Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  “It is late, senhor,” Estevao observed. “And you have had a long journey.”

  “Yes, it’s certainly been an eventful day. A day filled with surprises—all of them pleasant, I must say.”

  “I am glad. But you must sleep.”

  “I will, in a little while. Stay and talk to me for a few minutes, first. Where do you sleep, Estevao? In the bunkhouse, with the other boiadeiros?”

  “Oh no, senhor. Here in the house. In the bedroom next to yours. It is accessible not only through the hallway, but directly, through that door.” Estevao indicated a door which Sebastien had assumed was a closet. “It is one of the bedrooms intended for members of the family. It is very comfortable. Of course, there are those who might say it is too good for a servant.”

  Sebastien heard the edge of anxiety in Estevao’s voice, and tried not to smile. As he might have suspected, being the mestre’s valet no doubt carried with it many perks, which Estevao was unwilling to lose.

  “If my uncle found the arrangement suitable, I see no reason to change it,” he said carelessly.

  “It is a convenient arrangement. Should you have need of me during the night, you have only to press the buzzer, on the nightstand beside your bed. Or you may call me on your new cell phone, the one senhor Medeiros gave you. Or…you may simply leave the door ajar. Then, should you have need of me, you have only to call out to me, from your bed, and I will hear.”

  “Why would I possibly need to call you in the middle of the night, Estevao, and wake you up?”

  The valet looked at him. He had the start of a grin on his handsome face, and Sebastien couldn’t decided whether it was arrogant, or sexy, or both.

  “You may think of something, senhor.”

  You must be getting sleepy, Sebastien told himself. He didn’t just come on to you, did he? You are imagining things! Aloud, he said, “I’m sure I will sleep very soundly here, and will have no need to disturb you.”

  Estevao was no doubt a useful source of information. Sebastien decided to draw him out, a little.

  “I like senhor Rocha and senhor Medeiros,” he said. “They seem to be very good at their jobs. Do the employees respect them? Do you enjoy working for them?”

  “Rocha is a hard man, a ‘tough boss,’ as they say in English, but he must be, to maintain order, and he is fair. Those who do their work and are honest have nothing to fear from him. Medeiros is a man from the city. He is very well educated. This is a fine place on which to live and work, senhor Sebastien. It is the best fazenda on Marajó. All of us are proud to say we belong to Saõ Martinho.”

  “I can tell, already, even in the short time I’ve been here, that everyone here takes great pride in their work.” Sebastien reflected for a moment. “I like Cristiano Lapuente, too,” he admitted, almost thinking out loud, rather than directing the remark to Estevao.

  “Do you, senhor?”

  Was Sebastien imagining things, or was there an odd inflection in Estevao’s voice?

  “Do you find that surprising? As we say in the United States, ‘what’s not to like?’ I thought you and he were old friends.”

  “We are. He is my best friend.”

  “For such a young man, Cristiano seems to have been given a great deal of responsibility.”

  “The men respect him. He is a great favorite.”

  “He’s very handsome. He must be the most handsome man on the fazenda, present company excluded. I imagine he’s very popular with the ladies.”

  “All of the silly young girls pursue him. So do some of the older women, who should know better. But he does not give his heart lightly.”

  “He is not married, then. Or engaged to be married?”

  “Oh no, senhor. He enjoys his freedom.”

  “And you, Estevao? Do you enjoy your freedom?” Sebastien teased.

  “I am easy to get along with, senhor.”

  As long as you can have your own way, Sebastien thought.

  “Senhor Sebastien…what did you mean when you said, just now, ‘present company exclusion?’”

  “The word is excluded, Estevao. I meant that, when I said Cristiano might be the most handsome man here, that many people would disagree. They would say that you are every bit as good-looking.”

  Estevao positively glowed at this compliment. “You are very kind, senhor.”

  “And you are very pleasant to have around. I enjoy your company. But now I will say good night, and go to bed. I am tired.”

  “I will help you to undress.”

  “Ah…that’s really not necessary. I’m perfectly capable of undressing myself.”

  “But I must take your clothes to be laundered.”

