In Name Only (12 page)

Jill gave her another smile. "It's all those."

"The Brazilian without his coffee. Ah, the world would come to an end. Maybe ten, a dozen cups a day."

Jill took another sip of coffee before asking the one question that had been on her mind all along.

"Is Senhor Todd at home?" It seemed an odd question for a bride to ask, now that it was out.

Senhora Cordero didn't seem to think it odd at all. Instead, she seemed embarrassed, even distressed.

"He rushed away early this morning. It was the telephone call. He said he'd be back on Monday morning. Shame on him. Here it is Saturday and his honeymoon. He only thinks of business, always business."

Jill, flushing red, gave a shake of her head. "He was afraid something like that would happen," she murmured, angry with herself for being trapped into a lie.

She looked away, into the garden. The rain, pelting the greenery, was the kind that blotted out all memory of sunlight, the kind that continued on for days and weeks and years, she thought. "Will this go on forever?" she groaned.

"Maybe, maybe not. It rains every day in the winter and spring, sometimes all day, sometimes for only an hour or two. Cheer up, my dear," the housekeeper said. "You'll see the sun soon enough."

If Simon were here and this were truly our honeymoon, what lovely weather it would be, Jill thought. The kind of weather that keeps you closeted in your room, snug and loving in bed. But all she wanted now was to break out of that chill cocoon and feel the embracing warmth of the sun.

Was it sunny where Simon had gone?

She turned to Senhora Cordero. "I forget the name of the place my husband's gone to." Another small lie.

"Santarem. The senhor said he'd call."

"Santarem." Jill had poured over the map of the Amazon basin a hundred times. She knew quite well where Santarem was. East of Manaus, west of Belem, an old-fashioned river town now a center of activity because of gold discoveries in the region. She would like to see Santarem, too. She had the sudden, disquieting feeling that he had gone to Santarem to see another woman, someone he loved and who loved him. Perhaps even at that moment they were in one another's arms. The coffee cup she was holding clattered in its little dish.

"Something wrong, senhora?"

"Won't it ever stop raining?"

"Now, now, you're all upset," the housekeeper said soothingly. "It will all work out."

Jill put her hand out. "Senhora, do sit down. You know, in Chicago, my husband told me I would like you, and I do. Come and talk to me for a while. I feel very strange about everything."

The housekeeper, after a moment's hesitation, perched stiffly on the edge of the chair.

"That's better," Jill said. "Now, tell me something about Las Flores. How many people on the staff, for instance."

"Five in all. The cook, a housemaid, a gardener and the chauffeur you met, Claudio. Senhor Todd wants you to hire a personal maid as soon as possible."

Jill was horrified. "Someone just to take care of me? How very eighteenth century. That will never do."

Senhora Cordero did not seem to be impressed by her outburst. "I know of several young women I could suggest."

"I'm sorry, senhora." Jill put her hand out and patted the housekeeper's arm. "A personal maid is something I'll just have to do without." She smiled affectionately at her, to encourage her agreement, but the housekeeper merely remained silent.

"Oh, I understand." Jill sat back in her chair. Brazil was not America. It was a land of high unemployment, a land where a position, even as a servant, was greatly coveted. "Of course, you see to it. If the staff needs enlarging now that I'm here, then so be it." She was pleased to note the changed expression on the housekeeper's face, one of relief at a difficult moment smoothly gone over.

"Tell me something about Las Flores," Jill went on quickly. "It looks as if someone began decorating it for my husband, and then just stopped. I know he's not around very much and I have the impression that he doesn't care much about his surroundings. Even after acquiring such a fortress."

Senhora Cordero, after listening patiently, did not seem to know what Jill was getting at. "I believe he has everything that he needs."

"Oh, I'm certain he does," Jill said obligingly. "It's just that everything seems so white and bare, except for this room and mine, anyway."

"Ah, I see," said Senhora Cordero with a bright smile. "You don't understand the Manaus way of living. This, you see, is very much how we live in the tropics. Of course, many
nouveau riche
," she added, employing the French proudly, "like to show off their wealth the other way, with too much furniture, too many things, but Senhor Todd is a man of sense and taste."

Jill looked puzzled. "Las Flores seems bare and cold, as if no one lived here."

"Las Flores is air-conditioned, of course," the housekeeper explained, "but ordinary people in the tropics have to worry about mildew and rot and insects. We try to keep our homes airy and spacious. The less we have to worry about, the easier life is."

"Of course. I remember reading about that now."

"In Manaus households, people sleep in hammocks." Senhora Cordero went on, adding proudly, "Here, however, we are able to use real beds because of the air conditioning."

A hammock in place of a bed. It might as well be, thought Jill, at least as far as she and Simon were concerned.

At the moment the sun exploded into the garden, its rays spilling into the breakfast room like a tidal wave.

"You see," said the housekeeper, beaming, as if she were personally responsible for it.

