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

“Here’s something that ought to interest you, Monsieur Von Wogau. I was just showing these people one of the finest items in my collection, a Panhard et Levassor 1936”—he mispronounced the names as Panarde et Lévassor but with something about his intonation that indicated he was convinced he was speaking them in the French manner. “The Dynamic with a freewheel! Four speeds, automatic clutch, torsion-bar suspension … Three parallel windshield wipers, headlamps and radiator with matching grilles and a centrally placed steering wheel, if you please. The best your country produced.”

“What speed?” a nasal voice asked.

“ Eighty-seven miles an hour ,” the governor said in English, as if he were announcing a profit he’d made on the stock exchange. “And fifteen miles a gallon,” he confessed to Loredana in guilty tones but with a smile at the corner of his mouth showing that he was just as proud of the excessive fuel consumption as he was of the speed.

“I’m sorry,” Loredana said, “but I can’t really appreciate these things. Aesthetically at most. I haven’t even got a driver’s licence, so cars, you know …”

For a moment the governor was dumbstruck. “Did you hear that?” he then said to the assembled company. “The lady hasn’t got a driver’s licence! And she’s Italian!”

A young man with the look of a Mormon missionary immediately translated this into English, which aroused a certain amount of polite amusement from some and, with a slight delay, had the Asians springing grotesquely to attention.

Eléazard started as a hand was placed on his shoulder. Turning around, he saw Euclides’s beaming face: “Your move, my friend,” he whispered in his ear, pretending to be interested in the conversation. “Quite a gathering. The Pentagon, does that mean anything to you?” With his eyes he indicated two graying-at-the-temples bucks who could have come from a TV ad for cheap aftershave.

All at once Eléazard was overcome with the irresistible longing for a cigarette. Not that he felt intimidated by the occult power of those men or nervous at the godsend of an explosive revelation — that modern tendency of journalism was precisely what he found nauseating about his profession, but he suddenly felt the prickling lies set off in him. Nothing equals the feeling of having access to the truth like a whiff of falsehood, the imminence of evidence to expose as false something that was claiming to be genuine — a system, a theory, but equally the stature, the honest image of a man and what he says. As a result, Eléazard felt as exultant as a police inspector at the moment when the possibility emerges of demolishing the defense of a suspect he’d known for ages was guilty.

Every sense on the alert, he listened as the governor continued his whimsical address. With all the mannerisms of a passionate collector, and not without a certain brilliance, Moreira sang the praises of the perfect curves of the Panhard, its lines, not feminine, that would be an insult to women , but animal, fleshly, organic … Beautiful cars, he said, went beyond the simple idea of transport, they were cult objects, magic scarabs, pure talismans destined for those whose thirst for progress, power and mastery over things impelled them irresistibly toward the future.

“Talking of thirst ,” Loredana broke in, “you wouldn’t have something to drink?”

He laughed at her forthrightness and, excusing himself for forgetting his duty toward his guests, signalled to one of the twenty mulattos in overalls he employed to look after his cars.

“We’re sticking to champagne, yes? It’s a celebration this evening.”

“And what are you celebrating?” Loredana asked out of simple curiosity.

A mischievous, teasing expression appeared on Moreira’s face. “But the pleasure of having made your acquaintance, of course. That alone would justify emptying my cellars completely …”

Loredana’s response to the flattery was a skeptical pout. The alcohol had suddenly gone to her head. All at once she was very annoyed with Eléazard for having left her in Moreira’s hands. By way of revenge, she allowed the governor to take her hand and lead her to the rear of the car.

BROUGHT FROM THE fazenda by the mechanic, two waiters distributed glasses of champagne all around.

“Why do people call you ‘Colonel?’ ” Loredana asked after having emptied her glass in three gulps. “Have you been in the army?”

“No, not really,” the governor replied nonchalantly, gesturing to a waiter to refill her glass. “It’s a kind of assumed title.” He mechanically smoothed one of his sideburns. “It’s still used for political leaders and the fazendeiros , the owners of the big estates. It’s a tradition going back to imperial times: in his struggle against the rabble-rousers, Don Pedro I organized regional militias, putting the notables of the Interior in command with the rank of colonel. The militias have disappeared but the title has remained. Having said that, we can dispense with the formalities. I would be honored it you would simply call me José.”

She drew herself up with a thoughtful air, though her words were starting to get slightly slurred. “You’re a fast worker, Colonel.”

Apart from the Japanese, who were talking among themselves, examining the Panhard with ceremonious courtesies, the guests were gathered in a circle around the governor; with no obvious malice, they fed his banter with questions or remarks that were too accommodating not to bespeak a grotesque smugness.

With impassible faces, hands in their pockets, Eléazard and Dr. Euclides seemed lost in thought.

“I agree with you, William.” The governor, his eyes fixed on Loredana, as if seeking her approval, started to hold forth. “Destitution is a genuine problem. To think that a country such as ours is still ravaged by the plague or cholera, not to mention the lepers you see begging more or less everywhere! It’s more than a tragedy, it’s a waste! It’s easy to blame the incompetence of the politicians, corruption or even the disparity in wealth between the fazandeiro and the peasant. But that is to take a very narrow view of things. Our foreign debt is one of the biggest in the world, it’s come to the point where we’re reduced to having to borrow again and again simply to pay the interest! It’s obvious we won’t be able to get out of it as long as there isn’t a permanent moratorium. In the meantime, Brazil remains the world leader in the production of tin, the second most important producer of steel and the third for manganese, not to mention arms. Whom do you think we have to thank for that? The Partido dos Trabalhadores ? The Communists? All these pseudorevolutionaries who spend their time criticizing without the least comprehension of the economic realities of the country? Or perhaps those peasants who stop cultivating their fields as soon as they’ve harvested enough maize to feel secure. We must face up to facts: the Brazilians are still in their childhood. If we weren’t here to change things, we, the entrepreneurs who have a vision of Brazil and give ourselves the means to satisfy our ambitions, who would do it, I ask you? Destitution is just one symptom among others of our immaturity as a country. It’s sad, lamentable, tragic, whatever you want, but the people must be educated, whether they like it or not, so that they will finally grow up, see reason and get down to work.” Then, turning to Eléazard, he asked, “You’re a journalist, Monsieur Von Wogau, tell me the truth: am I right or not?”

Eléazard stared at him without replying, contempt oozing from every pore. Grab him by the collar, heap abuse on him, spit his nauseating cynicism right back in his face! The words came tumbling down without managing to cross his lips; he was clearly aware of the pointlessness of making a scene, but unable to bring himself to mutter an agreement out of pure expediency, he remained silent, wavering, muzzled more by his own fury than by etiquette.