Jeremy nodded. "I know what you mean."
Fabiano looked at him. "How so?"
"My uncle Bill was involved with drug and gun trafficking, software pirating and of course even murder, and my mother--"
"Your mother couldn't help herself," Carlo cut in.
Jeremy smiled sideways at him. "You're right. She couldn't help herself. But she did make some pretty bad decisions."
"Who has not made some bad decisions?" Fabiano asked jovially. "The bad decisions make the wise man determined to make better ones. no?"
"That depends on--" Arthur began.
"For example, in my family," Fabiano interrupted, "we became involved with the church here in Brazil, in order to help those who could not help themselves. We even paid for much of Cristo, because the church could not raise enough money to fund the statue." His eyes opened wide; his eyelids peeled back. "Can you imagine Rio de Janeiro without Cristo, who reminds the people every day about freedom from the Portuguese, and gives hope to everyone in both the penthouses and favelas that God is great?"
"But what do the people who worship the orixás think about Cristo?" Jeremy asked.
"People in Brazil, like the rest of the world, give consideration only to whichever god best meets their needs," he stated.
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Arthur.
"It is human nature to seek out whichever god will best heal your wounds...will most fully quench your desires, and will help you live your dreams while you walk during the day--then help you sleep peacefully at night. And because Brazil is as troubled as it is complex, many here have, for centuries, worshipped faithfully two most completely different religions at the same time."
"People really do that?" Jeremy asked.
Fabiano laughed heartily, while looking slowly from Arthur to Jeremy, and then to Carlo. "If we can do this with our lovers, then why not with our gods?"
Chapter 20
His first awareness was that day had broken.
His second was that he felt hungover.
He squinted over at his watch on the nightstand and saw it was still very early. So, knowing the boys were still asleep, he pulled on his shorts, slid his feet into his sandals and went out onto the lanai to watch the sun rise over the bay, and to have the fresh morning air soothe his aching head.
Dawn's light was gentle on the awakening island, making it look candlelit; there were no shadows to be seen, and the steel gray water was flat and glassy. Arthur pulled a chair from the café set by the railing and sat, knowing he had at least a couple of hours to kill before breakfast, and wishing he had a huge cup of coffee in front of him, and a pair of ibuprofens dissolving in his belly.
A bagel would be nice, too.
Then the memory of their dinner conversation hit him, and he winced.
He'd said too much. And he'd been more than a little antagonistic, but who could blame him? That blowhard came from a long line of slave smugglers who'd graduated to exploiters, albeit legal ones, of the poor. He hadn't even planned to tell Jeremy about this, and wasn't going to bring it up, until Fabiano taunted him with that reference to Danny before carrying on in that grossly flirtatious manner with Jeremy.
He'd asked for it. But why?
Why would that man intentionally jab his stick into Arthur's cage?
Maybe he was just an asshole. People with money get like that. A big case of the mee-mees; that's what Danny used to call it when someone went on and on about himself--or treated "mere mortals" dismissively in social situations.
Or maybe he had some ulterior motive....
Perhaps it was just that sangria, which tasted like red wine and Kool-Aid and oranges and rum and caused them both to say things they shouldn't.
Loudmouth soup.
But neither Jeremy nor Carlo had seemed inebriated.
They'd just had less to drink.
To the contrary, he'd had too much because he felt nervous and stressed and his appetite had vanished and he hadn't eaten enough; thus, the booze had tarnished his usually sterling judgment.
So what now? Should he go for a walk and do some snooping on his own--maybe run into the big jerk and feign a sincere apology? Or should he stay back and wait for the boys to wake?
He decided on the latter, so he tiptoed into the suite and found an unopened bottle of water in the fridge, which he brought back outside to drink.
He settled down into the chair again, cracked the seal on the plastic cap and guzzled half the bottle down, then watched the streaks of tangerine glowing under the horizon's bank of clouds transform, almost imperceptibly, into smears of cheery fuchsia.
