Orphans of Eldorado - Milton Hatoum [25]
I was left with very little money in Vila Bela, after paying for the pilot and the rental of the boat. The only way out was to sell the white palace, my last valuable property. I went into the Benchayas’ pension and said: Salomito, I want to sell my palace, if you know of anyone interested . . .
Salomito thought this was just idle talk, or a sudden whim: words with no thought to back them up. But I insisted I was serious. He pointed his patriarch’s beard at the table and said that Becassis was looking for a place to live and set up a little perfumery in Vila Bela. He was a courageous old man, determined to sell aromatic oils at a time when everywhere reeked of hunger and destruction, here and in Europe.
Becassis was sitting between Estrela and Azário, a strange boy. Estrela was a haughty woman, her long, curly hair touching the table edge. I observed her stiff body, her delicate hands, her shapely face, the glimmer behind her grey eyes. How I admired the foreigner’s eyes. It was the second time I’d seen this woman; the first time I’d only seen her from a distance. She lived like a recluse, not wanting to flaunt her beauty. The old man noted that I was hypnotised by Estrela. I didn’t yet know she was his daughter; Moroccan Jews and Arabs were reputed to be womanisers, and the older ones often married girls. This wasn’t a husband’s jealousy, but a father’s. Becassis got up and asked about the house. I said, without exaggeration: It’s the white mansion on Beira-Rio Avenue.
He introduced me to his daughter and grandson, and wanted to see the house straight away. The woman smiled, while the lad looked at me sideways, crossing his arms. I don’t know if he mistrusted me. Or was it something I felt that distanced me from him? He didn’t even say hello, and I paid no attention. That is, I registered Azário’s impertinence in my memory and went with Becassis to the house.
The floor waxed by Florita was shining. What wasn’t shining was the look in her eye. But my little flower kept her mouth shut. Becassis was impressed by the tall windows with their pointed arches, the large parlour, bedrooms and kitchen; he stopped to admire the crockery and the Portuguese tiles in the bathroom. Then we went round the garden, and I said that this was one of the few houses in Vila Bela with a decent cesspit. He looked at everything: the fruit trees, the stone fountain from my mother’s time, the wooden pergola covered by a passion fruit vine. He tore a leaf from the climbing plant, rubbed it in his hands and smelt it. His voice faltered, as if it was someone else speaking, as he asked about the price.
Dr Estiliano, my lawyer, deals with that.
Even the price? asked Becassis.
The price above all.
Have you any other properties?
An area of the flood plain of the River Uaicurupá, I replied. The Boa Vida plantation.
Has it got plants with aromatic roots? The white resin tree, the black resin tree?
It’s got everything, I lied. Then I said something true and of interest to me: It’s even got a properly drawn-up contract.
Becassis’s dry, hard face remained motionless. On the pavement, I gave him Estiliano’s address and we parted.
Two weeks later, Estiliano informed me of Becassis’s offer. Very strange. The buyer must have known I was going around with a begging bowl, for the price included the Boa Vida.
How did Becassis know it was for sale?