This firm had served three generations of the Leon family. It wasn’t until fairly recently, however, that a woman lawyer had managed to shatter the glass ceiling and rise to a position of prominence within the organization. Her name was Susan Sullivan, and although Sebastien was no feminist, he liked and respected her, and had steered a good deal of his personal business her way.
Her assistant, a young Puerto Rican guy named Hector, was puttering about, taking coats and hanging them up, offering coffee. Hector was too well-groomed, too expensively and neatly dressed, and too accommodating, not to be gay, or at least metrosexual, in Sebastien’s opinion. Hector smiled at Sebastien in that flirtatious way that even some straight professional males had in their interactions with other men. Hector was undeniably decorative, but other than that, Sebastien wasn’t certain what his actual function at the law firm was. It was just possible, he speculated idly, that Susan Sullivan kept him on the payroll because he was screwing her—in which case, good for her!
Susan made her appearance, looking, as usual, poised and professional.
Sebastien may have been a gay man, but he was by no means indifferent to the charms of a smart, attractive woman. Susan Sullivan might be a highly competent professional woman, but she was also—not so coincidentally—one hell of a sexy broad. She was a natural honey blonde in her early forties, with a nice figure and great legs—the latter usually displayed, as they were today, by the just-above-the-knee-length skirt of a tailored suit. This morning, the suit was a soft peach-colored wool, worn over a cream, tan, and pale blue print silk blouse.
“Don’t you look nice today, Ms. Sullivan,” Sebastien exclaimed at his first sight of Susan. “And what a pretty suit.”
“Why, thank you, Sebastien,” Susan said as she flushed with pleasure.
Sebastien noticed her reaction, and it gave him his own innocent pleasure. He’d always suspected that Susan had a soft spot for him, and he wasn’t above taking advantage of the fact. The role of “poor little rich boy” came naturally to Sebastien, and could bring out a woman’s maternal instincts. It was only his own mother who was immune to his charm.
There was also the not insignificant consideration that Sebastien always treated Susan not as a “woman lawyer,” but as a lawyer, period. He respected her intelligence, admired her for being so good at her job, and was always courteous in his dealings with her. This was more than could be said about some of the other Leons.
Some of the other members of the clan had gathered.
Sebastien’s mother, Adrienne, was looking “rested” after some recent, very successful plastic surgery. And, as usual, she was the epitome of chic in her designer clothes and furs, although some people might have questioned the appropriateness of wearing quite so much diamond jewelry at ten o’clock in the morning. She looked at her son with dismay. Sebastien had gone to the trouble of finding one of his few sweatshirts that didn’t have indelible coffee stains on it, but to no avail.
“Really, Sebastien. Must you always dress so sloppily? You look like a bum! Couldn’t you have made an effort to try to make yourself a little more presentable before you came here today?”
“Why? This isn’t a funeral, or a memorial service,” Sebastien pointed out. “We’re just here for the reading of the will. But that reminds me. Are we going to have any kind of a memorial service, for Tio Gil?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. I suppose we ought to do something, eventually. It would be the expected thing. People might think it was odd if we didn’t.”
Well, don’t go out of your way, or anything, Sebastien was tempted to say. He was only your brother-in-law, after all!
“And of course I can do something while I’m down there,” he said. “You know, put flowers on the grave, and pay to have some Masses said, if nothing else.”
“Sebastien, don’t tell me you’re persisting in this silly plan of yours to go all the way down to Brazil?”
“Of course I am. It’s all arranged. And I don’t think it’s so silly. I’ve always wanted to go there. I only wish I’d done it while Tio Gil was still alive. But who’d have thought his time would run out so soon? Now I’m more curious than ever to see what his life was like, down there. And I think at least one member of the family ought to see where he’s buried, and make sure that his last wishes—in that respect, at least—have been carried out. Besides,” Sebastien added brightly, “if we find out today that Tio Gil left any of his personal effects to any of us, you know, maybe just some little personal items to remember him by—I may be able to bring them back with me, or arrange to have them shipped here. Not that he was under any obligation to leave any of us anything,” he went on, with a cheerfulness that most of his assembled relations obviously found maddening. “But you never know.”
