She turned to her companion, but Lota continued gazing directly ahead, as if deliberately posing herself for study, jutting her chin forward, her alert eyes focused on the horizon. Look at me, know who I am. I am the world’s conqueror. And yours. There was something about this formidable woman that was at the same time comical. The nose was a bit too large for her face, the lips succulent to the point of savagery. That striking streak of white in the black hair. At times Lota’s face was plain, at others it shimmered into a beauty that caused Elizabeth’s breath to catch. There was also a quality to it that was nearly cruel. Around the eyes, perhaps, and in the way she held her mouth.
Elizabeth hadn’t come here looking for a love affair. Quite the opposite. As the Bowplate had departed New York harbor, leaving that awful year behind, she’d felt at peace, for once, with the prospect of being alone. Just to be, to think, to work. But she could not deny the power of her attraction to Lota, so elemental it seemed to originate in her molecules. Truly, she’d never felt anything approaching this. Not merely physical desire—it was the desire to launch herself toward, to leap with the entirety of her being into the space between them, not knowing what might catch her fall. Was that love? Or even the beginnings of love?
Her previous love affairs had all taken root in a sameness of mind and opinion that had, in Elizabeth’s understanding, been essential to form any attachment. With Marjorie, and with Tom as well, she’d held the same ideas on books, on aesthetics and morals; they’d laughed at the same jokes, enjoyed the same people, found the same ones insufferable. It was as though she’d needed to align herself with another who was similar in every way in order to bolster a weakness in herself, had drawn close to others out of the need to make herself stronger, safer. She hadn’t begun to understand until now that need might be distinct from desire.
Lota was a different species altogether. She was alien to Elizabeth in a way inexplicable even by their different cultures and backgrounds. Say Mary didn’t exist, say Elizabeth abandoned all reason and threw in her lot with Lota. She had a clear premonition that she would never truly know Lota, that Lota would forever remain outside of her understanding. And yet this very gulf excited her. The question of safety was moot. She wanted to make the leap. The odd thing was that for the first time in her life, she felt capable of performing such acrobatics. Or at least capable of the attempt.
“Talk to me a little,” Elizabeth said.
“What would you like to hear, my heart?”
“Something about you. Not about architecture or books. We’ve talked enough of those.”
“A confession?”
“Or personal history. Or a wish of some sort. Anything to help me know you better.”
Apparently, everything Elizabeth said amused Lota. “Very well. I will tell you a personal history. And a wish of some sort. About a girl who thought she could do anything. She wanted to work, to have her own business, to study to be an architect, but her father said that was no life for a woman. What kind of woman wanted to live in the world of men? Besides, she was too ugly, too graceless. If she was lucky, he said, she might hope to follow the example of her beautiful sister and marry.”
Mary had told Elizabeth about Lota’s estranged father, the editor of an important newspaper. Elizabeth thought it a luxury beyond imagining to have a parent, still living, with whom you’d chosen to have no ties. “He actually said such awful things to you?”
“Many things more awful than those. What can you do in that situation but fight, as you would against any dictator? So I decided to become a painter. I believed I would be a great painter.”
“You never told me you painted. I would love to see what you’ve done.”
“I studied for years. That’s how I know many of the people who have risen to prominence in the arts. All this was twenty years ago. I had some talent. It is hard to say now how much talent, or how far I might have gone.”
“You stopped? I can’t picture you giving up on anything.”
“My father disparaged me, as in every endeavor. He enjoyed saying how I would never be good enough. He implied as a painter, but he meant as a human being. He could be very cruel, and I wasn’t strong enough to stand up to him. Not strong enough inside, though of course we screamed at each other constantly. So I dropped my painting. Still, it is ironic that I have always had much greater ambitions for myself than he ever had for me. I believe he was very angry that I was not a son, that he had no male heir. But I’ve always felt confident I would show my father that a daughter can accomplish as much as a son, or more.”
