Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  After breakfast, he consulted the desk calendar in the office, and confirmed that today was a Thursday, and he had arrived ten days ago.

  Since then, he had rarely been truly idle. Even when he was supposedly taking his ease, he usually had some paperwork connected with the running of the ranch close at hand, to scrutinize. Or, if an employee happened to be in the vicinity, he would engage him or her in conversation, either to find out more about how things were done at Saõ Martinho, or simply to improve his Portuguese.

  Ironically, Sebastien had been spending so much time outdoors that it wasn’t until the past day or two that he had taken the time to familiarize himself with the rest of the main house. Curiosity finally led him to undertake a more systematic tour of its vast interior. The guest bedrooms were luxurious. This part of the house rather resembled a hotel—one with no guests, at the moment, but ready to receive them, should they appear. The so-called “drawing room” and “smoking room,” Sebastien discovered, were holdovers from a previous social era. At the time the house had been built, it was taken for granted that the sexes would want to be segregated, at least temporarily, immediately after dinner. The ladies would retire to the drawing room, for coffee or tea and genteel conversation. The gentlemen would go into the smoking room, to indulge in stronger stimulants.

  Intrigued by the source of the consistently excellent meals he’d been consuming, Sebastien had finally visited the kitchen. At first, he was treated like a general, come to review the troops. Ignacia and her staff assumed he was there to inspect the facilities. As far as Sebastien was concerned, though, this would have been not only unnecessary, but an insult. His first quick glance around the premises told him that the level of tidiness and cleanliness would not have been out of place in a hospital’s operating room. As soon as the women realized that this was really a social call, and that the mestre wanted to praise them for their ongoing efforts, they relaxed.

  But Sebastien intuitively understood that this part of the house was a female domain, off limits to him except for such occasional visits. Each morning, the housekeeper presented him with that day’s proposed lunch and dinner menu, in writing, for him to approve. At first Sebastien approved the bill of fare without question or comment. It took him a week to assert himself to the point of admitting that he had already developed a fondness for certain dishes, and wouldn’t mind being served them again.

  As for between-meal snacks—they were governed by a protocol all their own. It was unthinkable that the mestre of the fazenda should need to raid the kitchen cupboards and one of the refrigerators, and prepare a sandwich for himself with his own hands. He had only to pick up one of the house phones, or the cell phone Joaquin had given him, and place his order—or send an intermediary on the errand, if that happened to be more convenient at the moment—and his sandwich would be delivered to him on a tray, accompanied by a side of fresh fruit, perhaps, and the beverage of his choice, with an immaculate white napkin draped over the contents of the tray. If the master developed hunger pangs while he was away from the house—out in the middle of some remote pasture, for example—he had only to pull out his trusty cell phone. His snack, neatly packed in a small wicker picnic basket, would be delivered to him—usually by a ranch hand on horseback. If several people needed to be fed al fresco, a larger basket was utilized.

  Whenever Sebastien was outdoors, and encountered one of his employees, the man in question—outdoors, it was usually a man—invariably either touched one hand to the brim of his hat, by way of a salute, or removed his hat altogether while he was in the mestre’s presence. When Sebastien invited the men to put their hats back on, to protect themselves from the hot Brazilian sun, the men often stared at him, as though he had said something astonishing.

  “You are the mestre of the fazenda,” Estevao reminded him after he had observed one of these incidents. “You keep your hat on in other men’s presence—assuming they are your inferiors, which everyone here on Saõ Martinho is.”

  Sebastien tried to impress upon the other young man the concept that all men are created equal—which Estevao dismissed with a shrug and a wave of his hand.

  “If you say so, senhor,” he said blandly. As usual, the unspoken subtext was loud and clear—You have very strange notions, senhor, but in time you will get over them. Especially if you place yourself in my hands and allow me to educate you.

