Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  “I like the old-fashioned customs,” Cristiano was saying. “True, we live in today’s world…but we need not discard the best of the past. You are the mestre, after all. You should command respect.”

  “Maybe,” Sebastien equivocated. “But I don’t think you need to be quite so deferential toward me…from now on…I mean, you personally, as opposed to the other men,” Sebastien said, stumbling over his words. “What I really mean is…I would prefer for us, that is, for you and I, Cristiano, to be much less formal with each other…considering the circumstances.”

  Cristiano was still smiling at him, but now there was a trace of uncertainty in the smile.

  “The circumstances, Sebastien? What circumstances?”

  “The circumstances…of our personal relationship, which I was not aware of until now.”

  Cristiano’s smile faded. “When you say, ‘our personal relationship’…you are not talking only of our feelings for one another, are you?”

  “No. I am talking about the fact that you and I are related by blood.”

  “So you know.” Cristiano’s voice was expressionless, as was the set of his facial features.

  “Yes.”

  “You are not angry?”

  “What is there to be angry about? Or embarrassed about, for that matter? If anything, I’m delighted. I only wish I had known about this long ago. While my uncle was still alive. But sit down, please, Cristiano, and have your breakfast. Let’s talk about this calmly, man to man. Well, cousin to cousin, actually.”

  Cristiano sat down and poured himself a glass of orange juice from the pitcher on the table. “How did you find out?”

  Sebastien explained about the photo album and the acknowledgement of paternity.

  “Poor Estevao,” Cristiano commented. “He must have been mortified.”

  “He was. If only you could’ve seen the look on his face, when I caught him, kneeling there buck naked in front of the safe!”

  Sharing a laugh at Estevao’s expense seemed to relax what little tension still lingered between the two men.

  Sebastien gestured toward the photo album, which he had placed on the table. “I imagine your mother has copies of these photos,” he said, “but maybe you could give it to her, anyway.”

  Cristiano opened the album and looked at a few pages. “Oh, my. How silly I look, in these old pictures.”

  “On the contrary. You were a beautiful young boy, and you are a beautiful man. And you know it. False modesty doesn’t become you, Cristiano.”

  “And you, Sebastien—what were you like as a boy?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Unattractive. Serious and shy, I guess.”

  “How I would have liked to have known you then.”

  “Me, too. But better late than never, as the expression goes. Cristiano…I would appreciate it if you would speak quite frankly to me. Don’t you resent the fact, to at least some extent, that my uncle made me his heir, left me everything?”

  “He did not leave you everything,” Cristiano pointed out. “He was most generous to many other people, in his will.”

  “Nevertheless…the fazenda is now mine, when by right—”

  “My dear Sebastien. My father…forgive me, it seems very strange to be saying those words, ‘my father,’ out loud. I am not used to referring to your uncle in that way. It is a relief to be able to do so, talking to you, now. My father and I did discuss these matters. I remember one time, about a month before his death, when I was keeping him company. We were sitting together quietly, in the evening. He told me about the provisions he had made in his will. I protested, I mean about the money he wanted to leave to my mother and to me. He said, ‘I know you are a young man and you want to make your own way in the world, and not be indebted to anyone. Not even to me. That’s good. But you are my son. And should, God forbid, anything ever happen to you, we must make sure that your mother will always be provided for. So you must let me have my way in this.’” Cristiano smiled. “He could be a very firm, a very stubborn man, as you no doubt know. It was not easy to win an argument with him, when his mind was made up.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. I’m afraid I have some of that stubbornness in me, too. So do you. It must run in the family.”

  “Then we spoke about you. ‘I am making Sebastien my heir,’ he said, ‘because he is the only one of those stupid Leons back in North America who has any common sense.’ Forgive me, Sebastien, but those were his exact words, as I remember them. He spoke about you with great affection. ‘It’s too bad Sebastien is gay,’ he said, ‘but that can’t be helped. As an American citizen, he will not be able to sell the fazenda to a foreigner. He can always sell it to a Brazilian. That will have to be his choice. But who knows? Gay men marry other men, nowadays, or live openly with their partners. They father children, or adopt them. Sebastien is still a very young man. He might start a family, some day. And then the fazenda, should he decide to keep it for himself, will one day belong to them.’ I remember the look on your uncle’s face when he said that, Sebastien. It was very calm, very resigned. And then he told me, ‘But that will all be for the future to decide. It is out of my hands. My work here is almost done. We never truly own the land. We are only its custodians, during our lives.’”

  Sebastien could feel hot tears welling up in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he blubbered. “I haven’t cried for Tio Gil—not until now. I’m not usually the crying type.” He dabbed at his eyes with his napkin.

  “Tears are good. Especially on this, of all days.”

  “I probably come across as pretty cold and hard, a lot of the time,” Sebastien said apologetically.

  “But I know better.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” Sebastien said, with a smile. “Even on such short acquaintance?”

  “Even so. You and I are of the same blood. I know you. I know you here, in my heart.” Cristiano touched himself on his chest.

  “Cristiano, I think that now that Tio Gil is gone, you are going to be my favorite of all my relatives.”

  “That is a very sweet thing for you to say, Cousin Sebastien.”

