Buying Brazil (Buying Brazil Trilogy Book 1) Page 10

  “Have you heard of Laser Telecom?”

  “Is it the company that’s trying to sell the stock market on a global telecommunications play?”

  “That’s us, in just under a year we’ve covered about half of the globe.”

  “Ah, yes, but it was the easy half. The next quarter will be harder. The final quarter may very well be the company’s undoing. This kind of story is not new.”

  “I could give you the party line Gunter but I won’t. Right now I’m working on a deal in Brazil and that’s what I want to talk about.”

  Five hours of talk, reminiscing and a dinner of spicy Haitian lobster, American beef and carefully aged French wine. Gunter’s eyes were glassy and he needed a break. “Yes Carl, I think we can do some business. Let me sleep on it. In Vienna it is past the middle of the night.”

  “I’m sorry Gunter. I didn’t think …”

  “When we were younger time meant nothing. Now I need sleep. I will see you at breakfast my friend. Eight o’clock … goodnight.”

  I watched Gunter cross the patio. As he moved from pools of soft lighting into deep shadows of the hallway I was somehow reminded of Aranni’s deceptively peaceful garden. Here under the patio’s broad almond tree with Port-au-Prince like São Paulo faded away into the night there was the clarity of escape. There was also the same uneasiness I felt listening to Aranni’s polite, cultured voice clouding the night’s cooling mountain breezes flowing downhill on the way to still smoldering Port-au-Prince waiting below. Suddenly I was chilled again but not from simply the breeze.

  Gunter was on Vienna time but I was still comfortably on São Paulo. Nine o’clock in Port-au-Prince, two in the morning in Vienna but only ten in the evening in São Paulo. Early by the Brazilian standards I’d so easily become accustomed to. I headed to the bar for coffee and cognac.

  Shelly and I used to sit at a sidewalk table in front of Oriel on warm nights and drink coffee and cognac. We would speculate about the future … where would the country house be and what to name our first daughter. Both were questions that would now never need answering although I wished it different.

  “Fifteen-year Napoleon and a coffee black please.”

  The slim, white haired bar tender’s dark wrinkled face took on a sad look, “I’m sorry Sir, there is no Napoleon. I have Haitian Barbencourt. It has twenty-five years. I think you will like it.”

  “Perfect …”

  From the shadows behind me with the ring of authority, “May I join you Senhor?” followed by heavy footsteps.

  Without looking, “Of course, we can be alone together.”

  “You are English. At first I thought you an American. Waiter, the same for me but my coffee should be with milk and sugar.”

  Forties, black eyes, strong Latin features and a crisp green military uniform with a blue United Nations patch on the shoulder facing me, “Allow me to introduce myself, I am Colonel Jesus Branco.”

  “My pleasure Colonel, I’m Carl Matthews.”

  “Are you from London?”

  As relaxed as I could, “Originally but now I work in New York.”

  “Port-au-Prince is no longer popular with tourists. Are you here on business?”

  “No, trying to relive a bit of the past. I was here six or seven years ago and have good memories. I thought it would be a good place to go for a weekend. You’re with the UN. It must be a hard assignment?”

  “… and your friend?”

  “Gunter; we used to do business together when I was in London. He was coming to Miami on business so we agreed to meet here.”

  “He is English?”

  “No, he’s Austrian. We’re both merchant bankers.” My eyes met his, “we have no interest in Haiti other than the sun and some quiet.”

  “Forgive me Senhor. I apologize for the interview. It has become automatic. I am afraid I have become suspicious like a policeman. This is not work for a soldier but Brasil must do its part so it can take its proper place at the world’s table.”

  “Please Colonel; I know your job is difficult. There’s nothing to forgive. Our coffee is here so let’s just enjoy the cool night air.”

  “Yes, clean and fresh not like the air below. Port-au-Prince is suffering itself and I fear I will never be able to wash it off.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “My wife says I have been away too long. I am aide to General Adriano Luna who heads the peacekeeping mission. Our men rotate home but the General is committed to peace so we stay.”

  “My wife used to complain I traveled too much.”

  “Is she in New York?”

  “No, she’s now married to someone who stays at home with her.”

  “I’m sorry. In Brazil families are very close not like America. When I am away my family looks after my wife to lessen her worries and loneliness.”

  “She left long before New York. Have you been to America?”

  “I have been to New York several times with the General. It is a good city. I like it. One day I would like to bring my wife and children to see it.” His voice softened and his eyes drifted into the darkness. “Yes, one day …”

  We sipped brandy listening to a night bird somewhere deep in the darkness. One of us missing his family and the other missing the one he never had.

  “How many children do you have?”

  “There are three; my son who is named for me and two daughters, Mariana and Cleide. Carlos is twelve and the girls nine and seven. Carlos wants to be in the army like his grandfather and me. He is a good boy … tall. Have you ever been to Brazil?”

  “When I was in London we had a client who bought a business there. I did a lot of reading about Brazil but never got there during that deal. It sounded like a wonderful place …”

  As I was saying the words I remembered the desk clerk still had my passport. Had Branco routinely checked it? A glance at his face told me nothing. Had I been caught and would he check with the Military Police to find out why I had lied?

