Pictures of You

by Barbara Delinsky

  Now, as the taxi moved northward, Eva was convinced that the impulse to come had been a good one. The bracing mountain air, warm though it was, seemed to be clearing her head somewhat. She began to feel her nerve endings uncoiling from the dangerous tautness which had characterized them for the past few weeks. She began to relax; a sense of well-being, as deceptive as she knew it could be, had settled on her. Wild-goose chase or not, she was determined to enjoy herself, just as Stu would have done. And yes, this trip would also be enlightening, if only from the viewpoint of the pictures she would be able to bring back for publication.

  Most important, Eva was counting on this trip to put things back into perspective for her. Her disastrous marriage to Stu had temporarily sidetracked her from the kind of life she had always wanted, one that was filled with stimulation, achievement, and love.

  Eva had grown up with more love than most children. Her parents were totally devoted, deeply loving, and, in their own way, overly indulgent of her. When it became obvious that she would be their only child, they even exaggerated these qualities, as a way to vent their own needs to give and to compensate for their inability to provide siblings for Eva. Far fom being overprotective, Eva’s parents had given her much free rein, knowing that she would have to cope if anything ever happened to them and she was left alone in the world. Eerily, their premonition was well founded. Eva’s mother became ill and died within six months of Eva’s graduation from high school, and a year later, when Eva was in her first year of college, her father suffered a stroke and, after three months in a comatose condition, he too died.

  Her parents’ training served her well. Distraught as she was at the loss of both parents within such a short time, Eva managed to fill her days at the university, not slowing down at all until she sensed that the pain had begun to ease.

  It was during her sophomore year that she met E. Stuart Jordenson. She was taking part in a work-study program which, though she had been adequately provided for by her parents, gave her both the extra money and the additional work experience that she knew would be of great benefit after she graduated. As a very part-time assistant to the editor of the in-house publication at Jordenson Manufacturing, she was given a wide assortment of chores, doing a little reporting, a little photography, a little design, a little layout. It was during one of these assignments that she had been singled out by the boss himself. How ironic, she thought now in hindsight, that this job, which she had taken specifically to improve her future prospects, had actually affected them so completely!

  Stu had entered Eva’s life at a time when she was uncharacteristically vulnerable, still suffering from the emotional withdrawal following her parents’ deaths. He promised her everything she thought she wanted, and after a whirlwind courtship, they were married in an elaborately staged wedding attended by all of the Jordenson relatives, all of the Jordenson friends, all of the Jordenson business associates, most of the Jordenson acquaintances, and a few of Eva’s close friends. Viewing Eva as a poor, unsophisticated, though perhaps devious, orphan, Stu’s parents had magnanimously made all the plans for this extravaganza, relegating Eva to the role of spectator, a role she was not used to playing. The wedding preparations themselves became a nightmare of fittings, consultations, and other command performances, ironically a harbinger of the agonizing marriage yet to come.

  Eva frequently asked herself, after the first few months of happiness had dragged into months of tension, frustration, and anger, why Stu had wanted to marry her in the first place. He was older, wise to the ways of women and the world, and could have—usually did have—his choice of any woman for his bedmate. Perhaps it was because Eva had resisted his advances, insisting that she would not become his lover until after she became his wife. Perhaps it was her innocence, which may have lent a freshness and sense of vitality to his overly sophisticated, boringly chic circle. Perhaps it was a pathetic attempt at rebellion against the parents who had dominated his personal life for too many years and had made it clear from the start that Eva was, in her youth, naivete, and lack of social position, an unfit partner for their son.

  Whatever the reason, Eva knew beyond a doubt that she had failed miserably to meet the challenge. Further, she realized very quickly that her failure had little to do with ability but much to do with desire. It had been a two-way street; just as Stuart Jordenson had become disillusioned with her, she had become disillusioned with him. The one thing she so badly craved, particularly following the deaths of her parents, was love; it was the one thing Stu was completely unable and unwilling to give her. As the months passed and her hurt deepened, she turned away from him even on the rare occasions when he approached her, thus compounding the ill feeling each harbored within.

