Pictures of You Read Free Page A

have—usually did have—his choice of any woman for his bedmate. Perhaps it was because Eva had resisted his advances, insisting that she would not become his lover until after
she became his wife. Perhaps it was her innocence, which may have lent a freshness and sense of vitality to his overly sophisticated, boringly chic circle. Perhaps it was a pathetic attempt at rebellion against the parents who had dominated his personal life for too many years and had made it clear from the start that Eva was, in her youth, naivete, and lack of social position, an unfit partner for their son.
    Whatever the reason, Eva knew beyond a doubt that she had failed miserably to meet the challenge. Further, she realized very quickly that her failure had little to do with ability but much to do with desire. It had been a two-way street; just as Stuart Jordenson had become disillusioned with her, she had become disillusioned with him. The one thing she so badly craved, particularly following the deaths of her parents, was love; it was the one thing Stu was completely unable and unwilling to give her. As the months passed and her hurt deepened, she turned away from him even on the rare occasions when he approached her, thus compounding the ill feeling each harbored within.
    If only she had tried harder. If only she had given more. If only she had demanded less. If only she had been able to convince Stu to slow down. But, as if to purposely contradict her presence, he had worked harder, played harder, even rested harder. A heart attack at the age of thirty-eight was not unheard of, but it was unusual. Eva sensed that in her heart she would blame herself for a long time to come, long after her mind became convinced of her innocence.
    Eva was brought abruptly back to the present by a sudden command from the driver. His English was quite good on the phrases commonly used in his line of work, but it deteriorated rapidly with any variation from the norm. He was diligent in telling her the names of the towns they passed—Curvelo, Corinto, Buenopolis—and
even attempted to tell her a little about each, most of which she had been unable to understand. This command, however, was in Portuguese, so she had no chance at all. His meaning soon became crystal clear, however, as the taxi negotiated the first of a series of hairpin turns, and Eva, belongings and all, ricocheted to the opposite door, which she held on to for dear life.
    As quickly as the stomach-wrenching, 180-degree turns had begun, they were left behind as the car proceeded to pass across the gold-flecked moorland. The road gradually gained altitude as they progressed northward, and although the air here was drier than that of Rio, or even of Belo Horizonte, Eva could feel the heat increasing.
    Aside from the charm of the towns, each tucked into its own niche on its own hillside, the landscape itself drew Eva’s attention. With her window rolled down to allow more air into the already warm taxi, she photographed the long grasses as they swayed with the breeze, blowing first one way and then the other, creating bold patterns on the surface of the upland plain. As the road gracefully undulated its way through another mountainous pass, she photographed the razor-sharp outline of the purple rocks silhouetted by the sun. A further turn of the road revealed a peaceful cluster of woodland growth whose trees were foliated with as great a variety as there was said to be among the Brazilians themselves. Many of the trees were flowered; Eva’s film would capture the golden yellow flowers of one, the mauve of another, the blue of yet another, before she placed the camera on the seat beside her and let her own eye take its turn to admire this natural beauty. Yes, it was beautiful, she had to concede. Her preconception of this country had been so wrong; no land which spawned such natural wealth, as rugged as it was at some points, could ever be called “Godforsaken.”

    Since it