Chapter 3

Chácara Hartzlandia covered an area of twelve thousand hectares, spread along the Rio Taquary, and running almost to the little village of Itapeva. It was principally a coffee fazenda, although it also raised its own necessities in beans, rice, potatoes, and corn. The rolling hills were lined with the neat rows of bushy covas, rising and falling over the undulating land to disappear in the green distance. The drying sheds and the workers’ shacks were located in a sprawling banana grove at the side of the river, well out of sight of the big house; the stables and barns had their area further back in a thick stand of pine. The house stood alone on a hummock; below it the gardens ran in riotous color past a rough-stone-edged pool down to the river.

It was a great chalet, the gently sloping roof overhanging balconies that encircled the building at each floor, joined by wooden stairways. Huge hand-hewn beams of dark wood supported the stained plank walls; leaded glass windows studded the high walls and winked in the afternoon sun. It might have been transplanted intact from Württemberg, or Ostmark, Erick thought; it could have fronted the icy Bodensee, or stared down on Innsbruck from the challenging rocks above. His eyes unconsciously swept the horizon for snow-tipped mountains, and the growing sense of displacement that he had felt since leaving the boat slowly seeped away. “Beautiful,” he said sincerely. His uncle smiled slightly, but it was difficult to tell if the smile indicated sympathy or amusement.

They dined by flickering candlelight, although the farm boasted a modern generator, and afterwards in the huge living room listened to phonograph records before a crackling fire. The night had turned cold, and the fire was cheerful and welcome. They talked of family and the past; the subject of the meeting and the reason for Erick’s trip was avoided as if by mutual unspoken consent. His uncle was bending over the ancient phonograph, changing a record, and Erick was preparing to offer excuses for an early bedtime, when headlights swung into the driveway from the river road, and they could hear the labored clanking of an old car pulling up before the house. The motor coughed itself apologetically into silence, a car door slammed.

“Von Roesler!” a deep voice bayed. “Got ’im Himmel! Why doesn’t the old man put a light on this verdammt driveway? Von Roesler, you old swine! A light!”

The old man rushed to swing back the door, and yellow light poured over the balcony, spilling down to the huge blond figure standing beside a battered Ford. “Goetz!” he cried in delight. “Come up! Come up! How did you ever make it in that wheelbarrow? From Blumenau, yet!”

“Wheelbarrow, eh?” said Goetz, clumping up the stairway. “This wheelbarrow will be running when both you and your fancy hearse have long gone to the graveyard!” He paused at the top of the steps, a wild-looking giant wearing a leather jacket over a turtle-neck sweater, his curly hair rumpled, eyeing the two men calmly. “So this is little Erick, eh? For whom we make long trips when we have a million things to do! Hello, little Erick! How is the Vaterland?” Erick felt his face reddening. The big man pushed past him almost brusquely, his handshake an obvious thing in passing, quick and almost insolent, going to warm himself at the fireplace. “Von Roesler! Even in the uncivilized south we at least have a little common hospitality! What do you have to drink?”

“Goetz! So you came!” The old man bustled about, dragging glasses and bottles from a dark sideboard made darker by its place in the shadows. “And Lange? And Gunther?” He was obviously delighted with the other; the vitality of his huge visitor seemed a physical thing in the room, passing itself as animation to the old man, making the room gayer.

“I dropped them at Gehrmann’s. With pleasure. They’ll be over in the morning.” He shook his head comically, although his voice remained serious. “A day and a half in the car with them was more than enough!”

“Only a day and a half?” The old man paused with the glasses in his hand. “You made very good time.”

“With two flat tires, also. But it’s been dry down our way for some time now. And the road has been scraped.” He frowned at the old man fiercely. “I see it’s dry up here, too. Do we drink or do we spend the night chattering like old women?”

The old man giggled. “We drink, of course. And then play chess. Or are you too tired?”

“Asleep I could beat you. Set up the men.”

Erick stood forgotten to one side, the white heat of his temper solidifying into a hard core of hate. This one he would remember! Little Erick, eh? The feeling of strangeness was back in strength, the room and the house suddenly foreign; but the cold stab of hate swept aside all other emotions. “Uncle,” he said when his voice could once again be trusted. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Of course, of course,” said the old man absently. He was setting the chess men up on an inlaid table before the fireplace.

Goetz nodded abruptly; he was filling a water glass with brandy. “Sleep well, little Erick!” He looked at the younger man humorously, quirking his massive eyebrows. “Pleasant dreams!”

Brandy and chess, giggling and horseplay! They have become soft and childish like the Brazilians, Erick thought bitterly as he went along the balcony to his room. Little Erick, eh? We shall see!