The Jeep rolled to a stop, and its driver got out. The three horsemen also pulled up and dismounted.
All four men, Sebastien saw, were dressed similarly, in well-worn, comfortable-looking, and—at the moment—very dusty work clothes, with boots and straw cowboy hats, the latter in the same style as the hat Sebastien was sporting. The driver, lean and dark-skinned, was the oldest, in his fifties. The man who had led the riderless horse was much younger, perhaps half his age. The other two horsemen were both about forty, but despite their similar attire, they were strongly contrasted. One had a weathered face and hands visibly toughened by hard work. His companion had only the lightest of suntans, as though he spent much of his time indoors.
The weather-beaten man, who had a pleasant smile and intense black eyes, now stepped forward, met Sebastien’s gaze, and raised one hand to touch the brim of his hat in a sort of salute.
“Senhor Leon, you are most welcome,” he said—in a formal yet fluent American-sounding English that suggested he had done most of his conversing in the language with the norte-americano in residence, Tio Gil. “I am Anibal Rocha, and this is Joaquin Medeiros. I have the honor of being the foreman of the fazenda, and senhor Medeiros, as you know, is its manager.”
“Bom dia. Muito prazer em conhecé-los, senhores,” Sebastien replied, choosing his words with great care.
“You speak Portuguese so well! I am surprised.”
“I speak it badly,” Sebastien admitted, reverting to English. “I studied it in school, which isn’t exactly the same as speaking it regularly with native speakers. My grandparents spoke it at home sometimes, but then that family tradition died out.”
Anibal Rocha nodded. “Most of the people on the fazenda speak only Portuguese. The exceptions are those of us who spent a great deal of time working directly under senhor Gilberto. These men, for example.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the driver and the younger horseman, who nodded to Sebastien and, as they did so, touched the brims of their broad-brimmed cowboy hats in unison, as though this was a well-rehearsed routine. “Their names are Segundo and Estevao. Estevao is the most fluent.”
The young man he had referred to now stepped forward, leading the spare horse.
“Will the senhor ride, or would he prefer to—” The young man gestured toward the Jeep.
Both his words and the gesture were innocuous enough, on the surface. But somehow it was clear to Sebastien that this muscular young man considered the motor vehicle an inferior mode of transportation—and, furthermore, that this was in some way a subtle first test, perhaps the first of many Sebastien would be subjected to. He sensed at once that he would lose face if he showed any reluctance to mount the horse, which, he now saw, was equipped with a very fine saddle.
“I will ride,” he said, moving toward the horses.
The youth who had addressed him led the horse further forward, turning it, and draped the bridle across the saddle horn. Then, to Sebastien’s surprise, he got down on one knee and held his hands, one on top of the other, with the palms up, near the stirrup. He obviously expected Sebastien to place his foot on this little improvised platform, instead of directly into the stirrup, so that he could give Sebastien a boost up into the saddle.
“That isn’t necessary,” Sebastien said.
The young man, his handsome sun-bronzed face impassive, didn’t move. “It is my duty. You are the mestre,” he said, using the Portuguese word for master.
Unwilling to argue, Sebastien allowed himself to be helped up onto the horse. “Thank you.” The ranch hand nodded by way of response as he rose and matter-of-factly wiped his hands on the seat of his pants, transferring to them any dirt Sebastien’s shoe sole may have deposited on his palms.
During this by-play, Joaquin Medeiros, who smiled at Sebastien but spoke little, had been supervising the transfer of Sebastien’s luggage from the dock into the back seat of the Jeep. He also conversed with the captain of the Cândido Rondon, who was evidently an old acquaintance.
“Is this everything, senhor Sebastien?” Joaquin finally asked.
“Yes. I believe in traveling light.”
“Segundo will go on ahead, then, with the luggage,” Anibal said. “We will follow, at our leisure. The sun is already high, and hot. It’s not wise to ride too hard, in the heat of midday.”
The captain approached them. “I bid you farewell, senhor Leon.”
