Buying Brazil (Buying Brazil Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Within the hour José Carlos and I were on the way to a café near Parque Ibirpurera in the center of São Paulo. Unlike walled-in New York City’s Central Park or the fenced in London parks, Ibirpuera’s deep green lawns spread to the curbside inviting those seeking escape from city life to walk its tree-lined paths or sunbathe next to its ponds. Riding along its edge I was impressed by its rolling hills dotted with sheltering trees. São Paulo tourist books claimed the city’s growth was explosive, uncontrolled but the simple existence of these hundreds of well-tended acres was a stark contradiction.

  “Favor, Senhor Mineiro.”

  “Pointing to a table in the café’s garden, “La está ele, Senhor”.

  “Obrigado.”

  Lunch had passed and it was too early for late afternoon tea. The café was empty but for two matrons bent in quiet conversation. “Senhor Mineiro, my name is Carl Matthews.”

  Looking up, “Prazer … It is my pleasure to meet you. Please, sit.”

  Silver haired Mineiro, in a light grey suit and soft blue tie, sitting almost stiffly erect, his back just touching the chair. One hand rested in his lap, the other returning his cup to the table. A silver necked ebony cane rested against his thigh.

  “Thank you. I like your choice … quiet, cool and away from …”

  Mineiro finished for me, “At this time of day it is better to be outside of the Jardims or Cidade de Dios. The service …” his had silently speaking the internationally recognized sign for mediocre.

  “I understand. David Withers at Morgan had very good things to say about you. He sends his regards.”

  “Thank you, he is more than kind. When I worked at our New York bank he was very helpful. David sent me an e-mail saying you were coming and you were a good friend. He also said you might contact me about a business matter.”

  “Business certainly, I also wanted to see a bit of Brazil and learn about the country.

  When I worked in London we had some business here but I never had the chance to visit.”

  “Now that you are here, do you like our country?”

  “Very much, I’ve been here only a few days and in many ways I feel at home.”

  “It is Brasil; she finds her way into your heart with the skill of a harlot and the gentleness of a Madonna.” Waving at the waitress, “Would you care for coffee or perhaps something cold?”

  “Coffee please, you talk about Brazil as if it were a woman.”

  “But she is a woman, caring and jealous, she gives us life and watches over us. We are her children and we have to take care of her.”

  “I’ve never heard a more patriotic description of home.”

  “Ah … at the bank we think of Brasil this way because we hold so much of the future in trust. But, that is enough about the woman I love. How can I help you?”

  “What did Dave tell you about why I’m here?”

  “He said you would fill in the details. I do know you are thinking of investing in a Brasilian company.”

  “Yes we are. My job is to evaluate the company and make recommendations to our Chairman. As part of the evaluation I’m trying to get the feel for local financing options.”

  “I am certain you understand financing an idea or a business in Brasil can be a challenge. Our capital markets are not as mature as those in Europe or the United States.”

  The waitress came up behind me, “Dos cafezinho, uma não azucar. Forgive me; I assumed you would like to add sugar to your taste. We Brasilians like our coffee very sweet.”

  “Thank you, my understanding is there is no long term money available except from the government development bank.”

  “That is almost correct. In certain cases banks like Bradesco will make longer term loans … perhaps four or five years. Also, when a deal is big enough, we might do a back-to-back loan with a foreign debt placement but still no more than five to seven years.”

  “I didn’t know that. Would you feel comfortable telling what those circumstances might be?”

  “Naturally every situation is unique.”

  “Naturally …”

  Our coffee arrived accompanied by a plate of Italian biscotti. Jorge busied himself mixing his coffee until the waitress was well away from us. “The situations vary but there is one element that is common. Most large Brasilian banks have divisions that hold equity positions in non-banking entities. Our bank has Bradesco Participaçãoes and it is typical of this type of holding company. I will not say it is a private equity market … but, there is at times the need to invest surplus funds. Funds beyond those required for our reserves of course.”

