The market maker (8 page)

THE MARKET MAKER 65 j

opened, and the taxi drove us up to the black smoked- ;

^^ We waited into a cool lobby, and a uniformed door 1

man greeted Isabel with a grin. A boy also in umform |

ushered us into a wood-paneled elevator, and we headed ,

up to the fifteenth floor. The doors opened mto a .

''^'Sel'" a deep voice cried. A tall middle-aged man \ with a shght stoop stood waiting for us. He opened out :

his arn\s. '

"Papa!," she said, and gave him a hug. ,

Isabel's father had her long Roman nose, which on : him was distii^guished. He peered at me over half- :

moon glasses. t j i j ■

"I'm Luis. Welcome." He shook my hand and smiled ,

He was very tall. Even with the stoop 1 had to look up a ,

him, and I'm six-foot-three. His hair was still black^u^ ^

was thinning. He had a good-humored face, wnnkled

by sun and laughter. "Come in, come m. ■

He led us into a large Uving room. The furniture was :

low, and either of dark wood or cane. Colorful paintmgs <

covered the walls in large canvases. The sun stream^ j

in from big windows that looked out onto a balcony Be ^

vond that stretched the shimmering blue sea. j

Suddenly there was a clattering sound followed by ,

heavy thumping from the hallway behind us Isabel. .

screamed a hoarse voice, and a large black woman ;

wearing a dark uniform and an apron charged mto the ;

room She grabbed Isabel and kissed her hard on both ,

cheeks. Isabel beamed and spoke to the big woman i

rapidly They exchanged laughs and hasty comments ;

and then the woman caught sight of me. She wtepered ,

something that made Isabel blush, and turn and hit her .

playfully on the shoulder.

''Maria has been my maid since I was a little girl/' Isabel said. "She still thinks she can tell me what to do."

I held out my hand to her. " Tudo hem ? " I said, using up fifty percent of my Portuguese vocabulary. Maria's grin somehow widened farther, and she regaled me with a torrent of Portuguese. I settled on "Ohrigado" or "Thank you" as an answer, which sent her into hysterics.

Luis looked on in amusement. "Can I get you a drink? Have you tried a caipirinha yet?"

"Not yet."

"Well then, you must try one now." He spoke quickly to another maid who was hovering at the door, and she disappeared.

Luis led us out onto the balcony. Although the table and chairs were in the shade, the glare of the midday sun reflecting off the nearby white buildings hurt my eyes. We could look over them, to Ipanema Bay, an astonishing blue, dotted with lush green islands. Brightly colored tropical flowers spilled out of tubs on the terrace, and a bougainvillaea in full purple bloom framed the view. The gentle murmur of traffic, sea, and people drifted up to us on the breeze.

The maid returned with the drinks. The caipirinha turned out to be some kind of coarse rum in lime juice. The sweetness of rum, the bitterness of lime juice, the coldness of the ice, and the kick of alcohol created a delicious mix of sensations.

Luis was watching me and smiled. "How do you like it?"

"It goes down very well."

"Be careful," said Isabel. "You should always treat a caipirinha with respect."

Luis chuckled.

"It must be hard to take London after this," I said to Isabel, taking another look out at the bay.

She laughed. ''It's true. As a Brazilian, you need courage to get through a London winter."

"Isabel tells me you work with her at Dekker Ward," said Luis.

"That's right. I have nearly one week's experience in banking. But you're a banker yourself, aren't you?"

"Yes. My family were landowners in the state of Sao Paulo. Through the generations they have shown a consistent ability to turn a large fortune into a smaller one. I suppose you could say I've changed that record." He glanced at Isabel. "In fact, it looks as if banking is now firmly in the blood."

Isabel flushed. "Papal, I enjoy it, OK? I have a good job, I do it weU."

"I'm sure you do," said Luis with just the barest hint of condescension. Isabel noticed it and scowled. "Isabel tells me you used to teach Russian."

"That's right. At the School of Russian Studies in London."

"Ah, I wish I could speak the language. I have read many Russian novels, all the greats, but I think it would be wonderful to read them in the original."