“I don’t doubt that you will. You’re the most impressive woman I’ve ever known. And you can still paint,” Elizabeth added hopefully, as though that were the point.
Lota was gazing at her intently. “You will stay here in Brazil, Elizabeechy. With me.”
Beyond Lota, the boy approached, bearing a green coconut as large as his head. The top had been sheared off by a machete, and two straws stuck out, as from a malt at a soda shoppe. Elizabeth took a sip of the coconut milk, cold and sweet, then could not stop drinking until nearly half of it was gone. She hadn’t realized she was so intensely thirsty.
“Something is happening between us, something rare,” Lota said quietly. “I recognized it at once. Life is giving us an opportunity we have no choice but to take.”
“But Lota, you know it’s not that clean.”
“We were both wandering lost, and now we’ve found one another.”
“You weren’t lost,” Elizabeth insisted. “You have Mary.”
“It started in New York. I knew it even then, five years ago. I knew it the first moment I saw you at the modern art museum, and I knew it two days later when you came to my house for dinner. If you tell me that you did not feel it too, then you are being untruthful, with me and with yourself.”
“Of course I felt it. I did feel it. But Lota, there’s something you must understand. I am a sickly person. I’m sick in my body and my heart. I drink. I drink so much that more than once I’ve had to put myself in the hospital. Often I can hardly breathe because of the asthma I’ve had ever since I was a child. I can’t breathe and I feel as though I’m dying. I’m not normal. I’m allergic to everything, and I can’t love anyone. A few people have tried to love me, but I couldn’t return their feeling. Honestly, I wanted to. I tried extremely hard. Something in me is simply dried up.”
Lota placed a hand on Elizabeth’s leg. She looked out to sea and her lips drew into a smile, as if every word Elizabeth spoke were in concordance with her own feeling.
“I told you about my mother to warn you off,” Elizabeth said.
“I think you told me in order to invite me in.” She took Elizabeth’s hand, petting her palm as if it held something of rare value. “I know that you are capable of love. I felt it in the apartment, a moment ago. But you are afraid. You are simply saying that you have no ties.”
Elizabeth had to laugh. “That’s true. I have absolutely no ties. Not a tie in the world.” She squeezed Lota’s hand and dropped it. “But you do.”
“You’re right,” Lota said. “It would be false to say I have no ties. But Mary and I, we are . . .” She shrugged. “We have become friends more than we are lovers.”
LOTA’S LIPS WERE upon her face, on her eyes and neck. Lota was kissing her hands, her arthritic, worried knuckles. Lota was unbuttoning her blouse, bringing her close. The afflictions of the body—the asthma, the dyspepsia, the hangovers, the inflammations and rashes without apparent cause—Elizabeth had always borne upon her two stocky legs like a mule with a pack. But the body was not solely a burden.
As they kissed, Elizabeth’s hands began again to rove, unembarrassed. To run through Lota’s hair, to take Lota’s hair in her fist and tug until she cried out. Lota’s skin was a marvel, soft and silken, like a rose petal, and the color of a rose, pale beige with a suffusion of pink. She wished her hands were those of a giantess, to touch all of Lota at once. In bed, there were those who liked t
o be knocked around and those who liked to do the knocking. She’d sensed that the two of them would make the right match, and she was not disappointed. She found herself voracious; she would leave nothing but Lota’s bones. But Lota had her own ideas. Her body pinned Elizabeth’s; one hand held her wrist, the other slid below. A sickly body and heart might still exclaim, At last, to feel! Yet the pleasure of sex meant to converge with sorrow; Elizabeth felt herself on the cusp of weeping. She wanted to weep, she wanted her heart to be punctured.