“Thank you,” Sebastien said, leaning down in his saddle to offer the man his hand. “It has been a pleasant journey.” Which was true, from his perspective, on the whole. He remembered to slip the captain some folded-up paper money: “For you and your men,” he said, casually. Paolo had suggested the sum of twenty reals, which seemed shockingly low to Sebastien. He had doubled the amount, to forty.
The captain was obviously impressed. “You are most generous, senhor. We will drink to your health.”
The Cândido Rondon cast off and swung out into the middle of the channel, to resume its course downriver.
Sebastien watched the Jeep, driven by Segundo, vanish in another dust cloud of its own making, far up ahead. The four horsemen followed in pairs, Sebastien and Anibal side by side, with the other two men a discreet distance behind them. Sebastien had the distinct impression, just from observing Anibal’s body language, that he was a take-charge kind of individual.
“How long will it take us to get there?” Sebastien asked.
“At this pace, about half an hour.”
Sebastien surveyed the landscape. It was utterly flat, except for the clumps of trees scattered about here and there, and covered by grass and scrub.
“I had been told that the fazenda has river frontage. Are we already on my uncle’s land?”
“Yes. Everything you see belongs to your—” Anibal corrected himself. “Belongs to you.”
As though to illustrate his point, they could now see, in the distance to one side, a wire fence, running more or less parallel to their path. Beyond the fence, the grass seemed to be a richer shade of green. There was a large pond—and, mostly on the far side of the pond, there were cattle, of the long-horned variety familiar to Sebastien from the boat. Hundreds of them.
“Part of your herds,” Anibal said, simply.
“Is that fence electrified?” Sebastien guessed.
“Yes.”
Sebastien watched the beasts as they went about their business, most of them grazing, some wading into the pond or remaining on its edge to drink. Sebastien twisted his upper body in his saddle to look back at the tranquil view as they rode on, then turned around to face forward again. His horse reacted to its rider’s movement by taking a slight side step. Sebastien corrected it with a gentle pressure from his knees.
Anibal Rocha was observing him, and making no secret of the fact.
“You ride very well,” Anibal finally commented. “Had I known…I would have chosen a more spirited horse for you.”
“I’ve ridden in the United States—only for pleasure, of course. I know that here the horses are put to work.”
“But we, too, ride for recreation, in our spare time. You will find several fine mounts in the stables. Since your uncle became too ill to ride…I have made sure they have all been exercised regularly.” The foreman already seemed more comfortable in Sebastien’s presence. “Forgive me for staring,” he said. “But I had not expected you to be such a young man.”
“My uncle was the oldest child, and my father was the youngest. There was a considerable difference in their ages—almost fifteen years. And I myself am the youngest of three children.”
“I am also looking at you because I see the family resemblance. Don’t you agree, Joaquin?”
“Yes, it is very pronounced,” the fazenda’s manager replied.
“Like your uncle, you are unmarried, I understand?” Anibal asked.
“Unmarried, yes,” Sebastien confirmed.
“No doubt senhor Gilberto told you a great deal about his life here.”
“Yes and no.
He had a tendency to confine himself, in his letters to me, to practical matters. I know very little about who his friends were here in Brazil, for example…and in fact I am ashamed to say I know very little about his personal feelings in general. There is a tendency toward reticence that may also run in my family,” Sebastien admitted, with a smile.
Anibal and Joaquin had both nodded. There was nothing odd about either man’s facial expression. And yet Sebastien had the inexplicable, fleeting feeling that Anibal had been fishing when he’d asked his question, and that both men were relieved by Sebastien’s professed ignorance.
Sebastien decided to address the issue boldly.
“Was there something in particular about my uncle’s way of life here that you assumed he did—or did not—share with me? Something of relevance?”
“Oh no, senhor Sebastien. I did not mean to imply anything of the sort. I only wished to say…that we not only considered it an honor to work for your uncle—we had the additional privilege, if I may be so bold as to say so, of being his friends.”
“I know that you were, and I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you that he often wrote to me about both of you—always in the warmest terms. I hope we will become friends, too.”
