Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  “Then you knew my uncle made me his heir.”

  “He made no secret of it—not to me. I do not believe he told many others. I was one of the witnesses, when he signed his will. He confided in me, about many things. I am proud to say I enjoyed his confidence.”

  “Forgive me for talking about money, Estevao, but I’m a little surprised that he did not remember you in his will, when he made so many bequests of money—some small, some larger—to a number of other people.”

  “There was no need. The senhor placed a large sum of money in trust for me, years ago, when I was a young boy. I now receive the interest. He did the same for other people, over the years. Did you not know that? The lawyers in Belém did not tell you?”

  “There was no need for them to. As a general rule, dispositions of money or other assets that a person makes while he is still alive, would not be mentioned in a will. They are irrelevant to the settling of the estate.”

  “I see. I understand little of such things. What you must understand, senhor Sebastien—if you will forgive me for speaking boldly—is that senhor Gilberto was a most generous man. The most generous I have ever met. I rarely knew him to spend large sums of money on himself. His concern was for the fazenda, and for the well-being of those who work here.”

  They had reached the bedroom, at last.

  Sebastien caught sight of the big bunch of keys, lying on the table beside the vase with the flowers.

  “I’m not expected to carry all those keys around with me all the time, am I?”

  “That should not be necessary, senhor. Your uncle was in the habit of leaving the key ring hung on the door knob of that armoire.”

  “Then I’ll do the same. I must say I don’t see what we need all these keys for, anyway. Nothing around here seems to be kept locked.”

  “Some things are kept secure, of course. But no one would dream of entering the private rooms of the house without permission, let alone stealing anything. If any of the employees were to do such a thing…what would he do with what he stole? He would have to go to one of the larger towns here on the island to try to sell it, and then he would be caught. Not only would he be punished, his family would be…I am not sure of the English word. They would be treated as though they were Austrians?”

  Sebastien had to think for a moment before he realized what Estevao really meant by this apparent nationalistic slur. “They would be ostracized,” he suggested. “Shunned.”

  “Ostracized, yes. I remember hearing your uncle use that word. Will you dress for dinner, senhor?”

  “Change my clothes, you mean? No, I think I’ll just freshen up a little. On second thought, maybe I will change my shirt. This one already has perspiration marks on it.”

  After splashing some cold water on his face in the bathroom, and putting on the fresh shirt Estevao fetched for him, Sebastien wandered into the dressing room. He chose a bottle of cologne from the array of toiletries on the table, and rubbed some of the fragrance onto his throat and wrists. It had a strong, distinctive scent of limes.

  Estevao, standing there patiently in the dressing room doorway, watched him as he rummaged through his uncle’s jewelry chest.

  “Most of the men here wear a cross around their necks, don’t they, Estevao?”

  “Yes, senhor. I myself, as you see.”

  “This is a very beautiful gold crucifix and chain,” Sebastien said, pulling the object in question out of the chest.

  “It is another antique, senhor. Your uncle occasionally wore it.”

  “Compared to the other men, I feel almost naked, without a neck chain. I suppose no one would be offended if I wore this, tucked in under my shirt?”

  “Why should anyone take offense? You are not a believer, senhor?”

  “You might say I’m an open-minded skeptic.” Sebastien fastened the gold chain around his neck, and let the crucifix drop into the groove between his pectoral muscles, where it was visible through his shirt, of which he’d left the top two buttons unfastened—Marajó style, he thought, since it seemed to be the way Estevao and most of the other men on the fazenda wore theirs.

  “Anibal and Joaquin are known for their promptness,” Estevao said. “They may have already arrived.”

  “All right.”

  As they crossed the vestibule, senhora Beatriz intercepted them.

  “Senhor Medeiros and senhor Rocha are here,” the housekeeper told Sebastien. “I took the liberty of showing them into the drawing room, and of serving them drinks.”

  “Thank you, senhora Beatriz.”