"It is," I said. "Russian prose is a marvelous thing. It seems almost like poetry. The sounds, the resonance, the nuances which writers like Tolstoy and Dostoyev-sky can achieve are extraordinary. Beautiful."

"And who is your favorite?"

"Oh, Pushkin, undoubtedly, for just that reason. He does things with the language that no one has managed before or since. And he tells a good story."

"I often think Brazil is a little like Russia," said Luis.

"ReaUy?"

"Yes. Both countries are vast. Both peoples seem to live for the present. We're both used to poverty, corruption, great potential that is always just beyond our

reach. You know they say about Brazil that it is the country of the hiture and it always will be." He chuckled. "But we don't give up. We have a drink, a dance, we enjoy ourselves, amd perhaps the next day we die."

I thought about what he had said. He had described exactly the strange mixture of exuberant good humor and melancholy that had attracted me to Russian literature in the first place. "Perhaps you're right. I'm afraid I don't know enough about Brazil. But I suspect the climate's better."

Luis laughed. "That's true. It makes enjoying life

easier."

"It's a fascinating country. I'd love to find out more about it."

Luis took my arm. "Do you know Tolstoy's story, 'Master and Man'?"

I smiled. "I was teaching it just three weeks ago."

"That could apply perfectly to Brazil."

"What's that, Papail" Isabel asked.

" You tell her/' Luis said to me.

"A nobleman and his servant are stranded in a snowstorm. The nobleman rides off to safety with their oiily horse, leaving his servant to walk. After a while the nobleman is thrown off his horse. As he trudges through the snow, he reflects on the uselessness of his life, and probably his death, spent alone and in selfishness. So he returns to find his servant lying freezing in the snow. Tlie nobleman spreads himself on the servant like a cloak. In the morning, when the storm has blown over, they are discovered. The servamt survives, but the nobleman is dead."

Isabel's large dark eyes were watching me, following every word. "That's beautiful."

"It expressed Tolstoy's beliefs in the obligations of the nobility," I said.

''Beliefs that we would do well to heed in Brazil/' said Luis.

"Unfortunately, not many of Tolstoy's contemporaries took much notice either. Forty years later there was a revolution."

"We won't have another revolution here. Just anarchy, violence, and poverty."

"Has Isabel told you what we're doing here?" I asked.

Isabel looked embarrassed.

"My daughter doesn't like to talk to me much about her work," he said. "My bank and hers often find ourselves rivals, so it's probably best that way."

I wasn't sure whether I was about to give away a trade secret, so I glanced at Isabel. She shrugged. So I told him about the favela deal. He listened intently, glancing occasionally at Isabel, who avoided his eyes.

There was silence when I had finished. Finally he asked a question. "When do you say the bond issue will be launched?"

"In two weeks, we hope," answered Isabel.

"Well, have your people give me a call. I will make sure that the bank buys some."

" But, Papai, you never deal with Dekker!"

"I know. But this is different. I think it's important for Banco Horizonte to support initiatives like this."

Isabel's mouth hung open.

"Don't look so shocked, my darling."

"Papai, you're not doing this just to humor me, are you?"

"No, of course not. It's a good idea. It deserves support. I'm glad to see you are doing so well. Ah, here's lunch."

We sat down as Maria brought us some steak and salad. The meat was tender with a much stronger taste

than its British counteq^art. The salad included all kinds of vegetables I had never seen before.

There was silence as we set about our food. Then Luis broke it. "Isabel, I've been thinking. Would you like to come and work at the bank?" . Isabel looked at me anxiously, then at her father. "Doing what, exactly?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'm sure we could find you something. You have lots of experience now. You could be very useful doing lots of things."

'Tapai—"

"It would be good for you. You could come back to Rio. Settle down—"

"Papai!" Isabel glanced quickly at me and then glared at her father. She launched into a torrent of angry Portuguese. Luis tried to protest, but was cut off. Finally they both lapsed into silence.

I cut my steak slowly and with great concentration. Luis began to speak. "I must apologize for my daughter—"

"Don't worry about it," I said. "There's no point in having a family if you can't have a lively discussion every now and then. I was wondering," I continued quickly, "would it be possible to see afavela?"

