Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  “You must not tempt me,” Cristiano said, with that seductive smile of his. “We have done enough, for one night.”

  “Not nearly enough,” Sebastien complained. “Come now, Cristiano, there’s no need for you to rush off like this. Suppose someone were to see you leaving the house, first thing in the morning? They would probably think nothing of it. And, even if they did think something of it, so what? I don’t care. And neither should you. I’m not ashamed of my feelings for you.”

  “Nor am I ashamed of my feelings for you. Not anymore. But…I would not like Estevao to come in here and find me in your bed,” Cristiano admitted. “He would tease me.”

  “Yes, he would never let you hear the end of it. Nevertheless, if you and I are going to make a habit of playing around with each other, and sleeping together—as I fervently hope we will—then Estevao will find out about it, before very long.”

  “But not yet. Not just yet.”

  “All right, Cristiano. Whatever you say. You see…I can’t resist or oppose you. I always seem to let you have your own way. Go if you must. But kiss me again, first. Kiss me good-bye.”

  “You enjoy being kissed, don’t you?”

  “That depends on who is doing the kissing. Draw your own conclusions. I refuse to stroke that oversized ego of yours.”

  With a low laugh, Cristiano leaned over the bed and kissed Sebastien. Then he quickly crossed the room, stepped out onto the terrace, and was gone. Sebastien sighed, rolled over in the bed—which suddenly seemed very empty and lonely indeed—and went back to sleep.

  In the morning, while Sebastien sat up in bed, drinking his coffee and eating his roll, Estevao tried to play detective.

  “Whose clothes are these, senhor Sebastien? I found them hanging in the bathroom.”

  “What? Oh, those. I’d forgotten them. I hung them up in there to dry.”

  “They are not yours. They are not in the inventory I made. And they are splashed with mud from last night’s rain.”

  “Have them laundered, Estevao, and then I will return them to their owner.”

  “And their owner is…?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “A gentleman does not need to have any secrets from his valet.”

  “And a valet should be able to take a hint. I had an overnight visitor. That is all you need to know. If you’re really so curious, Estevao, you can make the rounds and have all the men try on that shirt and those pants, until you find the one they fit. Like Cinderella’s glass slipper.”

  Estevao grinned at his master in a way that might be considered impudent. “And this very masculine Cinderella you speak of, mestre…is he likely to marry the prince?”

  “That’s how the story is supposed to end, Estevao. We shall see. Now, stop asking questions, and run along, before the prince tans your hide.”

  Chapter Eighteen:

  A Cairn of Stones

  Sebastien had returned from his ride the following day, shortly before noon, when Anibal intercepted him.

  “Might I have a word with you, senhor Sebastien?”

  “Of course.”

  “Next weekend is Easter.”

  “Yes. I had almost forgotten. The time has passed so quickly. And how is Easter celebrated here on the fazenda?”

  “It was senhor Gilberto’s custom to allow most of the men to stop their work early on Good Friday afternoon, so they might spend the weekend with their families—returning to work first thing on Monday morning,” Anibal explained. “Some of the younger men, those who are unmarried, and who do not have families in the neighborhood—they volunteer to do whatever work is necessary, in the others’ absence. My wife and I try to pay them back, in some small part, by inviting them to an Easter dinner in my house. We have it on Sunday afternoon, after church. Ignacia and Claudia help my wife with the cooking.”

  “If this arrangement has worked out in the past, Anibal, I see no reason to change it now.”

  “Thank you, senhor. And we would be honored if you, too, will be our guest on Sunday.”

  “I’d be delighted. But you must let me provide the wine. I assume wine is drunk on Easter Sunday? Or do people abstain, in observance of the day?”

  “Good Friday is a day for abstemiousness, reflection, and repentance,” Anibal said, with a smile. “After that—to use one of your uncle’s expressions—‘all bets are off.’ I think I can promise you a lively party.”

  “I’m already looking forward to it.”

