a desire to bring back some life to Alcântara. Proponents of an
alternative
solution—the word came to their lips frequently as a panacea for
bourgeois self-interest
and
American imperialism’s hold on the planet—they
managed to get by in their haven of peace and humanity. During the season a few tourists, whose passion for colonial architecture was such that they forgot the time of the last boat, would end up in their hotel, the only one in Alcântara, and that brought in enough to allow Eunice and Alfredo to struggle through with the restaurant for the rest of the year. Out of the goodness of their hearts rather than necessity, this likeable couple employed old Socorró as cook and to help do the rooms.
Alfredo reappeared carrying two glasses and two large bottles of beer. “Ice-cold! Just the way you like it,” he said, joining him at the table. He cautiously filled the glasses then raised his to Eléazard:
“
Saúde
.”
“
Santé
,” Eléazard replied, clinking glasses with him.
“By the way, have you heard the news? We’ve let a room!”
It was remarkable enough, right in the middle of the rainy season, for Eléazard to show his surprise.
“It’s true, I swear it is,” Alfredo assured him. “An Italian woman. She’s a journalist like you, and …”
“I’m not a journalist,” Eléazard insisted, “I’m a correspondent. It’s not the same thing.” To his mind, at least, it was different, but he was annoyed with himself for instinctively putting on this air and immediately qualified it. “Although both are a similar species of vulture …”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” Alfredo went on, “and on your profession. Without you, without journalists, who would know what’s going on here? Anyway, she’s called Loredana, and she’s quite a girl, I can assure you. If I wasn’t married … phew.” This was accompanied by a wink and a burst of finger-clicking.
“You’ll have to teach me how you do that one day.”
“You just have to get the knack,” Alfredo replied. “Look: you let your hand go quite limp—that’s the secret—then shake it as if you wanted to get rid of it. Your fingers knock against each other and that’s what makes the noise of castanets.”
As Alfredo looked on with an amused air, Eléazard tried to imitate him without success. He admitted defeat when Eunice appeared with a tray.
“Good evening, Lazardinho,” she said, putting a plate of breaded prawns on the table. She leaned down and gave him a friendly embrace on both cheeks. “It’s ages since we saw you, you rascal.”
“Two weeks,” said Eléazard in his defense, “not even that, twelve days, to be precise.”
“Love doesn’t count the days. But you’re forgiven. Now tell me what you think of these little beauties,” she said, pointing at the prawns.
“Succulent, as usual,” said Eléazard, his mouth full.
“Good. I’ll let you get on with it.”
“Me too,” said Alfredo, getting up at a brief sign from his wife.
“No, no, you stay. Go on, keep me company. Eunice, bring us another plate of prawns, please, and a bottle of white wine.”
Alfredo sat down again with an evident air of satisfaction and he didn’t need to be asked twice when Eléazard offered to share his prawns. Peeled and fried in breadcrumbs with just the tail fin sticking out, you could use your fingers to dip them in a kind of very spicy red mayonnaise then pop them in your mouth. They were delicious.
At Alfredo’s instigation the conversation soon came around to the government project of setting up a rocket-launching site somewhere in the surrounding forest. So far the information they had was sketchy, gleaned with difficulty by a Communist newspaperin São Luís,
Defense of Maranhão
, but it looked as if Brazil was preparing to sacrifice the Alcântara peninsula to the
higher interests of the nation
, as the newspaper editorial put it with a forest of ironic quotation marks.
“Rockets! I ask
alternative
solution—the word came to their lips frequently as a panacea for
bourgeois self-interest
and
American imperialism’s hold on the planet—they
managed to get by in their haven of peace and humanity. During the season a few tourists, whose passion for colonial architecture was such that they forgot the time of the last boat, would end up in their hotel, the only one in Alcântara, and that brought in enough to allow Eunice and Alfredo to struggle through with the restaurant for the rest of the year. Out of the goodness of their hearts rather than necessity, this likeable couple employed old Socorró as cook and to help do the rooms.
Alfredo reappeared carrying two glasses and two large bottles of beer. “Ice-cold! Just the way you like it,” he said, joining him at the table. He cautiously filled the glasses then raised his to Eléazard:
“
Saúde
.”
“
Santé
,” Eléazard replied, clinking glasses with him.
“By the way, have you heard the news? We’ve let a room!”
It was remarkable enough, right in the middle of the rainy season, for Eléazard to show his surprise.
“It’s true, I swear it is,” Alfredo assured him. “An Italian woman. She’s a journalist like you, and …”
“I’m not a journalist,” Eléazard insisted, “I’m a correspondent. It’s not the same thing.” To his mind, at least, it was different, but he was annoyed with himself for instinctively putting on this air and immediately qualified it. “Although both are a similar species of vulture …”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” Alfredo went on, “and on your profession. Without you, without journalists, who would know what’s going on here? Anyway, she’s called Loredana, and she’s quite a girl, I can assure you. If I wasn’t married … phew.” This was accompanied by a wink and a burst of finger-clicking.
“You’ll have to teach me how you do that one day.”
“You just have to get the knack,” Alfredo replied. “Look: you let your hand go quite limp—that’s the secret—then shake it as if you wanted to get rid of it. Your fingers knock against each other and that’s what makes the noise of castanets.”
As Alfredo looked on with an amused air, Eléazard tried to imitate him without success. He admitted defeat when Eunice appeared with a tray.
“Good evening, Lazardinho,” she said, putting a plate of breaded prawns on the table. She leaned down and gave him a friendly embrace on both cheeks. “It’s ages since we saw you, you rascal.”
“Two weeks,” said Eléazard in his defense, “not even that, twelve days, to be precise.”
“Love doesn’t count the days. But you’re forgiven. Now tell me what you think of these little beauties,” she said, pointing at the prawns.
“Succulent, as usual,” said Eléazard, his mouth full.
“Good. I’ll let you get on with it.”
“Me too,” said Alfredo, getting up at a brief sign from his wife.
“No, no, you stay. Go on, keep me company. Eunice, bring us another plate of prawns, please, and a bottle of white wine.”
Alfredo sat down again with an evident air of satisfaction and he didn’t need to be asked twice when Eléazard offered to share his prawns. Peeled and fried in breadcrumbs with just the tail fin sticking out, you could use your fingers to dip them in a kind of very spicy red mayonnaise then pop them in your mouth. They were delicious.
At Alfredo’s instigation the conversation soon came around to the government project of setting up a rocket-launching site somewhere in the surrounding forest. So far the information they had was sketchy, gleaned with difficulty by a Communist newspaperin São Luís,
Defense of Maranhão
, but it looked as if Brazil was preparing to sacrifice the Alcântara peninsula to the
higher interests of the nation
, as the newspaper editorial put it with a forest of ironic quotation marks.
“Rockets! I ask
Similar Books
