CURADO AND MARTA

After his arrest, Général Fourés was transferred to the São Jorge and then sailed to Rio de Janeiro.

The weather was clear, calm, and the Portuguese were respectful and attentive. In truth, they were in awe of his having served Bonaparte, having been in the man’s presence, having heard his voice and done his bidding. They were only one link away in the human chain (one!) from the greatest military leader since Alexander. Such proximity to fame was irresistible. They looked at Fourés as though Bonaparte might have been right there, standing just over his shoulder. They imagined them together, serious and plotting over maps in Bonaparte’s field tent, then laughing and sitting down to dinner: cognac and roast chicken.

The général could see all this. He was happy to inflate so few actual occasions to many. (It was time Bonaparte paid his due.)

In Rio de Janeiro, he was placed under house arrest on the top floor of a three-storey house not far from the monastery of Morro de São Bento. It was sparsely furnished but clean. The two small windows were barred, but there was a nice view of the harbour between the iron. Watching the ships come and go helped pass some of the hours. He was fed in the morning (bread, a small piece of cheese, a bowl of sweet milky coffee, brandy) and then again in the evening (black beans, rice, sometimes a piece of roast pork, bread, wine) and there was always a basket of fruit (bananas, mango, papaya and avocado; he gorged on the fruit, stunned by the gushing sweetness, the ecstasy of the taste). There was fresh water to wash with, even soap that smelled of lemons. And soon there was the field marshal, too, who helped the days pass quickly and more comfortably.

Joaquim Xavier Curado, Count of São João das Duas Barras, was a thin man with sharp cheekbones and a fine nose, sad hazel eyes and hair gone completely white. His boots were tall, right up to his knees, and polished to an extreme shine. He wore spurs with dainty rowels that sounded out a light ching like sleigh bells when he walked. Of Bonaparte, he couldn’t hear enough.

‘They say he only sleeps two hours a day?’

‘He doesn’t sleep at all,’ Fourés said.

‘And a week in the saddle, without stepping down?’

‘Even now he rides his horse through the halls of Versailles and pisses from the stirrups.’

‘You mock me, Général!’

‘I have seen it all with my own eyes.’

Curado always brought tobacco and brandy, and together they sat and talked through the evening heat. Fourés was grateful; afterwards, it was always easier for him to fall asleep, a little drunk and distracted from his predicament and loneliness.