Free Where Tigers Are at Home by Jean-Marie Blas de Robles

Colonel leaned over to the intercom. “Anita, get me
Frutas do Maranhão
, please. And then I wouldn’t mind a little coffee.”
    “Right, Colonel … Who do you want to speak to?”
    “Bernardo Carvalho, the CEO …”
    The Colonel leaned back in his chair to light a long cigarillo, savoring the first puffs with evident enjoyment. Behind him a little colonial-style window, the lower half with small yellow and green panes, cast a slightly acid light on his off-white suit. With his broad, clear forehead and wavy, black Franz Liszt hair hanging down overhis ears, Governor Moreira da Rocha’s face was like a picture of a politician from the previous century. The impression was confirmed—or perhaps it was the detail that created it—by the presence of a pair of huge white side-whiskers encroaching on his cheeks to the corners of his mouth, setting off in a way that bordered on the obscene a heavy chin split in two by a cleft. With this frame, all eyes were drawn to his mouth; seen by itself, its fullness and the sensual pout of disdain that twisted it slightly made it look youthful. Meeting the Colonel’s eyes after that, lodged like two pieces of lead shot between the reptilian folds of his lids, one became aware of the cynicism accumulated in their deep, grainy, blackish rings and it became impossible to say whether one was dealing with a fairly well-preserved old man or one prematurely aged by overindulgence. Moreira was aware of the unease caused by his expressive features and he always made skillful, sometimes even cruel, use of it.
    The intercom crackled briefly. “That’s Bernardo Carvalho on the line, Colonel, extension three.”
    The Colonel pressed a switch and settled back in his chair again. “Hi there, Nando?… Fine, and you? How are things with you, old chap?… Yes … Ha ha ha! You’d better watch out, at your age getting up to that kind of lark could cost you! You’ll have to introduce me to her so I can show her what life’s really about. But let’s get down to serious stuff. There’s a little shit, name of Nicanor Carneiro, who owns some property and who’s giving me problems. You know who it is?… No, nothing serious, but I’d like to give him a lesson, teach him good manners. You’re going to forget him for a while when you’re purchasing fruit … Just long enough for his bloody mangoes to rot. That’s right, yes … And do it so he can’t pass them off to someone else, eh … OK,
amigo
, don’t worry, I owe you. And I expect to see you at my little party, don’t forget. See you soon … Yes, that’s right … That’s right … 
Ciao
, Nando, got to go now, there’s someone on the other line … 
Ciao …”
    He relit his cigar when his secretary came in carrying a silver tray. Closing the door with her hip, she crossed the room carefully so as not to spill anything on the crimson wall-to-wall carpet.
    A translucent, fine linen suit, boxwood pearls on her tanned skin, austere bun and stiletto heels. A woman to tempt all the saints of Bahia! Certainly something different from those frumps of the Nordeste
.
    “Your coffee, sir,” she said hesitantly, suddenly embarrassed at finding herself mentally undressed by the governor.
    Moreira moved some papers that were right in front of him. “Put it down there, please.”
    To put the tray down where he had indicated, Anita had to go around the desk to his right-hand side. The Colonel felt her body brush against his shoulder. Just as she was about to pour the coffee he slipped a hand up her skirt.
    “No … Not that, sir …” she said, trying to move away. “Please … Don’t …”
    His hand clamped to the flesh of her thigh, unmoving like a handler subduing a dog, he maintained his hold, relishing the way the young woman stiffened and the waves of panic running across her skin.
    The ring of the telephone caught them in this petrified stuggle. Without letting go, the Colonel picked up the receiver with