  “On the evening of Good Friday there is a religious procession, and a vigil, in the village of Guarás. The vigil is held in the church, where senhor Gilberto was laid to rest. Many of us go there, to observe, or to participate. It is a solemn occasion, but not too solemn. There is some festivity in the village, before nightfall. You might enjoy seeing it.”

  “Yes, it sounds interesting. I believe I will go.”

  Later in the afternoon, just before lunch time, there was some excitement. Sebastien was in his study, working at his PC, when Estevao hurried into the room, looking unusually flustered.

  “Senhor Sebastien,” he announced, “Albertine is about to give birth!”

  Who the hell is Albertine? Sebastien wondered. One of the men’s wives?

  “Well, for God’s sake, Estevao,” he said. “Get her to a hospital—or have a doctor come here. Why wasn’t I told about this before? What’s a woman who’s about to go into labor doing here on the fazenda, in the first place, without proper medical attention?”

  “Albertine is one of our prize cows,” Estevao explained.

  “Oh, I see. Now you tell me. That’s a relief to hear. I was about to run to the kitchen and start boiling water,” Sebastien joked.

  “She was inseminated by Honorato, one of the finest stud bulls on Marajó.”

  “Well, I’m glad she wasn’t careless enough to let herself get knocked up by just any old stud.”

  “You joke, senhor, but we paid good money for Honorato’s services. We hope to get a prize calf. Senhor Anibal is supervising the birth. He thought you might wish to witness it.”

  “By all means.”

  Sebastien followed Estevao to one of the barns, where a small crowd had gathered to witness the blessed event. It occurred to Sebastien that he had, in fact, never seen any animal give birth, except on television. Anibal, who apparently possessed a good deal of veterinary knowledge, was presiding in the stall, with a rubber apron tied around him, and rolled-up shirtsleeves. Sebastien and Estevao arrived on the scene just in time to witness the birth, which was startling in its suddenness and lack of complications. The crowd cheered as the wet calf struggled to raise itself on its wobbly legs and instinctively sought one of its mother’s teats to suck.

  “A fine bull calf, Sebastien,” Anibal declared as he scrubbed his hands under a faucet, then wiped them on a towel. “We could not have hoped for a better outcome. You should have the honor of giving him his name.”

  “Where I come from, all the bulls are on Wall Street,” Sebastien quipped. “What kind of a name would you suggest?”

  “Let us name him Sebastien, after you,” Anibal said.

  “All right. Sebastien it is, then.”

  Inexplicably, Sebastien felt pleased out of all proportion by the birth. A new life, he thought. A good omen, surely.

  Sebastien and Estevao, after making the rounds of the other animal pens to inspect the livestock, went back to the main house. They were laughing and joking together when senhora Beatriz intercepted them in the vestibule.

  “Lunch will be ready in a few minutes, senhor Sebastien,” she reported. “But you have a visitor. It is Padre Valentin.”

  “Padre Valentin!” Estevao exclaimed.

  “You seem excited, Estevao. Who, exactly, is Padre Valentin? A priest, I assume?” Sebastien asked.

  “He is the Father Superior of a monastery, some distance north of Guarás,” Estevao explained. “It is a small community, but the brothers are extremely pious. They practice many austerities. The
y often travel about the island on foot, to visit not only the towns and villages, but the farmers and ranchers who live in isolated areas.”

  “I see. I wonder why the padre should visit us?”

  “He honors the house by doing so. It is the custom, mestre, when one of the good brothers passes through a neighborhood, to offer him hospitality. A meal, and a bed for the night, unless he plans to move on during the same day.”

  “Then we must do the same. Where is the padre now, senhora Beatriz?”

  “In the drawing room, senhor. I have served him coffee.”

  “Excellent. Have Ignacia set another place for lunch. And we will offer the padre one of the guest rooms, should he wish to stay here overnight. We mustn’t keep him waiting. Estevao and I will go in to see him right now, and then we’ll invite him into the dining room. So Ignacia may serve lunch as soon as it’s ready.”