  “You should try to visit. Go to the North and see Fortaleza and Baiha State. They are both on the ocean and very very hot but very beautiful. Naturally, I prefer my home. We are from Santos on the coast of São Paulo. My wife loves to watch the merchant ships from our patio. You know Santos is the largest port in South America so there is much for her to see.”

  “Is it a big city?”

  “Not in Brazil, but in many other places Santos would be big. South of the city along the ocean is like Rio. There are very good apartments and big houses like Rio but you can be more at ease in Santos. We have a great garden along the oceanfront. It is bigger than any other garden in the world.” He looked at me and chuckled in an uncharacteristic self-conscious way, “In Brazil we always believe ours is the best. Maybe I talk too much.”

  “No, no … home is always the best … at least I used to believe it was.”

  “You sound unhappy my friend. Maybe you need distraction. I am going to the casino. Come with me. There will be music and some of Haiti’s beauties to smile at you.”

  “Thanks, but no …” Then thinking it might be safer to keep him talking about himself and Haiti instead of asking about me. “You’re right; give me a minute to get some things from my room.”

  I first went to reception, “Are you done with my passport?”

  Handing me the passport, “The manager reported your arrival by telephone. They asked for some details. Then they said it was not necessary to inspect your documents.”

  “Is that all … no one else has any interest?”

  “When there are long term guests, more than a week, hotels are to inform the United Nations police before we return the guest’s documents. You are here for only a weekend.”

  Relieved I took my passport from her ignoring the question in her eyes, “Thank you.”

  The Colonel’s renovated Jeep bounced to a stop at a broad plaza five minutes from the hotel. “The General lives there,” pointing to a walled, French colonial styled mansion aglo
w with security lighting from behind a security wall topped with glass shards that were sparling in reflected light.

  “It looks like a French country house.”

  “Exactly, Haiti was French until the slaves pushed them out. It was a planter’s house built here above the heat maybe in the early eighteenth century. The French usually keep good records of such things but since they left much has been lost.”

  “I’m surprised the house is still standing.”

  “We were told it was almost a ruin. A Columbian dru … businessman spent a fortune restoring it. Inside it is like a museum. The United Nations rents it from his family while he is out of the country. The rent is far less than you would expect. The family knows the UN will protect the house. The arrangement serves both very well.”

  Typical of those I had seen in Provence, the house glowed against the star-filled night sky. Lights behind the eight-foot wall facing skyward with a warmth the harsh security lighting on the street side sorely lacked. The house seemed to radiate inviting cordiality immune to the ugliness of Haiti’s past and present corroding its neighbors. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yes, the General is very happy there. The garden is his favorite part of the house. I think he likes it more than his home is São Paulo.”

  “He lives in São Paulo?”

  “All of the Generals who helped rebuild our country have homes near each other in the Jardims. I think it was at first for security. Now they are just neighbors.”

  Distracted by his words, I barely noticed when we turned into the garishly lit casino. Its drive lined with black windowed sedans and red sports cars so out of place in one of the world’s poorest countries. “He’s lucky to have found a place like that …”

  “I would show you the house but I’m sure you understand the realities of security. The General also likes his privacy. He spends most nights at home talking to his old comrades in São Paulo.”

  “Old war stories?”

  “Perhaps but I think they talk more about the future. Together they saved our country from collapse with their boldness. I think they may be older but no less bold.”

  I looked at his silhouetted face, its jaw set. “You feel strongly about the General.”

  Branco turned toward me his face glowing red in the Casino’s lights, “I trust him. He is a great patriot.”

  Despite the heat again I felt cold. Was going to the Casino a mistake? I was certain that Branco would discuss his nocturnal activities with General Luna. I was just as certain that Luna would routinely talk to his colleague Senator Aranni and somehow my name would come up in both conversations. I was the damned fool who had to put his hand in the fire to be sure it was hot.

  The casino felt small, intimate like the private gambling clubs in central London. A comfortable sitting room paneled in dark wood filled with soft music and cigar smoke greeted customers. Small side salons hosted cards on the left and roulette on the right. Branco motioned to a pair of well-worn leather club chairs separated by a small table near the back of the sitting room and facing the front entrance, “A drink and a cigar to start the night. They have Havana but also some Alonso Menendez from Brasil to honor our force.”

  “Thanks. It’s much smaller than I expected … reminds me of London.”

  “It should, they say the owner had once ran a famous club on Berkley Square and made a copy here. He was a countryman of yours.”

  “Was …?”

  “Yes, the popular story is one night Baby Doc lost a million dollars in ten minutes and then accused the owner of cheating. The presidential guard took the poor man out to the square and machine gunned him to death. The next day Baby Doc nationalized the casino and cancelled his debt.”

  “Rather unsporting of him.”

  Branco chuckled, “Only the English would see it that way.”

  Five other men had spread themselves around the room each circled by his own collection of women of varying size and color who collectively had enough clothes on to cover perhaps only two or three of them with proper modesty.

  “Are they some of the house’s offerings or are they guests’?”