Later, as Lota held her and slept, Elizabeth realized that she had not wept. She was unable to slip into peaceful dreams, as Lota had; she felt as though she’d indulged in the appetite for drink. To prevent her mind from churning and turning on itself, she left Lota’s arms and retrieved the famous blanket off the floor. She returned to her place at the window overlooking the ocean. The maid appeared to have vacated the premises; Elizabeth wondered if she’d been told to scram. Evening was falling. In the twilight, the number of men on the beach had multiplied tenfold; they were enjoying themselves immensely. Maybe she’d take up football herself. In spite of the complications, Elizabeth thought how immensely sane she felt. This was what she’d imagined without believing it might be possible, this connection with another person, man or woman, this excitement and ease, this strength, this sex.
When Lota joined her and asked why she was smiling, she said, “I didn’t believe I would ever feel this. I’d given up hoping. If I ever hoped for it in the first place.”
Lota said nothing. She turned Elizabeth back to face the window and put her arms around her waist. On tiptoe, she rested her chin upon Elizabeth’s shoulder. They looked oceanward together until darkness fell and the stars appeared.
WHATEVER BUSINESS HAD summoned Lota from the mountains, actual or fabricated, was forgotten.
“You’ll come back with me to Samambaia,” Lota said in the morning.
“Are you mad?”
“You’ll come.”
Elizabeth went to her bedroom and took down her travel bag from the shelf in the closet. She hardly knew what she was doing, but Lota did, and that would have to be enough.
In an alabaster bowl on the kitchen counter lay the two cashews Elizabeth had bought with Pearl several days earlier. It felt closer to centuries, another lifetime ago—another Elizabeth. Pearl would be so disappointed in her. She picked up one of the suggestive fruits and considered it, then took a bite, immediately spitting it into her hand. Pearl was right. The cashew was much too sour to abide.
Only once during the drive did Elizabeth break the silence. Passing a park in Botafogo on their way out of the city, she saw one of the trees with the strange red flowers and asked if Lota was familiar with it, though they’d sped past too quickly for Lota to see.
“That must be an abrico de macaco,” she said. “It comes from the Amazon. The landscape architect Burle Marx uses it in his gardens. He loves it, but many people don’t like the tree at all. The fruits fall to the ground and break open, and the stink is terrible. Nuts of monkey? I don’t know how to say the name in English. The monkey nuts tree?”
Elizabeth caught the edge of hysteria in her own laugh. That’s me, monkey nuts!
On the winding road to Petropolis, they did not speak, not about modernism or the construction of houses or antique bird jails or fine how-do-you-dos. They did not speak about what they were doing or about what would happen when they arrived. The strangeness of their actions settled into Elizabeth’s body as a physical unease. With every mile closer to Petropolis, the greater was her understanding that her life was about to change course, but at the expense of someone else. Of another heart.
They left the city behind, and then, ascending, they left the world behind.
In Samambaia, Elizabeth shut herself in the kitchen and prepared dinner with Maria the cook. Maria engaged her in a conversation about painting with local soils; she herself did so, drying the soils on the stove and making portraits of saints in beautiful, natural colors. When the meal was served, Elizabeth left Maria’s company with reluctance and took her place at the table. Polite chat with Mary and Lota was torture. She had no hunger for the food. Exhaustion penetrated to her soul; it was a mistake to have come here. She should have had the strength to refuse, to take time to think. Lota was discussing plumbing fixtures with Mary. Elizabeth excused herself from the table and went to her room, where she attempted to read. Her mind couldn’t attend to the book; her eyes kept falling shut. Her face, as well as her hands, began to itch, then to burn. The skin around her eyes began to swell, it was hard to the touch. At last she understood that something was wrong with her, something physical. She was ill. Controlling her panic, she returned to the dining room, where Lota and Mary broke from their conversation and looked up at her. Mary put a hand to her mouth. Lota stood and came rushing around the table. Elizabeth turned to the mirror and saw that she had become monstrous.
10
On New Year’s, Elizabeth heard the fireworks on the beach and the roars of celebrants, but it seemed to happen in a feverish dream. She was inflamed from head to toe. Her eyes were swollen shut, and she was completely blind.