“So you’re determined to make this trip. No matter what happens here, today?” Adrienne asked, punctuating the question with an exasperated-sounding sigh.
“What’s today got to do with it? I’m all set. I leave early next week. I haven’t gone on any trips in a while, as a matter of fact, and this one sounds like it’ll be very relaxing. And interesting.”
“Well, don’t get your hopes up. About Gilberto having been such a big shot in Brazil, I mean. There must have been some reason why he hid himself away in that swampland, or whatever it is, all these years. Considering how wild your uncle was in his younger days, he probably squandered his share of the family fortune on South American whores. We’ll be lucky if he left anything besides a pile of debts.”
Sebastien, who considered the comparatively modest sums he had spent on North American whores to be money well spent, suppressed a smile that came dangerously close to being a smirk, but said nothing.
Sebastien’s current stepfather, Hervé Marcoux, now stepped forward to greet him, giving him a handshake followed by a hug.
“Hey there, Sebastien.”
“Hello, Herv.”
Adrienne was now calling herself Mrs. Leon-Marcoux, having conveniently skipped over the surname of her Husband Number Two. Hervé, Husband Number Three, was much younger than she was. He was, in fact, all of five years older than Sebastien. Still, Sebastien liked his new stepfather. He much preferred Hervé to his predecessor, whom Sebastien had despised. Hervé, a French-Canadian, was a reasonably successful businessman in his own right, who couldn’t be accused of having married for money. He put up with no nonsense from his wife, which, at this stage in her life, was perhaps exactly what Adrienne needed.
Husband Number Two, however, was represented by his son Chad, a spoiled brat about Sebastien’s age. What the hell is he doing here? Sebastien wondered as he nodded politely in response to Chad’s mumbled, sullen greeting. Did his stepbrother seriously believe that Gilberto Leon had mentioned him, or his father, in his will? Neither of them had ever met Tio Gil.
Sebastien’s brother, Roberto, and his sister, Teresa, were conspicuous by their absence—as were their spouses and Sebastien’s young nieces and nephews. He asked his mother about his siblings.
“Bobby and that woman he married didn’t think it was worth it, to make the trip from California.” Adrienne always avoided referring to her daughter-in-law by her name, whenever possible. “And you know that Terri likes to spend this part of the winter in Florida. We decided that I can represent the family.”
Oh, we decided, did we? Sebastien thought. Funny… I don’t recall being in on that discussion.
“Aunt Viv?” Sebastien asked. Vivienne was Adrienne’s older sister.
“She’s still in Europe.”
Sebastien had assumed there’d be some sort of a family reunion, however brief. He hadn’t exactly looked forward to seeing some of his relations, but now, oddly enough, he felt disappointed.
“Are we waiting for anybody else?” Sebastien asked. “What about Cousin Brent? Is he coming?”
“He can’t make it,” Adrienne said. “He’s still on that awful house arrest, with that electronic ankle bracelet fastened around his leg.�
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“Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about that,” Sebastien gloated. “It must be just hell for him—stuck in that twelve-room penthouse with that bimbo he’s been screwing. And not even able to go on the Internet, since that’s what got him into trouble in the first place.”
“Let’s not air the family’s dirty linen in public, Sebastien,” his mother said primly.
“Yeah, the tabloids have already done a pretty good job of airing it, haven’t they? Did you see that headline, Cookie Heir Crumbles Under Cross-Examination? Wasn’t that a hoot?”
“Please, Sebastien,” his mother pleaded—while Chad smirked, and Hervé fought back a smile.
To Sebastien’s surprise, another of his distant cousins-by-marriage, Tiffany, was now ushered into the room, accompanied by her husband, Jack. Sebastien couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen them, but neither of them had changed. Tiffany was stylishly and expensively dressed, but, as usual, she looked fragile. She kept her eyes hidden behind dark glasses and spoke only in whispers. Jack, by contrast, was loud, brash, and vulgar—traits which Sebastien, in his present frame of mind, found almost refreshing.
