Sound of Butterflies, The (21 page)

Santos hesitated. ‘No, not really, though everyone carries one. It keeps the peace in a city such as this. But you have nothing to fear. Men will just assume you have one.’

They were met by an obsequious young man who bowed nearly to the floor and welcomed them in Portuguese.

‘We are speaking English tonight, Mr Reis, in honour of my English guests.’

The man’s cheeks turned puce; clearly he couldn’t speak English. Instead he muttered ‘thank you’ over and over as he seated them in the lounge and sidled away. Thomas tried to give him a reassuring smile, and whispered an ‘obrigado’ to him as he passed, but he was careful not to let Santos hear; somehow, he felt it might not be appropriate.

They sank into seemingly bottomless armchairs. Thomas couldn’t remember the last time he had sat on anything so comfortable. He sighed with pleasure.

Santos ordered brandy all around and offered cigars. Ernie and John took one, and Thomas followed suit.

‘The best cigars, gentlemen, from Cuba. Every one hand-rolled.’

‘How strange it is, Mr Santos,’ said George, ‘to be in this club. It is almost identical to my club in London.’

‘Yes, that was the intention.’

‘Did you have something to do with its construction?’ asked Ernie.

‘I own it, Dr Harris. This is my club. These people are all in my employ.’

‘But you have never actually seen a London club?’ asked George. ‘That’s remarkable.’

‘On the contrary, sir,’ said Santos, ‘I have indeed. That little joke I played on you in the forest — I do apologise. José the hat merchant has never been to England, but I certainly have.’ He tipped his head back and laughed.

George smiled and shook his head. ‘I should have guessed. Your English and knowledge are far too good. I was completely taken in.’

‘Yes, and of course I have been to England to meet with the English directors of my company. I have dined in many clubs such as this.’

‘It’s wonderful, sir,’ said Thomas. He leaned forward as Santos lit the cigar. He had watched Ernie and followed his lead, giving three or four short puffs, without inhaling.

‘Thank you, Mr Edgar. Ah, here is our brandy.’

Ernie looked as if he was in paradise. He leaned back, closed his eyes and gave a satisfied sigh before Santos struck up a conversation with him about his practice in London.

Thomas forgot himself for a moment and inhaled some thick cigar smoke, which scraped at his lungs and made him cough. The coughing made the rasping feeling worse. ‘Excuse me,’ he spluttered.

‘Not at all!’ said Santos. ‘A cigar virgin, I think, eh, Dr Harris?’

They shared a moment together, Santos and Ernie, and Thomas blushed and took a sip of his brandy. The aroma hit him in the face and cleared his nose, making his eyes water. Or was that the effect of the cigar?

‘Tonight,’ said Santos, ‘we have in store for you all the delights Manaus can offer!’ He made a circular gesture with his hands, as if conducting an invisible orchestra.

George cleared his throat and leaned forward. Santos sat with Ernie to one side, with Thomas, George and John in armchairs facing them both, a table between them.

‘I want to take this opportunity, sir, to thank you for your extreme hospitality and for your wonderful patronage. British science thanks you, as do we.’

‘You are very gracious, Mr Sebel. It is my pleasure.’

‘And we hope to learn about your business in rubber. Evidently you have been very successful in your endeavours. I congratulate you. Can you tell us about it?’

‘Oh, there is not so much to tell. I fear I will bore you. I have a few thousand miles of plantation — around here, on the River Negro, some on the Tapajós, but the bulk of it is in the far reaches, near Peru.’

‘And how many people work for you?’

‘Oh, I cannot say. Thousands. I have employed some Negro men from British Guyana — with British interests in my company it seems appropriate, and they are very fair foremen. And many Brazilians, of course. I have whole tribes of Indians on the Putamayo, in Peru, working for me, but they are a constant struggle. I need them to make up the numbers, but they can be a lazy, drunken bunch. And most of them owe
me
money.’

‘How can that be?’ asked John. It was the first time he had spoken since they arrived.

