Goodnight Cinderella

What Others are Saying about Goodnight Cinderella

Very little is written on Brazil from the position of the true insider. Alan Cannell writes with style, and above all authenticity, when describing how Brazilians think and act. As James Fraser discovers, things in Brazil are not always what they seem to be.

Manuel dos Santos: Best selling author and former editor at McGraw-Hill, NYC

Goodnight Cinderella

Alan Cannell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Alan Cannell

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter One

It certainly was a hell of a view.

The early morning sun on the hotel balcony felt warm and unlike the searing tropical heat he had expected, and the light glinting off the blue South Atlantic didn’t require the canvas awning to block out the glare. On his right the ten-storied buildings fronting the beach curved for two miles to a historic fort on the headland that separated Copacabana from Ipanema. To the left, the buildings were dwarfed by the granite cliffs of the Sugar Loaf Mountain, tiny cable cars slowly inching their way to the greenery at the top. Be nice to do the ride and see Rio from above, he thought, but the security and PR would be too much of a hassle.

James Frazer shrugged and, looking down from the parapet, took in the extra-wide sidewalk, admiring its black and white mosaic pattern as well as the energy of the locals who, even at this early hour of the morning, were pounding the asphalt jogging track or pedaling along the bikeway. Incredibly tanned and sleek young men and women wove smoothly through the broad white hats of the elderly power walkers and he let his eyes follow the graceful strokes of a girl on rollerblades, her dyed blonde hair and yellow singlet contrasting nicely with the gleaming dark skin of her back.

Standing back from the balcony, James adjusted the towel round his waist and stretched, thinking about the full day of business ahead. He walked back into the living room, stopping at the entrance to the bedroom as he let his eyes grow accustomed to the shade.

Now that also was a hell of a sight.

Susan liked to sleep face down with one leg supported by a cushion. Real dark blonde hair spread over the pillows, her shape outlined under the sheet with just the calves of her long legs poking out at the bottom. James crawled onto the bed and knelt beside her, drinking in the view with his eyes, pausing on all the bits he felt like gently biting, before following the curves with his hand. Susan moved her head to one side and groaned:

Sleep. I need more sleep. Why do you always have to get up in the middle of the night? And how come you always wake up feeling horny?

It’s morning, the sun’s out and I can’t help it. Must be the way you lay there, all spread out. I keep finding new places to bite. There is one just here...

He leant forward and kissed her neck, holding a small fold of flesh below her ear in his teeth and making a deep mmhh. One twist and the towel was on the floor and her body was beneath his. Susan groaned again, a different moan this time as she brought her elbows in to support the weight. Another tug and the sheet joined the towel. Business could wait.

While Susan showered James Frazer congratulated himself on persuading her to come with him. The Rio Film Festival was fairly small beer by the industry’s standards, but it did have several advantages: the weather in October was good and made a welcome break from a looming grim New York winter and rainy autumn. It also gave him a chance to use the issues surrounding the loss of the Amazon rainforest as a background to talk-up his new project on the wider-world media. And it gave him the time and space to spend some time together with Susan.

At forty one he was the guy who had it all. Fame as an actor playing romantic leads, respect as the producer and director of ‘serious’ movies and the endless stream of money that success brings. Susan Baroni had been on the executive team of his last movie; early thirties, smart and gorgeous, she was ideal company for after-work dinners and, after a few weeks, before-work breakfasts. Several years in the business had purged her of any glitzy illusions and she had quickly become someone he could trust and confide in. But was this enough to ‘take the relationship to the next level’? He smiled as he remembered actually using the phrase and how Susan had broken up with laughter, head thrown back showing her perfect teeth. He had laughed just as much, yet they did discuss the future in bed that night. It was a habit of theirs; things could be said honestly in the dark that sounded merely trite during the day.

Susan had said that she was happy to leave things as they were. She certainly didn’t want to stop work, leave the City and set up a house somewhere greener. But if he were suggesting that she move in – or even get married, then…that sounded like a good idea. So when the invitation to Rio was broached by his agent James snapped it up, adding on to the trip an extra few days at a five-star beach resort. If they could live together in hotel rooms for two weeks without going crazy, they could live together in his place. Further relationship levels could be placed on the back-burner for now.

Susan emerged from the bathroom and jerked a thumb:

Move. You’ve got the press in ten minutes. No time for shaving, besides the stubble looks good with an open necked shirt.

He showered quickly and dressed in the clothes Susan had laid out on the bed - a charcoal suit in fine Cerruti wool with a white linen, button-down shirt. Susan checked him over, taking in his dark good looks, the deep blue eyes that always had an amused glint and his tall frame. The stubble will be good for a few more years, she thought, until it gets to be too grey and oldish, then it will have to go.

She pulled a face at the idea of James being old and then shivered as a flash of herself getting old - all white, lifeless hair and droopy, blotched skin - crossed her mind before she put it firmly aside in a place way beyond the back of her mind.