  “Surely that can wait until tomorrow?”

  “It is a valet’s responsibility to keep his gentleman’s clothes in good order, at all times. I noticed, senhor, that you have no pajamas or nightshirt. Do you wear anything to bed, that I may lay out for you, or do you sleep in the nude?”

  “I almost always sleep in the nude. I suppose, here, that’s going to make me more vulnerable to mosquitoes?”

  “You should keep the netting drawn. I will turn down the bed for you.”

  “Really, Estevao. Don’t bother. You have to understand that I’m not at all used to such personal attentions. In my apartment in New York I do everything for myself. Well, almost everything,” Sebastien corrected himself, thinking of his cleaning service, and the building’s maintenance crew, which was on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

  “Here you need do nothing for yourself.”

  “But I may enjoy doing certain things myself.”

  Estevao was unimpressed by this argument. “You are the mestre of the fazenda. And not of just any fazenda—you are the mestre of Saõ Martinho. You are what is known as a man of property—a gentleman of leisure. It is not for you to concern yourself with menial tasks. You will find other ways of enjoying yourself.”

  “Well,” Sebastien said with a sigh, “right now I plan to enjoy going to bed and getting some sleep.”

  He stood up and stripped, tossing his clothes onto the armchair. Estevao had already seen him naked, so Sebastien had no qualms about undressing in front of him. Estevao held up the lightweight saffron-colored robe, so Sebastien could slip his arms into its sleeves.

  “Thank you, Estevao. If you’ll excuse me—”

  Sebastien went into the bathroom and performed his usual bedtime ritual of relieving himself, brushing his teeth and rinsing out his mouth with mouthwash, and washing his face. Having his familiar toilet articles there in the strange bathroom, ready to hand, made him feel more grounded—a feeling he usually experienced, when he traveled, during his first night in a strange place. When he turned out the bathroom light and went back into the bedroom, he was somehow not surprised to find Estevao still there. The valet had carried out his stated intention of retrieving Sebastien’s discarded clothes, which he now had draped over one arm. He stood there patiently at attention, awaiting any further orders.

  What do people always say to their servants, in old movies? Sebastien asked himself. Oh, yeah. “Ah—I believe that will be all, Estevao.” He was almost tempted to add a pompous-sounding, my good man, but he caught himself in time.

  “Very good, senhor.”

  Sebastien approached the bed with a certain trepidation. With the help of the long, narrow, bench-like footstool, he managed to clamber up onto the mattress—none too gracefully, he was sure.

  “This is going to take a little getting used to,” he muttered.

  “I am sure you will be comfortable, senhor.” Estevao had made no move to leave the room. “Do you see the pull cords hanging down, on either side of the bed?” he asked. “The ones with the brass weights on their ends open and close the outer curtains. The ones with the white porcelain weights open and close the inner curtains, those made of mosquito netting.”

  “I see.” Sebastien experimented, and soon had the gauzy inner curtains drawn closed, all around the bed,
surrounding him. “Very ingenious,” he commented—although he was in fact thinking, This seems like a hell of a lot of trouble to have to go to, just to go to bed! He seemed to be very high off the floor—an inadvertent nocturnal tumble over the edge of the mattress, onto the floor below, could have bruising consequences.

  “Do you sleep with a light on in the room, senhor Sebastien? A night light?”

  “No, never.”

  “Then I will turn out this lamp.” Estevao did so, and the room went dark, except for the faint glow penetrating the curtains drawn across each set of windows. “There is also the small lamp on the nightstand, within your reach, senhor. Your carafe is there as well, filled with water. If you require nothing further…I will bid you good night.”

  “I have everything I could possibly need, Estevao. Thank you for everything. You have been extraordinarily helpful. Good night.”

  “Boa noite, mestre.” Estevao’s voice now came from the far end of the room. He had, obviously, crossed it—silently, as usual.

  “Boa noite.”