‘I provide them with shelter and wages, and other things like cloth and fish-hooks, but they end up drinking their wages away and need to borrow more to buy food. Otherwise they would be weak and useless to me, so I give it to them.’

‘That is very generous of you,’ said Ernie. ‘But I see you are a generous man by nature.’

‘I try, Dr Harris, I try. But they are ungrateful. I have little choice in the matter. I need men to work my plantations or the rubber will not be tapped and demand will not be met. I’m sure you do not agree with slavery, gentlemen?’

Thomas shook his head, and the others did too.

‘Well,’ continued Santos, ‘since slavery was abolished here — and it was less than twenty years ago — it has been very hard to get decent labour. The Negroes are too proud now to work in any situation they would once have had no choice in. They have filled the cities, and are now begging in the streets. The government has introduced a law that says they must register as professional beggars or leave town. Can you imagine it? Professional beggars! Anyway, the point I wish to make is, to me, slavery is a natural state, and one that is beneficial to both slave and master.’

Thomas shifted in his seat, wondering how he was going to justify this speech. He fixed his gaze on the fan turning lazily in the centre of the room.

‘The role of the owner is essentially that of father, the slaves the children. Slaves have the same rights as children — that is, they must do as their “father” tells them. They cannot own property, they cannot vote. In return, they are given a roof over their heads, and protection. As a slave owner I would feel the same duty as a father to protect my slaves, and they would be bound to stay with me as their provider. Now slavery has been abolished, we have been forced to employ Indians, who, I add, sirs, have not been slaves for some time — there was some kind of “protection”, as the monarchy liked to put it, on them. The Indians are not bound by the natural laws of a father and child. The act of paying them has given them a false sense of independence that verges on insolence. Although they can’t live without my wages, they no longer have my protection, either — I do not feel as obliged to them because I employ them for wages instead of out of duty. Do I make sense, gentlemen?’

Thomas could see that, in a strange way, Santos was making sense. Did this then mean he agreed with the man, that slavery was not a bad thing? He would need to consider that some more.

‘With all due respect, sir,’ said John, ‘what natural right is there that you should be the master and they the slave?’

‘Oho, Mr Gitchens. Do we have a socialist on our hands? I suppose you believe all men are created equal?’

‘I do, as a matter of fact.’ John gulped down the rest of his brandy and a waiter stepped forward immediately to refill the glass.

‘Don’t mind him,’ said Ernie. ‘Of course he’s a socialist. It is the right of all the lower classes to believe such a thing. I’m sure it keeps them sane.’

‘And you, Dr Harris?’

‘I confess to being a bit of one myself, old man. But I can see your point of view. I would have to have some time to think about what you’re saying, though. I’ve never been in any kind of position to have slaves under my command. I’m not saying I would want to, but I couldn’t speak about it with certainty until I had, I suppose.’

George snorted. ‘Ernest, the British have enslaved people for centuries. The British Empire could not have spread so far without it. You probably wouldn’t be where you are today without it.’

‘How do you figure that?’ asked Ernie.

‘Now, now, gentlemen. Mr Sebel, you bring up an interesting point. The British Empire has indeed been very powerful. If only Portugal had been half as strong. What did we accomplish? Not nearly as much as we once thought we would, that’s what. Have you ever been to Portugal? What a proud country it once was — so full of hope and expectation! Now it seems to have a sad air about it. An air of disappointment. It never became as great as it once thought it would be. Now the British …’ he trailed away, deep in thought, and sucked hard on his cigar.

Thomas was beginning to feel dizzy with the cigar, and he put it down into the ashtray in front of him.

‘You’re very quiet over there, Mr Edgar,’ said Santos. ‘We are not boring you, I hope?’

‘Oh no, sir!’ said Thomas. He felt himself redden, with all eyes fixed on him. ‘I am interested in your conversation, absolutely. I’m afraid I don’t feel quite worldly enough to join in yet.’

