Authors: Louis Begley
The shoreline passed in review under them. He recognized the end of the beach at Sao Conrado and soon the plane veered to the right to follow the strange long sandbar of
Marambaia. They had entered the Bay of Sepetiba; their destination was at its western end, across from the Ilha Grande. The plane was flying so low that Ben could see each wrinkle on the water, the smoke rising from occasional chimneys on the tiny green islands that did not appear even as dots on the pilot’s map. Lotte squealed—was it fear or excitement?—each time the plane lurched. There was a strong wind, offshore. Then the pilot pointed and Ben saw the landing strip. It was a narrow rectangle of red earth, surrounded by red-earthen walls on three sides, smoothly carved out in the side of the mountain that closed the bay. The plane headed suicidally for the wall at the far end, quickly turned, and came to a trembling halt. Heavy, moist heat enveloped them as they stepped out. A Volkswagen bus was waiting, its windshield covered by red dust.
Their room, itself whitewashed, was at the end of a long white building. Under voluminous mosquito netting stood a narrow bed. A trickle of tepid, brackish water ran from the shower. There was a chest of drawers, a black wooden table, and two black wooden chairs. The driver of the bus, who had taken them to the room, assured Ben that no other rooms, with large beds, were to be had. On the way they had passed through the dining room, with long tables being prepared for dinner. There was but one service, at eight. In the combination bar and salon, dozens of overweight parents and children were gathered before a television set that, although turned to what seemed maximum volume, could be heard only with difficulty in the noise of conversation. When Ben asked for a drink to take to the room, the waiter produced a bottle of beer and a bottle of mineral water. There was wine to be had,
but not before dinner. Although Carvalho’s description, to which the Hotel do Tio had so far conformed, should have prepared him for this, the feeling of having made a mistake descended upon Ben—in his case usually the precursor of guilt, depression, and anger. He began to wonder whether he could make the plane return for them that very evening. It could take them to Cabo Frio—the same distance from Rio, only in the other direction. There was nothing to stop him, for that matter, from taking Lotte to Uruguay, to Punta del Este, or, since one did not absolutely have to be on the beach, to Buenos Aires. At least he would be offering her something that she might like, that she was not accustomed to. Afterward, she could go back to Rio and he would fly directly to New York. Beginning to plan how to explain these choices to her in German with all the consequential complexities of transportation, and to enlist her in translating into Portuguese the necessary instructions to be given at the hotel and over the telephone, he turned in her direction. She had taken off her shirt and her shoes. The window of the room gave on the sea. She was standing before it, crying very quietly. What is the matter? he asked her. I am so happy, she replied, this room is beautiful. I want to stay here forever.
I
N THE MORNING
Ben found out that all the motorboats and sailing dinghies belonging to the hotel had been rented or reserved. Only one beach could be reached on foot: it was meager and already covered with the bodies of fellow guests. He sensed that Lotte was not a useful intermediary in dealing with the manager. He sought the man out himself and, in a mixture of Spanish and English, explained how highly recommended
the hotel had been by Dr. Alvaro de Carvalho of Rio. The name was the right password—Ben wondered why it had not been noted with his reservation and whether, had he used it the previous day, a room with a large bed might not have suddenly become available. He was reluctant to change now, his room having overnight acquired magic characteristics of its own. When the manager returned, it was with a placid old man with huge hands and calloused bare feet. Wellington was a fisherman and porter. He could not let them have his boat because he needed it for his business. But he would take Ben and the
senhorita
to island beaches each morning and return to fetch them at an agreed hour. This suited Ben. He would let the old man choose the desert rock upon which to abandon them. The manager prepared a basket of bread, white Minas cheese, wine, and water.
Wellington explained in words and gestures that the beach they were heading for was the best in the bay, with large trees to offer shade. The island was uninhabited, except for one small farm on the other side, and it had no name. They would not be disturbed. He pointed to a dense jungle of palm trees and ferns rising up from the shining water less than two kilometers away.
They were slow in arriving. The sun was so intense that the boards of the boat burned their feet. Perhaps twenty meters from shore, in shallow water, Wellington put the engine in reverse and brought the boat to a stop. They took their provisions, climbed out, and, legs in the water, waved good-bye to Wellington.