  “Don’t get too carried away. It’s not saying much. You’d realize that, if you ever met any of our kin, back in the States. But…‘Cousin Sebastien.’ I like it when you call me that.”

  “I will call you that, then, when the two of us are alone together.”

  “You may call me that in front of anybody, at any time.”

  “I am not ashamed of my birth. I am proud of it. But whether you choose to keep my father’s secret is up to you.”

  “It should be a decision we make together. Personally, I’m not a big fan of secrecy. But it hadn’t occurred to me, Cousin Cristiano, that it might be a little awkward for you…and for your mother, whom we must also think of, and whose wishes we must respect…if our relationship became widely known, this late in the day.”

  “You have a point. The men here respect you because you are senhor Gilberto’s nephew, and because you are his heir. You are the mestre. They respect me, if I may be so immodest as to say so, because I am one of them, who—so far as they know—has worked my way up to my present position. I have my pride, you see. I would not like anyone to think I have been given too many special privileges, or opportunities, because of my birth.”

  “Then let’s continue to be discreet, at least for the time being. That might be the wisest course. We can always change our minds, later.”

  They had finished their breakfast, and got up from their chairs.

  “Shall we ride?” Cristiano suggested, matter-of-factly. “Shall we inspect the herds? With so many of the men taking off early this afternoon, there is still work to be done. And do not forget the festival in Guarás, this evening.”

  “Yes, I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Cousin Sebastien?”

  “Yes, Cousin Cristiano?”

  “As I have mentioned to you before, the men here in Brazil often kiss one another, by way of greetin
g. Even if they are not related. Even if they are not lovers. Men kiss their men friends. And you are so much more than my friend. May I kiss you?”

  “Sure.”

  They embraced and kissed. There was, however, nothing casual about it. If this was Cristiano’s idea of a non-lovers’ kiss, Sebastien couldn’t help wondering what the other man would be like when he really let himself go!

  “Cousin Cristiano,” Sebastien gasped, “you may feel free to kiss me again, like that, any damn time you please!”

  Cristiano grinned at him. “You enjoyed it?”

  “Let’s just say I could get used to it, and leave it at that. Come on, let’s get to the stables. Time’s a-wasting, as we say where I come from.”

  As they rode to the fields, Sebastien told Cristiano about Padre Valentin’s recent visit, and the nocturnal excursion to the cairn.

  “Cousin Sebastien, you continue to surprise me,” Cristiano said with a laugh. “You are becoming a true man of Marajó.”

  “But you? You intend to participate in this ceremony, this evening?”

  “Of course. My mother doesn’t like it, of course. She always refuses to watch.”

  “But how do you feel about it?”

  “It is an obligation. An act of devotion. A small enough thing to do. I am afraid my religious beliefs are very simple. I believe we are put here on the earth to do our work and to try our best to lead good lives. Sometimes—often—we fail, and fall short. That is inevitable. It does not matter, if the intent is good, and we do our best not to harm others. I leave other things, more complicated questions, to those who are older and wiser than I. And, as you and I both know only too well, there are some things which are considered sinful, but which…I have special difficulty resisting,” Cristiano confessed, with an enchanting smile.

  “Since you’ve brought up the subject, Cristiano, let’s continue to speak frankly. Cousin to cousin, man to man.”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  “You believe it would sinful for us to become lovers—not just because we are both men, but because we are cousins.”

  “That is the thought that has been troubling me, I confess.”

  “I suppose sex between the two of us would technically be considered incestuous. But in some circumstances, cousins—cousins who are a man and a woman, I mean—even marry.”

  “True.”

  “If we were not related by blood, would you have any scruples about having sex with me?”

  “Very few.”

  “Do you mean it would still be a sin, to your way of thinking, but perhaps no more of a sin than if you were to be intimate with any other man?”

  “You have guessed it, Sebastien. You know me very well. You understand me, as I understand you. To anticipate your next question—it would be a sin which, now that I have had a chance to give the matter some thought, would not bother me very much. Perhaps that is a shocking thing for me to say?”

  “Ah…to my way of thinking, I would call it ‘encouraging’ rather than shocking. But of course I can’t pretend to be entirely objective about the issue. I am very attracted to you, I mean physically, and I see no reason to hide the fact. I would very much like to make love with you. There, I’ve said it. I’ll try my best not to put any pressure on you, Cristiano. The decision must be yours to make.”

  Cristiano was looking at him in a way, filled with longing, which made Sebastien feel flustered.

  “I will have to give the matter some additional thought,” Cristiano said softly. “But for now, know one thing. Men can love one another. And I love you. Even if we do not join our bodies, that will not change.”

  “I love you, too. Even if you were not my primo—I would feel the same way toward you.”

  Sebastien spent the morning helping Cristiano to supervise the men. Outwardly, in front of the others, they behaved toward each other with perfect decorum, but at times they exchanged quick glances and smiles, like two conspirators. Reluctantly, Sebastien parted from his cousin and rode back alone to the main compound, for lunch. Estevao, who was working in the stables, came to meet him and helped him to dismount.

  “Is all well, senhor?” Estevao asked, although he was already reassured by the serene look on Sebastien’s face.

