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All that went along well, sitting there under the umbrellas, watching the people, Alex sometimes greeting friends, and then Alex bought food, and Ben helped him carry it all back to their place. Alex cooked, and Ben said he could help, he knew how to cook — but he was thinking of the toast and porridge and bits of this and that he had made for the old lady, and soon saw this was more difficult cooking. Ben sat in the living room, smelling the aromas of spices and hot meat, and then in came a lot of people, and he watched them all kissing and hugging and holding each other; and talking and chattering, their teeth flashing and gleaming. The light had gone outside. This was a different night from the ones in Nice: it was hot, and slow, with sometimes a strong smell of sea. Some of these people were the same as last night's, but to each newcomer Alex said, 'This is Ben, we are going to make a film together.'
And as they said, 'Como vai?, 'Welcome', 'Hello', each gave him the surprised curious look he knew, and then they were careful not to look, or he caught them staring, hoping he wouldn't notice. The food came in, piled on platters, a lot of it, and wine was in every glass and bottles of wine stood about the room. There was such a noise, such a clamour of voices, and Ben did not understand much of what was said, even when they spoke English. There were plans being made, and he was in them. The talk, the eating, the drinking, went on till late.
Ben slept lightly in that room which made him think of his old home, and woke early. He did not dare go out into the street for fear of another killer boy, stalking him. He ate fruit, he stood at windows looking out. Alex did not get up till late, and when he came into the sitting room Teresa was with him: Ben had failed to notice that this female had gone with Alex into his room last night.
But she was friendly, and helpful, making food for him, offering him juice, and when he sat silent and doleful included him in what she said, in her quick, but difficult English. 'What do you think about it, Ben?' 'Would you like that, Ben?' 'What do you want me to get you?' He liked her very much, but knew she belonged to Alex.
And so the days went, slowly, and Ben slept a lot, from boredom. The evenings were full of people, who arrived loudly, laughing and talking to each other in Portuguese but to Alex and Ben in their hard-to-understand English. They sometimes brought food, not always. Ben sat apart and watched. He was trying to understand why when they were all so different, they could so easily be together, as if they did not know how different they were. Mostly they had smooth darkish skins, and dark eyes, contrasting with Alex, who was pale, a thin, thin-boned man, with pale hair, and his clothes were pale blue, trousers and shirts, or white. Over the eyes were brushes of short fair hair, but the face said Alex was not as young as he wanted to seem: the eyes had wrinkles under them. He was forty, five years more than Ben's passport said he was. No one who came to this place was as young as Ben really was, eighteen. Though that was confusing to think about: he knew he did not look like one of their eighteen-year-olds: he did not have that young face. Yet whenever he thought about his age, how he was, he remembered the old woman's, 'You're a good boy, Ben.'
Teresa was a tall young woman, with a big bottom and big breasts, but her waist was small, clinched with a belt to show it off. She had black hair, loose to her shoulders. Her eyes were dark. She was always smiling, laughing, and her voice was soft and easy on Ben's feelings. She put her arms around Alex, around people who came in, and, too, around Ben. 'Dear Ben,' she said often, hugging him, making him want to do what he knew he must not. But no one else touched him. Only Teresa came inside the distance all the others set between them and him. Only Teresa would take his hand, swing it, drop it; squeeze his big shoulders and say, 'Oh, your shoulders, what shoulders, Ben,' or put her arm around him as she stood talking to someone.
A man who came often was Paulo, who had worked with Alex before. They were writing a script for this film about Ben, but not always in the flat. The two might sit for a while at the table in the sitting room, talking, not looking at Ben, while Teresa tidied up the place, or cooked something, or sat on a chair-arm swinging her legs, watching the men, or reading the magazines, or sometimes singing. Then the men went out and Ben knew it was because they found his presence there wrong for what they were doing, or thinking. He knew that the story was changing all the time, because Brazil was not like the north: Ben knew now he had come from the north. Paulo was different in every way from Alex, being large, with soft brown flesh, big brown eyes, dark hair, and little fat hands with rings on them. Paulo wanted to please Alex, Ben knew: they all did. Alex was the one they all turned to, watched; they waited to hear what he thought.
Sometimes on those evenings there were as many as fifteen or twenty people for supper. Every day Alex bought a lot of food, and Teresa and he cooked it. Ben heard Teresa arguing with Alex about feeding so many people, some of them he did not even know, but they came because they knew there would be food. He always said, 'Sure, come in, sit down, what'll you drink, you're welcome.'
'You talk like my wife, Teresa, now shut up,' said Alex.
When he had been here before, working on the play, he had a flat like this one, and the cast and their friends spent free time with him and he fed them. This happens with Americans, or, for that matter, with anyone who has more money than others, who are often poor, like most of the people who came to this flat, actors, dancers, singers in work or out of it, and it was natural for Alex to feed them, and often find reasons to give them money — asking them to advise him, translate something, show him a possible site, take him to a museum.
But the development money was not a great amount; Alex had had more last time he was here, working on the film or on the play. Teresa knew how much there was, and that it was going fast. And still there was no script, although Paulo and Alex worked on it every day.
There was a story, but not much of one. In a wild and beautiful part of Brazil, in foothills beneath great mountains, lived a tribe of people like Ben. They fed themselves from the forests on fruits and vegetables, hunted game with clubs and bows and arrows, and knew fire — in fact, in the course of the film they would see lightning strike a tree and make a fire.
The trouble was, apart from the discovery of fire there wasn't much going on, once you had grasped the basics: caves, the hunt, mating, gathering plants. Ben listened to all this and knew it was wrong, but not how or why: they didn't ask what he thought. Sometimes Alex and Paulo would lift their gaze from a worried inspection of their notes, scribbled over sheets of paper, their by now many drafts, outlines, developments, and, not knowing they were doing it, stare deeply at Ben, frowning, but not seeing him.
Well, how were they going to go on? Perhaps into this on the whole pleasant scene would come a tribe of more advanced people, and . what? The two races would mate and make a new one? The newcomers could kill out Ben's people, and Ben with them, who would die a hero defending them? Perhaps better if Ben's people killed all the newcomers, postponing an inevitable fate, for everywhere over this land were spreading the new people. No trouble about casting these. They would be the native Indians of the area. What area, though? A trip must be made, locations determined, and discussions begun with a sympathetic tribe who would be pleased to get some money: about that they need have no doubt at all.
The area they had decided on, Paulo advising, the hills of Matto Grosso, was meanwhile afflicted with bad weather, storms and flooding. The reco