  “The banks make loans to their investees?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Some would say interest rates are comparatively high here in Brasil. If a company shows promise then, under certain circumstances, mutual accommodations can be made.”

  “Have these banks found the right kind of circumstances in foreign owned companies?”

  “I can only assume, but I would not be surprised if this happens.”

  “The transaction we are looking at should have a price in the billion-dollar range. We plan to move money into Brazil for the closing but we may consider establishing a long-term banking relationship here. That way we will be able to balance some of the currency risk.”

  “May I ask what company you are interested in?”

  “For the moment I can only say it is a consumer and business service company.”

  “A growing sector. Perhaps you would allow me to introduce you to some of my colleagues at Cidade de Dios when you are able to say more.”

  “Cidade de Dios … the City of God?”

  “Yes, the City of God. The founder of Bradesco was a very religious man. When he built the first headquarters of the Bank he wanted it to be in the countryside away from São Paulo’s problems. He bought land and started what has become a barrio rich in churches and schools as well as being the home of the Bank. He was a Godly and good man but today many people believe the name he chose refers to the power of the Bank and not a place to honor God.”

  “I look forward to meeting your colleagues. Our Chairman will be very interested in your views of the capital market. Perhaps we will have the opportunity to work together.”

  “It will be my pleasure to introduce you. We have another mutual friend who I assume would be most happy to see you and the bank working together. Ignacio Aranni worked closely with the Bank during the eighties. His views are considered important by many of us.”

  The mention of Aranni shouldn’t have surprised me but it did. I regretted not mentioning Aranni first. More importantly, what was Jorge trying to tell me by bringing him up? Whatever the purpose, I felt a cold uneasiness in the pit of my stomach. “I had the honor of meeting the Senator just after I arrived. He is a very impressive man.”

  “A true patriot, he is only concerned with Brasil and its people. Brasil’s history is unique and as a result many things about our country remain … different. Having friends who understand what makes Brasil different can be the key to success.”

  “That’s valuable to know. I’ve taken too much of your time. After I talk to our Chairman I’ll call you to make a date.”

  “I look forward to it. Please remember, the Brasilian way is to take care of our ‘close’ friends.” We stood up and I understood Miniero’s cane wasn’t just a decoration. “Forgive my awkwardness; I had a small injury when I was younger.”

  “Thank you for coffee and your good counsel. I will remember your kindness.”

  “Foi um prazer. May I drive you to your office?”

  “Thank you but no, I have a driver”, pointing to José Carlos and my VW.

  “Ah, I see. You have already learned a little of the Brasilian way.”

  “Perhaps I’m beginning to learn, Tchau.”

  Chapter 5

  Riding home from the office I told myself tonight would be different than last, starting with a walk, then something to eat and finally a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow w
as the first face-to-face BrasTel meeting and I really did need a clear head. The afternoon had been very hot but as the sun settled behind Av. Paulista’s skyscrapers the temperature went down with it. The apartment was air conditioned but I preferred open windows with city sounds and the rhythm of trees rustling in the night breeze.

  My past evening walks had been downhill from the apartment toward the restaurants and boutiques. Tonight I decided to go left from the apartment, uphill towards Av. Paulista eight or nine steep blocks away. As I went through the electric security gate onto the sidewalk I noted an old car lacking the neighborhood’s luster slowly pull away from the curb just downhill of the building. It blended into the one-way traffic flowing downhill as I started to walk in the opposite direction.

  After only two uphill blocks my lungs were burning as I gasped for more air. My legs painfully protested against the steep grade. In defeat I turned left onto a narrow side street crossing the face of the hill. Like Haddock Lobo it was lined with high rise condos except these were more stylish, modern with polished brass nameplates, immaculate walks, much wider manicured lawns row upon row upon row of well-tended bushes and vibrant flowers. On this block São Paulo’s customary oily weekday smell was overcome by the heady sweetness from countless flowering shrubs mixed with the aromas of countless evening meals being prepared by an invisible army of starched white servants.