  “Yes, Estevao. Everything is fine.”

  “I am glad.”

  “Cristiano and I have decided that, for now, we will keep our relationship a secret. There is no need for it to become common knowledge, just yet.”

  “I understand, senhor. You may rely on my discretion.”

  “Thank you, Estevao.”

  “Do you still plan to go to Guarás this evening, senhor, for the festival?”

  “Yes. You will come along with me, Estevao?”

  “Of course. We should probably take one of the cars. I will drive. It would not be wise to attempt the return trip on horseback, late at night in the dark. Unless, perhaps, we asked senhora Erendira to put us up for the night, and rode back in the morning.”

  “I would like to visit the senhora again, but I wouldn’t like to impose on her.”

  “She would welcome you.”

  “Yes, she’s a generous woman, very outgoing and hospitable. Nevertheless, we will take the car. Cristiano will probably want to ride with us. And, since there will be room for at least one more in the car, we can give one of the men a lift, as well.”

  “Uver, perhaps?”

  “An excellent suggestion. I will invite him to come with us.”

  Entering the house, Sebastien saw that senhora Beatriz and the maids had decorated many of the rooms with large arrangements of cut flowers in vases, in honor of the Easter holiday. The statue of St. Martin in the vestibule, the dining room, and the master bedroom were all adorned with particularly lavish and beautiful bouquets. Sebastien had left the little bouquet of wild orchids which Cristiano had given him in the breakfast room. One of the women had obviously retrieved it and taken care to set it in a small vase of water, on the nightstand beside Sebastien’s bed. Sebastien smiled when he saw the odd brown blooms, with their bright speckles of contrasting lighter colors.

  In the late afternoon, after an early dinner, Sebastien, Cristiano, Estevao, and Uver drove to Guarás, taking the fazenda’s station wagon. As the mestre, Sebastien of course was expected to sit in the back seat, with Cristiano. Estevao and Uver bickered over which of them would drive. Sebastien settled the matter by decreeing that Estevao should drive now, and Uver could assume that responsibility for the trip back.

  They parked the car in one of the town’s narrow side streets. In contrast to his previous visit, Sebastien now found the town almost crowded with people, and lively.

  Walking with his three companions toward the town square about two hours before sunset, Sebastien was surprised by the festive, celebratory atmosphere. All of the townspeople seemed to be outdoors, dressed in their best clothes, milling about. The narrow side streets which led to the main ones were thronged, as was the square itself. All around its perimeter, vendors had their stalls set up, offering for sale food items, clothes and accessories, children’s toys, and various trinkets. The local florist had one of the larger stalls and was doing a thriving business. She and her assistant had on display floral arrangements and wreaths, adorned with scarlet or purple ribbons, meant to be placed on graves in the cemetery, or displayed in the home. Arrangements in the shape of crosses seemed to be especially popular, which was not surprising, considering that it was Good Friday.

  In one part of the square, men were playing a sort of bocce game, with wooden balls and pins. In another, a small band of musicians, consisting of button accordion, trumpet, clarinet, and guitar, played lively tunes, accompanying dancing. Some children were amusing themselves by setting off firecrackers, while their elders observed their play with tolerant unconcern.

  The arrival of their little group created a stir. Sebastien saw people staring curiously at him, and he heard the whispered phrase “the mestre of Saõ Martinho” more than once, occasio
nally varied by references to “the new mestre” or “the young mestre, the nephew of Gilberto Leon.” Fighting back a surge of self-consciousness, he smiled politely at everyone who looked at him.

  He felt somewhat reassured by the presence of so many of the men from the fazenda, who tended to cluster together in cliques of their own, usually with other people whom Sebastien assumed were members of their families, or friends. Some of the men were busying themselves with what appeared, on the surface, to be an odd activity for a Good Friday—in an unpaved area opposite the front steps of the church, these men were using a manual post-hole digger to drive a deep hole into the ground. They had with them a few scraps of wooden two-by-fours, a hammer and a box of nails, and a coil of rope. Near the spot where the hole was being made was the kind of free-standing blackboard, mounted on wheels, that Sebastien associated with classrooms. Several male names were already written on it, in chalk.

  Sebastien went over to greet the men and talk to them. There was a long series of introductions, to people in the immediate vicinity whom he did not know.

  “Is this hole intended for what I think it is meant for?” he was finally able to ask.

  “It is for the cross, mestre,” Oranjinho informed him. “A large cross, which will be carried here in the procession at sunset and placed in the ground.”

  “I have been given to understand that the cross—tonight, on this occasion—is not merely decorative, or symbolic.”

  “It is for the flagellations, senhor Sebastien. You have heard of them?”

  “Yes. And you plan to participate, Oranjinho?”

  “Oh yes. Many of us will, mestre—unworthy though we are. With your permission.”

  “None of you needs my permission, Oranjinho, although I give it, gladly. What I’m curious about is…exactly how you feel about participating in this ritual?”

  “It is an honor, senhor. We submit, not only for our own wretched sakes and for the sake of other sinners, but to uphold the honor of our fazenda.”

  “So the more men from Saõ Martinho who participate, the better?”