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

“A military base? That’s a new one on me. As you can see, you know a lot more than I do. D’you know anything about that, Matt?”

“First I’ve heard of it,” the other said with a shrug. “Sounds interesting. May we know what it’s all about?”

“It’s a rumor,” said Eléazard, “a vague project the United States is said to be associated with; I read about it in one of the tracts distributed by a Workers’ Party candidate. Some are talking about a base for strategic missiles, others about an arms factory, neither backed up with any evidence. Disinformation for electoral purposes probably …”

“More anti-American propaganda,” said McDouglas, a smile on his lips. “Fair enough, but it’s starting to get tedious, you know. Those clowns are playing with fire: the day our economy crashes I wouldn’t give much for Brazil’s prospects, nor those of South America or even the West in general. Do you think the socialists have a chance in the coming elections?”

“You certainly stick to your guns,” Eléazard quipped. “To answer your question: no, practically none at all. They may well have one or two federal deputies, but then … Moreira will be reelected governor of Maranhão and everything will continue as before.”

“You sound disappointed by that …”

“And you’re not, from what I see,” said Eléazard a touch aggressively. “Personally, my weakness is that I still believe in certain old-fashioned values. I remain convinced, for example, that corruption, nepotism, the enrichment of a few at the expense of all the rest are not normal, even though there are ten thousand years of history to suggest they are. I believe that poverty is not fate but a phenomenon that is deliberately maintained, managed, an abject state that is necessary solely for the prosperity of a small group with no scruples … We tend to forget — everything is designed so that we do — that it is always an individual who changes the course of events, by his decision at a particular moment or his refusal to act. That is what power is, without that no one would be interested in it, as you well know. And it is those men, I mean those men in power, whom I hold responsible for what happens.”

“Well, well,” the American mocked, “I’m beginning to see why you’re not exactly popular with the governor.”

“It’s mutual, I assure you.”

“You really think that someone else could do better in Moreira’s place?”

“You don’t understand. People aren’t interchangeable, ever. If a man of good will should appear, someone who’s neither a technocrat, nor a number cruncher, nor even a saint or some guru, such a man would achieve more on his own than generations of professional politicians. That may seem all pie in the sky to you, but there are righteous men — or madmen if you prefer — people who are quite simply honest, who refuse to ‘adapt’ to the ‘real world,’ who act in such a way that the real world adjusts to their madness …”

He stopped when he saw the mechanics hurrying back to their places. A few seconds later, just at the moment when the purr of its engine became audible, the Panhard came into the garage and parked in the exact spot it had set out from.

Moreira appeared with the frosty expression of a man who was just managing to control his anger. A few seconds later he was taking it out on the unfortunate mechanic who had dashed forward, clutching a cloth, to deal with the splashes on the windscreen: the car was pulling to the left a little and a strange whistling noise could be heard as soon as he was doing more than ninety; they’d better sort those problems out, and quick, he wasn’t paying them to sit there twiddling their thumbs and he was fed up with all these stupid mulattos …

“So what was it like?” McDouglas asked Loredana, less out of interest than to hide his embarrassment at the Colonel’s boorish outburst.

“Not bad,” she said with a cold smile, “but the car was pulling to the left a little and there was a strange whistling noise when we went a bit too fast …”

Moreira looked at her with a murderous expression, but Loredana merely stared at him with a feigned air of surprise, lips pursed, as if she had no idea what had got into him. Euclides took advantage of the situation to say he’d like to go home now. He was in the habit of rising with the lark and felt exhausted at having stayed up so late.

The Americans took leave of the doctor and his companions with exquisite politeness, unlike the Colonel, who made no attempt to conceal his bad mood.

“What on earth got into you, for God’s sake?” Eléazard suddenly cried as they were heading back to the Ford.

With a reproachful glance for his impertinence and in detached tones that say that a problem has been solved and there’s no point in dwelling on it, Loredana declared, “I wanted to have the chance to slap the guy. I’ve had it. Period.”

And while Eléazard pulled up short, his eyes almost popping out of his head, Euclides gave one of those little giggles in which he expressed his absolute joy at women’s intelligence.

A FEW HOURS later, after the last guests had finally left, while the servants were still busy restoring order to the fazenda , the governor had shut himself in his study to smoke one last cigar. Delightfully tipsy, with dark rings under his eyes from fatigue, he finally had the time to examine the model that had been delivered that afternoon. Crafted in meticulous detail, it represented on a scale of 1/1,000 the project of a vast seaside resort Moreira had been working on for months. Like a little boy with his nose pressed against a shop window at Christmas, he did not tire of examining his dream, of admiring its scope, its spectacular prospect. Surrounded by coconut trees, the eighteen stories of an immense, crescent-shaped building towered up facing the Atlantic: freshwater and seawater swimming pools, tennis courts, a golf course, catamarans, a helicopter pad, nothing had been forgotten to transform this expanse of jungle into a first-rate tourist destination. As well as the five restaurants and the luxury shops on the ground floor, there was even a beauty salon, a health spa and an ultramodern center for thalassotherapy. The Californian architect, who had been charged with giving shape to his desires, had produced something well beyond his expectations, sculpting the tropical forest so that all that was left were a few civilized patches of greenery, among which the bungalows and sports installations were arranged harmoniously. The golf course alone would have justified the huge advance that had already been paid to him: it would be one of the finest on the international circuit and definitely the most exotic. Clearly all that would cost a fortune — twenty-five million dollars at the lowest estimate — but the first hurdle had been overcome: just before the festivities that evening to celebrate this three-dimensional fantasy, the banks had undertaken to guarantee three-quarters of that sum, with the result that they could start clearing the ground in a fortnight’s time, as soon as the funds were released.

Entirely absorbed in his rapture, the governor was indulging in visions of a happy future. The region would enjoy an unparalleled revival: several hundred jobs created immediately, not to mention the subsequent spin-off from all those rich tourists who would have nothing better to do than deluge the Sertão in a shower of dollars more effective than any rainfall. It was a godsend that would finally allow them to restore the old baroque districts of São Luís, transform Alcântara into a jewel of colonial architecture and attract even more visitors to this out-of-the-way place. Yes, everything was possible, and all thanks to his creative imagination! There would be a certain amount of friction because of the launching base, some whining from ecologists desperate for a sit-in outside the Palacio Estaudal, but eventually reason would prevail: these two projects, his and that of the Americans, were a rare opportunity for Maranhão, the only one which would allow it to escape its congenital poverty.