Thank you for this.’ John dropped the rolled-up money onto the table in front of Santos, who accepted it with a nod. George’s hand went slowly to his breast pocket to draw out his own money. He looked at it for a moment as if it might beg to be kept, before laying it reluctantly on the table.
After their departure, Santos dismissed the two girls as well, and Thomas found himself alone for the first time with their host.
‘How are you feeling, Mr Edgar?’
‘Very well, thank you, sir.’
Santos leaned forward and looking intensely into his eyes. ‘Are you sure? Would you like another cigarette?’
Thomas felt that he couldn’t refuse under the circumstances, that to reject any more of the man’s hospitality would be rude. In truth he wasn’t feeling very well at all. His head had become light, as if it might float upwards and become detached from his shoulders. The sounds of the room startled him at intervals; he heard another glass smash next to his ear, but when he snapped his head around, found that the commotion was on the other side of the room. His sensory perception seemed warped. It was time to stop drinking — he didn’t want to lose control of himself, not in a place such as this.
‘Another cigarette. Yes please.’ He pushed his half-full glass to one side and accepted the offering. ‘And might I have some water?’
‘Will you not have a flutter? Your friends have left, but there is no reason why you should not have a good time. I have been watching Dr Harris — he seems to be enjoying himself.’
Thomas shifted uncomfortably. He flicked the end of his cigarette into an ashtray, and went on flicking when there was nothing left to shift.
‘Mr Santos …’ He took a deep breath. ‘Sir, I mean you no offence, but I made a promise to my father at an early age that I would never gamble.’
Santos nodded, but leaned forward and prodded Thomas’s arm. ‘Come now, Mr Edgar. We won’t tell on you. Who will know?’
Thomas smiled. Very quietly, he said, ‘God will know, sir.’ He pulled the roll of money from his pocket and placed it in front of Santos, who pushed it back to him.
‘No, you keep it. I admire a man who sticks to his principles. Please use it to buy something nice for your children. Do you have children?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Ah, you will soon be blessed, I’m sure. There is nothing more important in this world than producing children. I predict you will have many. For your lovely wife, then. I’m sure she is lovely, and that she misses you. Buy something for her. Promise me.’
‘I will, sir.’ He could not refuse. ‘I thank you.’
Before he received a reply, a large shape, all arms and legs, stumbled out of the crowd and banged into the table. Ernie Harris stood before them, his arms wrapped around a woman in a blue dress, with startling red hair. He had lost his jacket and patches of yellow moisture spread over his white shirt from under his arms. Swe
at beaded his forehead and large red splotches flamed under the skin of his cheeks. His moustache, which had previously been waxed in a miniature imitation of his host, had wilted over his wet lips.
‘I say,’ he wheezed, ‘look who I found.’
The woman in his arms — trying to disentangle herself and regain some of the composure that had been stolen from her — was Lillie, the woman from the ship that had dropped them off in Santarém. Her dress shone with beads, and a diamond necklace clasped her white throat. It was mesmerising; Thomas stared into it until he heard her speak.
‘Good evening, Mr Edgar. Nice to see you again.’ She extended her hand and he grasped the end of her fingers through her pristine white gloves.
‘Sir,’ said Ernie to Santos, ‘may I introduce to you Miss Lillie. She’s French.’ He bumped down into the seat next to Thomas, uninvited. Lillie remained standing, waiting.
‘Enchanté, mademoiselle,’ said Santos as he stood and planted a kiss on her hand. ‘Please, join us.’ He kept hold of her hand and moved over so she had to sit next to him.
‘I am having a top night, thank you, sir.’ Ernie fanned himself with an imaginary fan. ‘But damned if I haven’t lost all of your money.’ His eyes drooped.
‘Do not concern yourself, Dr Harris. It was yours for the evening to do with as you wished.’
Ernie took Thomas’s cigarette from between his fingers and took a puff. His face screwed up and he coughed. ‘Christ! What’s this you’re smoking?’
‘Shh, Ernie,’ said Thomas, but Mr Santos was deep in conversation, in French, with Lillie. ‘It’s a local tobacco. Mr Santos gave it to me. You can finish it if you want. I’m not feeling so well.’
‘No stamina, that’s your problem, Tom.’ Ernie tried the cigarette again, and examined the end of it as he exhaled.
Lillie sat with one hand resting on her breastbone, nodding vigorously. She looked utterly transfixed. Santos leaned in close to her and touched her often — her shoulder, her arm, even her face on one occasion. His finger, with its perfect nails, lingered on her cheek for a moment and traced a tiny circle before he withdrew it. Thomas didn’t understand what he said to her, but she looked down, a smile on her face, and nodded again, harder than ever.
Sound of Butterflies, The Page 16
