‘But I have no proof to show the old woman that I’m anything to do with her family,’ I reminded him.
‘Well, we can’t be sure of that yet. Or, in fact, of anything until we have completed a proper investigation,’ said Floriano. ‘Firstly, it’s very easy for me to trace their history through birth, marriage and death records. With a Catholic family as prominent as theirs, I’m sure the records would have been kept meticulously. And then we need to try to decipher the names on the tile, and see if they match the names of any of the Aires Cabrals.’
I was feeling woozy and jet-lagged now after the beer and my early morning wake-up. ‘Is it worth it?’ I asked him. ‘Even if the names did match, I doubt the old woman would admit to anything.’
‘One step at a time, Maia. And please, try not to be so defeatist. You have flown all the way to Rio to discover your history and you can’t give up after a day. So, with your approval, while you go back to your hotel and take a nap, I will play detective. Yes?’
‘Really, Floriano, I don’t wish to put you to any trouble.’
‘Trouble? To an historian like me, this is a gift! But I warn you, parts of it may end up in my next book,’ he replied with a smile. ‘Now, may I take this with me?’ He indicated the tile. ‘I might pop into the Museu da República to see if any of my friends are around in the lab with their magic UV imaging equipment. They can almost certainly help me decipher the inscription on the back of the tile.’
‘Of course,’ I agreed, feeling it would be churlish to refuse. I suddenly noticed two young women in their twenties hovering shyly behind Floriano.
‘Excuse me, but are you Senhor Floriano Quintelas?’ asked one of the girls, drawing closer to the table.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘We just wanted to say how much we loved your book. And can we please ask for your autograph?’ The girl offered Floriano a small diary and a pen.
‘Of course,’ he smiled as he signed the diary, then chatted easily to the girls. They eventually walked away, blushing in pleasure.
‘So, you’re famous?’ I teased him as we rose from the table.
‘In Rio, yes,’ he shrugged. ‘My book was a bestseller here, but only because I paid people to read it,’ he joked. ‘Many other countries have bought it for translation and will publish it in the next year. So we will wait and see if I am able to give up my profession as a tour guide and write full-time.’
‘Well, I thought it was a beautiful, moving book and I think it will do very well indeed.’
‘Thank you, Maia,’ he said. ‘Now, your hotel is close by,’ he added as he pointed out the direction. ‘And I want to get going before the various departments I need at the Museu da República are closed for the day. Shall I meet you in your hotel lobby tonight at around seven o’clock? I might have some answers for you by then.’
‘Yes, if you have the time.’
‘I do. Tchau.’
He waved goodbye, and I watched him walk purposefully down the street. As I turned in the opposite direction, I realised this man – historian, writer, celebrity and occasional tour guide – was a human being who was full of surprises.
11
‘So . . .’
I could see Floriano was brimming with excitement a few hours later as we took the lift to the terrace bar on the top floor of the hotel. ‘I have news for you. And as it is good news, I believe this is the moment for you to indulge in your very first caipirinha.’
‘Okay,’ I said, as we took a table at the front of the terrace, and I watched the sun setting over the beach, gently lowering itself behind the Twin Brothers mountains as a balmy dusk began to fall.
‘Here.’ He handed me a sheet from a plastic wallet. ‘Take a look at that. It is a list of every recorded birth, marriage and death in the Aires Cabral family since 1850.’
I glanced down at the list of names, still unable to believe they held any relevance to me.
‘So, you will see there that Gustavo Aires Cabral married Izabela Bonifacio in January 1929. They then had a baby girl in April 1930 called Beatriz Luiza. There is no death certificate recorded for her, so we should presume for now that she is the old woman you met at the house yesterday.’
‘And did she have any children?’ I ventured.
‘Yes, she did. She married Evandro Carvalho in 1951 and they too gave birth to a baby girl by the name of Cristina Izabela in 1956.’
‘Carvalho was the old woman’s surname! I heard her maid call her that. And Cristina? What happened to her?’