Red sky at night, sailors' delight.
The breeze on his skin was cool still, but he supposed it wouldn't be for long; that rising sun would soon microwave all this delicious moisture in the air into a tropical frenzy.
Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.
He flexed his shoulders up toward his ears and heard his joints crack. Then while gulping another swig of water, he spilled some onto his chest.
As he brushed the puddle from between his pecs, he noticed something new: five--
he counted them again-- five gray chest hairs.
"Shit," he muttered, plucking the wildest out between pinched fingers. Then he did the same four more times, until none remained.
Gray hair on his head was one thing, hot even, but on his body it was another.
Because gray chest hair was for middle-aged-- and old--men.
Was this proof he was entering middle age?
What is middle age?
Was it a sum of years that signaled being halfway along some stairway up to heaven or down to hell? or was it signaled by a retreating hairline and an expanding belly and deepening forehead creases and doubling chins? He figured that at best, entering middle age meant he was now beginning the process of fading, like a photograph fades in the sun: hair pales, skin washes out, muscles lose their fabulous ridges, and one becomes less distinguishable from the waddling masses. But physical deterioration aside, what made this thought unthinkable was that he had no partner with whom to weather this degradation. And he owned no appreciating real estate, he knew his family wouldn't miss him if he simply evaporated tomorrow, and he didn't have a real job anymore--having been granted his cocksucker's discharge, as the Marines so cleverly refer to it, then turning his back on the FBI once the Tyler case was closed.
What intention, if any, did his life have?
He was basically a nanny. For an eighteen-year-old kid.
No. He wasn't going to have this debate with himself.
Not now.
He had more pressing matters at hand than his existential hysteria-- such as the safety of his two young charges. And he wasn't a nanny; in essence he was a bodyguard for a wealthy scion, as well as an assistant to one of the most powerful women on the West Coast.
As for feeling old, well, it was just too soon for that.
I'm not pushing forty; I'm pulling thirty.
And he had another ten years to enjoy before turning fifty.
Now, fifty was middle-aged.
He decided to put the issue out of his mind, and to concentrate on the day's coming events--which begged the question: How comfortable did he feel having Carlo go on some scavenger hunt without known protection? He should have asked him last night after dinner, but his wobbly head combined with his jet lag made him sleepy, so he'd wished the boys good night, then shuffled off to his room, instead.
He'd ask him this morning. And if they all didn't feel completely comfortable with his leaving, they would go together--or stay here and do it at the trip's end, as planned.
But then a thought grabbed him.
A feeling. A pang of desire.
They could have some alone time.
Jeremy and me.
They hadn't had any in weeks because of Jeremy's vacation. And Carlo's demands on Jeremy's free time before that. And Katharine's demands on Arthur.
And the fact that Arthur ha
d been, consciously or not, avoiding him.
Ever since they'd gotten back from Hawaii.
Because there'd been that conversation when he'd called Jeremy at their hotel to say Katharine needed them to go to Brazil, and he should cut short his fabulous summer vacation with Carlo.
Their conversation should have ended with that announcement. In fact, it was really over when he'd almost accidentally muttered what was in his heart.
He'd told Jeremy he missed him. More than he thought he would.
Jeremy had said he missed him, too. More than he thought he would, too.
And after they'd hung up, he'd fallen back on his bed and realized his heart was thumping and he was light-headed and thirsty and his skin felt flushed and all of a sudden he couldn't wait for him to come home.
I'm in love with him.
That thought sent him tailspinning into one of his worst depressions since his teens, as his demons awakened from their hibernation, cleared their throats and began their discordant chorus: You're stupid. He's a kid. You've got nothing in common. You can't build a life with someone young enough to be your son. You're too old. He'd leave you. You're practically a child molester. He can't possibly find you attractive. He only wants a dad. Katharine would kill you. People will laugh.
You're already looking older. You should find someone your own age. You have nothing to offer him. He'll break your heart. Everyone you love dies...