  Sebastien’s eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness. He seemed to be inside a box—its bottom the mattress, its top the coffered wooden canopy, its sides the sheets of mosquito netting which cascaded down like bridal veils, and its corners the four massive carved bedposts. He slipped out of his robe, tossed it toward the foot of the bed, and slid naked between the heavy, stiffly starched sheets, which were exquisitely crisp and cool against his bare skin. Lying on his back with his head on one of the pillows, he looked up and saw, in the gloom, the wooden griffin perched on the headboard, projecting out high over him like some bizarre bird of prey, ready to swoop down and strike. A bit disconcerted by the sight, Sebastien rolled over onto his stomach and hugged the pillow against his face and chest.

  It was very quiet. In the distance he could hear the buzzing and humming of the island’s insect life, which blurred into a strangely soothing sort of “white noise.” The air in the bedroom, and especially inside the confines of the curtained bed, felt curiously dense—not exactly close or uncomfortable, but weighty, as though it had a three-dimensional quality that could be grasped in the hand. Sebastien breathed it in deeply, and before he was even aware of his body’s sudden, grateful relaxation, he was asleep.

  Chapter Ten:

  Explorations

  In the morning, the ever-efficient Estevao came into the bedroom, once again placing his hand on Sebastien’s bare shoulder to awaken him. Sitting up in the oversized bed, Sebastien saw that Estevao had brought with him a tray, containing a coffee service and a hot roll, with butter and jam on the side.

  “Good morning, Estevao. Ah—breakfast in bed, I see.”

  “Good morning, mestre.” Estevao was busying himself opening the window curtains. The sun had not yet risen—only a pale gray pre-dawn light penetrated into the room. “But that is not your breakfast. That is just your morning coffee, for you to enjoy while you get dressed. Your breakfast will be served in the breakfast room, of course, whenever you want it.”

  “Oh, of course.” Sebastien tried not to sound sarcastic. He would no doubt need to drink the coffee and consume the roll, just so he would have enough strength to make the trek halfway through the house to the distant breakfast room, for God’s sake. He’d sometimes thought his condo, back in New York, was ridiculously large for one guy to live in. But this house was the size of a small suburban shopping mall. He’d have to find out, to satisfy his curiosity, exactly what the total square footage was. As he sipped and nibbled, though, he had grudgingly to admit that both the coffee and the roll were delicious. Ignacia was a jewel. Her cooking was going to spoil him.

  “Would you like to shower before or after I shave you, senhor?” Estevao was now at one of the armoires, taking from it a shallow porcelain bowl, a shaving mug and brush, a straight razor in a leather case, and a razor strop.

  “Ah…before, I think.”

  “Then, while you are in the shower, I will lay out your riding clothes.”

  Sebastien submitted to all of this with a fairly good grace. He had to admit that being shaved by Estevao was a pleasurable experience. The valet used a hot towel and shaving soap scented with sandalwood, and he wielded the razor with a professional barber’s expertise. Then, of course, Estevao helped him to get dressed, in one of the outfits Sebastien had purchased in Belém. The valet’s assistance was useful, when it came to pulling on Sebastien’s new boots.

  “I will keep on the ear stud I am wearing, and the bracelet,” Sebastien decided. “I like them, and I don’t think they are too dressy for outdoors.”

  “You are the mestre,” Estevao said, serenely. “It would be almost impossible for you to be too well dressed.”

  Estevao returned to the armoire and came back, to Sebastien’s astonishment, with a pair of spurs—and a gun belt. Estevao matter-of-factly set the belt down on the table next to where Sebastien was standing. It was a very elegant brown cowhide cartridge belt with a silver buckle and, sewn in a row all around it, silver-ornamented cylindrical leather tabs—every one of which contained a bullet. Attached to the belt was a matching holster. Estevao opened the holster’s fold-over snap flap, pulled out a gleaming revolver and examined it, then replaced it in the holster.

  “All six cylinders are loaded, senhor, and the safety catch is on,” he reported. “Sit down, senhor, and I will put the spurs on your boots.”

  “Ah—you expect me to wear this, Estevao?” Sebastien gestured toward the gun belt.

  “It is the custom. Your uncle always wore this one, when he rode about the property. I will put mine on, too, before we go for our ride. It would look odd for Cristiano and me to be accompanying you, armed, if you are not.”