‘That’s where the line seems to end, as far as any recorded births or deaths in Rio are concerned,’ Floriano continued. ‘I can find no further records regarding any child that Cristina may have given birth to. But then we don’t know the surname of the father, or indeed, whether she ever married. Sadly, the office was closing and I didn’t have time to cross-check everything.’
‘So . . . if I am related to this family, and it’s a big “if”, then Cristina is the obvious candidate to be my mother,’ I said quietly as my drink arrived. ‘Saúde,’ I said, toasting Floriano and taking a healthy slug of the cocktail, nearly choking as the potent, bitter liquid slid down my throat.
Floriano chuckled at my discomfort. ‘Sorry, I should have warned you that it is strong,’ he said, sipping his own caipirinha as if it was water. ‘I also ran across to the Museu da República and asked my friend to take a quick look at the inscription on the back of the tile with his special UV machine. The only thing he could tell me for certain is that the first name on the tile is “Izabela". Who, from the records I found, would technically be your great-grandmother.’
‘And the other name on the tile?’
‘That’s much more faded and my friend is running further tests. Although he has made out the first three letters.’
‘And are they the first three letters of my possible great-grandfather, Gustavo Aires Cabral?’ I queried.
‘No, they aren’t. Here, he’s written down for you what he’s deciphered so far.’ Floriano passed me another sheet of paper from the plastic wallet.
I studied them. ‘L a u . . . ?’ I looked at him askance.
‘Give Stephano another twenty-four hours and I’m sure he’ll have deciphered the rest of the name. He’s the best, I promise. Want another one?’ he asked me, indicating my caipirinha.
‘No thanks. I think I’ll have a glass of white wine instead.’
After Floriano had ordered further drinks for both of us, he stared at me intently.
‘What is it?’ I asked him.
‘I have something else to show you, Maia. And if it isn’t ultimate proof that you are indeed related to the Aires Cabrals, I don’t know what is. Are you ready for this?’
‘It’s nothing awful, is it?’ I asked him apprehensively.
‘No. I think it’s something very beautiful. Here.’ Another piece of paper was passed across to me. This time, the entirety of it taken up with a grainy photograph of a woman’s face.
‘Who is she?’
‘Izabela Aires Cabral, whose first name is on the back of your tile, and who may well be your great-grandmother. Surely, Maia,’ he encouraged, ‘you must see the resemblance?’
I stared at the woman’s features. And yes, even I could see my own face mirrored there. ‘Perhaps,’ I shrugged.
‘Maia, it’s uncanny,’ Floriano stated categorically. ‘And I can tell you that there’s a lot more where that came from. There’s an entire archive of Izabela’s photographs from old newspapers, which I accessed on microfiche in the Biblioteca Nacional do Brasil. She was thought at the time to be one of the most beautiful women in Brazil. She married Gustavo Aires Cabral at the cathedral here in Rio in January 1929. It was the society wedding of the year.’
‘Of course, it could simply be coincidence,’ I said, feeling uncomfortable at Floriano’s implicit comparison between me and the society beauty of her day. ‘But . . .’
‘Yes?’ he said, eager for me to continue.
�
��When I was at A Casa das Orquídeas, I noticed a sculpture sitting in the corner of the terrace. It stuck out because it was so unusual and not the kind of thing you’d normally expect to find in a garden. It was of a woman sitting on a chair. And looking at this photograph, I’m sure it was the same woman. And yes, at the time I remember thinking that she looked familiar.’
‘Because she looks like you!’ he said, as the waitress took the drinks from her tray and placed them on the table. ‘Well, I feel that we’ve already made some progress.’
‘And I’m very grateful, Floriano, but I still don’t think the old woman I met yesterday wishes to tell me anything, or would ever acknowledge me. Why should she? Wouldn’t you behave the same in the circumstances?’ I challenged him.
‘Admittedly, if a complete stranger walked into my garden, even if she did bear an uncanny resemblance to my mother, and then announced she’d been told she belonged to my family, I would indeed view her with suspicion,’ Floriano agreed soberly.