The sky was as clear and blue as if great sliding doors had parted on the heavens and been rolled back out of sight. The sun's heat could be felt at once in the breakfast room and Senhora Cordero set about lowering the slatted blinds.

"I'm going out," Jill told her. She ran upstairs for her bag. When she came back down, she met the housekeeper on her way to the kitchen with the breakfast tray.

"Guess what?" she said breathlessly. "I don't even know my address."

"Twenty-three Rua Teresinha. Don't you go getting lost now."

"Could you lend me some
cruzeiros
? I thought maybe I'd get on a bus and see something of Manaus while I was at it."

"The bus? But you have Claudio and the limousine."

"Oh yes, of course. The limousine." Jill hadn't thought about that. She was a wealthy young matron now with a chauffeur and limousine at her disposal.

"Senhor Todd didn't take the limousine," she said.

"Claudio drove him to the airport hours ago." The housekeeper looked at Jill as if her ignorance were the result of madness brought on by the effects of love.

Her husband of one day had merely gone off by plane somewhere without informing her of his intentions. It had to look queer to Senhora Cordero, and it made Jill furious. "Maybe I'll just take a little walk for the time being," she said stiffly.

"There are umbrellas in the hall closet."

"It wouldn't dare rain," Jill said.

"Not for the rain," Senhora Cordero told her. "For the sun."

Jill refused it, nevertheless. She wanted that sun and let herself out the front door into its welcoming embrace. The air, fresh, clear, smelling of green and flowers, almost made her dizzy. She had to control a sudden desire to dance.

Both sides of Rua Teresinha were lined with fig trees, shaped to resemble giant umbrellas, and which provided the street with shade. Still, as Jill began to stride down the street, the truth about the temperature of Manaus, hit her. Almost at once the street began to dry up. Droplets, still showering from the trees, prevented her from walking in the shade. She wasn't dressed for the direct assault of the sun. It was a hot, moist tropical climate, difficult to imagine until one came directly in contact with it. It was enervating, but Jill persisted for a while by stripping off her jacket. She understood now the reason for umbrellas.

"Mad dogs and Jill Carteret go out in the noonday sun," she thought. Jill Todd, that is. It was an easy mistake to make. You remember your married name when you love the man you marry. You want his name. You automatically take his name.

Even as she walked down the street, past the attractive villas facing Rua Teresinha, some of them weathered and old, and others contemporary and sparkling new, she felt her feet begin to drag. She would have to take lessons in how to handle the heat. She turned about-face and headed back to Las Flores. The rain was impossible. The sun was impossible. Winter in Chicago was impossible. And it was impossible to remember her new last name. She rang the bell impatiently, and when the housekeeper admitted her, Jill stepped into the villa with relief.

"Okay, now I understand about the umbrella. I'm going upstairs to change, Senhora. Ask Claudio to be ready in about a half hour. I think I'd like to go for a drive."

"You haven't eaten," Senhora Cordero said with mock severity. "Senhor Todd will be very angry."

The devil with Senhor Todd, Jill thought. "Did he give you orders to fatten me up?"

"He said something at breakfast," the housekeeper admitted.

"Oh, he did." Jill was uncertain whether to be pleased or angry. Was he concerned or interfering? "Okay," she capitulated, playing the pleased bride for the time being. "I'll have something to eat." It wouldn't do to admit she was really hungry.

"More than two hundred new industries are in Manaus now," the chauffeur, Claudio, informed Jill proudly. "We are a duty free port and you find people vacationing here from all over Brazil."

The elegance of the affluent years of the rubber boom had worn away, however. To her surprise, the White City of Manaus, the city of Jill's dreams, was no longer white.

Sitting in the glassed-in coolness of the limousine, Jill found Manaus cluttered and even scruffy. In spite of several new skyscrapers, and parks and spacious plazas throughout, paint peeling from the fronts of buildings in the moist, tropical air, palm trees and red tiled roofs made Manaus seem a seedy, frontier town. Yet, in the crowded streets, the busy traffic, the stores and markets bursting with goods, there was an air of purpose and excitement.

"First we see our treasure," Claudio told her. "Our opera house." In all the literature she had read of Manaus, the Teatro Amazonia was depicted as the pride and joy of the city. It had been built of imported marble, crystal and tiles at the turn of the century at a cost of a million dollars.

"It
is
beautiful," she said, and meant it. The opera house, newly refinished, was a huge wedding cake with a blue and gold tile dome that reflected the afternoon sun and shattered it into tiny pieces.

"Inside are works of art, a painting created by an Italian, Domenico de Angelis, on the ceiling, Venetian mirrors. Would you like to go inside?" the chauffeur asked in a rush.

Jill smiled. "Another time."

"The statue in front of the Teatro commemorates the opening of the Amazon to ships of all nations," he added, pointing to the rococo statue on San Sebastian Square.

Many of the art nouveau buildings that had made Manaus unique were gone, though, replaced by skyscrapers. What remained were the governor's palace and the cathedral built of Cararra marble, a gift from Pius IX.