Where Tigers Are at Home by Jean-Marie Blas de Robles Read Free Book Online Page B

it’s just that she’s not up to it. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
    Evening was falling over Alcântara, a sort of disturbing grayness, thicker and blacker than the overcast sky that had darkened the afternoon. There was a threat of rain for the night. Eléazard hurried on, taking care to avoid the zebu droppings that booby-trapped the poorly paved alleyways in places. He turned left, behind SâoMatías church, and was soon in the
Rua da Amargura
, the street of sorrow, so called because Viscount Antônio de Albuquerque, the former owner of the palace he was walking past, had been in the habit of making his slaves lie down in the mud so that his wife and daughters could cross with dry feet when going to mass on Sundays. Moth-eaten fabric hung in the wide windows, which destructive weeds were doing their best to take apart stone by stone; there were only scattered and cracked fragments left of the elegant blue-and-white
azulejos
that used to decorate one of the most beautiful residences in the town. Let the leprosy of time finish its work, Eléazard thought, let it peel off the façade of this obscene testimony to the barbarity of man to the very last tile.
    When he reached the
Rua Silva Maia
, he glanced at the Church of the Rosário. It stood out in its white and green against the leaden sky. Placed there, right in the middle of a strip of ground reclaimed from the forest—but invaded by weeds because it hadn’t been paved—it seemed to be trying to suck up all the humidity of the soil, as could be seen from the spreading patches of red ochre that soiled the lower half of the façade. Shutters closed, a blind pediment, it oozed fear and neglect. Behind it the fur coat of the mango trees swayed heavily, disturbed by audible quivering that shook the foliage from one end to the other.
    Eléazard pushed open the door of the Caravela Hotel
—Clean and comfortable. Seven well-appointed rooms—
making the lengths of bamboo hanging from the ceiling clatter against each other. A young creole immediately came to greet him, arms stretched out toward him, his face radiant with a broad, happy smile.
    “Lazardinho! What a lovely surprise … 
Tudo bem
?”
    “
Tudo bom
.”
    Eléazard felt real enjoyment offering these ritual words of welcome; afterward, as if soothed by their magic, life immediately seemed more attractive.
    “So how’s things?” Alfredo asked after having given him a friendly embrace. “If you want to stay and eat I’ve got some fresh prawns. I went to get them from the boat myself.”
    “Prawns are OK …”
    “Take a seat. I’ll tell Socorró.”
    Eléazard went into the interior courtyard of the hotel. A few tables spread around under the vast roof of the veranda constituted the restaurant. Three immense banana trees and an unknown bush on the patio partly concealed the stairs to the rooms. A naked bulb was already lit, casting a yellow glow over the bare courtyard.
    Once he had sat down, Eléazard checked the brief typed menu lying on the table; unchanged for months, it was very simple:
    Filé de pescada, Camarão empanado
,
Peixadas, Tortas, Saladas
.
Preço p/pessoa: O melhor possível

FAVOR FAZER RESERVA
    Alfredo’s whole charm was contained in the basic level of catering. Three dishes with fish or prawns, tarts and salads. Even the plural was a harmless exaggeration since apart from exceptional cases
booking advised!
there was nothing but the
plat du jour
, that is, what Alfredo himself and his young wife were having. As for the prices—
The best
, the cheapest
possible—
they simply depended on inflation (300 percent per year) and what Alfredo felt about the customer.
    After a meager inheritance had left them with this dilapidated house, Alfredo and Eunice had decided to transform it into a hotel. They were motivated not so much by the idea of making a fortune, though that was an illusion they had harbored during the first euphoric days, than by the love of a simple way of lifeand