The Pleasure Quartet (21 page)

We effortlessly fell back into our odd routine consisting of my staying a few nights a week in his bed and compensating by spending regular afternoons with Raoul, when I pretexted that I was working on some unknown project and unable to join Astrid at the beach which she invariably made a beeline for, cycling the five-kilometre distance around the lagoon to reach her favourite spot by Ipanema after she left school and completed her allotted time with her instrument. I’d had to inform Raoul that I was giving private violin lessons on occasion and he was full of questions, betraying his jealousy and possessiveness, trying to trip me up with details about Astrid once I had revealed I only had the one student, which he found bizarre. Maybe he intuited that there was more than violin lessons going on and that, of necessity, it was in some rich home and there was no way he could compete in terms of either money or comfort. And it didn’t make him any easier to appease.

I had never experienced such controlling behaviour from men before outside of sexual games and I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Often I wished that I had a real friend that I could talk to about the complicated web I had woven and now found myself trapped inside, but I did not yet feel ready to reach out to Lauralynn and admit where I was, and did not want to involve Aurelia. God knows what she might do if she believed that I was in some kind of danger, especially considering the mafia-like resources at her disposal within the Network.

There was to be a fundraising gala at Astrid’s exclusive private school, the Escola Americana, to coincide with the end of term, and Joao, impressed by her recent progress, which he attributed solely to my efforts, had convinced his daughter to agree to perform. Together Astrid and I selected what she should play. Unlike me in my salad days, Astrid was a good technician but clearly lacking in emotions and sensibility, so we quickly settled on a classical Bach piece, his Sonata No. 1 in G Minor. It was an archetypal solo violin composition which I had never performed. Normally, one would also play the accompanying Partita, but I didn’t feel Astrid was quite ready for such an extended exercise. I had always found Bach and his contemporaries and successors more like maths, perfect but cold, exquisitely crafted and mechanical, lacking a sense of life, and had always preferred the romantic composers or more modern music, with a soft spot for Eastern European tunes with a hint of folklore past; maybe it was the blood of my faraway origins, before my ancestors had moved down under, talking.

Although I was on one hand reluctant to attend the recital as it would mean being seen out in society with Joao again, I was also curious to see Astrid play on stage, and her father insisted strongly that I come along.

‘So you can show me off as your mistress?’ I queried.

‘Yes, and why not? You are beautiful. I am proud of you. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘You don’t own me, you know,’ I protested. I was wary of the idea of our fragile relationship being seen as a mere transaction with an older, wealthier man, displaying his younger ‘property’.

For a rare occasion, Joao had joined Astrid and me at the beach, where he had looked on indulgently as we had played football on the sand with a bunch of small, excitable local kids, peering above the pages of the economics books he was reading and then joining us in the water when we needed to cool off.

I’d quickly run out of energy and Astrid had returned to play, volleyball this time, her lithe, tanned body in constant motion, like a free bird let loose, running, dancing, jumping. laughing her head off every time she missed the ball and splashed down ignominiously face first in the warm, grainy sand to the delight of the competitive, other players. Joao suggested we go have a coffee.

‘Find some shade,’ he explained.

There was a definite shortage of dedicated coffee shops or places to go to around Ipanema Beach, just an assembly of open-aired juice outlets, and sticky-floored bars that hadn’t yet opened for trade. We made our way to Emporio 37 on Rua Maria Quiteria. The last time I had sat there was a couple of weeks earlier with Raoul. Was Joao aware of the fact? I certainly hoped not. I kept telling myself that having his driver tail me was a one-time thing, and that considering my infidelity I ought to cut him some slack for his reaction to it.

We were served. Joao’s features were unusually drawn, a mask of severity spreading across his olive-skinned face.

‘You’re young; you have needs. I understand,’ Joao said. ‘And I’m away so much and older than you. In situation and responsibilities, not just years,’ he continued. ‘I realise it would be wrong to hold you down . . .’

I opened my mouth to comment in some way, wary of where his monologue was leading, but he raised his hand, indicating I should remain silent.

