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True to his words, Leo didn’t try anything during the next two days. We spent the entire weekend together. We worked on Argus, we helped Jimmy, we got the riding classes ready, and we helped them when they were back.
Jimmy barbecued for us on Saturday evening—Leo insisted on putting a fillet on the grill.
“It’s a gaúcho thing,” he said.
Jimmy made a face at Leo, and he explained people who are born in the south of Brazil are called gaúcho.
I got a dose of my whiskey on the rocks to go with the barbecue, and offered them drinks. Jimmy had a beer, and Leo refused them all and grabbed a soda. I found it odd that a guy his age was refusing alcohol, but I didn’t dwell on it.
The next day, Leo made us lunch—something called carreteiro—in which he used the leftover fillet from the barbec
