But the waiting began to weigh heavily on us. It had been only four days since Isabel had been kidnapped, but it seemed much longer. Nelson warned us to be prepared for a long wait. These cases took weeks, sometimes months to resolve, not days. Nonetheless every time the phone rang, Luís, Cordelia and I thought it would bring an agreement for Isabel’s release. Of course it didn’t.
At Cordelia’s suggestion, we went up to Luís’s fazenda near Petrópolis for the weekend. It was what the family usually did, and she felt a change of scene would be good for Luís. He was worried that Zico wouldn’t be able to get in touch with us, but she pointed out that if he called the apartment and someone gave him the number in Petrópolis, he could hardly object.
Luís picked me up from the hotel late Friday afternoon. His chauffeur took us to the compact Santos Dumont airport in the centre of the city. I was surprised, Petrópolis was only forty kilometres away, no one had explained we would be flying. Luís was distracted as he led me through the airport and into a little van that took us to a blue helicopter. It had five seats, and Cordelia and her husband were already waiting for us. I climbed in too, pretending that this was the most natural thing in the world. Within a couple of minutes the helicopter had eased itself into the air and we were scudding across Guanabara Bay.
Twenty minutes later we were up above the mountains. Below us roads and buildings wriggled like snakes through the folds of the hills. We descended so that the forest-clad mountainsides rose on either side. We burst round a corner and there, beneath a sheer rock-face, was a large white house surrounded by a lush garden dotted with trees and a lake. Behind the house was a patch of flat grass with a large white H painted on it.
The fazenda had been the focal point of a substantial coffee estate. Its rooms were large and cool. The furnishings were tasteful without being opulent: dark colonial Brazilian wood, oriental vases, French nineteenth-century paintings. It was a few degrees cooler than Rio, but it was still warm by my standards. Nevertheless a huge fire roared in the sitting room.
As soon as we arrived, Luís relaxed visibly. I could understand why Cordelia had insisted on it. It was his routine to come up here and unwind on a Friday evening; and unwind was what he needed to do now.
That evening the atmosphere was almost normal. Cordelia’s husband, Fernando, was good company. He was a lawyer who had a wry sense of humour, and an inability to take himself, or Brazil, too seriously. He doted on Cordelia, though.
We were laughing, actually laughing, at dinner, clustered round one end of a ridiculously long dining table, when the phone rang.
There was an extension in the dining room. We could tell from Luís’s reaction who it was. Luís was prepared. He acted distraught but in control. The conversation lasted less than two minutes. Zico said one million dollars was insulting. Luís said fifty million was absurd. Zico wouldn’t budge. Luís upped his offer to a million and a half. He wanted Zico to know that he understood the game, and he was playing.
Immediately afterwards, Luís called Nelson, who said he would be up the next day. Once again, he was encouraging. According to Nelson, everything was going to plan.
The next morning, Saturday, Luís showed me round the garden. It stretched up a gentle incline from the house for what seemed like half a mile, until it merged into a forest. It took my breath away. On either side and in front loomed large, absurdly shaped mountains, obviously with the same geological provenance as those that surrounded Rio. One had a sheer rock-face, the others were covered with trees on their lower slopes and meadows higher up. The garden itself was a valley of lawns, trees and shrubs, with a long lake down one side. The air was cool and clear, though a little damp, and filled with the sound of running water and birds squabbling. There were swans, both white and black, flamingos, exotic ducks and a variety of other types that I didn’t recognize.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said.
‘It was designed by Burle Marx, a German who came here during the war. It is extraordinary. There are over two thousand species of plant in this garden. And it has seen some wonderful parties in its time.’
I glanced at Luís. He didn’t seem a great entertainer. He seemed a tall, lonely man, standing up well to adversity.
‘How long have you owned it?’
‘About five years.’
It must have cost serious money. I knew that Isabel came from a wealthy family, but I had no idea what that wealth translated to. It was strange to me to see a house and garden like this being used as a home. In England it would have been dotted with nice ladies in tweed skirts gently ushering visitors This Way.
Luís read my thoughts. ‘We didn’t always have money. Or, at least, I didn’t. I come from an old family, one of the quatrocentonas, the Portuguese families that came over to Brazil four hundred years ago. My great-grandfather had plantations in the state of São Paulo that were as big as some European countries. He had thirty thousand slaves. Then came emancipation. Then the collapse of coffee prices. Then the crash of ’twenty-nine. My grandfather wasn’t astute. My brother still runs the rump of the property, a small coffee plantation. But I left.’
There was a kerfuffle as a white swan tried to mount a black one. Luís laughed. ‘True Brazilians. You see!’
‘You came to Rio?’ I prompted.
‘Yes. I went to university there, and joined a big bank. I found money fascinating. For many years now Brazil’s financial system has been pretty complex. With inflation and interest rates at several thousand per cent a year, there were opportunities to make a lot of money. In nineteen eighty-six I decided to make some of that money for myself, and so I started Banco Horizonte. As you know, it’s now one of the biggest investment banks in Brazil, and in fact we’re beginning to think about expanding overseas. So that’s how I can afford all this.’
Luís made no attempt to hide his pride, and indeed he had a lot to be proud of. ‘But it’s a shame to build this up and see it die with me. We wanted a son, Vivian and I.’
‘Vivian was your wife?’
He nodded. He turned back and looked at the fazenda. ‘She never saw all this. All that I have created. Or perhaps she can see it now.’
‘There’s Isabel,’ I said.
Luís snorted. ‘Isabel! What chance have I of getting her to work for the bank? She’s far too stubborn. You heard her. My daughters! I suppose no father understands his daughters. But I just don’t know why Isabel and Cordelia won’t for once do something sensible. Maybe this episode will make them think again.’
‘It might. But I’m not sure that’s a good thing.’
He turned to look at me, listening closely.
‘They’re just like you, aren’t they? They want to go their own way. Do their own thing. The fact you disapprove just encourages them. I’m sure that’s true of Isabel.’
Luís gave a brief, dry laugh. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘That’s one of the reasons I like her.’
There was a pause. He studied me. ‘You are close, aren’t you? More than colleagues. More than friends?’
For a moment I panicked, imagining myself accused by an indignant Latin father of deflowering his daughter. But Luís’s gaze was warm, encouraging.
I nodded.
Luís turned to continue up the hill. ‘Bem,’ he muttered, I think. I couldn’t quite hear.
We decided to stay at the fazenda. It was tough on Nelson; he had to make the hour and a half drive up from Rio every day. But it was good for Luís, and good for me. We were optimistic. As long as we could put up with the waiting, Isabel would be free.