‘What I’m suggesting is an arrangement,’ he said.

Just like a businessman.

Clumsily, he tried to explain how, from personal experience, monogamy was something of an awkward state of affairs for men, and coyly confessed he himself had not always been faithful when his own wife had still been alive, and conceded, to my surprise, that he realised that the same craving for new experiences equally applied to women. But he truly liked me, he said, felt we were so wonderfully compatible. In addition to the fact that my presence was healthy for Astrid. Unlike some of the air-headed young women it would be easy for him to bed and spoil. I was about to protest that I had no wish to become a substitute mother figure, but Joao was in full flow and developed his proposal.

He wanted me to keep on seeing him, sleep with him and be at his side for business and social occasions within reason. Beyond that he would want me to remain discreet on other fronts, take precautions of course, and he would choose to ignore what I was up to in my free time. In exchange, I would always have a roof to live under and he would see to my material comfort. I would have access to a car, his driver even, frequent opportunities for travel in Brazil and overseas should I wish to join him on trips, and would be generously rewarded in kind.

In other words he wanted me to become his official mistress. I was tempted to ask whether I would be the first, but refrained from doing so, as he kept on insisting how much he trusted me and the degree to which I displayed what he termed ‘class’, or as I mentally translated his words, was deemed suitable arm candy.

My initial reaction was that I had possibly been wrong to ask Susan to sell the Bailly to raise funds, until it dawned me how the whole matter felt like an impersonal transaction, both of us being granted rewards of a different kind in a compromise that banished emotions and feelings to the margins.

Observing my puzzlement, Joao hastily added that there was no need to provide an answer in the immediate, and that for the time being he was happy if we could continue as we were. Was he thinking of some written ‘mistress contract’, should I agree to his terms? His arrogance confounded me, although at the same time there were distinct attractions to his proposition.

It wasn’t the first time I had given a spare thought over the years, albeit not in the recent past, to the idea of whoring myself for money, not so much for the actual proceeds of sin but for the thrill, the experience of selling something I had always given away for free, to know what it felt like. All this potential new situation would do would be to institutionalise the reality of it.

In the meantime, Joao’s words continued to pour out, as my mind kept running through a labyrinth of tangents. He wanted me to be at my most charming for the fundraiser at Astrid’s school and, with an expression of tender complicity quite at odds with his preceding exposition of the business arrangement he had so meticulously proposed, handed me over a small Bordeaux velvet pouch.

The clip-on earrings were stunning, exquisite minuscule amber ovals set in a sterling silver bed, probably antiques.

I had not worn amber for as long as I could recall, even when in full regalia at the Ball, and I was eager to try them on and see myself in a mirror. I just knew they would match my colouring.

‘I’ve also got you a new dress. It’s at home,’ Joao said.

The American School of Rio de Janeiro, where Astrid was studying, was an architectural marvel. Set in the neighbourhood of Gávea on the edge of the Tijuca National Forest, on a steep hill overlooking the whole city and its expanse of natural wonders from the vast ocean below to Sugarloaf Mountain, it extended over eight towers, ascending in height towards the dark green curtain of the trees, that incongruously reminded me of medieval buildings and Alpine sanatoriums. In a city where land was at a terrible premium, its twelve-acre campus was as ostentatious as it was luxurious.

Joao’s driver dropped us off and drove the metal grey bullet-proof 4×4 away, as one expensive car after another unloaded its human cargo and we trooped towards the school’s main door in all our finery.

Astrid was sulking. She had wanted to wear some pale green eye make-up and possibly lipstick, but her father had put his foot down and forcefully stood his ground. I’d always studiously stayed out of arguments between father and daughter when present. Her white cotton dress was demure and fell to below her knees, highlighting the deep tan of her arms, face and delicate ankles. She had earlier given me a despairing glance hoping I would support her, but I agreed with Joao that she was beautiful enough and didn’t require any artificial assistance. I later pointed out that neither was I wearing much in the way of make-up, but she had ignored me.