  Near mid-block I stopped to catch my breath. Not far away the rumble of moving heavy metal announced the slow withdrawal of an ornate wrought iron gate along tracks embedded into a cobbled stone drive. A spotless black Mercedes with darkly tinted, most probably armored windows rolled past turning into the open drive. By the time I had taken the ten or so steps to the gate it was closed and the Mercedes lost from view down the steep drive. This street was an urban paradise just blocks below Av. Paulista where countless employees from a thousand offices crowded into the river of buses for the one or two-hour ride home. Here in the midst of strikingly obvious urban luxury it was easy to forget how the grittiness of São Paulo transformed life into a grinding daily struggle for the city’s rapidly growing middle class.

  The distance to Paulista was geographically similar to that between the gardenless high rise mansions of New York’s Park Avenue and the office towers of the Avenue of the Americas. But, the economic gulf was beyond comparison. In New York the middle class was firmly established in green suburbs with families enjoying what for them were full and rich lives. The briefings I received before leaving for Brazil explained the income disparity in Brazil, the worst in the world. My very limited observations since arriving and confirmed tonight were enough for me to understand it was true.

  At the end of the block I turned downhill and quickly learned it was much harder to walk down the steep hill than up. In less than a block my thighs burned and ligaments around my knees began feeling like unreliable rubber bands. I thought I was in good shape for my forty-two years but my relaxing walk had become more like an intense workout. Thankfully the next block’s grade flattened a bit and by the time I reached Al. Tiete my legs had begun to quiet their complaints. From across the intersection the sidewalk tables under sheltering sun-bleached red umbrellas called to me like an oasis in the urban desert.

  Almost falling into the closest chair, my eyes closed, I wondered how I had allowed myself to get so out of shape? Not that long ago … no, perhaps it was ‘that’ long ago I used to run for forty-five minutes every morning. My desire to get the day started off right left with Shelly … now mornings were empty until work filled the void.

  A too young, too blonde waitress in too tight faded jeans walked up mechanically greeting me, “Boa noite Senhor, menu?” Just as mechanically placing a menu in front of me.

  “Boa dia Senhorita. Please …”

  “Americano Senhor …?”

  “No, English … Ingles.”

  Her dull eyes brightened, her voice becoming animated, “I speak a little English. I get you the menu in English.”

  “No, just tell me what you have.”

  “Yes Senhor”, a look of panic crossed her face. “We … we have cakes in the French style … and Italian gelato. There is sanduiche of ham with cheese or another of salada frango … ah chicken salad. There is coffee and cha … tea. We also have cold drinks; sucro … juice and many kinds of soda.”

  “Do you have tarte tartin?”

  “I think yes, it is with apple, no? I can make it warm with sorvete crema.”

  “… sorvete?”

  “ah … iced cream. ‘Crema’ is branco, white, with the taste of vanilla.”

  “Sounds good, also an espresso grande no sugar. Do you have mineral water?”

  “Ah yes, agua mineral … con gas ou sem gas?”

  “Gas no ice. It’s cold isn’t it?”

  When she left my head was as tired as my legs. Her thickly accented English mixed with Portuguese at this moment required too much work. Fortunately, this deal would close quickly enough so there was no need to try learning Portuguese enough for simple daily transactions of life. I thought my ability with Spanish would help me handle the little Portuguese I would need but the spoken languages were unbelievably different even though on paper many words looked alike. Everything Brazilian was certainly different and I worried that I still hadn’t learned just how different.

  Looking downhill into the slight breeze I saw in the distance a tall, young, dark haired woman slowly coming towards me. The discomfort disappeared, Alana, it had to be her. She was coming on another of Aranni’s errands. By now he had heard from Jorge Mineiro and sent her to find out what she could. Foolish of him. When I was with her it was impossible to think about anything else but her. ‘Damn it’, she turned into a building. A cold emptiness washed over me accompanied by the aches and pains I had momentarily forgotten.