  Sebastien also soon realized that he might as well have saved himself the trouble of acquiring an International Driver’s Permit. He had a number of motor vehicles at his disposal—the Jeep, a pickup truck, a station wagon, a van. They all appeared to be exceptionally well maintained from a mechanical standpoint, although they had in common the fact that their paint jobs had suffered from constant exposure to this climate’s combination of harsh sunlight and dampness. The mestre of the fazenda did not drive himself. He sat in the front seat beside Estevao or one of the other men, who opened and closed the car door for him, and served as his chauffeur.

  The preferred mode of transportation was horseback. Sebastien found himself spending several hours each day in the saddle, usually making at least one excursion in the morning and another in the afternoon. His horse, of course, was groomed and cared for by the stable hands, and when he required it, it was saddled for him, then led out from the stable area for him to mount. The little ritual of kneeling down and giving him a boost up into the saddle was scrupulously observed, with either Estevao or whichever other man happened to be closest doing the honors. The norte-americano democrat in Sebastien rebelled at this pseudo-feudal display, and he said as much to Estevao one morning when they rode out together.

  “Estevao, this nonsense of kneeling down and giving me a hands-up into the saddle really must cease. I’m perfectly capable of getting up on a horse all by myself. This is the twenty-first century, after all, and I am not the frigging emperor of Brazil.”

  “What does ‘frigging’ mean, senhor Sebastien?”

  “You never heard my uncle use that expression?”

  “No.”

  “It means…well, technically it means jerking off, I suppose, but we use it in the sense of ‘fucking.’ As in, ‘the fucking emperor of Brazil.’ It’s not a term used in polite society.”

  “Here on the fazenda we are not a particularly polite society. As you may have already observed.”

  “On the contrary. Everyone has been extraordinarily polite to me. Even too polite, possibly. Getting back to this helping me to get up on the horse thing—”

  “The men would think it very strange if you refused their help. And they would be astonished if I, your valet, stood idly by and watched you mount your horse without any assistance. It would be a neglect of my duty. They might even think it an insult.”

  “But that’s ridiculous, Estevao. It’s totally illogical. Maybe if you explained it to them?”

  “It is an honor to serve the master of the house. In any capacity.” The subtext was loud and clear—With respect, senhor, it will be a cold day here indeed when I try to explain to the men any such thing.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” a frustrated Sebastien muttered.

  Estevao crossed himself, quickly and furtively. “Is it the custom among the norte-americanos to use such blasphemous terms in conversation?”

  “I’m sorry, Estevao. It’s not my intention to offend you. But are you telling me that my uncle never lost his temper and said such things?”

  “He rarely lost his temper, and when he did, he was never in a bad mood for long. I will admit that he was very fond of the expression ‘Ah, que se foda!’ which I am sure he picked up from listening to the men. And sometimes he used what I assume is the English equivalent, namely, ‘Fuck it all to hell!’”

  “Then I will start saying ‘Ah, que se foda!’ myself. I assume that will not give offense?”

  “The men will be delighted. They will say to each other, ‘Listen! The new mestre curses like a real Brazilian!’”

  “What else can I do, to seem lik
e a real Brazilian, and fit in here?”

  Sebastien had asked the question semi-facetiously, so he was not prepared for Estevao’s calm, almost solemn response.

  “You must accept the fact that God has placed you over us, no doubt for a reason. Therefore, even though we are already beginning to know you and to love you and to think of you as one of us—you will always be the mestre, and you are not like other men. It is, if you will forgive me for saying so, your obligation to act accordingly.”

  Sebastien was taken aback by this little speech of Estevao’s—but he also found himself strangely touched. There was a depth to Estevao that continued to intrigue him, the more time he spent in the young cowboy’s company.

  Sebastien’s phlegmatic temperature was well suited to life on the fazenda. As he often said, he was the not the kind of person who did things in a hurry. And here, far away from the hectic pace of urban life, here where so many activities seemed regulated by the rhythms of the natural world, there was rarely any need to do anything in haste.