We followed the crowds into the large wooden-floored assembly hall which had been converted into an auditorium. I held onto Joao’s arm as Astrid slipped off to join the other students lined up to perform tonight. His tuxedo wrapped around his broad shoulders to a tee, an Armani made-to-measure outfit with wide darker silk lapels and a crisp white dress shirt, the matching bow tie emphasising the firmness of his chin. I looked around.

All the other men present were similarly attired, shoes polished to untenable brilliance, expensive cufflinks peeking out of their sleeves, their wealth reflected in the way they stood upright and proudly, companions and partners hanging on to their arms as if they belonged there by divine right. Older wives in couture dresses that trailed along the ground, displaying ample cleavage and matronly curves, while thinner and younger ‘friends’ in body-clinging dresses, many slit at the side, in all degrees of voluptuous displaying a desert of leg and vertiginous heels, parading on the arms of their grizzled benefactors with all the arrogance of youth, eyeing the competition with a beady, calculating gaze, as if all along weighing the pros and cons of which protector they would next move on to.

The wives ignored the mistresses and escorts with a studied air of arrogance, while the younger women similarly pretended the legitimate spouses were not in any way different from them.

I immediately regretted having come along, as women in both camps began to look me over with a critical stare. I did not fit in by any measure. To emphasise this state of affairs, Joao had deliberately selected for me the type of dress no one else would be wearing tonight. It was a flowing floral dress which left my shoulders bare and emphasised my comparative lack of opulence. Compared to the other outfits, it was modest to extremes. As much as I applauded Joao’s intentions, it just wasn’t me. Never had been. It gave me the feeling he wanted me to stand out among the crowd and be talked about. To make matters worse, I knew the golden tones of the amber earrings did not at all match the crimson and violet hues of the fabric’s flowered pattern.

We walked over to a group of parents standing by the improvised stage, most of whom were clad in more discreet attire and displayed a modicum of restrained elegance, although the breasts on partial display seemed to my untrained eye more obviously fake. These attendees were in the majority Americans, businessmen and women who worked for international corporations with offices in the Brazilian capital or diplomats from the embassy and consulate. At my earlier request, Joao never introduced me by name, merely as his friend. I took no note of their names. A silver-haired, tall and thin-as-a-rake man approached me while Joao was in deep conversation with others.

‘You look familiar. Have we met before?’ he enquired. ‘You’re not from here.’

‘I don’t think so.’ I quickly moved on, without trying to appear rude. He was a cultural attaché. I hoped he didn’t make a connection and identify me and my past, artistic activities, let alone the other less discreet matters I was hoping to have left behind. I had no wish for Joao, or anyone in Rio, to discover anything about my previous life.

The performances finally began, following a bunch of speeches in both languages, and we were invited to sit.

A parade of students took turns in front of the varied audience. A lanky crop-haired blonde with an atrocious West Coast accent declaiming a Shakespeare soliloquy, followed by quaint Brazilian twins in matching designer dungarees singing ‘Greensleeves’ to the accompaniment of a tape. Then came the first round of fundraising, with various gifts from the parents or friendly organisations being auctioned by the Headmistress, a buxom woman in her mid-forties in a frilly evening dress dripping with a thousand sequins too many. Joao occasionally bid, more out of obligation than enthusiasm, and paid over the odds for an electronic console which I knew Astrid already had a set of. I felt relieved he did not raise his hand when jewellery items came up for auction.

It was finally Astrid’s turn. She looked stiff on stage, visibly self-conscious, and her interpretation of the Bach composition was accurate but pedestrian. Even with the technique I had drilled into her, it was evident she didn’t move with the music in her heart, played it mechanically and had no idea how to truly inhabit it. Perhaps the only sounds that truly moved her were the pop tunes that she had picked up from YouTube and been replicating when I first saw her swaying on the sidewalk. Classical music, and formal training, was not for everyone. Not that anyone present but me noticed, and the applause she received was cordial and warm, Joao leading the choir of praise by standing up the moment she set down her bow. We stayed on for a couple of further acts, a young boy who performed feeble magic tricks and a pseudo-operatic duo giving a pop spin on a Verdi aria.