Where Tigers Are at Home (27 page)

Carlotta replaced the receiver with a sigh of relief. She held out her hands over the telephone and watched them trembling with a faint mocking smile.
You drink too much, old girl … Where’s it going to get you? Don’t you think getting old’s enough in itself?
And immediately the irrepressible desire came to pour herself a glass, the first of the day, just so she felt better, just to escape the nagging fear the only answer to which was an infinity of questions. An abyss was opening up before her, making her heart beat irregularly, accelerating the unbearable collapse of her whole being. In a compromise with her morning resolutions, she swallowed a quarter of a Lexomil tablet and dropped into an armchair, opposite the beheading of Saint John the Baptist that took pride of place in her bedroom. It was a large picture, too academic, despite certain qualities in the treatment of light, to retain attention apart from by the signature: Vítor Meireles, the Brazilian painter who had devoted his work to the glorification of the Empire and brought out for the first time certain Indian motifs, though very discreetly and without calling into question the validity of the conquest of souls by the Christian religion. Of all the pictures she had inherited from her family it was Carlotta’s favorite, her great-grandmother, Countess Isabella de Algezul, having posed for the figure of Salome in 1880. When she was young, Carlotta’s resemblance to her great-grandmother had been so striking, had given rise to so many rapturous comments, that as an adolescent she had taken delight in doing her hair in the same style as the Jewish princess in the picture, imitating her regal bearing and lowering her eyes with the same disgusted sadness on the plates of cocktail
snacks she was offering her parents’ guests. Yes, she had so resembled her in body and spirit that she had made some doubt the authenticity of the picture and brought some others to the brink of madness … Salome victorious and Victorian, the nymph Echo from a dream in moist collodion with her heavy chignon of red hair, her ghost’s face in which emotion expressed itself in sickly blotches; for a long time her only way of blushing had been this sort of allergic reaction to the brutal contact with stupidity.

There was not much left of this remarkable beauty. Up to the age of fifty Carlotta had managed, with creams and diets, to maintain a certain similarity to the image of her younger days—for her son, for his look of pride when he talked of the passions she aroused in his classmates. Then Mauro had left and his departure had coincided with evidence of the lack of consideration for her that her husband showed when away from home. To be honest, the photo published in
Manchete
had shocked her less by the actual content, as José wanted to believe, than by its revelation of a tragedy that had been played out well before that execrable scene. Carlotta had married Moreira da Rocha for love at a time when he was nothing more than a charming con man, shutting her eyes, against her parents’ advice, to his lack of culture, his thirst for money and power. Alone in the
fazenda
, her eyes fixed on the photo that made him look so ugly, she had realized that she no longer loved him, probably never had loved him. That was the hardest to take: thirty-five years together with a man she despised, a man whom, she now saw, she had always despised … because he prided himself on only reading the financial sections of the newspapers and, without having ever opened one of his books, called Marcel Proust a “dirty little queer.”

This obvious fact, revealed too late and magnified by bitterness, had become a torrent, sweeping away everything in its path, leaving its traces everywhere, even in Carlotta’s own reflection
in the mirrors. Foundation creams and other artificial aids can never mask the body’s decrepitude: as long as love persists, in whatever form, they embellish, they protect a beauty that exists beyond the contingencies of old age. They are part of a game with strict rules, the game of affection in which one knows there is nothing to gain but the pleasure of being able to keep on playing it. For those such as savages and children, whose eyes have not yet been opened by skepticism, reality is unvarnished because their trust is limitless. Once they learn the extent of their credulity, the magic of the world is spoiled, it turns into illusion, that other word for the impossibility of belief. Carlotta was vaguely aware that no cosmetics could disguise the unsightliness brought about by the withdrawal of faith.

Her mind a blank, she ran her hands over her tired flesh, feeling her flabby muscles, rolling the layers of fat under her distended skin. Bizarre the way the body had of producing fat when not enough demands were made on it … As if it were noting down our least abdication of responsibility toward life in order, by way of compensation, to provide richer nourishment for those that will continue the cycle after its death. Benumbed by the Lexomil, a rather stupid smile spread across her face at this new idea: accelerate the process, stuff herself, drink more and more, not to “forget”—nothing nor anyone could soothe the pain of a failed life—but to put on weight, get fat, as a way of making one last offering to the forces of life. She got up and looked through her address book, then rang La Bohème, the best restaurant in São Luís.

“Good morning … This is Countess Carlotta de Alzegul, could you put me through to Isaac Martins, please …” Seeing the bottle of whiskey she hadn’t managed to finish the previous day, she stretched the telephone wire until she could reach it.