‘And what age are you, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Twenty-seven, sir.’

‘Ah! So young! Young enough to be my son. In fact you are all young enough to be my sons … except perhaps you, Mr Gitchens. How lucky I would feel if I had three sons as fine as you gentlemen.’

Thomas wriggled in his seat, suddenly feeling like a schoolboy praised by his favourite teacher. He saw Ernie and George glance at each other, pride puffing their chests.

‘And do you have any sons?’ asked Thomas.

‘No,’ said Santos. His face clouded. ‘I have no children. My first wife died childless, and as yet my second wife and I have not been blessed.’

‘We haven’t met your wife yet,’ said George.

‘Clara. You will meet her tomorrow. She is a fine young woman, Portuguese. She would be interested to talk to you, Mr Gitchens.’

John started, and looked around as if he had just woken from a dream.

‘Me, sir?’

‘Yes. She is very interested in botany. I have always encouraged her to have interests, just until our first children are born. She has become very interested in plants. Always with her nose in a book about them. I have to stop her from running off into the forest alone to look at them — too many dangers. But if she could accompany you at any time on one of your plant-hunting expeditions, she would be very happy.’

‘Of course,’ said John, and he smiled for the first time that evening.

After dinner, which had been followed by port from Oporto and cheese from Cork, as Santos had proudly pointed out, he led them further into the interior of the building, which seemed endless. They passed through a curtain at the back of the restaurant and then through a heavy door. As soon as it opened a barrage hit their senses. Thomas had noticed during dinner the men who had passed through the dining room, but he didn’t realise it had been quite so many. The room seethed with the conversation of a hundred men, all dressed in evening dress, standing around long tables, sitting about smaller, round tables, or leaning at the bar with drinks in their hands. Smoke hung like a bank of storm-clouds above their heads.

‘And now for some fun, gentlemen,’ said Santos. He handed them each a cylinder of banknotes and gestured into the room. Thomas moved forward and saw the tables dotted about were those of roulette and men playing cards. Gambling.

He began to pick out individual sounds in the roar, much as he had on the first day in the rainforest: the clacking of the roulette wheel, the flick of cards, the laughter of the men, one or two voices raised in anger. Pianola music ground in the corner and somebody whistled along to the tune; somewhere a glass smashed. There were women in the room, too, leaning over the men as they gambled, exhibiting their cleavages. One woman glided past, without looking at him, in a fur coat. Her face burst with colour, but she clung to her coat anyway. She stumbled a little as she went past and Thomas expected to see her at some time in the night faint with heat exhaustion.

‘I have a table for us in this corner, gentlemen, if you would prefer to sit and watch for a time.’ Santos gestured to a large cushioned seat, which curved around a table. Thomas nodded gratefully and they started to move towards it, except for Ernie, who had already disappeared into the crowd.

Champagne sat on the table in a bucket of ice. Santos popped the cork with a whoop and poured the frothing liquid into glasses. Thomas was already woozy from the rich dinner and the alcohol but he accepted a glass to be polite. John, beside him, took a large gulp of his and wiped his mouth. Thomas hadn’t seen him drink so much before.

‘A toast to your expedition, gentlemen!’ Glasses crashed together and the smile Santos bestowed on Thomas was so warm he felt it settle inside him. He followed his host’s lead and downed the glass in one. After Santos had refilled it, he became bold.

‘Another toast, to our gracious host!’ He laughed at the unintentional rhyme.

George joined in on the toast with a genuine if slightly serious nod, and knocked his champagne back with the rest of them.

A handsome woman in her forties approached the table and Santos stood and grasped her hand. He leaned down to kiss her gloved fingers.

‘Senhora da Silva,’ he said, ‘you look quite exquisite tonight. Won’t you join us for a moment?’

Her black dress rustled as she sat, and she cast appraising, black-rimmed eyes over the table of men. ‘These are your English guests, Senhor Santos, no? Which is why you speak English to me.’