“Is this what I think it is, Estevao?” he asked after fumbling his way through the first few paragraphs of convoluted legalese. Estevao bit his lip but said nothing. “You might as well spare me the trouble of waiting until tomorrow morning, when I can get senhor Medeiros to translate this for me, word for word,” Sebastien said, not a little testily.
“It is a photocopy—” Estevao began, haltingly.
“Of an acknowledgment of paternity,” Sebastien said. “Am I correct? The child’s name is Cristiano Lapuente, the mother’s name is Erendira Lapuente…and the father’s name, the name of the man who declares he is the father of the child, is Gilberto Cristiano Antônio Leon, who indicates here that his residence is the fazenda of Saõ Martinho.”
“Yes.”
“My uncle was Cristiano’s father.”
“Yes.”
“Which means that…Cristiano Lapuente is my cousin.”
Chapter Twenty:
Blood Ties
“Your cousin, yes…born outside of marriage,” Estevao said.
“My cousin, nonetheless. My uncle’s son. My blood relative. Now I know why he was named Cristiano. Because that was my grandfather’s name, and one of my uncle’s baptismal names.”
This time, Estevao said nothing.
After a moment, Sebastien roused himself. “Close the door of the safe, Estevao.” As the valet did so, Sebastien switched off the desk lamp, plunging the room back into semi-darkness. “Go put on some pants, Estevao, for God’s sake,” Sebastien said. “Then…go to the kitchen, will you, and get me something to drink, will you? Something cold—a beer, I guess. And get something for yourself, too, if you want. Then come back here. I need to think about this, and talk to you about this, before I even try to go back to sleep tonight.”
“Very good, senhor.” Still carrying that absurd little toy flashlight, which he now switched off, Estevao hurried out of the room.
Sebastien went back into his bedroom, where he pulled on his light cotton robe. He turned on a lamp and sat down in one of the armchairs, with the document still in his hand. He studied it again. Cristiano’s date of birth was given, of course. Sebastien now knew that his cousin was twenty-three years old. The dates at the bottom of the document, accompanying his uncle’s signature, the notary’s stamp and signature, and the signatures of the witnesses, told him that his uncle had acknowledged his paternity only two days after Cristiano was born. In all probability, as soon as Cristiano’s birth certificate had been filed, registering his name and date of birth, or as soon as the baby boy had been baptized. Sebastien placed the paper on a nearby side table.
Estevao entered the room. He had taken Sebastien’s instructions literally—he had pulled on only a pair of trousers, and barefoot and bare-chested, he padded silently across the carpet, carrying not two, but four bottles of beer, and two glass tumblers, on a tray. He set the tray down and handed Sebastien one of the bottles, after deftly thumbing off the cap. Sebastien silently refused the glass which Estevao offered him and took a swig of the cold beer straight from the bottle.
“Sit down, Estevao,” he invited, indicating another armchair, “and let’s drink to something. I know. Let’s drink to nocturnal surprises, and unexpected developments, and to long-lost relatives. Á nossa!” This was short for Á nossa saúde!, a Brazilian toast meaning To our health. Sebastien had learned it while in Paolo’s company, long before he had set foot on the fazenda. He touched his bottle against the one that Estevao had automatically picked up, and both men drank.
“Tell me,” Sebastien said, simply.
“There is little to tell. You already know that senhora Erendira was the housekeeper here, for many years. She and your uncle fell in love. They were still in love, on the day he died. She loves and mourns him still, and surely she always will.”
“Why didn’t he ever marry her, then?”
“She already had a husband. A divorce might have been possible, but—she had children, by her husband. Two girls and three boys. They are grown up now, and live their own lives.”
“Yes, I remember her mentioning that, the day we visited her in Guarás. And the husband?”
“He died several years ago. Even though she was then free, senhora Erendira refused to marry the senhor.”
“Why?”
“I can only speculate.”
“Do so, then.”