  Through the open door of the drawing room, Sebastien could hear the two men’s voices. Anibal and Joaquin were talking in low tones, but something about the acoustics made their voices carry. As he approached the door, with Estevao at a respectful distance behind him, Sebastien heard Joaquin say, “Cristiano was nervous about meeting the new mestre. He is not usually so anxious about such things.”

  “Perhaps he has a good reason to be concerned,” Anibal replied.

  “Do you think he knows?”

  “I do not think so, Joaquin.”

  Concerned about what? Knows what? Sebastien wondered. And, since the foreman and the manager were talking in Portuguese, and using impersonal pronouns, Sebastien couldn’t be sure whether Do you think he knows? was a reference to Cristiano, or to himself—or, for all he knew, to some unnamed third party.

  He glanced at Estevao. The strapping youth had also overhead the snatch of conversation, and he looked a bit flustered.

  “Let’s go in, Estevao,” Sebastien said loudly, to alert Anibal and Joaquin to their presence. “We mustn’t keep the gentlemen waiting.”

  In the drawing room, Anibal and Joaquin were indeed standing, sipping their drinks, which had been prepared from an elegant little drink cart, a sort of portable bar on wheels. As he exchanged greetings with the two men, Sebastien saw that they had both made a considerable effort to spruce themselves up. They had changed clothes, and Anibal, in particular, was freshly shaven, scrubbed, and pomaded—his slicked-down hair looking a bit incongruous on such a rugged, outdoor type.

  “Have you been taking good care of the mestre, Estevao?” Anibal asked as the valet mixed a drink to Sebastien’s specifications.

  “Estevao is already proving himself to be invaluable,” Sebastien said.

  “Ah. We used to call him senhor Gilberto’s shadow,” Anibal joked.

  “Yes, the mestre of the mestre,” Joaquin agreed.

  The valet grinned broadly as he handed Sebastien his drink.

  “Ah, here is Cristiano,” Joaquin said.

  A tall, bearded young man entered the room, dressed in what Sebastien was beginning to think of as the fazenda’s uniform—boots, loose brown khaki trousers suitable for horseback riding, a shirt open at the neck and with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He carried his hat in his hand. It was adorned by a beaded band and the inevitable religious medal. Sebastien’s first impression was of a mane of tousled black hair falling in every direction over a broad, suntanned forehead, contrasting oddly with the neatly trimmed beard.

  There was a quiet power, an intensity, radiating from that big, well-groomed body that struck Sebastien almost like a physical blow. The new arrival also possessed soft brown eyes with a habitually sensual expression in them—bedroom eyes, as the saying went.

  Sebastien returned the bearded man’s smile, and noticed that, in addition to the standard-issue crucifix around his neck, he wore an ordinary ball-shaped ear stud, made from surgical steel, in his pierced left earlobe.

  “Good evening, senhor.” The newcomer had a soft, deep, sensual voice.

  “You must be Cristiano Lapuente.”

  “And you are senhor Sebastien. I would know you, anywhere. If I saw you in a crowd of people, I would still see your uncle, in you. You must let me embrace you, for your uncle’s sake.”

  “Of course.” Sebastien opened his arms to this butch number without hesitation. Cristiano didn’t just hug him—he k
issed him on the cheek, the soft texture of his beard brushing against Sebastien’s face. Sebastien felt a tingle of pleasure at this brief, tantalizing physical contact.

  “Welcome, mestre,” Cristiano said, with great warmth in his tone of voice, as he released Sebastien from his embrace. “Welcome to Saõ Martinho…welcome to Brazil.”

  “Thank you, senhor Lapuente.”

  “Oh, I must not be ‘senhor Lapuente’ to you. You must call me Cristiano.”

  As he once again returned the young bearded man’s smile, Sebastien remembered the exchange between Joaquin and Anibal he had overheard, a few minutes earlier. If Cristiano was “nervous” and “anxious” about meeting him, he was a very good actor, who betrayed no such feelings at the moment.