  Branco chuckled again, “I am sure they would be whatever you wanted.” Signaling the waiter, “What would you like to drink? Here they have Napoleon if you are still interested.”

  “Will you join me?”

  “Certainly, here the UN’s help to Haiti is appreciated.”

  Several complementary cognacs and two Havana’s later I learned what Branco meant. “I’ve bored you long enough with stories of my children and I have an early call. You have been very patient, thank you.” I reached for my wallet. “It is not necessary. Our drinks are expressions of the manager’s appreciation of the safety we create here in Petionville.”

  He stood, straightened his tunic and mechanically acknowledged the unspoken wishes of a portly, dinner jacket clad character sitting in a dimly lit alcove near the bar.

  “Our host?”

  “Yes. The Minister of the Interior is his uncle. The General says we must not offend him because it could cause an incident. A drink or two in the interest of peace is not a difficult sacrifice. Do you not agree Carl?”

  “I’m sure Generals are always right.”

  “Ah, English and a diplomat.”

  In the hour we had enjoyed our cognac less than a handful of people, all white or Latin sporting heavy gold Rolex watches and equally heavy gold chains had come and gone. The Casino was a private club catering to a small group of apparently dangerous, well-guarded men who managed the trans-shipment of drugs from Columbia to the US. New York Times articles claimed Haiti was becoming a haven for drug runners using a number of unofficial remote airports to land drugs for reloading onto pirated yachts flying the US flag.

  Branco’s Jeep was waiting for us, “You must be ready for bed now my friend.” “Why, is there other local entertainment that needs official attention?” “None I would recommend for you alone and I must be up very early.” “I appreciate the tour but now I’ll appreciate my bed even more.”

  In the morning I would confirm Gunter’s preliminary feelings about banking my idea. If he continued to be positive I was almost certain we would get out of here the next morning. The sooner I could get out from under the Brazilian Army’s protection and control the safer I would feel. I didn’t want to wait until Branco reported to his General and he in turn talked to his comrade in arms back in the old neighborhood … Senator Aranni.

  Gunter was up before me and I found him enjoying the cool shade under the poolside almond tree. He greeted me with a raised coffee cup and a glowing face, “Good morning Carl.” I roasted this coffee for us some minutes ago. You have to tell me how good it is. I have ordered breakfast for us.” Pointing, “You see they are cooking for us on the other side of the patio.”

  “Good morning … so you’ve been playing in the kitchen. I thought you would be swimming laps.”

  “Not playing … learning. For a Viennese, coffee is important business.” He put his cup under his nose as if it were a glass of fine wine. “The coffee is very acidic as you said. It is as she taught me, open air roasting with just the right touch of brown sugar and you keep just enough brightness of the acid and the flavor comes out. I would not have believed it could be done but Claudia, the cook, said it is the heavy cast iron of the pan. She said the older the pan the better the flavor is”, his face darkened, “and now I have a problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “I cannot make the coffee in a new pan when I return home. It will be horrible. I must get a very old, well-used pan before I leave. The coffee and sugar must be authentic Haitian. Maybe the mountain air … no. It is the business for today.”

  “What about our business?”

  “Ah … simple. I thought about it last night. A phone call or two and it is done. All I need is a comprehensive background memorandum as soon as you can and a few days notice before you are ready. When we have the background memo we will have to ask some rou
tine due diligence questions so we look like careful bankers. Ah, yes, naturally we will need all the usual information for the closing package.”

  “You should make it sound difficult to justify your fee.”

  “I am not English my friend. My fee will be high because you like me … and no one else could do this for you and keep it confidential. Now we both have to concentrate on my more serious problem, the coffee. Time is very short; my plane to Miami is early tomorrow.”

  My flight was also into Miami but later in the day. From there it will be the Tam night flight to São Paulo arriving at eight Monday morning. My story if asked would be that I spent the weekend in Rio.

  “Now, my coffee … is it not superb?”

  Taking the cup from Gunter and bringing it to my nose, “Strong and sweet like a mocha.”

  “Yes, but taste it. It is not soft like a mocha.”

  Swishing the still hot brew around my mouth as if it were a fine Bordeaux, “I feel a touch of acid on the back of my tongue but the taste is smooth and clean not acidic at all.”

  “Just so. It is a rare taste from quite common ingredients. They will not believe it in Vienna where we think there is nothing left to be learned about coffee.”

  Two hours later we were in the hotel’s kitchen with Gunter working his best French on the intense, round faced woman who was its mistress. I had seen less passion from Gunter in negotiations over billion dollar companies than he displayed over what appeared to be nothing but a worn black iron skillet. Finally, after what felt like an eternity both were smiling with Gunter’s hand gently caressing his new treasure and Madame Claudia slowly counting her good fortune.

  “She says the pan has been handed down from her mother’s side for at least five generations. Who knows but it shows the marks of rough sand casting and has weight unlike modern skillets. She will get for me five kilos of raw coffee and two kilos of unrefined sugar at the street market later today. I gave her an extra twenty Euros to do the marketing.”

  “Your deal is quite the success my friend. I hope ‘our’ business will be equally successful.”

  “I will freeze some of the coffee so we can properly toast the business deal when you come to Vienna for the closing.”