Then he'd gone to meet them at the airport.
Their eyes had met.
And Jeremy's face had transmitted a feeling of such love, of such openness.
But Carlo's eyes had looked...cold; to Arthur it had been like seeing two houses, and in one the drapes were open so you could look inside, but the other had windows, and yes the lights were on inside, but the drapes were shut. Tight.
Carlo knows. He's smart.
On the drive home in Jeremy's Range Rover, with its wide center armrest, their forearms had brushed each other--but neither had moved his away. And for the rest of the trip home Arthur had rested his arm there, steering the whole way with his left hand, and at one point he had even pressed his arm deliberately against Jeremy's, and Jeremy, Arthur thought, had pressed his purposefully back.
After they'd dropped off Carlo, they rode home in silence because there was so much he wanted to say but he was afraid his tone would give away the intensity he felt, and Jeremy had made no move toward conversation, but they had kept pressing their arms together and Arthur had wanted to grasp his hand and thread his fingers through his own and bring his hand to his mouth and kiss it, so, so gently.
And then kiss his mouth. Not so gently.
Instead, they had driven north along Pacific Coast Highway toward Ballena Beach in silence, until they'd reached the Tyler compound; and as the huge iron gates motored open Jeremy had said, finally, "It's really good to see you."
Arthur had almost cried because he wanted to say, I love you so much, but couldn't, so he had said, "It's really good to see you, too. I'm glad you got home safely.
But for the rest of the week, as they had prepared for the trip to Brazil, Arthur had transformed back into "the good soldier."
Vapid eyes. Bland smile. Calm voice. Ramrod posture. Do you need me to wash anything for you for the trip?
Then every night, after silencing those voices with a glass or two of the Tyler wine cellar's very, very good chardonnay, he would strip off his clothes and lie in bed and spoon his pillow...imagining that instead of polyester batting, his arms were filled with his muscle and his perfectly warm skin.
And they wouldn't even have to have sex.
He just wanted to hold him. To be held by him. To fall asleep hearing his breathing, to awaken and see his mouth agape; to know he'd shared a bed with one of God's most perfect creations--this young prince with the face of an angel and the body of a warrior and the heart of a lion.
It will never be.
"What are you thinkin' about?"
"Oh!" He looked up to see a shirtless, bleary-eyed Jeremy grinning down at him, then stifling a yawn as he extended his arms into a semaphored stretch. "Nothing really. Just what we have to do today," he lied. "Listen," he began, with his eyebrows scrunched together, as if no other thought had been firing his brain's synapses, "I think we should go with Carlo. I'm not sure I feel comfortable letting him go without us."
Jeremy's smile straightened into a line. "Why? Don't we have a lot of work to do today?" He sat down in the opposite chair, and Arthur saw him glance at his bare chest.
He sat up straighter. Glad I spotted those hairs.
"Half a day or so won't make a difference. And it'll be safer if we're all together."
"Are you still worried about Fabiano?" Jeremy laughed. "What's the deal? I mean, the guy's kind of an asshole, but he seems safe and all to me. What are you still worried about?"
"Rule number one for bodyguards: never lose sight of who you're protecting."
"But you're protecting me, Mr. Secret Agent," he reminded Arthur. "If Carlo is OK
with it, then we should be, too. Remember"--he poked him on the Semper Fi tattoo on his biceps and cocked an eyebrow--"I'm the one with all the money."
"And all of the modesty, apparently." Arthur rolled his eyes playfully. "Still, it might be best if we all go together. But we're going to have to insist on it with Fabiano; something tells me he wants to separate us."
"Well, maybe he does."
Arthur peered at Jeremy suspiciously. "What do you mean by that?"
"Maybe...he can tell that we need some time together--some father-son time. You know, playing catch, building model airplanes, talking about girls and football and stuff."
Arthur laughed. "I'm sure he's not that well versed in the intricacies of our relationship."
"Well, we could use some," he said softly, then locked his gaze with Arthur's.