“That would be my greatest wish, senhor Sebastien.”
“And mine, too,” Joaquin agreed.
“Thank you, gentlemen. It’s a beautiful morning,” Sebastien observed, deliberately changing the subject. “Too beautiful to spend discussing things that are too serious. And this countryside is beautiful, in its way. You know I’m a city dweller, so it strikes me as a little austere…but unspoiled.”
Sebastien now saw innumerable miniature bodies of water dotting the landscape, ranging in size from mere puddles to broad sheets that glittered in the sunlight.
“The fields over there seem very wet,” he observed, by way of considerable understatement.
“What you see is the water left by the rain last night,” Anibal explained. “It has not yet had a chance to drain away, or evaporate. Before this evening, unless it rains again—all of this will be dry again. Especially if this hot sun stays out, and there are no clouds.”
“Extraordinary,” Sebastien remarked.
“We are almost there, senhor. There, up ahead, is Saõ Martinho.”
Sebastien had his first sight of the main house, in the distance. It was a low, sprawling structure, set in the middle of lawns that looked parched in places. A wide-paved stone driveway, lined with trees, led toward it. At first, Sebastien thought the house was a single-story building, but as they drew closer he realized that it must have two stories. Broad terraces surrounded most of the ground-floor level, the walls of which were pierced by tall double French windows. Higher up, under the tiled roof, was a row of smaller windows. The walls were brick, painted a soft yellow-ochre that harmonized well with the rusty reddish-orange of the roof tiles. A contrasting band of decorative brickwork, in a different size, ran all the way around the building, above the French windows, and was painted sky blue.
The riders were now passing smaller structures, each set in isolation on its own sparsely landscaped grounds. These buildings resembled the main house in their basic style and color scheme, although some of them had their own more utilitarian-looking attachments and outbuildings.
“That is the office building,” Anibal said, pointing. “There is my house, and over there is Joaquin’s. That is the main bunkhouse. There is another smaller one, over there, but you cannot see it from here, because of those trees. Those buildings on the left are the garage and the tool shop…”
Sebastien felt the need to say something. “Everything looks very well maintained.” Which was no more than the truth.
Joaquin spoke up. “I hope you will find it so, senhor. If anything is lacking, or does not meet with your approval, it is my responsibility. I will correct it at once.”
“May I ask exactly how the two of you divide up your responsibilities?” Sebastien asked.
Anibal grinned. “I oversee the men’s work, and give them their orders. Joaquin takes care of everything else. Including mounds of paperwork. But,” the foreman added, looking and sounding more serious, “you are now the mestre. You may give your instructions directly to any of the employees, or you may go through either of us, as you prefer or find convenient.”
They were passing a few scattered pedestrians, all male, who greeted the three Brazilians with nods, smiles, gestures, or laconic words—and who invariably stared at the norte-americano with unabashed curiosity.
As they neared the driveway leading to the main house, Sebastien glimpsed some other men on horseback, in the fields in the distance.
“Do any women work here on the fazenda?” Sebastien joked.
“Only a few,” Joaquin admitted. “There are women servants in the house. You will meet them soon. Other women cook and clean and do laundry for the men, but they do not actually live here. They live in the nearby villages, and come here during the day and go home at night. The same is true of the women who work in the office building. As we passed it, I caught sight of them, looking out the windows through the blinds, to get their first look at you, senhor Sebastien. And of course, senhora Rocha keeps house for Anibal, in their house, which we also have just ridden past.”
“No doubt my wife was at the window, too,” Anibal said, wryly. “She will interrogate me when I come home tonight, asking me all about you, senhor.”
“I hope to have the pleasure of meeting her soon.”
“The pleasure will be entirely ours, if you will do us the honor of visiting our house,” Anibal said, rather formally. “My wife is somewhat old-fashioned, senhor Sebastien. She takes it for granted that you will be too fatigued from your journey, and too busy settling in, to accept any social invitations for at least a day or two. We will extend you an invitation in due course.”