  If only she had tried harder. If only she had given more. If only she had demanded less. If only she had been able to convince Stu to slow down. But, as if to purposely contradict her presence, he had worked harder, played harder, even rested harder. A heart attack at the age of thirty-eight was not unheard of, but it was unusual. Eva sensed that in her heart she would blame herself for a long time to come, long after her mind became convinced of her innocence.

  Eva was brought abruptly back to the present by a sudden command from the driver. His English was quite good on the phrases commonly used in his line of work, but it deteriorated rapidly with any variation from the norm. He was diligent in telling her the names of the towns they passed—Curvelo, Corinto, Buenopolis—and even attempted to tell her a little about each, most of which she had been unable to understand. This command, however, was in Portuguese, so she had no chance at all. His meaning soon became crystal clear, however, as the taxi negotiated the first of a series of hairpin turns, and Eva, belongings and all, ricocheted to the opposite door, which she held on to for dear life.

  As quickly as the stomach-wrenching, 180-degree turns had begun, they were left behind as the car proceeded to pass across the gold-flecked moorland. The road gradually gained altitude as they progressed northward, and although the air here was drier than that of Rio, or even of Belo Horizonte, Eva could feel the heat increasing.

  Aside from the charm of the towns, each tucked into its own niche on its own hillside, the landscape itself drew Eva’s attention. With her window rolled down to allow more air into the already warm taxi, she photographed the long grasses as they swayed with the breeze, blowing first one way and then the other, creating bold patterns on the surface of the upland plain. As the road gracefully undulated its way through another mountainous pass, she photographed the razor-sharp outline of the purple rocks silhouetted by the sun. A further turn of the road revealed a peaceful cluster of woodland growth whose trees were foliated with as great a variety as there was said to be among the Brazilians themselves. Many of the trees were flowered; Eva’s film would capture the golden yellow flowers of one, the mauve of another, the blue of yet another, before she placed the camera on the seat beside her and let her own eye take its turn to admire this natural beauty. Yes, it was beautiful, she had to concede. Her preconception of this country had been so wrong; no land which spawned such natural wealth, as rugged as it was at some points, could ever be called “Godforsaken.”

  Since it left Belo Horizonte the taxi was able to move steadily ahead, unencumbered by the traffic that had bogged it down in the city. Eva was aware of other automobiles as they progressed northward, but each kept its pace consistent with the terrain. Occasionally, and of greater interest to Eva, the taxi passed men and donkeys. These men, often short of height and swarthy of complexion, were dressed in the light-colored, loose-fitting work clothes so appropriate to the climate. Each pair of feet was protected from the roughness underfoot by heavy-duty work shoes, seemingly held together after years of use by red-tinted mud and layers of dust that caked the seams. Each head was crowned with the obligatory hat, unstructured, wide-brimmed, and well worn, providing a token measure of privacy from the elements, both human and natural.

  It appeared to Eva that these particular
Brazilians, leading their heavily burdened donkeys from one rural area to another, were shy people who felt totally content within their own millieu but might resent the intrusion of an outsider in their daily lives.

  Strange, she thought, the extremes she had seen in her first few hours in this country—these wayside travelers, exuding a purely natural, rugged, uncultivated kind of raw beauty as compared with the refined air of sophistication and studied perfection of the city dwellers. For the first time since leaving the airport at Belo several hours ago, Eva recalled the man she had seen there whose gaze then had sent such disturbing currents from one end of her body to the other. A sixth sense told her that his beauty was as genuine as that of his more bedraggled countrymen. Yet she felt her guard rising, even as she mentally re-evaluated him. This man, she told herself, probably had more in common wth her late husband and his circle of friends and admirers than either had with these simple country workers. She had learned the hard way about this type of man. He used people for his own ends, playing one against the other as it suited him, taking everything he could get until there was either nothing left to take or someone else whose givings were more promising. Eva knew that the power this man must have over women, so clearly conveyed to her in his earlier scrutiny of her and her own reaction to it, could prove devastating to the woman who should let herself become ensnared.