“Hey, Sebastien,” Jack said, by way of greeting. “How’s it hanging, kid? Hey, that lady lawyer is one swell-looking broad, isn’t she? I think she likes you. Too bad you play on the other team. I wouldn’t mind nailing that, myself.”
“Why don’t you make your play?” Sebastien suggested. “You might get lucky. I’m sure Ms. Sullivan has been just dreaming of the day when a classy guy like you hits on her.”
“Oh, Sebastien, you are a fucking riot,” Jack guffawed.
Adrienne looked pained. “Must you be so crude, Jack—and must you encourage him, Sebastien?”
“Sorry, Mom,” the unrepentant Sebastien muttered.
Tiffany had taken a chair, in which she sat stiffly upright.
“Why are we here?” she suddenly whispered. “Did somebody die?”
“It was the guy who lived in South America,” her husband told her. “We talked about it last night—remember, honey?” Jack turned back to the others. “The doctors have her on some pretty strong meds,” he explained, not bothering to keep his voice down. “She gets a little confused, sometimes.”
“It was my Uncle Gilberto, who died,” Sebastien said. “The one we called Tio Gil, Tiffany.”
She didn’t respond.
Susan reappeared and took a quick head count. “Are we waiting for anybody else? No? Then perhaps, ladies and gentlemen, you’d like to come into my office, and we can begin.”
Jack grinned at her. “Sure, honey. After all, none of us is getting any younger. Or any richer, for that matter. Not yet, anyway! Maybe that’ll change, before we’re done here!” He laughed loudly and boisterously at his own witticism.
They all filed into Susan’s office and took seats around the massive wooden conference table there. Susan sat behind her desk, and Hector seated himself next to it, ready to assist her and take notes. Susan had quite an impressive-looking portfolio of documents lying open on top of the desk.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” she began briskly. “As you know, we are here for the reading of Gilberto Leon’s will. Even though he lived in Brazil, he retained our firm, to handle his business dealings here in the United States. We are very grateful for this long association, and permit me, first, to extend to you all our consolations, on the firm’s behalf.
“Before we get started, there are a few technicalities we might want to address, first. Before the Brazilian law code was revised a couple of decades ago, wills were required to be handwritten, and witnessed by five persons. This was obviously to minimize the possibility of forgery, or alteration. The change in the law allowed for wills to be computer-generated, provided there are no erasures, additions, or other changes made in the official hard copy. And there only have to be three witnesses. Mr. Leon appears to have been somewhat of a traditionalist, because his will is indeed handwritten—every word of it. It’s a fairly lengthy document—with the signatures of five witnesses. There’s even an affidavit accompanying it, by a handwriting expert, attesting to the fact that the will is in his handwriting, and that his signature is authentic.
“The will is in Portuguese, but the executor of the estate has provided us with an English translation—again, with an affidavit attesting the accuracy of the translation.
“The monetary figures mentioned in the will are all given in Brazilian reals. At the current rate of exchange—subject to day-to-day fluctuation, of course—one real is worth between fifty-seven and sixty cents. I have a calculator here, in case we want to convert any of the figures.
“Under Brazilian law, a so-called ‘reserved portion’ of an estate, namely half of the total inheritance, must be set aside for the testator’s surviving spouse and/or dependents, if any, minus any dispositions made to them during the testator’s lifetime. Since Mr. Leon obviously had no spouse or dependents—not that we are aware of, anyway—” Susan had permitted herself a little joke. “That provision doesn’t apply here.
“There are a few restrictions, but in fact surprisingly few, on foreigners inheriting property in Brazil. For example, there is something called the Tax on Donation and Inheritance, which is a state tax levied on the transfer of real estate upon death or through a donation—”
Chad interrupted. “Do we really need to hear all this legal jargon? Can’t we just get on with it?”
“I think it’s interesting, and it’s obviously relevant, in this case,” Hervé said. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes, please go on, Ms. Sullivan,” Sebastien urged.