The silky water was warm and translucent. As they waded to the beach, schools of minnows chased one another, and
shadows of slightly larger fish flickered over a bottom that seemed half sand and half sticky clay. Multicolored feathers floated on the surface. The beach belonged to birds, which sat in the branches of the trees or circled overhead, raucous and domineering. With a handful of fern leaves, Lotte swept a space clear of the droppings that covered the sand. They put the food in the shade, took off their clothes, and lay down in the water. Later, they swam. When they returned to the beach, two very domestic-looking hens picking insects from the sand looked up startled, then hurried down a path into the jungle. Ben and Lotte followed them. In the middle of a clearing they saw a hut with more hens and a large rooster. So the single habitation was not on the other side of the island, as Wellington had claimed, but quite near, almost within earshot of the beach. Cautiously they approached and looked in through the window, an unglazed opening in the wall. Inside they could see only an army cot, its canvas stained and torn. But there must have been a presence; someone must have filled the basin from which the hens drank. Although they returned to the island each day during the week that followed, they never saw the hens again and did not solve the mystery.
Notaben 401, dated 16/12/70:
Lotte dozes in the shade. I read in my battered copy of
Les liaisons dangereuses
.
Her right buttock is my lectern. She is so tame that the rhythm of her breathing doesn’t change as I turn the pages. Yesterday, as I was reading in the same
position, her innate trust stirred me; so as not to lose my place, I put the book facedown in the sand and entered very gently, from the rear. She was ready. The light upward pressure of my hand on this same buttock was enough to open her. And she slept on.
No, I am not playing Valmont on Robinson Crusoe’s island, if I write a mock love letter to V it will not be in a folio I have balanced on Lotte’s posterior. The explanation for
Les liaisons
in this place, with this companion, is chaste. Traveling light, always eager to better myself, I settled on this text to help purge my French of anglicisms and Parisian grime and took no other. If as it happens it has been also of assistance twice today in ways that are more to the point here, that is pure good luck.
In fact, my “mechanism” is quite different from Valmont’s. A woman he can have he does not want. I am unable to keep my hands, etc., off Lotte precisely because she is so available. I am tempted to add so
passive
, because what she does, and she does plenty, is done solely in response to my need. How long this harmony could last is a question we need not answer.
Example: The moment when my feeling for the Cockney reached that place, low down in my entrails, which is unfailingly stirred at moments of true complicity with another.
We stop at rue du C-M, quite innocently, so I can drop off my briefcase and wash my face before going on to an opening. She precedes me up the stairs to
my bedroom, and I watch her heavy, English rear with satisfaction. Once in my room, she pulls open the drawer where my shirts are stored, opens her pocketbook, takes from it the round, white plastic case with her diaphragm inside, and places it under a stack of striped shirts in which pink predominates.
I want it to be here waiting for us, she says.
Faith, hope, and availability.
Notaben 402:
My German has improved steadily during this week. It’s encouraging how such things return.
It’s our last night. They serve a surprisingly good
churrasco
with fried manioc flour. We drink very cold beer. She clings to me at the table, her hand always at my crotch. Our fellow diners, a branch manager of Banco do Brasil in Belo Horizonte, his brother-in-law whose profession I haven’t figured out, and their families have stopped paying attention to us or smile benevolently. As we occupy the only two places at the head of the table, I help her discreetly open my fly. Can pleasure be endless?
Later, under the netting, moonlight on our faces, I ask her how I will find her when I return to Rio. Will it be soon? she wants to know. I say next year, probably before the summer, as early as I can arrange it. In that case, she tells me, she will perhaps still be in Rio. The Doctor likes to change the girls, so they seldom stay long. He likes them to be fresh. There
are so many who want to come! This makes my eyes fill with tears, and I inquire where she will go upon being “changed.” She doesn’t know, probably a club in Sâo Paulo.
Is it a question of money? Can I buy her back from the Doctor or his partners? She doesn’t want that. A part of what she earns is set aside in any case, and in a few years she will be able to retire. Then she will send me postcards from Montenegro, near Novo Hamburgo. That’s where she would like to live. Perhaps she will even be able to get married, she adds shyly.