I said it for something to say, a way of breaking the tension. And I was intrigued by these communities that I had heard so much about, but had not yet actually seen.

"You could take him to see Cordelia," said Luis.

Isabel was still sulking, but she stirred herself. "Yes, we could do that if you want."

I coughed. "Good," I said. Then, "Who's CordeUa?"

"Oh, Cordelia's my sister. She helps run a shelter for street children in one of \hefavelas. She should be working there this afternoon. We can go after lunch."

"OK/' I said.

''By the way, Cordelia has some news," said Luis to Isabel.

Isabel thought a moment, and then looked at her father. "She's not pregnant, is she?" The comers of her mouth twitched upward.

Luis shrugged, but couldn't suppress a smile. "You'll have to ask her yourself."

Isabel grinned broadly. "That's wonderful news! She must be so happy. You must be so happy. I think I can see you as a grandfather."

Luis beamed. It was clearly a role he was relishing.

"Well, we definitely have to see her this afternoon," Isabel said to me.

"I don't want to interfere in anything. Perhaps you should go by yourself."

"No. I'd like you to meet her," said Isabel. This caught me a little by surprise. Why should she care whether I met her sister? "I mean, it would be good for you to see the shelter."

"That's fine, then. I'll come."

6

I was sweating like a pig as I trudged up the dusty path under the midaftemoon sun. I panted hard, each breath pulling in the foul smell of human waste, sweetened occasionally by the aroma of stale food or alcohol. In England I would be described as tall, dark, and thin. Here, clambering up tliis hill of dirt and slime, I felt like a big, white, fat, rich man.

We had left Luis's car and driver well behind to begin the ascent of the hill. Most of the favelas are on hills, land too steep to build real houses. Makeshift dwellings crowded either side of the path. They were constructed from all kinds of different materials, although brick and plywood predominated. Small holes in the walls served for windows, and occasionally I heard a mysterious rustle of movement from the darkness within. Washing hanging from window ledges added splashes of color to the red-brick or gray-plastered walls. There were children everywhere, most of the boys wearing nothing but shorts. One group was playing with a hoop; another was kicking a ball, a difficult business on this slope. A two-year-old staggered in front of us crying, his hair a shock of yellow. A black woman trotted after him and picked him up.

We passed a small row of stalls selling vegetables and fruit. Behind one of them, a nut-brown man sported a yellow T-shirt proclaiming in English, who dies with THE MOST TOYS WINS. WJwre the hell did he get that? I wondered.

A group of older kids eyed us with cold, proud eyes as we climbed past. They were passing around a bag, and each one breathed deeply from it with an air of solemn concentration.

''Are you sure it's not dangerous here?" I asked.

"No," said Isabel, puffing a few steps ahead.

"So it is dangerous?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

It hadn't rained for a couple of days, but every now and then the ground underfoot changed from dust to mud. An open sewer ran along the side of the path. I tried not to think what I was stepping in.

Eventually we came to a smaU plateau, which supported a tiny white makeshift church and a larger rectangular structure, decorated with brightly colored murals. I turned and paused for breath. Beneath me was one of the most spectacular views I had ever seen. The white buildings of the city snaked between green-clad hills down to the sea glistening in the distance. I looked for the statue of Christ, visible from almost anywhere in Rio, but it was lost in a cloud that clung to the mountains behind.

"You would think someone would pay a lot for this location," I said.

"Believe me, you pay to live here. And with more than just cash."

We approached the entrance of the building, stepping carefully through a small but well-kept garden.

The splashes of red, blue, yellow, and white were a welcome relief from the reddish-brown dirt.

The door opened, and a woman rushed out, hugging Isabel. There was a family resemblance, although Cordelia was heavier, older, and tougher. Her face was lined, marks of both compassion and strength.

We shook hands.

''Cordelia, this is a colleague of mine, Nick Elliot," Isabel said in English. "IVe brought him along to show him what you do here. You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all," said Cordelia with a warm smile. "The more people who see, the better."