‘So, where do we go from here?’ I asked him.
‘Back to see her. I think I should accompany you. It will help give you some gravitas when she hears my name.’
I couldn’t help a wry smile at Floriano’s total conviction that the old woman would know who he was. South Americans, I’d noticed, seemed to have a refreshingly unabashed openness and honesty about their own gifts and achievements.
‘I also want to see that sculpture you mentioned, Maia,’ Floriano continued. ‘Would you mind if I came with you?’
‘Not at all. You’ve been so good helping me with all of this.’
‘I can assure you, it’s been a pleasure. After all, you are the spitting image of one of the most beautiful women Brazil ever produced.’
I blushed, feeling uncomfortable at the compliment. My cynical mind turned immediately to whether he’d expect favours in return for his help. Casual sex was the norm these days, I knew, but not something I could ever contemplate.
‘Excuse me,’ he said as his mobile rang and he spoke in fast Portuguese to someone he called ‘querida’. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’ He looked at me and sighed. ‘Sadly, I have to leave you,’ he said, draining his caipirinha. ‘Petra, the girl I live with, has managed yet again to lose her key.’ He rolled his eyes and signalled for the bill.
‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘this is on me, as a thank you for all your help.’
‘Then I say thank you too.’ He nodded graciously. ‘What time should I collect you tomorrow?’
‘Whenever suits you. I have no plans.’
‘Then I suggest ten thirty, before Senhora Beatriz Carvalho has lunch and an afternoon nap. Don’t get up,’ he said as he rose from his chair. ‘Stay here and finish your wine. Until tomorrow, Maia. Tchau?
He walked away from me, nodding easily at the waitress who was staring at him with a look of appreciative recognition. I sipped my wine, feeling ridiculous that, just for a moment, I’d imagined he would want to sleep with me.
But, just like everybody else, he had his own life. Well, I thought as I lifted my wine glass to my lips, perhaps I was about to find mine.
12
Floriano arrived promptly in the lobby of the hotel the following morning and we took off in his red Fiat. He weaved through the incessant traffic confidently, as I caught my breath at the near misses.
‘Where do you come from?’ I asked him, to take my mind off his terrifying driving. ‘Are you a true Brazilian?’
‘And what do you think is a true Brazilian?’ he asked me. ‘There is no such thing. We are a race made up of half-breeds, different nationalities, creeds and colours. The only “real” Brazilians were the original nativos that the Portuguese began murdering after they arrived here five hundred years ago, claiming the riches of our country for themselves. And many more who didn’t die a bloody death succumbed to the diseases the settlers brought with them. To cut a long family history short, my mother is descended from the Portuguese and my father is Italian. There’s no such thing as a pure bloodline here in Brazil.’
I was learning fast about the country that might have produced me. ‘So what about the Aires Cabrals?’
‘Well, interestingly, they were pure Portuguese, until Izabela, your potential great-grandmother, arrived on the scene. Her father was a very rich man of Italian extraction, who, like many at the time, had made a fortune from coffee. And reading between the lines, I presume that the Aires Cabrals had fallen on hard times, like so many of the lazy, aristocratic families had. Izabela was very beautiful and from a wealthy family, and so one can only presume a deal was struck.’
‘So it’s fair to say your conclusions are supposition rather than fact at this point?’ I asked him.
‘One hundred per cent supposition. Which, apart from dates and the odd letter and diary, is always the case when one is first investigating an historical situation,’ Floriano qualified. ‘Nothing can ever be certain, because the voices one must hear from to confirm the story definitively are no longer with us. As an historian, you have to learn to put the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle together to create the whole picture.’
‘Yes. I suppose you’re right,’ I mused, understanding what he meant.
‘Of course, with the age of the internet and everything now recorded on it, history and the research of it will change. We are entering a new era where there will be fewer secrets, fewer mysteries that need to be uncovered. Thank God I’m also a novelist, because Mister Wikipedia and his friends have usurped my position as an historian. My memoirs when I’m old will be worthless; my story will be there for all to see on the web.’