“She is of Mameluco blood. As are many of the people here, who are not descendants of the Portuguese, or whose foreign ancestors interbred with the natives, or with slaves. I myself, as I have told you, am of mixed ancestry.”
“That couldn’t have made any difference to my uncle.”
“No. But it might have made a difference to his family, in North America.”
“Why should Tio Gil give a damn about what anybody back home thought? It’s not as though any of us were very considerate toward him.”
“It was probably senhora Erendira who had the doubts. And he loved her enough to give in to her, when it came to this one thing.”
“But how sad. What a waste. They were husband and wife in all but name, then? Why shouldn’t they have made it legal, and to hell with what anybody else thought.” Sebastien sighed and shook his head. He drank more beer. A new thought struck him. “Cristiano knows about this, of course.”
“He was told as soon as he was old enough to understand. Senhor Lapuente was not a bad man. He loved the senhora, in his way. He let people assume that Cristiano was his son. He treated him well. There was no unpleasantness—no scandal.”
“And yet Cristiano has said nothing to me, nothing. Not a word, not a hint. Not a look.”
“It is his way. He respects you, for your uncle’s sake.”
“For his father’s sake. It’s still hard for me to think of my Tio Gil as being anyone’s father, let alone Cristiano’s. Who else knows?”
“For certain? I cannot be sure. Senhora Erendira and the senhor were most discreet. Still, the senhor favored Cristiano. Whatever people might think to themselves, or say behind closed doors—they respected the senhor, and they respect senhora Erendira, too much to gossip openly. Perhaps that is why your uncle was so kind and good to me. Because he could not always be as open toward Cristiano as he might have wished to be, without arousing suspicions, while senhor Lapuente was still alive.”
“I hope, Estevao, that you’re not telling me that you are another of my uncle’s by-blows.”
“By-blows? What a curious expression. No, senhor Sebastien. I do not have that honor.”
“Not that I wouldn’t be delighted to have you as a cousin, as well, Estevao. It’s just that finding out I have one relative down here I never knew about, is enough of a shock for one night.”
“I understand. If your uncle had other children—that he knew of—he would have told me. He told me everything.”
“When I showed you the photo album—you recognized Cristiano right away, of course, and that’s when you remembered that the copy of the document was in the safe.”
“Yes. I had forgotten about it. Until you said that you intended to look through the things that were in the safe.”
“And the original document?”
“I assume that senhora Erendira has it in her possession. I do not know for certain.”
“And yet neither she nor Cristiano has ever attempted to make use of it.”
“Make use of it?”
“What did you intend to do with it, Estevao? With the copy?”
“Hide it, Senhor, where you would never find it. Or…destroy it. I had not decided.”
“You had no right to do so. To take the document, or to conceal its existence from me.”
“I had the right to protect your uncle’s secret,” Estevao protested stubbornly. Perhaps emboldened by the beer he had consumed, or by Sebastien’s calm demeanor, or both, he had recovered his usual self-composure. “As I will protect your secrets—should you have any. If senhor Gilberto had wanted you to know about Cristiano…he could have d
one so. He could have written to you, explaining, while he was still alive. Or he could have left a letter for you, sealed and marked for your eyes only, with his lawyers, along with his will—could he not?”
“You have a point there. Your loyalty to my uncle is commendable. I mean that sincerely, even though I have to admit that I find it a little intimidating, as well, at times. But there is more to it than that. Don’t you realize that, even as Tio Gil’s natural son, Cristiano might have a claim on his estate?” Sebastien remembered that morning in the law office, back in Manhattan. “Under Brazilian law,” he paraphrased from memory, “fifty percent of an estate must be held in reserve for the deceased’s dependents.”
“I know little of the law,” Estevao claimed—although he proceeded to contradict himself by adding, “but Cristiano is an adult. He is of age. He is not a minor—he is no longer a dependent. And the senhor was most generous to him and to senhora Erendira, during his lifetime, not only in what he left them in his will. The senhora owns her house outright, and the land it is on. Cristiano owns his own hectares of good pastureland, and has herds of cattle of his own, although this is not widely known outside the fazenda. They have all they wish. They lack nothing.”