You’ll do. She smiled. Now get out there and plug our movie! Knock ‘em dead with guilt about bio-fuels and climate change.

That’s what we’re her for. Getting digital ink on ‘Oil Slick’, making sure that distribution rights are fought over.

Really? She said archly, I though you just wanted a dirty week with your latest chick. That’s what they’re saying in the local ‘Hello’ magazine.

Business and pleasure. He said, turning to the full-length mirror beside the bed.

Pleasure and business, Susan corrected. Unless doing me this morning was part of some long-term deal.

He pecked her cheek and whispered:

That is the idea…

He opened the door to the elevator and then stopped, Hey, how come you can read what the local press is saying?

Baroni? Grandfather Italian, right? Spent time in Milano as a student? Portuguese is close enough to Italian for me to read – or at least pick up the gist when you have the photos as a guide. Susan, the ‘ultima bela namorada’ was easy and they used ‘heart-throb’ in English under your pic.

I am more impressed every day. What else can you do?

Try me.

***

The Rio Film Festival had a selection of poor-quality TV soap knock-offs, some very creative material that would never be seen by a wider audience and a sprinkling of celebs, of which James Frazer was by far biggest attraction and probably one of the few that was actually still working.

The morning session consisted of interviews, screenings in an oversized and hastily converted warehouse in the shadow of one of the smaller, but better quality shanty towns just outside the port, and afterwards yet more interviews. Oozing charm and armed with his trademark smile, James used his deep, gravelly voice to praise the Festival and the people of Rio, while questioning the use of bio-fuels grown in sensitive ecological environments such as the Amazon and their exploitation as a means of keeping Big Oil in business rather than developing alternative and more sustainable energy sources. This was, of course, the cue-in for him to speak about ‘Oil Slick’, explaining to the locals that this was a reference to slickness as in ‘business-smart’, as well as the nasty form of marine pollution and emblematic smotherer of poor birds on dirty beaches.

James had never visited the Amazon basin, but a cameraman had flown over the new agricultural areas of the States of Mato Grosso and southern Pará during the previous dry season almost a year ago. They had decided that the older iconic villains of rainforest clearance – logger’s chainsaws and yellow, tank-like bulldozers knocking down the forest – now had a nineties feel, when the ‘cause’ had been saving eco-systems and the natural habitat of vague ‘peoples of the forest’. The current worries of global food shortages and climate change needed new icons and these were now proudly displayed on the high quality DVD: seemingly endless expanses of burning scrub, sweeping vistas of soya-bean plantations and, at the frontline of deforestation, countless herds of white humped cattle grazing amid the blackened tree stumps that were all that was left of the forest. Burgers on-the-hoof: grass going into the front end, methane gas being pumped out from the back.

This material was perfect for making the pitch James was about to deliver on ‘Oil Slick’. Not only did the movie raise the fictional specter of how Big-Oil, (along with covert government backing), planned to regain control of the fossil fuels of a certain (but nameless) middle-eastern country, but it also had a strong sub-text on the lack of will to tackle the problems raised by bio-fuels and greenhouse emissions. The press-kit available had, as well as the DVD, high-definition stills and interviews with witless Brazilian government officials claiming that ethanol was a perfectly ‘green’ solution, together with shots of sugar cane-workers in a state of semi-slavery and interviews with plain-speaking municipal officials from the State of São Paulo on the Plague of the Sugar Cane Business: the ‘Green Deserts’ that were killing off their small towns.

The material was too good to be ignored and, riding on the back of the story, James knew that the media people coming to the free junket at the Copacabana Palace in the evening would give his movie the required plug. Once the interviews were aired and the talk shows had been done, the rest of the world’s press would get the kit and a free lunch in New York. If the ball rolled correctly and generated greater interest in the US and in Europe, the improved distribution deal they would get would be worth every penny spent.

The evening went well. Susan was at her most charming in a dark lilac, low-cut gown, adding a personal touch to the handing out of free booze, food and press kits, while James fielded the questions on energy and the environment with the ease of someone who has only a moderate grasp of the issues but can add a graciously condescending touch of fame to a worthy cause.

Once the PR was over the real holiday began. Early next morning a short limo ride brought James and Susan to a chartered Lear jet at the central Santos Dumont airport; a rock-filled tarmac airstrip built into the bay and only a few hundred yards from downtown Rio. James noted that the strip was positioned so that the iconic Sugar-Loaf Mountain, a two thousand foot lump of granite, was slap-bang in the flight-path, but as nobody else seemed worried he avoided pointing this out to Susan.

Two hours later they had landed at Ilheus, a small colonial town built during the boom years of the cocoa bean trade, when the world had discovered a taste for chocolate. After decades of decadence the town was now back in business, thanks to the discovery by aging ‘baby boomers’ on both sides of the Atlantic that dark chocolate – like red wine – is actually good for your health and can thus be pleasurably munched - or quaffed – guiltlessly and without any major nagging.