  “But I don’t have a permit to carry a gun.”

  Estevao’s facial expression conveyed, more eloquently than any words, that the concept of a pistol permit was quite alien to him. He was kneeling beside Sebastien’s chair, securing the spurs to the heels of his boots.

  “It is the custom,” he repeated, with that calm stubbornness that was beginning to drive Sebastien up the wall. “You are the mestre.” Sebastien was beginning to wish he could have a hundred-real banknote for every time he’d heard that phrase during the past twenty-four hours. He’d be able to paper the walls with them!

  “Estevao, just because I’m now the master of the fazenda, that doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly acquired the ability to walk on water. Surely even the mestre is subject to some constraints.”

  Estevao shrugged. “Very few. Of course, if it became necessary for you actually to shoot someone—then you would need to explain yourself to the local magistrate.”

  “Who, I’m sure, would never dream of allowing charges of manslaughter, let alone murder, to be brought against the mestre of Saõ Martinho,” Sebastien said sarcastically.

  Estevao’s slight smile was not difficult to interpret. It was his way of saying, Now you’re starting to get it, senhor! I was beginning to think you would never catch on! Aloud, Estevao said, “I am confident the magistrate, who knew senhor Gilberto well, would show you every consideration, including giving you the benefit of any doubt.”

  A thought occurred to Sebastien. “Did my uncle ever have to shoot anyone?”

  “Not to my knowledge. He confined himself to threats and warning shots.”

  A little startled by this revelation, Sebastien stood up and allowed Estevao to fasten the gun belt around his hips and adjust it to his satisfaction. Booted, spurred, and packing a pistol, feeling like a gunslinger in a Western, Sebastien went in search of the breakfast room, while Estevao remained behind to tidy up the bedroom.

  The breakfast room, which Sebastien had in fact not entered during his previous tour of the house, turned out to be a bright, charming little space, its walls painted yellow, and with houseplants set about in boldly colored and patterned majolica pots. Sebastien took only a quick glance about the room at first, because he was distracted by the amusing heterosexual tableau he had i
nterrupted.

  The table was set for three, and Cristiano was already seated at it, with some sort of an omelet on the plate in front of him. One of the maids, Natividad, who was pleasant enough, but no raving beauty, was leaning over Cristiano, with a coffee pot in her hand. She had obviously just finished filling Cristiano’s cup, and he had caught her other wrist in his big hand and was stroking her forearm lightly with a fingertip while he spoke to her in a low voice. Sebastien couldn’t catch the words, but Cristiano was obviously flirting with Natividad, and she was eating it up, blushing and giggling like a schoolgirl.

  She got even more flustered when she saw that Sebastien had entered the room. Cristiano let go of the girl’s hand, leaned back in his seat, and gave Sebastien a knowing, man-to-man kind of a grin.

  Natividad dropped Sebastien the usual curtsey.

  “Bom dia, mestre. What would you like for breakfast?”

  “Oh, just tell Ignacia to make me whatever that is Cristiano is having. It looks good. And perhaps some sausages, on the side.”

  “Forgive me for starting my breakfast without waiting for you,” Cristiano said as Natividad left. “I was very hungry.”

  “It looks like breakfast isn’t the only thing you started without me.”

  “I was just having a little fun with Natividad.”

  “I didn’t interrupt a budding romance then, did I?”

  “A romance? With Natividad? Oh, no. She is a good girl, very sweet…but I am quite sure she is still a virgin. I prefer to ride a filly who has already been saddle broken.” Somehow, though, Cristiano managed to make this classic “straight sexist pig” comment while still managing to look and sound almost boyishly innocent.

  Sebastien took a seat and poured himself a glass of orange juice from a pitcher.

  “Be honest with me, Cristiano. Do I look ridiculous in this get-up?”

  “Your clothes? There is nothing wrong with them at all. You look splendid.” And in fact Cristiano was dressed quite similarly, including the gun belt and spurs, except that he wore a boldly patterned red and blue plaid shirt.