Jean-Marie Blas De Robles - Where Tigers Are at Home

When he reached the Rua Silva Maia , he glanced at the Church of the Rosário. It stood out in its white and green against the leaden sky. Placed there, right in the middle of a strip of ground reclaimed from the forest — but invaded by weeds because it hadn’t been paved — it seemed to be trying to suck up all the humidity of the soil, as could be seen from the spreading patches of red ochre that soiled the lower half of the façade. Shutters closed, a blind pediment, it oozed fear and neglect. Behind it the fur coat of the mango trees swayed heavily, disturbed by audible quivering that shook the foliage from one end to the other.

Eléazard pushed open the door of the Caravela Hotel —Clean and comfortable. Seven well-appointed rooms— making the lengths of bamboo hanging from the ceiling clatter against each other. A young creole immediately came to greet him, arms stretched out toward him, his face radiant with a broad, happy smile.

“Lazardinho! What a lovely surprise … Tudo bem ?”

“ Tudo bom .”

Eléazard felt real enjoyment offering these ritual words of welcome; afterward, as if soothed by their magic, life immediately seemed more attractive.

“So how’s things?” Alfredo asked after having given him a friendly embrace. “If you want to stay and eat I’ve got some fresh prawns. I went to get them from the boat myself.”

“Prawns are OK …”

“Take a seat. I’ll tell Socorró.”

Eléazard went into the interior courtyard of the hotel. A few tables spread around under the vast roof of the veranda constituted the restaurant. Three immense banana trees and an unknown bush on the patio partly concealed the stairs to the rooms. A naked bulb was already lit, casting a yellow glow over the bare courtyard.

Once he had sat down, Eléazard checked the brief typed menu lying on the table; unchanged for months, it was very simple:

Filé de pescada, Camarão empanado ,

Peixadas, Tortas, Saladas .

Preço p/pessoa: O melhor possível

FAVOR FAZER RESERVA

Alfredo’s whole charm was contained in the basic level of catering. Three dishes with fish or prawns, tarts and salads. Even the plural was a harmless exaggeration since apart from exceptional cases booking advised! there was nothing but the plat du jour , that is, what Alfredo himself and his young wife were having. As for the prices— The best , the cheapest possible— they simply depended on inflation (300 percent per year) and what Alfredo felt about the customer.

After a meager inheritance had left them with this dilapidated house, Alfredo and Eunice had decided to transform it into a hotel. They were motivated not so much by the idea of making a fortune, though that was an illusion they had harbored during the first euphoric days, than by the love of a simple way of life and a desire to bring back some life to Alcântara. Proponents of an alternative solution — the word came to their lips frequently as a panacea for bourgeois self-interest and American imperialism’s hold on the planet — they managed to get by in their haven of peace and humanity. During the season a few tourists, whose passion for colonial architecture was such that they forgot the time of the last boat, would end up in their hotel, the only one in Alcântara, and that brought in enough to allow Eunice and Alfredo to struggle through with the restaurant for the rest of the year. Out of the goodness of their hearts rather than necessity, this likeable couple employed old Socorró as cook and to help do the rooms.

Alfredo reappeared carrying two glasses and two large bottles of beer. “Ice-cold! Just the way you like it,” he said, joining him at the table. He cautiously filled the glasses then raised his to Eléazard:

“ Saúde .”

“ Santé ,” Eléazard replied, clinking glasses with him.

“By the way, have you heard the news? We’ve let a room!”

It was remarkable enough, right in the middle of the rainy season, for Eléazard to show his surprise.

“It’s true, I swear it is,” Alfredo assured him. “An Italian woman. She’s a journalist like you, and …”

“I’m not a journalist,” Eléazard insisted, “I’m a correspondent. It’s not the same thing.” To his mind, at least, it was different, but he was annoyed with himself for instinctively putting on this air and immediately qualified it. “Although both are a similar species of vulture …”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Alfredo went on, “and on your profession. Without you, without journalists, who would know what’s going on here? Anyway, she’s called Loredana, and she’s quite a girl, I can assure you. If I wasn’t married … phew.” This was accompanied by a wink and a burst of finger-clicking.

“You’ll have to teach me how you do that one day.”

“You just have to get the knack,” Alfredo replied. “Look: you let your hand go quite limp — that’s the secret — then shake it as if you wanted to get rid of it. Your fingers knock against each other and that’s what makes the noise of castanets.”

As Alfredo looked on with an amused air, Eléazard tried to imitate him without success. He admitted defeat when Eunice appeared with a tray.

“Good evening, Lazardinho,” she said, putting a plate of breaded prawns on the table. She leaned down and gave him a friendly embrace on both cheeks. “It’s ages since we saw you, you rascal.”

“Two weeks,” said Eléazard in his defense, “not even that, twelve days, to be precise.”

“Love doesn’t count the days. But you’re forgiven. Now tell me what you think of these little beauties,” she said, pointing at the prawns.

“Succulent, as usual,” said Eléazard, his mouth full.

“Good. I’ll let you get on with it.”

“Me too,” said Alfredo, getting up at a brief sign from his wife.

“No, no, you stay. Go on, keep me company. Eunice, bring us another plate of prawns, please, and a bottle of white wine.”

Alfredo sat down again with an evident air of satisfaction and he didn’t need to be asked twice when Eléazard offered to share his prawns. Peeled and fried in breadcrumbs with just the tail fin sticking out, you could use your fingers to dip them in a kind of very spicy red mayonnaise then pop them in your mouth. They were delicious.

At Alfredo’s instigation the conversation soon came around to the government project of setting up a rocket-launching site somewhere in the surrounding forest. So far the information they had was sketchy, gleaned with difficulty by a Communist newspaper in São Luís, Defense of Maranhão , but it looked as if Brazil was preparing to sacrifice the Alcântara peninsula to the higher interests of the nation , as the newspaper editorial put it with a forest of ironic quotation marks.

“Rockets! I ask you!” Alfredo said in disgust. “People are starving to death in the streets, the national debt’s strangling the country to such an extent that we’re only working for the bloodsuckers of the IMF — and they want to send rockets into space! It’s the Americans again. But we’ll fight, you can be sure of that. If not, it’s the end of Alcântara …”

Eléazard loved the ease with which Alfredo fell into a rebellious attitude. He appreciated it in his daughter as well, although secretly and in a more selective way, without managing to find the core of innocence that would have allowed him to embrace their optimism. True, he shared the sense of the absurdity of the project that had brought a quiver to the Brazilian’s voice, he approved of his anger and his determination, but not for one moment did he feel able to believe in the possibility of holding up the course of events in any way. Not that he had become fatalistic, at least not in his own eyes, nor reactionary or conservative; he had simply lost the hope that alone can move mountains, or at least let you believe it’s worth trying. Even if he didn’t see it as such, his outward resignation worried him. But how can we call into question our feeling of being clear-sighted when, unfortunately, we are so taken with it? Humanity, he believed, was an indifferent species and anyone unfortunate enough to have sensed that obvious fact can do nothing about the innumerable mass of those who provide the evidence. Alfredo wasn’t a friend and would probably never become one, with the result that Eléazard kept to himself that extreme and contagious despair that must only — can only — be acknowledged within the protective sanctuary of friendship.