Lota shepherded out of the room the visitors whom she’d invited, to Elizabeth’s horror, to view the patient’s peeling, scabby face and hands. Then she sat by the bed and offered her own diagnosis:
“What is it when a toenail goes inside? Turns on itself and causes pain? Oh, yes, ingrown. Encravado means ingrown. And tesao is a word that means life, passion for life. Some give it dirty meanings, but that’s not what it is. It is an excitement for life. It is yes instead of no. I know what has made you so sick. It is tesão encravado, ingrown tesão. And I also know the cure.”
Lota held a hand so tender, it felt as though it had passed through fire, but Elizabeth did not pull away.
LOTA AND MARY unpacked some of the boxes they’d brought from Rio. The kitchen was nearly dark, lighted by the candles and oil lamps they’d placed among the rooms. The house was so clean and pure, Lota had recently considered keeping it completely free of objects so as not to break the lines. She’d come close to suggesting this to Mary but then laughed at herself to even think of doing so. Of course, it was an entirely impractical idea, and Mary would never sacrifice practicality for beauty. And the house was beautiful, beyond beautiful; it fulfilled her best imaginings, even when her eye snagged on the fault covered over with a patch of cement or on an imperfect joint in the roof.
They were back in the house now after the interruption caused by Elizabeth’s illness. She’d really given them a scare, especially at first, when they’d rushed her back to the city not knowing what was wrong with her, if she was truly as close to perishing as she constantly claimed. And to think: the cashew! Dona Elizabeechy’s extreme allergy was certainly unusual, the doctor said, but this sort of reaction to caju was not unheard of. Even some Brazilians responded in such a way. But she was much improved, and the doctor had agreed that moving her back to Samambaia would help her recovery rather than hinder it.
Elizabeth seems much better, Lota said.
Mary laughed. Sorry, I don’t mean to be heartless, but this would only happen to her.
The doctor said it is uncommon but can be quite severe. Even dangerous.
I know, Lota, I was standing there when he said it. I’m just saying, next thing, she’ll have a reaction to black beans, or to rain. Mary unwrapped a drinking glass from its paper, set it into the sink to wash.
It was time to tell Mary.
I’ve asked Elizabeth to stay in Brazil, Lota said.
Mary took another glass from the packing crate.
Did you hear what I said?
You mean you’ve asked her to stay here with you.
Yes, that is what I mean.
Has she accepted?
She will.
How convenient that you have two houses. One for the wife and one for the mistress.
Do not be bitter, Morsie.
Mary unwrapped the glass a
nd held it in both hands. And have you made love to her?
I have.
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I saw it coming from the instant she arrived. When you have something in your sights, you don’t stop until you get what you want.
Yes, Morsie, you’re right. I don’t.
Mary threw the glass into the sink with all her might, where it shattered among half a dozen other glasses. Then leave this house and go to her, she shouted. Leave me. Get away from me.
When Mary was angry, she was very fine. No one approached her.
Please don’t get upset, my flower. Lota drew close to reassure her, but she did not try to hold Mary. She knew Mary would not allow herself to be touched. Our life together continues. It changes, but it continues. This is not the end.
She’s a drunk and a hypochondriac! Everyone knows that.
She’s a genius.
Mary began to sob openly. She did not attempt to hide her grief or to cover her face with her hands.
You know that it has been a long time since there was passion between us. I did not seek to find it with someone else, but it has come to me and I can’t turn away from it.
But we’ve just finished our house. We’ve worked on it for so long.
It was wrenching to be so near a loved one with a broken heart and not be able to soothe her with a caress. Worse still that she was the cause of Mary’s suffering. She stayed with Mary as she wept, her own heart aching.
Yet she could not deny her excitement.
She picked her way down the slope in the dark. She brushed away her own tears before she entered the house where Elizabeth was sleeping. Lota stroked her swollen face until Elizabeth opened her eyes, which gleamed in the blackness.
The More I Owe You Page 8