  Padre Valentin was not quite what Sebastien anticipated. He pictured either a plump, jovial monk, the kind who knew how to brew beer and might appear on a beer bottle’s label as a result, or a severe, thin-lipped, Inquisitor stereotype. Padre Valentin was neither. He was a lean, sun-bronzed man of about forty, with close-cropped light brown hair, warm brown eyes, and a calm manner, with an almost shy smile. He was indeed wearing an immaculate white robe, with its cowl pushed back and draped loosely in folds about his neck, and he had a large crucifix hanging on his chest. But under the bottom hem of the robe, Sebastien could see that the padre was wearing khaki trousers and a pair of sturdy hiking boots. He had a small backpack, which he had set down beside him.

  He put down his coffee cup and rose when Sebastien and Estevao entered the drawing room.

  “Padre,” Estevao greeted him. “How good of you to have come here.”

  “Ah, it is you, Estevao, my wayward son,” the Father Superior replied, with a dry humor that immediately put Sebastien on his side. “And have you been a good servant? Have you been worthy of your wages?” As he spoke, Padre Valentin looked at Sebastien and smiled.

  “I have tried my best, padre.”

  “I can vouch for Estevao’s diligence,” Sebastien interjected.

  “Good.” Padre Valentin’s smile broadened.

  Estevao knelt and received the padre’s blessing, then kissed his hand before he stood up again.

  “And here, padre, is senhor Sebastien, the new mestre of the fazenda.”

  When in Rome—or rather, when in Marajó, Sebastien thought, as he too knelt and was given the padre’s blessing.

  “That is not necessary, my son,” Padre Valentin said when Sebastien attempted to imitate Estevao by kissing his hand. Instead, the padre clasped Sebastien’s hand strongly in his own and helped him to get back on his feet. Standing beside the monk, Sebastien now realized that he was a rather small, compactly built man, a head shorter than either Estevao or Sebastien himself. Nevertheless, he projected an undeniable aura of command. “I can see that you are not a believer.”

  “You can see that, padre?” Sebastien asked.

  “I can see that you are unaccustomed to kneeling.”

  “I have to admit that I’m not the kind of practicing Catholic that Estevao and the others here on the fazenda are.”

  “Nor was your uncle. You have that in common with him.” There was nothing judgmental in the padre’s tone of voice.

  “Let’s go in to lunch, shall we, and continue our conversation over our meal,” Sebastien suggested.

  “You are most kind. I would like to wash up, quickly, first?”

  “Of course. Take the padre to my bathroom, Estevao, and get him anything he needs. I’ll wait for you both in the dining room.”

  When Estevao and Padre Valentin joined him in the dining room, Sebastien was surprised to see that the padre had shed his robe and was wearing an ordinary white cotton T-shirt with his khaki trousers and hiking boots. Only the crucifix, which he had replaced around his neck, now suggested his vocation.

  “I do not always wear my monastic habit indoors,” he explained. “I hope you do not mind this informality?”

  “On the contrary, I want you to be comfortable. You are my guest. Forgive me for saying so, but isn’t that robe awfully hot and awkward to wear when you are walking about the open countryside?”

  “It comes with the job. I am used to it. Estevao has told me about your invitation to stay here overnight. I will accept it, with gratitude. This afternoon and evening, I plan to visit some of the small villages in the neighborhood. I will return here after sunset, to sleep, and leave early in the morning. With your permission.”

  “Of course. I will put one of the men and one of the cars at your disposal, padre, to help you make your rounds.”

  “Thank you, my son, but I am accustomed to traveling by foot—except in emergencies. Often, I encounter fellow travelers as I walk, and speak with them. I do not believe that these meetings are random. I believe that, like everything else in life, they are pre-ordained.”

  A smiling Ignacia served the first course, and Sebastien dutifully followed Estevao’s example, bowing his head while the padre said grace. Then Padre Valentin tackled his food with a gusto that suggested that the “many austerities” he and the other brothers practiced did not necessarily include starving themselves. Ignacia had prepared empada, a sort of pot pie filled with a mixture of palm hearts, peas, flour, and chicken, Pão de Queijo, soft rolls made of manioc flour and cheese, and that Brazilian staple, rice and beans, distinguished in this case by subtle spicing.