Undated draft of letter from Ben to Véronique (translated from the French by me):
Merry Christmas, my love, I am still in Rio, back from a vacation on a desert island set in the greenest water I have ever seen. I was as helpless there as Robinson before the Lord sent him Friday, totally neglecting suntan oils, etc. Result: Very red and very painful back, yes all the way down, and a marked distaste for sitting down.
Are you skiing well? Is Laurent having fun?
It turns out I will have to be in New York for a while (undetermined in its extent) at the beginning of the new year. Office politics. My faithful troops tell me, Father look to your right, look to your left! I will not bore you with the dreary details or names of homoid sharks you do not know. We will be in touch
by telephone. Contact with nature has given me new courage: I will dare to call you in the morning, when I think you have returned from Laurent’s school. And you can reach me at home or in the office. Don’t forget my New York secretary’s name—Carl—or that, all spiteful rumors notwithstanding, he is a man!
You may, with your usual tenderness, wonder where I will spend the holidays. I don’t know. Surely away from New York. The bustling cheer of one’s friends is too hard to bear. Most probably, I will stay here. There are some people from the rural south of this country who have treated me with unexpected kindness. They have no religion, and, in my case, that’s just right for this season.
Your
Ben
H
E INVITED ME
to lunch at the Veau d’Or. During visits to New York from college, almost twenty years before, I had gone there with my parents, usually for Saturday lunch, before their afternoon subscription concert. It seemed always filled with people just like them: good-looking and hearty, dressed in bold tweeds, greeting friends, making an agreeably boisterous noise. The owner, Gerard, himself voluble, rubicund, and beautifully turned out in lounge suits of refined grays and blues, reigned over the customers and the harassed, dyspeptic Breton waiters with artful ease; his partner, whom I never heard utter a word, perched behind the cash register at the end of the bar. How one was seated, and the length of the prefatory sojourn in the crowded space between the bar and the coatroom, was determined by criteria that assigned little weight to reservations. My parents would spend less time in that purgatory than my father required to down his first martini; with a mocking flourish, Gerard would take his glass and, carrying it himself, lead them to one of the rare tables where the width of the banquette was sufficient for my father’s comfort. Less-favored clients were left to marinate in gin for what seemed the length of a three-course meal, only to be seated ultimately face-to-face on hard wooden chairs at tables one-third the size of those Gerard
considered appropriate for my parents. I was sorry he did not appear to know me when I asked for Ben; himself, he had not changed much, and I had hoped that this master physiognomist would see through the film with which years of absence had doubtless covered my face. It seemed awkward to mention my name—clearly he was busy—and also futile: the pleasure I had hoped for was to be recognized spontaneously. Instead, I followed him to Ben’s table, the one facing the window, where Gerard himself normally took his meals. So, in this place, too, Ben was now a valued habitué.
You are almost fifteen minutes late, he greeted me. Are you in training for my existential role?
He had lost so completely the sunburned look Prudence and I had admired when he arrived from Brazil and told us about virgin Angra that his face was like the flannel of the gray suit he was wearing, only paler in tone, and untidy, which was never true of his clothes. His eyes were bloodshot. I explained that my editor had kept me longer than I had anticipated going over an article and asked Ben if he had a cold.
No, he replied, I haven’t been sleeping well, and it’s starting to show. Perhaps I’ll go back to Rio and put my body in the sun. A good tan covers everything, wipes away all sins.
The waiter arrived with cold mussels, which the Veau d’Or has always offered as soon as one sits down and I can’t eat because I am allergic to the mustard in the sauce. Then, for some minutes, we were busy with Gerard, ordering lunch. When Ben introduced me, Gerard said he was glad to see me again and asked about my parents and why they never came
to the restaurant anymore. I told him they rarely were in the city but that, sometime soon, I would bring my own daughters to lunch. The idea that I might resume this family habit suddenly pleased me very much. I thought it would also please my parents; it was the sort of thing around which Prudence might organize one of her letters to my mother.