  When he felt the need, though, Sebastien was quite capable of making quick decisions, and of taking decisive action.

  He made a point of touring and inspecting all of the buildings that made up the main compound, and he found nothing to question, let alone to criticize. The bunkhouse, however, was an exception. It resembled a cross between an army barracks and a college dormitory—it was clean and comfortable enough, but its interior was decidedly rundown. The men had their own kitchen and recreational areas. They shared sleeping quarters, two or four to a room. Each employee had his own bunk, storage locker and chest of drawers, often supplemented by a trunk set on the floor. There were miscellaneous items of furniture, all of which looked second- or third-hand at best.

  The men showed Sebastien one room of the bunkhouse which had been set up as a gym, where those men who were into musculação, the Portuguese word for bodybuilding, worked out. The space had some elementary equipment—weight benches, a punching bag, and an assortment of barbells and free weights, all old and in some cases rusty and in need of repair, or replacement. The walls were adorned with inspirational photos of near-naked athletes, torn out of bodybuilding and fitness magazines. Magazine photos of the favored soccer stars of the day, shown in action, were also prominently on display.

  It was his walk through the bunkhouse’s communal bathroom and shower area, however, that made up Sebastien’s mind for him.

  He broached the subject with Joaquin during their first scheduled business meeting with each other in the manager’s office.

  “We’re going to have to make some improvements in the bunkhouse,” Sebastien declared.

  “Whatever you think is appropriate, Sebastien.” Joaquin had begun to address his employer by his first name, at Sebastien’s request.

  “I’ve made a little list. We can do it in stages. First, I want to buy the men a new television set, a large widescreen model, to replace that antique they’ve been watching. And some decent workout equipment, to replace that outdated junk they’ve been using. That should be easy enough. Next, all of the inside walls need to be replastered and painted.”

  “A good idea, Sebastien. I’ll be the first to admit that such a project is long overdue. The only problem is…even if we undertake it in stages, a few of the rooms at a time, the men may need to find some other place to sleep for a night or two, while their rooms are being done. Even in this hot climate, plaster and paint take some time to dry.”

  “I’ve thought of that, Joaquin. They can stay in the guest bedrooms, in the main house.”

  “In the main house?”

  “Why not? All of those perfectly good rooms, going to waste. The men will be welcome to use them. As long as they promise to behave themselves—keep their hands to themselves, I mean. No pinching of the maids’ bottoms allowed. Well, unless the maids invite it,” Sebastien added, by way of an afterthought. “We can have some nice informal little dinner parties, while they are staying as my guests in the main house. God knows there’s always plenty of food on hand, too. It might make a pleasant change for them, and I know that I would welcome a chance to get to know them better.”

  “You are extremely generous, Sebastien.”

  Sebastien made an impatient, dismissive gesture with his hand. “Next, we really ought to replace all of that furniture in the bunkhouse. I want the men to have decent new beds, and new storage lockers—larger ones—and other pieces of furniture in which they can keep their personal belongings. And new tables and chairs. Some comfortable sofas for the recreation room—two or three of them—and armchairs, with ottomans. We shouldn’t have to throw the old things away. There must be people in the neighborhood who could use them. And finally, all the plumbing in the bunkhouse needs to be upgraded. I know that the men are tough, but you couldn’t pay me enough to put my bare butt on one of those ancient wooden toilet seats. They’re so old the wood is practically petrified. It reminds me of some of the glory holes I’ve seen, in the back rooms of bars, back home.”

  Joaquin looked a bit mystified. “Ah…what are ‘glory holes,’ Sebastien? I have never heard that expression.”

  “A glory hole is…it’s a slang expression for a toilet that is not well maintained, that is in need of repair,” Sebastien prevaricated. “It’s meant ironically.”

  “I see.”

  “Put together some cost estimates for me to look at, Joaquin, as soon as possible, please. I want to get started on this as soon as possible.”