  Squealing of tires rose above the usual din, a speeding car and the crack of exhaust backfire echoing off surrounding buildings jolted me back to street level. Behind me the window of a parked car shattered. The young waitress dropped her tray smashing my bottle of mineral water. White-faced, she stood frozen staring at me.

  “Don’t worry Senhorita, the water isn’t that important.”

  An older woman came running from the restaurant, “Que aconteceu?”

  White faced, shaken, “O carro, eles atiraram uma arma a ele.”

  The older woman repeated in English, “Senhor, are you alright? She says someone shot at you from a car.”

  “No, she’s wrong … I’m fine. No one shot at me. It was just some old car making noise.”

  “I heard the sound of a gun Senhor.” Pointing to the parked car, “… there is broken vidro, glass. You should come inside senhõr.”

  I looked at the broken window then the road, “There’s a big pot hole near the corner. A car was speeding up the hill. Its tires must have thrown a stone from the hole and broke the window.”

  “What of the noise Senhor?”

  “The car was speeding. It must need engine work, it just backfired. It was just a coincidence.”

  She looked around nervously, “As you wish Senhor but I know the sound of a gun from the … the past. Come inside please, we will serve you there.”

  Not wanting to make something out of nothing, “I’ll move but it was nothing, believe me, nothing. Nobody in São Paulo knows where I am. It’s not possible.”

  “Please Senhor …”

  Inside was chrome, glass and as modern as any in Italy with the same smell of coffee and pastry that had greeted many mornings when I had been in Rome on business. Even the small round table and wire framed chairs seemed the same as Rome as did what I had ordered when the still ashen-faced waitress put it down in front of me. I thought of the Brazilian love of gossip and smiled inwardly. I was certain by tomorrow the car’s backfire would have become the shootout in the Jardims.

  Hand extended and a warm smile, “I am Jão Salés, good morning.”

  Salés was almost my height, late forties, athletic a
nd tanned. Taking his hand, “Prazer … you had no trouble finding us?”

  “You know Portuguese Sr. Matthews? We had no trouble. Everyone knows this section of the city.”

  “Please, call me Carl. I speak only a word or two,” hoping he would not believe me. “Please forgive me but we will have to use English.”

  “I will be happy to practice with my English. So few of my people speak it so I do not have so many times when I can use it in business.”

  We sat for a moment measuring each other, “You are very kind Jão.”

  Salés’ eyes were blue and alert. His suit tailored perfectly. Not like the overly tight Saville Row suits now fashionable in London his had an Italian look as did its fine dark grey tropical wool. The rich fabric draped freely accentuating his stature without seeming to touch him anywhere but without a bulge or wrinkle to detract from the quality of workmanship. “Have you been in São Paulo long?”

  “I have been here only a few days. Some of my people came a few weeks ago to collect preliminary materials and set up this office.”

  “Perhaps during our discussions we can find time to visit some of the city together. It would be a shame for you to come so far and see only the inside of offices.”

  “That would be delightful, thank you. I always say that conference rooms around the room are all the same … grey.”

  “Good, I look forward to showing you my city.” Turning to the younger, more intense man that came with him, “Please allow me to introduce Richardo Santal. Richardo works directly for me on special projects. His English is good. I suggest that he act as the contact for your people. Naturally, I will always be available.”

  Richardo nodded to me, “I will help in all ways Senhor … my card.”

  “Thank you; allow me to introduce Robin Stephens. Robin and I have worked together for many years. She will organize our due diligence process.”

  Santal nodded to Robin, “Prazer Senhora”.

  “I would also like to introduce Skip Watson. Skip is the newest member of our team but brings a lifetime of experience in business. He is Sam Watson’s son and has inherited his father’s feeling for business.”