“Thank you, Sebastien. As I was saying, the rates of this tax are progressive, and vary from state to state within Brazil, according to the value of the property. However, the maximum rate is eight percent. Non-resident individuals or entities must enroll with the taxpayer registry prior to the acquisition through inheritance of any real estate located in Brazil—which, of course, is the government’s way of ensuring that it gets its cut.
“Finally, foreigners who do not have permanent residence in Brazil cannot acquire rural properties there, unless such acquisition is due to inheritance rights. Mr. Leon got around that provision, first, by forming a foreign corporation authorized to operate in Brazil, and secondly, by eventually renouncing his American citizenship and becoming a Brazilian citizen. Because of the location and nature of his particular property—namely, because it is considered prime grazing and farm land, and it is located near the coast—a special provision in the law applies to it. It can be inherited by a non-Brazilian, but it cannot be sold to a non-Brazilian citizen or corporation, without the government’s approval. That might be an important consideration to keep in mind.
“Are there any questions? Before we begin the actual reading of the will?”
Tiffany, of all people, chose this moment to speak up, although she didn’t exactly have a question. “I want to go shopping,” she whispered. “You promised we’d go shopping, Jack.”
Jack shushed her. “After this is over, we’ll go have lunch, honey, and then we’ll go shopping,” he promised, as though talking to a child.
“Wow,” Chad said. “What is she on, anyway?”
Jack glared at him.
“Why don’t you go ahead, Ms. Sullivan,” Sebastien suggested.
Ms. Sullivan began to read the will.
“I, Gilberto Cristiano Antônio Leon, a naturalized citizen of Brazil, residing on the fazenda called Saõ Martinho, on the Island of Marajó, in the State of Pará, being of sound mind and body, do declare this to be my last will and testament, thereby nullifying and rendering void any and all previous…”
Sebastien’s mind was already wandering as he listened. He had to smile at the string of sonorous baptismal names, which made Tio Gil sound like some sort of an Old World Portuguese grandee. As he half-listened to the more standard, formal legal phrases, which seemed to predominate in the text, he was vaguely aware that his uncle had named his lawyer, in
the city of Belém, as his executor.
“I request that my body be cremated and that my remains be buried in the burial plot I own in the churchyard of the village of Guarás, on the Island of Marajó, in the State of Pará, and that my grave be marked by the stone marker I have purchased and set aside for that purpose. I suggest that any religious ceremony or observation at the time of my burial be kept as simple as possible.”
Well, at least all that had been done, if the letter and photograph Sebastien had in his possession could be trusted.
There followed a seemingly endless list of small cash bequests, with the phrase “I give and bequeath” repeated over and over again. The amounts varied, from one thousand to five thousands reals. The recipients, mostly male, all had obviously Brazilian names and addresses, with the exception of one David Tressilian, who was listed last. His address was in Portsmouth, England, and he had been left ten thousand reals.
“I’m sorry,” Adrienne said, taking advantage of the fact that Susan Sullivan seemed to pause for breath after this part of the recitation, “but I don’t recognize any of these names. Who are they?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, Mrs. Leon-Marcoux,” Susan admitted.
“I would imagine they’re friends of Tio Gil’s,” Sebastien speculated. “Or people he did business with. Employees of his, too, possibly. I do know the name David Tressilian. He was that old yachting buddy of Tio Gil’s, remember?”
“No,” his mother said. “I don’t remember.”
“Frittering away every fucking cent he had,” Chad hissed, in a stage whisper. “There isn’t going to be anything left!”
Susan waited for a moment, to see whether there was any further discussion, then continued the reading.
“I give and bequeath to senhora Erendira Lapuente, residing in the village of Guarás, on the Island of Marajó, in the State of Pará, the sum of two hundred thousand reals. I give and bequeath to Cristiano Lapuente, residing on the fazenda San Marinho, on the the Island of Marajó, in the State of Pará, the sum of one hundred thousand reals.”
Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove) Page 5