  No, Eva was determined that she would never let herself be hurt again by such a man. The wound was still raw from her marriage to Stu; she must let its dull ache be a steady reminder, a repeated warning against any who would prey on her vulnerability. But then, this expedition had physically removed her from the rat race; she need have no fear of any scheming playboys in Terra Vermelho.

  Terra Vermelho. No sooner had her thoughts formed than the words were echoed by her driver. Indeed, as she gazed to the right she caught her first glimpse of the town as it silently emerged from the late afternoon mist that had so protectively concealed it from the outside world.

  CHAPTER 2

  The taxi made a sharp turn off the main highway onto a narrow asphalt road that threaded its way carefully between alternating rock formations and low woodland patches. The descent into this mountainside pocket was a gradual one, enabling Eva to leisurely view, both by eye and through her camera lens, the town which lay directly below. With mountains looming all around, the town had been solidly built on the graduated steps at the base of one of the gentler inclines. The houses were set in clusters, some at the lowest levels of the pocket, some a short way up the hillside, with a wide smattering on the middle tiers. The buildings themselves were of a natural gray limestone, varying in shades from the freshest off-white to the more weathered tones. Most were of a single story; a very few were graced with a second floor. All were designed with the tall, narrow doors and windows trimmed in blue in the style so typical of the Portuguese who had originally settled the area. The roofs were constructed of red tiles, faded to a shade compatible with the earth-red hue of the roadside. Clumps of low growing trees and shrubbery dotted the layout, with an occasional palm frond jutting up in cowlick fashion around the corner of a house, as a reminder to the inhabitants that nature would always have the final say.

  The gently flowing river, which formed a narrow ribbon winding through the town, was further testimony of this priority of nature. Those houses near the water’s edge were set in postures of respect for the natural curves the river had maintained for centuries.

  As the taxi entered the town, Eva fully comprehended the value of the donkeys she had seen earlier. The cobblestoned streets were by no means conducive to automotive comfort. Although she saw cars on every street, Eva supposed they must be reserved for trips to the “outside world”; certainly a bout on the back a donkey would be preferable to the discomfort to one of driving repeatedly over these roads.

  The taxi came to an abrupt stop in front of one of the double-tiered structures. Eva saw no sign indicating that this was a hotel, nor did she see any increase in activity here to suggest it. Questioning, she leaned forward in her seat toward her guide.

  “Is this the hotel?” she asked, her tone one of incredulity.

  “Não sei. I don’t know. But I leave people before. No other place I know.”

  His broken English and the puzzled look on his own face was indication enough to Eva that he could help her no further. Suddenly anxious to escape the warmth of the taxi and stretch her legs, she counted out and handed him the fee that the service at the airport had quoted her, adding a few more cruzeiros as a way of thanking him for his pleasantness and his well-intentioned attempts at playing the tour guide. Stepping out of the taxi, she gingerly straightened her legs as she ran her hands up and down the back muscles which had become stiff from inactivity and the mild abuse which the final stage of the journey had inflicted. In that brief instant, Eva felt besieged by the fatigue she had successfully warded off earlier, increasing her determination to settle into a hotel room as soon as possible.

  As the taxi backed into a side street, turned, and headed in the direction it had come, Eva bent to pick up her large suitcase, smaller cosmetic case, and duffel bag which, containing the camera equipment, was by far the heaviest. The air was warmer than she had anticipated, and beads of sweat formed on her forehead and upper lip as she struggled rather clumsily toward the open door of what she assumed, for lack of any better choice, to be the hotel. Had the street not been practically deserted she would have stopped someone for directions. As it was, the few people she did see were a slight distance away and Eva supposed, quite correctly it later turned out, that she would have trouble making herself understood to these very native Brazilians.

