Another city, another ocean. A child’s small hand taking hold of her finger. Another way, perhaps, to say beginning.
At the end of the line, two strapping young men put their shoulders to the back of the tram and pushed, rotating the car in a circle to head back the way it had come. They were surprised to see her emerge through the doors. Elizabeth bade them good day and crossed the road. The beach was very wide and gray, not at all like Copacabana, backed by dunes and scrub, deserted, with a cold wildness to it. The ocean was rough, forbidding.
Elizabeth removed her shoes and walked across the sand.
A mutt ran past, scouting the beach. He looked up at her hopefully and hesitated in case she might throw a morsel, then trotted on. Elizabeth came around a dune and nearly stumbled over two lovers who lay entangled on the slope. The lady in white did not distract them from one another. The wind was brisk. At the water’s edge it blew a cold spray into her face from the crests of breaking waves.
Tying the white skirt in a knot at her waist, Elizabeth waded into the water, so shockingly cold her feet were numb in seconds. Up to her knees, no farther. The undercurrent was very strong, threatening her balance. The retreating waves pulled at her and rapidly drew the sand from beneath her heels, like Yemanja’s clutch.
But Elizabeth did not rush her ritual. One by one she dropped the flowers into the water—lilies, hydrangeas, peonies, roses, even some daisies. She’d bought all the white flowers she could find in her neighborhood, from three different florists. As many as her arms could carry, though now, in the vastness of the sea, they appeared a paltry collection.
She would never know why. She would never know if there was anything she might have done to prevent it. Maybe Lota had planned it all; or else it could as easily have been an impulsive act. Maybe she’d actually had trouble getting to sleep that night and lost count of how many sleeping pills she’d taken from the vial. Or maybe, as Elizabeth suspected, she’d simply grown bored with her own fallibility, murderously bored. Lota had always been impatient. Finally, perhaps, too impatient to live.
The white flowers lay on a bed of foam. A wave rolled over them and nearly pulled Elizabeth under as well. But she braced herself and remained standing as the flowers began to resurface all around her. Then the current caught them and swept them swiftly toward the south.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While working on this novel, I found Elizabeth Bishop’s own writings to be an endless source of instruction and delight. In particular, her collected letters served as a constant guide to her life and work during her years in Brazil. I wish to acknowledge that in several instances I have used phrases from her letters, journals, and drafts in the text.
A number of other books also proved invaluable, among them: Remembering Elizabeth Bishop, An Oral Biography, by Gary Fountain and Peter Brazeau; When Brazil Was Modern, Guide to Architecture 1928-1960, by Lauro Cavalcanti; Rare and Commonplace Flowers,The Story of Elizabeth Bishop and Lota de Macedo Soares, by Carmen Oliveira; Conversations with Elizabeth Bishop, edited by George Monteiro; Elizabeth Bishop, Life and the Memory of It, by Brett C. Miller; and Carlos Lacerda, Brazilian Crusader, Volumes I and II, by John W.F. Dulles.
I am very grateful for the advice and encouragement of Carrie Avery, Jeanne Carstensen, Lisa Conrad, Bernard Cooper, Helen Humphreys, Julie Leavitt, Dean Rogers at Vassar’s Special Collections Library, and Sandra Vivanco for her insights on Lina Bo Bardi and Brazilian modernism. Many thanks also to Annie Tucker and Laura Mazer at Counterpoint.
Muito obrigado to the Brazilians: Ricardo Bandeira, Maria Teresa Camargo, Fernando Campana, Humberto Campana, Luiz Eduardo Mihich, Gustavo Motta, Rodrigo Murat, and Ayla Tiago de Melo.
I also wish to thank The Yaddo Corporation and The Escape to Create program in Seaside, Florida, where parts of this book were written.
Copyright © 2010 by Michael Sledge. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sledge, Michael, 1962-
The more I owe you : a novel / by Michael Sledge.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-582-43668-5
1. Bishop, Elizabeth, 1911-1979—Fiction. 2. Poets, American—20th century—Fiction. 3. Women poets, American—Fiction. 4. Soares, Lota de Macedo, 1910- 1967—Fiction. 5. Architects—Brazil—Fiction. 6. Women architects—Fiction. 7. Lesbian couples—Fiction. 8. Rio de Janeiro (Brazil)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.L43M67 2010
813’.6—dc22
2010003258
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