Another short ride of ten minutes in a chauffeured SUV along miles of deserted beach lined with coconut groves led to their five-star resort. Where there was nothing to do except relax, swim, sunbathe and talk about the rosiness of the future.

Chapter Two

You have a daughter? Susan sat up from the lodge couch and stared at James incredulously.

Their time together had not turned out as planned. It had rained on the first two days; Susan hadn’t brought her laptop and had finished all the books in her bags. The masseuses were far too heavy-handed in comparison with the ones she remembered from her trips to the Orient, and the horses for hire on the beach stank foully. The final straw was a lone mosquito in the bedroom that had kept her awake the night before with its incessant buzzing and had left lumpy red bite-marks on her arms.

It did leave them plenty of time to talk, though most of the conversation had tended to dwell more on the past than the future. Susan had told him lurid details of her past relationships – something he didn’t really want to hear - and she had plied him with questions about the women in his life – something he didn’t really want to tell. He had ended up confessing that a teenage (and rapidly broken) Los Angeles marriage during the filming of a B movie had resulted in a daughter, who had been brought up by her mother and, later, by her mother and step-father. James said that he hadn’t wanted to interfere with her up-bringing and that, after fame struck, they had thought it best for the girl to use her step-dad’s name. He had kept more or less in touch over the past eighteen years, and her mother had now agreed that he could pay for her med-school tuition in upstate New York.

But what’s her name? Asked Susan.

Zoe. Yes I know it’s terrible. But we were only kids ourselves. Everyone calls her ‘Zo’, like as in ‘go’.

No, I mean what’s her full name?

Well, we also agreed that this is something I should keep quiet about – for her own safety and privacy.

James thought this was a reasonable and fair answer and was not expecting a string of further questions, nor Susan’s insistence on knowing the girl’s surname. Like most guys, the more he was pressed the firmer his resolution to keep his word became. And like most women, this only helped to infuriate an already tired and irritated Susan.

I don’t know how you can imagine entering a long-term, trusting relationship if you are going to keep secrets from me… she said finally stalked out of the living area and locked herself into the bathroom for a good soak and sulk. A dull rumble of thunder made another early evening downpour look probable – something that also played havoc with his blackberry - so James decided to wander over to the main reception area and check out the DVDs in the hotel library and maybe get a beer.

He had chosen this hotel because of its privacy. It was hard to get to and set well off the highway in the middle of an enormous plantation of coconut palms, so the beaches were more or less private. He had also been influenced by the recent guest list that included a sprinkling of rock stars as well as a European Head of State and his glamorous wife. This had also been a lure to get Susan to come along, as there was a rumor (strongly denied by both parties) that James had had once had a brief ‘European-style affaire’ with the lady when she was only a minor celebrity. This struck a primal note of jealousy with Susan and perhaps, James thought ruefully, this was one of the reasons why she kept putting the place down.

There was a strong, salty breeze blowing off the sea through the coconut palms. He cheered up immediately: anyone brought up in the cold North-East corner of the States always feels good on a warm, tropical beach. He had been for a long jog in the afternoon and had finished with a swim in the sheltered water behind the reef, so he felt the pleasant stiffness of a good work-out in his limbs along with the glow brought by fresh air and sunlight. A cold beer was definitely looking good.

There were signposts everywhere and he followed a series of arrows to the Green Turtle Bar and found himself on a long and deep verandah equipped with glass-topped wicker tables and cane lounge chairs, separated by glass panels from an air conditioned and almost empty barroom, which was flanked by a bar made out of a single slab of dark, solid hardwood. He entered the bar through a glass door, carefully striped at eye-level in red tape to avoid guests walking into it rather than through it, feeling the air-conditioning chill the slight sweat raised by walking. He called the barman, raised a finger and asked in bad Spanish for una cerveza.

The man stopped polishing glasses, looked up and asked in English:

What kind of beer, Sir? Local or imported?

Local. Draught if you have it.

He was served a tall, frosted glass, took a long swig and made the really good circle sign with his thumb and forefinger. The barman sighed and said:

Please Sir, do not do this in our country. It is most… how you say…rude. It implies doing something which is not really anatomically feasible.

James raised the palm of his left hand as an apology then glanced at it before returning his eyes to the barman:

Is this gesture OK?

No problem, Sir.

James nodded slowly several times and made his way back to the verandah, finding a place with a good view of the late-afternoon beach. His mind blank he slowly drank the beer, hoping to recapture further down the glass the glorious taste of the first sip of the day.

This moment of quiet peace was broken by the noise of a fan. Not, unfortunately, one on the ceiling, but a fat and snuffling one on the ground and with a sweaty hand held out:

"Mr. Frazer, is it not? This is an honor