  “At once.”

  “And don’t cut corners. I want the best quality that is available—good workmanship, good furniture, good materials and fixtures. Oh, that reminds me. We might as well replace all the lighting in the bunkhouse—the ceiling lights, and the other lamps—while we’re at it. And see whether the electrical wiring itself needs to be upgraded. This is the kind of situation in which investing money up front should pay off, in the long run. If it simplifies the bookkeeping, I’ll pay for all of this out of one of my personal accounts.” Sebastien paused for thought. “I’m taking for granted, of course, that the men won’t be resistant to change. Not when the change is meant to improve their lot?”

  “On the contrary, Sebastien. They will be delighted. And excited. To say nothing of most grateful.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. I intend to take care of my people, you see.”

  Afterward, when he was alone, Sebastien realized that he had said my people automatically, without thinking. The expression sounded almost feudal. It must be Estevao’s influence, rubbing off on him! Well, he was the mestre of the fazenda, after all, as he had so often been reminded. He was responsible for the well-being and happiness of his employees. It was about time he stepped up to the plate.

  He happened to be at loose ends for a few minutes that evening, as the sun dipped toward the horizon and it was not yet time for dinner to be served. He heard, through the open windows, the sounds of the men’s soccer game taking place on the lawn. The game seemed to be a daily ritual, no matter what the weather might be like. It not only marked the transition between the men’s work day and the following leisure hours, but allowed them to blow off some steam. Sebastien went outside to take a closer look.

  The players, as usual, had changed into shorts and T-shirts or tank tops, or just shorts, and were energetically kicking the soccer ball. They were all barefoot, and the point of the game seemed not to score any goals, but simply to keep the ball in play for as long as possible, passing it back and forth. The golden light of the late afternoon sun fell on their bodies, drawing Sebastien’s attention to the wide variety of skin tones—they ranged from pale pinkish-beige through all the gradations of tan and brown to charcoal black. All of the players were sweating, scattering drops of perspiration about as they vied for the ball.

  Observing them, Sebastien experienced a stab of envy at the sight of their sweaty camaraderie.

  Hot, Sebastien couldn’t help thinking. Hot, in every sense of the word. Quite an assortment of
beautiful men. The men of the fazenda of Saõ Martinho. My men.

  Chapter Twelve:

  A Proposition

  That evening, Sebastien was in the study, working at the computer, when he realized that he was having difficulty concentrating on the screen. He consulted his watch—his uncle’s Ulysse Nardin wristwatch, which he now habitually wore, and which he had begun to think of as his own. He’d been working nonstop for three hours, since just after dinner—no wonder he was starting to nod off.

  He pulled out his cell phone.

  “Estevao? Could I have some coffee? Oh, and I’m still in the study.”

  “At once, senhor. There is chocolate mousse left over from dinner. Would you like to have some with your coffee?”

  “Um, I don’t know. I had such a big helping of it for dessert. And how, exactly, do you happen to know there was any left over?”

  “Because I am in the kitchen, senhor, standing in front of the refrigerator, with the door open. I was about to help myself when you called.”

  Sebastien laughed. “You are shameless. But it was good. Coffee and chocolate mousse for two, then. Come and keep me company.”

  Estevao soon arrived, with the inevitable napkin-draped tray, which he set down on one of the few clear areas on the desk.

  “Pull up a chair, Estevao, and talk to me. I need to take a break.”

  Estevao uncovered the tray, revealing, besides the coffee service and the two cups of mousse, a little bowl of whipped cream.

  “Will you have some whipped cream on your mousse, senhor?”

  “Maybe just a little. Oh hell, give me a lot. You think of everything, Estevao. You are the perfect servant. Although in this instance, you are also the perfect tempter, leading me astray.”

  “Thank you, senhor. I mean, thank you for the compliment. And a little second dessert, with or without whipped cream, can do you no harm.”