“Still!” Sebastien mused. “It seems inadequate, somehow. I feel that it’s unfair, that they deserve more.”
“Some things are not a question of money, senhor Sebastien. Some things are far more important.”
“If you truly believe that, Estevao, then you are a very wise young man.”
“Did you notice that diamond ring, that senhora Erendira always wears? I know that senhor Gilberto gave it to her, after her husband died, as a token of his love. I was with him when he purchased it, from a jeweler in Saõ Paolo. The senhor hoped it would be their engagement ring. Senhora Erendira at first did not want to accept it, but he persuaded her. I believe it is very valuable. But senhora Erendira would not treasure it any the less if it were an inexpensive stone, or only jeweler’s paste.” Estevao sighed. “I did lie to you about one thing, senhor—or rather, I did not tell you the entire truth, which amounts to the same thing. When senhor Gilberto became ill, senhora Erendira had already retired as the housekeeper here, letting senhora Beatriz take over her job. She went to live in her house in Guarás, and senhor Gilberto would visit her there, often staying overnight. They thought that would be more discreet. She did come to see him here, while he was ill, and on that last sad day…she was here, in this room, with Cristiano and me and the priest, when your uncle died.”
“I’m glad that she and Cristiano were both here with him. The thought eases my mind, somehow. And that you were here, as well. I’m sure, Estevao, that you were like a second son, to my uncle. I’m sure he loved you very much.”
“You will make me weep, senhor Sebastien, if you continue to speak like that. Perhaps we should not dwell on it, any more, just now. Shall I get us more beer?”
“Yes, please. I don’t think I’ll be able to fall asleep easily, now, if I can get to sleep at all. I don’t want to get drunk—I want to keep a reasonably clear head, to think all this through, as best as I can—but I wouldn’t mind getting a bit buzzed, as we say in the United States. You can keep me company, if you want to, and get buzzed, yourself.”
Sebastien lounged in the comfortable armchair, with his legs stretched out in front of him and his bare feet crossed at the ankles. He’d been careless about tying the sash of his robe, which had loosened, exposing much of his torso and, lower, gaping open at his crotch and thighs. When Estevao returned from his trek to the kitchen with more beer, Sebastien drank eagerly. He made a mental note to himself to get a small refrigerator installed in the study, if not necessarily in the bedroom. It was absurd to have to go all the way to the kitchen, just for a cold drink. He smiled to himself at the thought. Tio Gil had done much, over the years, to improve the fazenda. As his heir, Sebastien could take at least one small, tentative step, to follow in his uncle’s footsteps!
Estevao sat and drank with him, neither man saying anything. Sebastien, however, was neither surprised nor displeased when, after draining his current bottle and carefully setting it down on the tray, Estevao got up, knelt at his feet, and gently pushed his legs apart.
“Are you still angry with me?” the valet whispered, taking Sebastien’s calf muscle in his warm hands and caressing it.
“I was never angry at you, Estevao. I was just…taken by surprise and confused, that’s all. I’m still confused. It’s still hard to believe that I actually have a Brazilian primo,” he said, using the Portuguese word for cousin. “And it’s Cristiano, no less. A man I am already very fond of, as you well know. I don’t know how I really feel about all this. And I can’t imagine what has been going through Cristiano’s head, all this time.”
“Do not concern yourself further with it now,” Estevao urged. “Relax…think of something else. Think of the pleasure I am always here to give you, whenever you wish. Let me give you that pleasure, now.” He ran his hands down Sebastien’s leg to his ankle, then raised Sebastien’s foot to his lips and kissed it, first on the instep, then on the sole, his tongue slipping out of his mouth to lick and stimulate.
Sebastien squirmed in his seat. “Stop it! That tickles!” he protested.
“You will soon get used to it, and enjoy it. As I enjoy doing it to you. I love the taste of you on my tongue,” Estevao whispered, punctuating the admission with a low moan.