I thought about this as Floriano – without even asking me to point him in the right direction – turned into the drive of A Casa das Orquídeas.
‘How did you know exactly where it was?’ I asked in amazement as he parked confidently in front of the house.
‘My dear Maia, your potential long-lost family is famous in Rio. Every historian knows this house. It is one of the few remnants left of a lost era. So,’ he said, switching off the engine and turning to me. ‘Ready to go?’
‘Yes.’
With Floriano leading the way, we approached the house and walked up the front steps.
‘The bell doesn’t work,’ I told him.
‘Then I will knock.’
And so he did. Loudly, as if to wake the dead. Receiving no response within thirty seconds, Floriano banged on the door again, even harder this time, which brought the sound of feet running on tiles towards it from the inside. I then heard bolts being drawn back and locks turned. Finally, the door was pulled open and I saw the grey-haired African maid whom I’d encountered on my last visit standing on the threshold of the house. As soon as she saw me, her features contracted in recognition and panic.
‘Sorry for disturbing you, senhora, but my name is Floriano Quintelas. I am a friend of Senhorita D’Aplièse. I can assure you we do not wish to disturb or unsettle your mistress. However, we have some information that we think may well be interesting to her. I am a well-respected historian and also a novelist.’
‘I know who you are, Senhor Quintelas,’ the maid said, keeping her eyes on me. ‘Senhora Carvalho is taking coffee in the morning room, but as I’ve already informed your friend, she is a very sick woman.’
As I listened to the formal way in which the maid spoke, I wanted to giggle. It was as if she was acting in a second-rate Victorian melodrama.
‘Why don’t we come in with you and explain to Senhora Carvalho who we are?’ Floriano suggested. ‘And then, if she feels she is not up to a conversation with us, I promise we’ll go away.’
Floriano already had a foot over the threshold, which forced the flustered maid to back up and lead us both into a grand tiled entrance hall, with a sweeping curved staircase rising to the floors above. An elegant mahogany pedestal table sat in the centre of the floor and an imposing long-cased clock was positioned against one wall. Under the curve of the stairs, I coul
d see a long narrow corridor running off the hall, which clearly led to the back of the house.
‘Please be so kind as to lead the way,’ Floriano invited the maid, adopting her formal tone.
She paused hesitantly, as though weighing something in her mind. Then she nodded to us and headed for the corridor, with the two of us following in her wake. However, as we all arrived outside a door towards the end of the dim passageway, the maid turned to us. And this time I could see she was adamant we would not gain entry until she had spoken to her mistress.
‘Wait here,’ she said firmly.
As the maid knocked and then entered the room, closing the door in our faces, I turned to Floriano.
‘She’s simply an old, sick lady. Is it right to upset her?’
‘No, Maia, but equally, is it fair that she may be refusing to divulge the details of your true parentage? That woman behind the door may well be your grandmother. Her daughter, your mother. Do you really care if we are disturbing her morning routine for a few minutes?’
The maid emerged from the room. ‘She will see you for five minutes. No more.’ Again I felt her glance at me closely as we walked into a dark room that smelt musty and damp. The decor clearly hadn’t been altered for decades and, as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I noticed the thread-bare oriental rug beneath our feet and the limp, faded damask curtains that hung at the window. However, the general shabbiness was offset by the beautiful antique furniture of rose-wood and walnut, and the magnificent chandelier suspended overhead.
Senhora Carvalho was sitting in a high-backed velvet chair, a blanket across her knees. A jug of water and numerous pill bottles were sitting on the side table beside her.
‘You’re back,’ she said.
‘Please forgive Senhorita D’Aplièse for bothering you further,’ began Floriano. ‘But you can imagine that for her, finding her family is a serious business. And she will not be deflected.’
‘Senhor Quintelas,’ the old woman sighed, ‘I told your friend yesterday that I cannot help her.’
The Seven Sisters Page 11