“Yes?… How are you, my dear Isaac?… Oh, I’m all right, even if it’s not much fun being a governor’s wife sometimes. But
that’s precisely why I’m ringing: my husband is having a reception at the
fazenda
in a fortnight’s time and I was wondering if you would be willing to organize the food … About a hundred, perhaps more, you know how these things are, people imagine they’re obliged to bring a companion, quite often one who would have been better left at home … You’ll need to allow for a full meal, something pretty lavish: lobster, shellfish, roast meat … Stuffed crabs? Yes, why not?… Add to that anything that comes into your head, I leave it entirely up to you. Expense no object and you’ll make sure there’s plenty of everything, won’t you? We’ll have to think in terms of three or even four identical buffets, so hire all the extra help you think necessary, I don’t want any complaints about having to wait to be served … Could you come out to the
fazenda
tomorrow so we can get together to finalize the arrangements? Preferably in the morning … Perfect. See you tomorrow, Isaac … Goodbye.”

Carlotta hung up and drank her first mouthful of whiskey that day. It all looked pretty promising, José was right to continue to trust her in these matters; few women would be capable of organizing such an important social event and without the least show of panic. She wasn’t doing it for him, but for the honor of the Alzeguls, well aware that even if her husband had completely exempted her from the task, the least mistake would still be blamed on her and her alone. It was not unusual for José to organize this kind of party, especially at election time, but he usually held them at the governor’s palace, reserving the honors of the
fazenda
for a few privileged guests. Where the hell had the butler said he would leave the guest list?

Her glass of whiskey in her hand, Carlotta left her bedroom and headed for the study, where Moreira spent the better part of his evenings. She quickly found three typed sheets, clearly visible on a green leather blotter. As she sat down at the desk, in the “master’s”
chair, she realized she hadn’t been in the room for years, out of fear of disturbing her husband when he shut himself away with his files and then out of lack of interest in his affairs.
I won’t bore you with it, darling, it would take too long and you wouldn’t understand much anyway
. Nothing had changed since she’d seen to the decoration of the room, apart from the addition of a huge map of the Alcântara peninsula in garish colors that clashed with the eighteenth-century engravings she’d had such difficulty tracking down all those years ago. As she drank, she scanned the guest list. Dr. Euclides da Cunha hadn’t been forgotten, fortunately … two ministers, one ambassador, a few worthies … Suddenly she came across a series of names indented, as if to emphasize their importance:

Accustomed to her husband’s business relations, the only thing to strike Carlotta about this collection of unknown names was the mention of the Pentagon, but she felt a sort of irrational uneasiness. Having decided to ask her husband about it, she looked for a pen to annotate the list and as she opened the large drawer in the desk her eye was caught by the headings on a file:

Alcântara International Resort

Astounded to see her name on such a document, Carlotta looked up the relevant section. For a few seconds indignation made her stomach churn: she was involved in this project as “owner” of all the pieces of land on the Alcântara peninsula that were listed for development!

IT OCCURRED TO
me that it wasn’t just the Prince’s mind that was wandering but his wife’s as well & I convinced myself that she had merely claimed she had this harpsichord in her stomach in memory of her cousin & as a metaphor, so to speak, of the sufferings she had to bear.

Kircher & the Prince came back to join me with the satisfied expressions of men who have made great plans. Our host having taken his leave, we retired for a siesta.

“Everything is going as planned, Caspar,” Athanasius said when we were safely in our room. “The Prince & I understand each other perfectly; our agreement should have consequences the scope of which you cannot imagine.”

I felt I had the right to tell him what the Princess had revealed to me a few minutes previously. Kircher seemed not in the least surprised & merely calmed me with a smile. Then,
placing a hand on my shoulder, he said, “It would be a good idea, I think, if you reread your Ignatius …”

Accepting his advice, I immersed myself in the
Exercises
for several hours. It made me regard the Prince slightly more indulgently, without freeing me from a certain hostility toward him. Furious with myself, I tied a hair shirt tightly around my torso, chastising my bodily appetites; this persistent pain finally released my mind & I managed to pray & thank Heaven for all its goodness.

On the evening of that December 18, 1637 we met in the same room for dinner. My master, who was always the center of the conversation, was in sparkling form. Abandoning his usual humility, he seemed to take pleasure in parading his knowledge & surprising our hosts with many curious facts and delightful anecdotes that the vagaries of the conversation brought to mind.

He assured us he had himself generated frogs from a little dust taken from the ditches, as he had scorpions by mixing some powder from that insect in a decoction of basil. Similarly, quoting Paracelsus, he said it was possible to resuscitate a plant from its own ashes, although that was much more difficult. From there we came to talk about the strangest animals nature had ever produced, that is, dragons, the progeny of the eagle & the she-wolf. He spoke of the small specimen that could be seen in the Aldrovandi Museum in Rome & of the one he had caught a glimpse of in 1619, flying out of a cave on Mount Pilatus near Lucerne, but also of all sorts of unthinkable animals that proved the infinite capacity of divine creation. Thus Kircher reminded us of the cock with a snake’s tail or with a crest of plumes, one of the curiosities of the Boboli Gardens in Florence, which was the fruit of a chance mixture of sperm; the ostrich or “strontocamelo,” whose name & appearance prove that it comes
from the coupling of a camel with a fowl; the rhinobatos, the offspring of the ray & the angelfish mentioned by Aristotle; & numerous other exotic animals of which his correspondents in the Indies or in America sent him detailed descriptions.