“And I hope it goes without saying that you and the senhora are always welcome in my uncle’s house, and must treat it as your own,” Sebastien responded. “The same is true for you, Joaquin.”
“Thank you, senhor,” Anibal said, and Joaquin echoed him.
They were riding up the long, straight driveway, and Sebastien turned his attention from his companions back to the house. And then Sebastien saw the receiving line of employees, lined up on the terrace in front of the entrance, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the hot sun that fell full upon the house’s facade. There were seven women, in their own little group and distinguished by their modest dark dresses and contrasting white aprons, and too many men for Sebastien to count—there had to be three dozen of them, at least. God help them all! How long had they been standing there, broiling in the hot sunlight? No doubt ever since the Jeep had arrived, giving advance warning that the quartet of horsemen was also on the way. The Jeep was parked to one side, but Sebastien’s luggage was no longer in it. It had presumably been taken inside the house, perhaps by the driver, Segundo, who was nowhere in sight.
The young Brazilian horseman, whose name Sebastien had forgotten, dismounted first, and hurried forward to kneel down and repeat his previous “cupped-hands-as-foot-rest” routine, for Sebastien’s benefit, as he, too, dismounted. Anibal and Joaquin got down from their horses, too. Two men stepped forward from the crowd, took charge of the horses, and led them away, across the lawn, toward another yellow-ochre brick building, long and narrow, with large open archways, which Sebastien assumed must be the stables.
Sebastien took a tentative step forward and smiled shyly at the employees.
He felt rather like poor, mousey Joan Fontaine in Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca, arriving at Manderley and forced to run the gauntlet of the manor house’s assembled staff. But at least the woman he assumed was the housekeeper, based on her conservative black dress, was no thin-lipped, sinister Judith Anderson. On the contrary, she was a plump, motherly-looking type, with a shy smile that kept getting in the way of her efforts to keep her facial expression formally composed. And the men were not in uni
form, unless their work clothes could be considered uniforms of a sort. Just as Paolo had told Sebastien to expect, they all looked like hard-working cowboys and ranch hands, and were dressed accordingly—cowboy boots, jeans or khaki trousers, a variety of shirts—some short-sleeved, some long-sleeved, some in solid colors, some patterned—and straw cowboy hats. The latter, Sebastien noted, were individually decorated—with ribbon or braided hat bands, with feathers, and yes, with the kind of medal that Sebastien’s own hat sported—although most of the medals he saw were the inexpensive pewter variety. Most of the shirts were unbuttoned part of the way, exposing sun-bronzed chests, chest hair, and the fact that all of these men seemed to wear some sort of dangling necklace around their necks. Crucifixes suspended on silver and gold neck chains predominated, but there were also actual rosaries, pressed into service as necklaces. Some men wore two or even three separate ornaments strung around their necks. Everyone, man or woman alike, was staring fixedly at Sebastien, as though he were some alien creature from another world.
Anibal broke the somewhat awkward, even oppressive, silence by proclaiming in a loud voice, “This is senhor Sebastien Leon, the new mestre of the fazenda.”
The women curtsied, while the men whipped their hats from their heads and held them in their hands as they made awkward bows.
The smiling, apple-cheeked housekeeper now stepped forward. Sebastien saw that she had in her hands a little white satin pillow, embroidered with lace. It was the sort of thing that might be used in a wedding ceremony, to hold the couple’s wedding rings. But this pillow held a key ring with a bulky mass of keys. A few of them were antique-looking affairs, long and uncomplicated, but the others were modern and gleamed in the sunlight.
The housekeeper, with another bobbing curtsey, offered the pillow to Anibal—who took the bunch of keys and handed it to Sebastien.
“Obrigado,” Sebastien said.
“These were senhor Gilberto’s keys,” Anibal said. “Take possession of them, and take possession of this house.”
It was obvious that, so far as the onlookers were concerned, this transfer of the set of keys was a highly charged symbolic gesture. They were all watching, intently, to see what Sebastien would do, or to hear what he might say.
Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove) Page 15