“Oh, fuck,” Sebastien complained. “Oh, fuck, Estevao, you’re giving me a hard-on, already!”
“You are the mestre,” Estevao gasped, “and I am your slave!”
Chapter Twenty-One:
The Bier and the Cross
In the morning, Sebastien came to a decision.
“No offense, Estevao,” he said as the valet helped him get dressed, “but would you mind sort of making yourself scarce this morning? I’d already arranged for Cristiano to join me for breakfast, to begin to celebrate Good Friday. I’d like to be alone with him.”
“Will you tell him? What you have discovered?”
“Yes. I have to. There’s been enough of this secrecy. It’s already gone on far too long, in my opinion.” But Sebastien hesitated. “How do you think he will react?”
“Cristiano is Cristiano,” Estevao said, simply. “He will not change. And certainly not in his feelings toward you.”
“Where is that photo album?”
“In my room.”
“Bring it to me.”
Sebastien went to the breakfast room, taking the photo album with him, and rather nervously gulped coffee while he waited. In a few minutes, Cristiano entered the room, smiling. He was holding a small bouquet of flowers, tied with a bright blue ribbon. The blossoms, modest in size and a strange grayish-brown in hue, speckled with spots of white and yellow, were unfamiliar to Sebastien.
Sebastien rose and went to meet him—and stared at him. Yes…now that the idea had been put into his head, now that he knew, he could see the family resemblance. Shave off the beard, trim the hair and comb it back, and Cristiano could pass for Tio Gil, in one of those old photos taken of him as a young man.
“My dear Sebastien. I greet you on this holiest of days,” Cristiano said, rather formally. Holding the flowers in his left hand, he offered Sebastien his right hand to shake, which Sebastien took. Then, somewhat awkwardly, Cristiano gave him the bouquet. “A small gift for you, in honor of the day,” he explained.
“Thank you, Cristiano. What kind of flowers are these?”
“They are orchids that grow wild, in the woods. I picked them for you myself, just now. See, the morning dew is still on them. That is why I am a little late for breakfast.”
“They’re beautiful, but you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”
“It was no trouble. I enjoyed taking a short walk, in the cool of the dawn. And we have an old tradition, here. Probably only the old people know about it. The younger ones, who are too modern to care about such things, may never have
heard of it. The first person to offer the mestre of the fazenda a gift on Good Friday may ask of him a favor—it was usually to ask his pardon, for some offense committed during the past year. Often, I have heard, for some undiscovered offense—so that the mestre was taken by surprise. ‘Put on the spot,’ as you say in English.”
To Sebastien’s astonishment, Cristiano now got down on one knee before him.
“I humbly beg you, mestre,” Cristiano recited, “to forgive me for any wrongs your servant has done you, either in thought, indeed, or by omission, during this past year. Well,” he added, amending what was evidently a standard script, “ever since you came here and I have known you, in any event.”
“Stand up, Cristiano, please. You’re embarrassing me.”
“You are the mestre of the fazenda.” Cristiano now sounded as though he was channeling Estevao. “It is the custom. Will you grant me your pardon, in the name of our Lord and Savior?”
“Yes…I grant it gladly. Wholeheartedly. But you must forgive me, too.”
“I do. Freely.” Cristiano, no longer solemn, grinned up at Sebastien from his kneeling posture. “Now you must let me kiss your hand.”
“Oh, for!” Sebastien stopped himself before he blasphemed.
“If we are going to do this, we may as well do it properly.” Cristiano kissed the back of Sebastien’s hand. Then, to Sebastien’s relief, he stood up.
“Well, I’m glad that’s over and done with,” Sebastien grumbled. But he felt nervous, because he was well aware that this quirky little ritual might be nothing, compared to the ordeal that was about to come.
I could change my mind, he thought. I could say nothing…we could go on as we have. But no, that wouldn’t be honest. It wouldn’t be right. I am going to have to risk it.
Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove) Page 41