  The heat of the afternoon sun abated as Eva passed through the entrance of this house and found herself in a large, high-ceilinged living room sparsely furnished with a pair of chairs and a low bench of highly polished jacaranda, a rosewood native to Brazil, and an intricately designed hammock, stretched from wall to wall at one corner of the room. A low wooden table, simple but solidly designed and of the same gleaming dark wood as the chairs, stood slightly off center in the room, and beneath it, the one source of vibrant color in the room, was a handsome red and gold-flecked rug, hand woven in a pattern typical of the Indian tribes of the Amazon basin.

  Eva put down her bags to examine the room. It suddenly occurred to her that this did not appear to be a hotel at all but rather someone’s private residence, into which she was a possibly unwelcome intruder. Despite the open door and windows, there was no sign of anyone nearby. Cautiously, Eva took a further step into the room, leaving her bags by the door where she had originally deposited them.

  “Hello?” Eva paused, reluctant to disturb the privacy of this house any more than was absolutely necessary.

  “Hello?” she began timidly, though a little louder than before. “Is anybody here? … Hello!”

  Her voice had progressively increased in volume and her final shout must have reached its mark, for she soon heard the sound of scurrying footsteps approaching from the rear of the house. As their patter grew louder, Eva turned expectantly toward a doorway on her left just in time to see a rolypoly little woman sweep into the room. The smooth flow of her full skirt halted immediately, fold bumping into fold before falling back into place, when the pleasant, round face spotted Eva. Immediately, Eva was engulfed by a flood of words of the guttural Portuguese so foreign to her. An excellent student of languages in school, her training had been in Latin and French, neither of which now sounded remotely similar to these words which were bombarding her at breakneck speed.

  Eva held both hands up in front of her, open palms patting the air, gesturing her hostess to slow down.

  “I can’t understand you. Do you speak any English?”

  The suddenly blank expression on the woman’s hitherto expressive face was answer enough to Eva’s query.

  “Hotel?” Eva tried once more, now accompanying her words with primitive sign language, first pointing to her bags, then wa
shing her face with imaginary water, finally closing her eyes and resting her head on her palm-to-palm hands. For at this point the exhaustion of her long journey—it had been almost twenty-four hours since she had left the New York town house she and Stu had shared—had begun to take its toll, and as pleased as Eva was to have reached her destination on schedule, she was anxious to get some rest before she was to rendezvous with the others in the expedition.

  Eva’s attempts at communicating faltered briefly as she realized with a gasp that she had no idea where the rendezvous was to occur. She had taken for granted that this small town would have but one hotel, where she would immediately be able to contact other members of the group. If she couldn’t communicate with someone soon, she would have to spend the rest of the day searching for these headquarters by trial and error. And in her present physical condition, she dreaded that prospect.

  Reaching into her pocketbook, she drew out the letter that was tucked neatly beside her passport and return airline ticket. As she opened it and scanned its contents, which she had read thoroughly several times before leaving New York, she was reminded that the group was to gather at eight that evening. But there was no address given, no location suggested for this meeting. Eva swore silently to herself; her first major miscalculation—this information must have been conveyed to Stu verbally by this Roberto de Carvalho. And in the wake of her hasty decision to go to Brazil in place of Stu, Eva had failed to notify this man either of her husband’s death or of her intention of substituting for him.

  Her attention returned to the woman in whose house she was so unceremoniously getting nowhere.

  “Roberto de Carvalho? Do you know him? I must contact Roberto de Carvalho.” The words were spoken very slowly, as if careful enunciation would bridge the language barrier.

  “Ah!” A broad smile spread across the woman’s face, rekindling the light that had dimmed temporarily at the earlier moment’s impasse. Drawing Eva to the door gently, she pointed to a house not far up the street, implying with a nod that Eva would have success there in locating this man.