  Of course, Sebastien speculated, like all of the other people who live and work here—he was a little afraid of the unknown quantity, namely me. He’s concerned about the changes my coming here might bring with them, about the possibility of the ranch being sold and him either losing his job, or ending up working for some other stranger. That’s all Anibal and Joaquin were talking about, I bet.

  “Very well, Cristiano. And you must call me Sebastien.”

  “Oh, but that would not be fitting—not on such short acquaintance, at least. You are the new mestre of the fazenda.” Cristiano flashed a dazzling grin as he said this, though, a grin which removed any formality from his words.

  “Well, I won’t argue the point right now, Cristiano,” Sebastien said, lightly.

  His casual tone masked the intensity of his response to the other young man. Sebastien was smitten. Back home in New York, his ideal of male beauty had been someone like Neil, perhaps. But Neil had been dethroned in Sebastien’s imagination the moment Sebastien had met Paolo Brescanti. Now Paolo might have to yield, in his turn. This Brazilian, Cristiano, wasn’t just an exceptionally handsome man. He was a force of nature—a god of masculinity.

  Cristiano gave Estevao a hug, too, followed by a slap on the back.

  “Eh, Estevao, have you been behaving yourself?” Cristiano asked.

  “Of course.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you, vagabundo.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Estevao replied, a bit haughtily. Nor did Sebastien. Vagabundo, which Cristiano had just used, apparently, as a term of endearment, could—like its English equivalent, “vagabond,” mean “tramp,” but not just in the sense of being impecunious, like a hobo. It could refer to sexual behavior, as well. Estevao turned to Sebastien. “I will go see how dinner is progressing, senhor.”

  He left the drawing room. Cristiano directed his attention back to Sebastien.

  “Has he been behaving himself, senhor Sebastien?” he asked.

  “I’m the one who’s afraid to misbehave,” Sebastien joked. “Estevao seems to run a tight ship—he’s already set me straight, on a few things.”

  “I imagine he has. Before I forget—I have brought you a gift, senhor Sebastien,” Joaquin said, with a smile. “It is more of a tool, actually.” He set down on a nearby table a small brown leather case with a fold-over, snap flap. He opened it, and pulled out a gleaming black cell phone, which looked brand new. “You see, the holder can be fastened to your belt when you go outdoors, if you wish. From this phone you can access all of the buildings here on the fazenda, and many of the employees—including the three of us. We all carry these phones with us, or keep them within easy reach, at all times. The names and numbers are already programmed in. I have tried to list them in the order you may find most useful, based on which ones you are likely to call more frequently than others. Of course, you may adjust them to suit yourself, later.”

  “Thank you, Joaquin. Let me guess. Does Estevao also carry around such a phone, and is his name near the top of the list?”

  Joaquin laughed. “His name is at the top of the list, ahead of all of ours. I see that Estevao has already taken charge of you?”

  “I’m already learning to take my orders from him, instead of giving mine to him,” Sebastien said, and he was not entirely joking. “It seems to be the easier way, saving us both a lot of unnecessary discussion.”

  “Estevao has a forceful personality. But let him have his way in small things, and he will serve you well. He was devoted to senhor Gilberto, and misses him terribly—as do we all, of course, but for Estevao, it was almost as though your uncle’s death deprived him of his own purpose in life. Do not be surprised if he turns to you to fill that void, and is perhaps a bit overzealous.”

  “I understand. But I like Estevao. He is ‘a character,’ as we say in the United States.”

  The role of dinner party host was a novel one for Sebastien, and he did his best to make small talk. Fortunately, Anibal, Joaquin, and Cristiano all seemed quite comfortable in his presence. They talked volubly when he bombarded them with questions about the operation of the ranch.

  “Why is the fazenda named after St. Martin of Tours?” Sebastien asked at one point.

  “Because of the miracle,” Anibal said.

  “We have our own local miracle, then?” Sebastien asked.