  The three men relaxed over coffee and dessert. In the padre’s honor, Ignacia had whipped up cuscuz branco, milled tapioca cooked with coconut milk and sugar—the couscous equivalent of rice pudding.

  “My visit here today, as you may have guessed, senhor Sebastien, is not entirely fortuitous,” Padre Valentin said as he stirred his coffee.

  “I hope you’re not going to tell me you’ve come here with the intention of converting me,” Sebastien joked.

  “It may surprise you, my son, to learn that I am not aggressive in my proselytizing. I prefer to set an example, and wait for God to touch men’s hearts. No, I have come here because, as you know, it will soon be Holy Week.”

  “Yes, my foreman, Anibal Rocha, and I have already agreed to let most of the men off work on Good Friday, as was my uncle’s policy.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Many of your employees will come to Guarás, for the festival and vigil which is held there every Good Friday.”

  “I’ve heard about it. It sounds very interesting. I’m planning to attend.”

  “That, too, is good to hear.”

  Sebastien had the odd feeling that Padre Valentin was beating around the bush, something that he suspected was not characteristic of this man. He smiled encouragingly at the padre, but said nothing, and waited. He did not have long to wait.

  “Senhor Gilberto did not discourage his employees from participating in a certain ritual which is the traditional climax of the festival,” Padre Valentin said. “But he did nothing to actively encourage them, either. I suspect he secretly disapproved.”

  “Of what did he disapprove, padre?”

  “Of the procession of flagellants, and the submission to the lash.”

  “Ah—forgive me, padre, but when you refer to ‘flagellants’—are you using the term literally?”

  “I refer to a ritualistic flogging. We are a monastic order of flagellants.”

  Sebastien looked at Estevao, who was busy spooning cuscuz branco into his mouth. Estevao met Sebastien’s inquiring gaze and shrugged.

  “I have to admit, Padre Valentin, you’ve taken me by surprise. I’ve heard about such observances in Mexico, and in other parts of Central America—even in places in the southwestern United States—but I had no idea it was practiced here in Brazil.”

  “It is not common. Many people frown on the practice. Your uncle, I am sure, dismissed it as superstition. It is a symbolic act of penitence—nothing more, nothing less. On the other hand,” the padre continu
ed, with that shy smile of his, “it is not meant to be a performance, for tourists to gawk at and snap photos of. Perhaps we are fortunate that Guarás is not a town that attracts many outsiders. One need not be a member of our order to participate. Many of the men who come to the town on Good Friday are inspired to surrender themselves to the lash.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. Including several of the men who work for you. They participate each year. I would like you to give them permission to do so again, this year.”

  “Padre Valentin, my employees hardly need my permission to do whatever they chose to do in their free time—and especially when they are not here on the fazenda’s grounds.”

  “That is an admirable attitude. Still, your uncle was a man who possessed great influence, and it’s possible that some of the men were reluctant to do anything they thought he might disapprove of.”

  “Well, sadly, my uncle is no longer here with us. As for myself—I hope I’m reasonably open-minded. I will have to observe this ritual for myself before I form any opinion. I assume it takes place in public?”

  “It is done in the square in front of the church, in Guarás, beginning at sunset on Good Friday.”

  “I see. And I take it that it’s a—forgive me for using a slang term, padre. I don’t mean to be flippant—it’s strictly ‘a guy thing,’ so to speak?”

  “It would not be considered decorous for a woman to expose herself like that, in public. The women express their devotion in other ways. And bear in mind that the flagellation is done in imitation of Our Savior’s suffering. Therefore it is a thing for men to endure. As you are no doubt already aware, here on Marajó we are old-fashioned in many ways.”

  “Well, I can only say, padre, that you have aroused my curiosity.”

  “And I trust your curiosity will be satisfied. There is one other thing I would like to discuss with you, my son. When I return here this evening, I would like to make myself available to any of your employees who would like to be counseled by me, or who would like me to hear their confessions. I would not like to do so here on your property without your knowledge and consent.”