Arthur's crotch tingled.
"Could use some what?" Carlo asked, emerging from the open sliding door.
"Use some...relaxation time," Jeremy suggested. "Like after you come back, we could all maybe go down to the European Beach and go swimming. Without judgment."
The boys laughed and Arthur smiled. "You two can do whatever you want. But a lot depends on whether or not you can even find Afonso, and if he wants, or is even able, to come back here."
"So you're cool with Carlo going by himself?" Jeremy asked, eyebrows raised.
Arthur looked from one to the other, knowing exactly what his answer should be.
"Sure," he lied.
* * *
After a breakfast of scrambled eggs, tangy grapefruit, some weird breed of ham and a tall pot of very strong coffee from Fabiano's own plantation, they washed up.
Then they were driven in their host's Navigator, by one of the silent waiters, down to the airstrip, where Jeremy and Arthur watched from the tarmac as Carlo, in his best impersonation of a spoiled celebrity, stepped first up the stairs, then through the clamshell doors of the gleaming white Gulfstream, with his bodyguards in tow.
Finally, with a deafening whine from engines that looked too small to generate such a din, the craft sped down the runway before tilting its nose effortlessly into the azure Brazilian sky.
Money begets such privilege, Arthur noted silently as the aircraft shrank quickly into a rocket-propelled speck. And somehow, I've become a part of this.
So for Arthur and Jeremy, the rest of the morning was filled with tours, guided by a much friendlier Dom Fabiano, of cavernous shells built to house elegant dining rooms and casinos, of cement-lined pits on their way to becoming a water park, of a high residential tower built for generous suites, of tile-roofed villas for privacy-seeking honeymooners, and of acres bulldozed to make way for a championship golf course. While above it all, hugging the big, bald granite bowling pin known as Giant's Peak, hung the elaborate structural beginnings of what were to become some of the safest, most exclusive properties for sale in the world: the resort equivalent of time-share bomb shelters.
Arthur and Jeremy oohed and aahed and asked questions and pointed and nodded with studied enthusiasm.
And throughout the entire tour, Arthur couldn't stop thinking about Jeremy.
And their upcoming time that afternoon.
Together.
Chapter 21
The driver, whose name Carlo learned was Braulio, wheeled the white Denali left from São Clemente, then started the climb up Barão de Macaúbas to Francisco de Moura, where he made another left. Then he took the vehicle straight up a quickly tapering street, and pulled into the last parking spot available.
"Up there somewhere," the man told him in Portuguese.
"But where's the street with this address?" Carlo protested, holding out a slip of paper.
"Ask around. No signs." The driver switched on the radio, lit a cigarette and settled back in his seat, while the second bodyguard, whose name was still a mystery, did the same.
So I'm on my own, he realized. Then, fuck you.
Being as angry now as he was determined to find his cousin, he looked around, trying to get his bearings. Then, with the old photograph tucked inside his back pocket, he found himself entering the favela Dona Marta, on the outskirts of Botafogo, which looked, actually, like a decent neighborhood. While scanning his surroundings he spotted Cristo facing the favela high on the hill directly across from where he stood, only a couple of miles away.
That's not such a bad view. Unless you're Cristo.
He started on his way up.
But whatever semblance of order there was at the street level gave way quickly to the most confusing urban chaos he'd ever seen. The concrete stairs at the base of the climb were supplanted by nothing more than flimsy boards barely nailed together, and beyond that the path transformed into nothing more than packed dirt.
The walls and roofs of the houses, if you could call them houses, were constructed from plywood and cardboard and sheets of corrugated tin or fiberglass nailed together higgledy-piggledy. The smell was terrific: sewage and food cooking and exhaust and dogs and chickens and God knew what else, and the noise made as much an assault on his ears as the surroundings made on his eyes: traffic from below jumbled with rap music from above and kids squealing and babies crying and some guys arguing and televisions blaring--all in such a frenzy that after a moment he was able to diminish the din as one big drone.
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