  “Oh yes,” Cristiano assured him. “It took place in the eighteenth century, not long after the first Portuguese settled here. The flood waters rose higher than they had ever come before, and threatened to cover the entire countryside. Until a Cafuzo slave named Martinho, after the saint, waded out into the rising water and knelt down, and invoked his patron. ‘O Saõ Martinho, save us poor wretches!’ he cried. ‘Draw your sword and divide these waters, as you once divided your cloak!’ Instantly, there was a blinding flash of lightning and a deafening crack of thunder, and the waters rolled back to either side, just as in the parting of the Red Sea, exposing the dry land in between for as far as the eye could see. Only, in this case, there was no need for the waters to come together again, to drown the Egyptian army. The waters simply drained away, and the land was saved.”

  “Wow,” Sebastien exclaimed.

  “The spot where the man knelt is marked by a cairn of stones,” Cristiano added. “It is not far from here. Now, it is good pasture land, and the cattle graze there peacefully—which perhaps is appropriate, since the whole point of the saint’s intercession was to preserve the land for human use.”

  “And everyone here believes this story to be literally true, of course,” Sebastien guessed.

  “Of course,” Joaquin said, with a smile. “We all believe it, implicitly and without reservation. What is that expression—there are no atheists in fox holes, on the field of battle? There are no atheists here on Marajó, either, when the heavy rains come and the flood waters rise.”

  Senhora Beatriz entered the room. “The dinner is ready, senhor Sebastien,” she announced.

  “Oh, excellent. Let’s go into the dining room, gentlemen. Don’t stand on ceremony, please,” Sebastien insisted when Anibal tried to step aside in the doorway and gestured for Sebastien to precede him. “This is your house, as well as mine. I expect you to behave here the same way you did when my uncle was alive, with the same freedom.”

  “That could result in some very boisterous evenings, senhor Sebastien,” Cristiano warned.

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Sebastien seated himself at the head of the dining room table, with Anibal on his right and the other two men on his left, with Joaquin closer to him than Cristiano. The ceiling fans rotated quietly overhead, but they were dining without electric light. One of the tritons in the centerpiece now held aloft candles, which were lit, and there were small oil lamps set out on the sideboards and on the table, providing a warm, gentle glow.

  Estevao appeared, carrying an open bottle of red wine, which he poured into the waiting glasses.

  “Thank you, Estevao. You are not joining us, for dinner?” Sebastien asked, seeing that there were only four places set.

  “No, senhor. I will eat in the kitchen, with Ignacia and the others.”

  “You know you’d be perfectly welcome to join us, here at the tab
le.”

  “Not when you are entertaining guests, senhor Sebastien,” Estevao said, primly.

  “Estevao is enjoying playing the role of butler,” Cristiano said, with a malicious-sounding laugh. Estevao glared at him, which only made Cristiano laugh more heartily.

  “We have no butler here per se, then?” Sebastien asked.

  “No, senhor. I handle those duties,” Estevao bragged. “And when there is a large number of guests, there are some of the men whom I have trained to wait on table, or to help out in any other way that may be required. As senhor Rocha, senhor Medeiros, and senhor Lapuente can all attest, since they have been present at many such dinner parties.”

  “Listen to him!” Cristiano scoffed. “So this evening I am ‘senhor Lapuente,’ indeed! Ah, what fine manners…what an inspiration to those of us who are rough and uncouth!”

  Estevao looked as though he wanted to break the wine bottle over Cristiano’s head. Anibal and Joaquin, Sebastien saw, were both fighting back smirks as they observed this by-play between the two younger men.

  “Do you require anything else, senhor Sebastien, at the moment?” Estevao asked, in a particularly frosty tone of voice.

  “Ah, no thank you, Estevao.”

  “Very good, senhor.”

  The dining room door had barely closed behind Estevao’s broad back before Anibal, Joaquin, and Cristiano all burst out laughing at the valet’s expense, like three bratty schoolboys sharing a joke.

  “Shame on you, Cristiano, for teasing poor Estevao like that,” Anibal said.