I’m not going to itemize everything Natoma bought. Let it go at this: luminous body paints, singing scents and cosmetics, disposables by the dozen, tech work clothes for men, “Be v. chic for womens next year, Glig,” body stockings transistorized to change color, “Old fashion come back, Glig,” gifts for the family, language textbooks — Spang, Euro, Afro, and XX self-taught. And enough luggage to hold it all.
She paid no attention to the dazzling display of synthetic jewels. It was then I learned that what I’d thought were cockamamy turquoise stones set in her headband and bracelets were really raw emeralds. I presented my passport to pay but when I saw the total I was amazed at how small it was. They told me that Ceres was a free port and begged me to keep quiet about it; they didn’t want a tourist invasion.
I promised, but in return asked to speak to the Chef du Magasin. She was a large lady, most cooperative and understanding when I explained my difficulty. She told me that Poulos was not known by name on Ceres; only as Der Directeur, the one title I hadn’t used. She escorted us down to the mezzanine, put us and our luggage into a shuttle, and punched buttons for us. “Auguri,” she called as we slid off. “Tante danke,” I called back and she burst out laughing. Evidently I’d goofed the Euro again. Later I remembered that I should have said, “Grazie sehr.”
It was a curious scene in the office of the Directeur. For a moment I thought I’d been there before. Then I realized I was remembering an atrium I’d seen reconstructed in Pompeii. Square marble pool center, marble columns around it with marble galleries behind, the walls done in Etruscan red. I explained haltingly to the receptionist on duty who we were and what I wanted. She tilted her head back and repeated the message in a clear, sharp E-flat. A door opened and a typically hostile Frog came out, looked me up and down, and snapped, “Oui?”
At this moment my excited Natoma could no longer resist the null-G. She plunged into the pool and more or less skimmed on the surface with incredible grace. She came to the edge and pulled herself up, streaming water and smiling like an enchanting Nereid. The Frog wilted and murmured, “Ah. Oui. Entre, per favore.” Then he shifted to XX. “What tongue do you prefer?” Don’t ask me how he knew that I preferred Early English.
The inner office was like the reception room but without the pool. “I am Boulogne, assistant to the Director,” the Frog said. He threw his head back and spoke in a clear C-major. “A towel for Madam Curzon, please.” He smiled at us. “We are required to speak all tongues in this office. Tongues? Is that correct XX?”
At that point I liked him, but I didn’t like his news.
“I am so sorry, M’sieur and Madam Curzon. The Director has not been here for a month and most certainly has not yet returned. I know nothing of your Dr. Guess and his cryocapsule. They have not arrived on Ceres, vero. What you look for is not here.”
“But the message, Mr. Boulogne.”
“May I see it, please?”
I handed him the gram. He examined it carefully, shrugged, and handed it back to me. “What am I to say? It has every appearance of the authentic but it was not sent from Ceres, I promise you.”
“Could they have arrived in secret and be hiding?”
“Impossible. And why hide?”
“Dr. Guess is involved in highly sensitive research.”
“That cryocapsule?”
“And its contents.”
“Which are?”
“I’m not at liberty to tell you.”
“Germaphrodites,” Natoma said. I glared at her but she smiled reassuringly. “Truth always good, Glig. Secret bad.”
“I agree with madame,” Boulogne said, “in view of the fact that there really is no such thing as a secret. Sooner or later it breaks. Hermaphrodites, eh? Very odd. I did not think such monsters truly existed, outside of fable.”
“Do now,” Natoma said proudly. “Mia frère invent.” Now she was breaking into Euro.
“So where does that leave you now, M’sieur Curzon?”
“Feeling like a patsy.”
“Pardon?”
“I’ve been had, deceived, decoyed. I think I know who did it and I’m scared.”
He clucked his tongue sympathetically. “And your plans? Will you not stay and enjoy the Director’s hospitality? You will be safe and I am certain we can entertain madame lavishly.”
“Thank you, but no. We’re for Brazil.”
“Dieu! Brazil? Warum?”
“I’m completely turned off by an exasperating and dangerous situation, so my wife and I are going to run away and enjoy our honeymoon. If Poulos returns tell him my plans; he’ll know where to find us. Thank you so much, Boulogne, and peace.”
“Hermaphrodites,” he mused as we left. “One wonders what they do for kicks.”
Brazil has always been centuries behind the times. By now it had struggled all the way up to the 1930’s in a curious way. We were driven into Barra from the landing pad on a bus. A goddamn Greyhound-type bus. And we passed Fords and Buicks chugging along the freeway. When we hit the outskirts of Barra we passed trolley cars and trams. Incredible. Delightful.
And Barra! It was Times Square, the Loop, Piccadilly Circus. Huge signs blinking and bleeding animation in Portulaise, which is the local language; not too different from Spang plus XX. Huge crowds hurrying and shoving cheerfully to get to whatever was urging them. No violence. Nothing nasty. Just pleasantly busy, busy, busy. Natoma and I gawked in silence but at one moment she sat bolt upright and pointed excitedly. “Voila, Glig! Neiman-Marcuze!” So it was. Texas had expanded pretty far south.
We left our luggage safely on the bus terminal platform (would you believe it?) and went to the biggest estate agent in Barra. After considerable backing and forthing he twigged — I’m translating — “But of course. Rancho Machismo. And you are the Curzons. The documents of transfer have just arrived. You will give me the pleasure of driving you there in my new Caddy. There is a staff awaiting you. I will call them myself on my new telephone machine. We have just had them installed.” He took the receiver off an antique stand-up phone and jiggled the hook impatiently. “Hello, central. Hello, central. Hello!”
When we came to the São Francisco rivercrossing we actually had to take a car ferry. “Here begin your lands,” the agent said enthusiastically, turned left and began driving down a lumpy river road. I kept looking for a ranch house. Nothing. We drove mile after mile. Nothing. “How much is a hectare?” I asked. “One hundred acres.” Jeez. The Syndicate had given us a hundred thousand acres. A very substantial spread for a hideout, and I was hiding out, make no mistake. I considered renaming the plantation Rancho Polluelo, which is “chicken” in Portu.
At last we drove up a long drive to the Machismo ranchhouse and I was flabbergasted. It looked like an antique word-game called Straddle or Scabble — something like that. Square after square, just touching sides and corners and spread all over four acres in no particular design or pattern. The agent saw the incredulity on my face and smiled. “Very odd, yes? Was built by very rich lady who believe that if she add one room per year would add one year to her life.”
“How old she die?” Natoma asked.
“Ninety-seven.”
The staff was lined up before the front door, all curtseying and bowing, and it looked like there was one per room. Natoma gave me a gentle shove to go first and greet them as the mestre of the plantation, but I shoved her first as the dona and ruler of the house. She did just fine; gracious but regal, friendly but no nonsense. It took us a week to get acquainted with all the rooms, and I had to draw a map. I don’t think the Syndicate had ever been there; he would have thrown out the Barra art nouveau decor at once. I thought it was refreshing.