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

“Let me introduce myself,” he said to Loredana in Brazilian, “Eléazard von Wogau. I think it better to use the language that allows all three of us to join in.”

“Of course,” Loredana replied, “but you’ll have to make allowances for me. I’m Loredana … Loredana Rizzuto,” she added, grimacing with disgust. “I’m still a bit ashamed of my name, it’s so ridiculous …”

“But not at all,” Alfredo broke in fervently. “I think it’s very beautiful, very … Italian. I’d prefer to have a name like that instead of ‘Portela.’ Alfredo Rizzuto, God, doesn’t that sound great …”

Eunice’s mocking voice was suddenly heard. “Alfredo Rizzuto?! What is it you’ve found now to attract attention to yourself?” She had appeared behind her husband carrying a tray with a slice of tart and a few mangoes. “You must excuse him,” she said to Loredana, “but as soon as he sees a pretty girl he can’t control himself. And now, Senhor Rizzuto, stop drinking and come and help me — there’s no more water. The pump must be on the blink again.”

“OK, OK,” said Alfredo in resigned tones. “Don’t worry, I won’t be long.”

Once Alfredo had left, Eléazard and Loredana burst out laughing; his expression when he heard his wife address him like that had been downright comic.

“A funny lad,” Loredana said, reverting to her mother tongue. “Nice, but a bit … clingy, no?”

“It depends. He doesn’t often have the chance to talk to people from outside, so he takes advantage whenever the occasion arises. And then I think he was a bit intimidated by you. That said, he’s far from stupid, you know. He’s not what I’d call a friend, but I like him a lot. Will you join me?” he said, lifting up the bottle. “It’s slightly fizzy, you could swear it was Chianti …”

“With pleasure,” Loredana said, holding out her glass. “Oh, Chianti … You’re going to make me feel nostalgic. But just a minute, let’s go back to the beginning, I’m starting to get things mixed up. How come you’re French with a name like that?”

“Because my father was German and my mother French, so I have dual nationality. However, since I was born in Paris and studied there for the most part, my German roots don’t mean very much.”

“And may one ask what you’re doing in this hole? Are you on holiday?”

“Not exactly,” Eléazard replied, “although my work does leave me plenty of free time. I’m a foreign correspondent, I just have to send a report to my agency from time to time. Since no one’s interested in Brazil, it goes straight into the wastepaper basket and I still get paid. I’ve been living in Alcântara for two years now. You’re a journalist too, from what Alfredo told me …”

Loredana, somewhat flustered, blushed to her ears. “Yes … That is, no. I lied to him. Let’s say I’m here on business. But please don’t go shouting it from the rooftops. If it came out, that is if some Brazilians got to know, it could work against me.”

Loredana was furious with herself. What had got into her? The shady lawyer in São Luís (the term she always used for that individual with the manner of a con man) had made her promise to keep it absolutely secret and here she was telling the first person she came across. She had caught herself just in time, but if he started asking questions she wouldn’t be able to keep up the new lie for long. God, what an idiot, what a damned idiot I am, she told herself, going even brighter red.

The blush made her look like a little girl. Eléazard almost paid her a compliment along those lines, but then changed his mind. Nothing was worse than being in a situation like that.

“What business would that be?” he asked with a touch of irony. “If I’m not being indiscreet, of course.”

“Gold, precious stones …” (Stop, Loredana, you’re mad. You’ll never get out of it! a voice screamed inside her head.) “But I prefer not to talk about it. It’s an operation that is — how shall I put it — on the borderline of legality … I hope you can understand.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t bother you with that anymore. But take care, the Brazilian police are no angels and I’d be sorry to see you in their hands.” He refilled her glass and then his own. Without quite knowing why, he added, “Don’t worry. I know it’s wrong, but it’s the way things are: if I had to choose I’d always be on the side of the smugglers rather than the police.”

“That’s all right, then. So I’m a contrabbandiere , for the moment …” Loredana said with a laugh. Then, with a change of tone but without it being clear whether the remark was connected with what had gone before, she said, “You certainly like a drink. It’s almost …”

Eléazard pursed his lips. “A bit too much perhaps. Is that what you mean? In Brazil the water’s more dangerous than wine and since the idea of drinking Coca Cola fills me with horror … Joking apart, avoid tap water like the plague; even filtered, it’s still dangerous. There’s new cases of hepatitis every day.”

“I know. I’ve already been warned.”

A flash of lightning followed by a particularly resounding clap of thunder made her start. The echo was still fading in the distance when the downpour hit the patio. It was heavy, violent rain, pattering on the polished leaves of the banana trees with force. The unexpected deluge created a kind of intimacy between Eléazard and Loredana, an enclosure of quiet and togetherness where they were happy to take refuge. The candle dribbled little transparent pearls, the mosquitos sizzled in the flame, bringing a momentary warm tone to the light. To the strong odor rising from the soil, the candle added unusual fragrances of church and of sandalwood.

“Perhaps we could call each other tu ?” Loredana suggested, after a few minutes of silence enjoying the rain. “I’m fed up with having to make the effort.”

“I was going to suggest the same,” Eléazard agreed with a smile. Abandoning Lei , which suddenly brought them closer together, gave him an almost physical sensation of pleasure. “Your repellent really works,” he said, picking a mosquito out of his glass, “I haven’t had a bite since that one ages ago. But it’s true that it stinks to high heaven. I’m sure it would keep off policemen as well …”

Loredana laughed, but it was a slightly forced laugh. She felt guilty at having fooled Eléazard with her silly story of smuggling. The wine was starting to go to her head.

“So what do you do all day when you’re not sending your despatches, which don’t seem to take up much of your time anyway?”

“I live, I dream … I write. Recently I’ve been spending quite a lot of time at my computer.”

“What kind of things do you write?”

“Oh, nothing exciting. I’ve been commissioned to prepare a seventeenth-century manuscript for publication. The biography of a Jesuit father I’ve been working on for several years. It’s a piece of research rather than writing.”

“You’re a believer?” she asked, surprised.

“Not at all,” Eléazard assured her, “but this guy no one’s heard of is an interesting oddity. He wrote about absolutely everything, claiming each time and on each subject to have the sum total of knowledge. That was fairly standard at the time, but what fascinates me about him — and I’m talking about a man who was a contemporary of people like Leibniz, Galileo, Huygens and was much more famous than they — is that he was entirely wrong about everything. He even thought he’d managed to decipher the Egyptian hieroglyphs and everyone believed him until Champollion came along.

“Surely you’re not talking about Athanasius Kircher?” Loredana broke in, visibly interested.