‘Are you sure, Senhora Carvalho? Surely you only have to look at that portrait that hangs on the wall above the fire-place to see that Senhorita Maia isn’t here for some ulterior motive? She is not after money, but only wants to trace her family. Is that so wrong? Can you blame her for it?’
I glanced in the direction that Floriano had pointed and saw an oil painting of the woman I now knew to be Izabela Aires Cabral. This time there was no doubt in my mind. Even I could see I was the very image of her. ‘Izabela Aires Cabral was your mother,’ Floriano continued. ‘And you also had a daughter, Cristina, in 1956.’
The old woman sat, her lips pursed together in silence.
‘So you’re not prepared to even consider the chance that you may, in fact, have a granddaughter? I have to tell you, senhora, that proof of Senhorita D’Aplièse’s heritage is at this very moment being gathered by a friend of mine at the Museu da República. We’ll be back,’ Floriano promised.
The old woman continued to say nothing, not meeting Floriano’s gaze. Suddenly she winced in pain. ‘Please, leave me,’ she said, and I saw the agony in her eyes.
‘Enough,’ I whispered to Floriano desperately. ‘She’s sick, it’s not fair.’
Floriano acquiesced with a slight nod. ‘Adeus, Senhora Carvalho. I wish you a pleasant day.’
‘I’m so sorry, Senhora Carvalho,’ I said. ‘We won’t bother you again, I promise.’
Floriano turned tail and marched determinedly out of the room, with me following, embarrassed and near to tears, behind him.
We saw the maid was hovering in the hall and walked towards her.
‘Thank you for letting us in, senhora,’ said Floriano, as we followed her across the hall to the door.
‘Keep her talking,’ he whispered to me, ‘there’s something I want to see.’
As Floriano disappeared down the front steps, I turned to the maid, my face full of regret.
‘I’m so very sorry to have upset Senhora Carvalho. I promise that I won’t come back again without her permission.’
‘Senhora Carvalho is very ill, senhorita. She’s dying and has only a short time left, you see.’
As the maid hovered on the doorstep beside me, I sensed there was something else she wanted to say.
‘I just wanted to ask,’ I said as I pointed to the fountain that no longer played in the centre of the drive. ‘Were you ever here to see this house in its full glory?’
‘Yes, I was born here.’
I could see that she was reminiscing as she stared at the dilapidated structure with sadness in her eyes. Then she turned to me suddenly as, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Floriano disappear along the side of the house.
‘Senhorita,’ she whispered, ‘I have something for you.’
‘Excuse me?’ My thoughts had been temporarily diverted by Floriano’s disappearance, and I hadn’t heard what the maid had said.
‘I have something to give you. But please, if I entrust these to you, you must swear you will never tell Senhora Carvalho. She would never forgive me for my betrayal.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I understand completely.’
The maid drew a slim brown-paper package out of her white apron pocket and handed it to me.
‘Please, I beg you, tell no one I’ve given you these,’ she said, with a rasp in her voice. ‘They were passed down to me from my mother. She said they were part of the history of the Aires Cabral family and gave them to me for safekeeping just before she died.’
I stared at her in wonder. ‘Thank you,’ I breathed, glad to note that Floriano had now reappeared and was standing by the car. ‘But why?’ I asked her.
With a long, bony finger, she indicated the moonstone hanging on its slim gold chain around my neck. ‘I know who you are. Adeus.’ She scurried back inside the house and closed the front door.
Dazed, I stuffed the package into my handbag and descended the steps towards the car.
Floriano was already inside it and had the engine running. I climbed in and we set off at his usual fast pace down the drive.
‘Did you see the sculpture?’ I asked him.
‘Yes,’ he said as we drove off down the road and away from the house. ‘I’m sorry she refuses to acknowledge you, Maia, but my devious brain is now putting together the odd piece of the jigsaw puzzle. And I think I might understand her reticence. When we get back to the city, I’m going to drop you straight off at the hotel then go back to the Museu da República and the biblioteca. Shall I call you later with any news?’ he asked as we arrived at the hotel.
‘Yes please,’ I said, as I climbed out of the car.
With a wave, he drove off along the street and I took the lift upstairs to my suite. Closing my door and hanging the do not disturb sign on it, I walked to the bed and took out the package. Inside was a bundle of letters held tightly together with string. I put it on the bed, untied the knot and picked up the first envelope, which I saw had been split open meticulously with a paper knife. Studying the writing on the front, I saw all the letters were addressed to a ‘Senhorita Loen Fagundes’.
Painstakingly pulling out the letter inside, I felt the fragility of the tissue-thin paper beneath my fingers. I unfolded it and saw the address at the top was Paris and the date 30th March 1928. Checking through the next few letters I realised that the pile in front of me had not been put in any form of chronological order, as there were some letters sent in 1927 to Loen Fagundes at another address in Brazil. As I opened more of the envelopes, I saw the signature at the bottom of each of them was ‘Izabela’, the woman who may have been my great-grandmother . . . The maid’s words came back to me.
I know who you are . . .
My fingers touched the moonstone necklace. All I could guess was that it had come with me as some kind of keep-sake, perhaps from my mother, when Pa Salt had adopted me as a baby. He’d told me when he’d given it to me that there was an interesting story behind it. Perhaps he’d been subtly prompting me to ask him one day what it was; maybe at the time he hadn’t wished to unsettle me by speaking of a direct connection to my past. He’d been waiting for me to ask. And I wished now with all my heart that I had.
For the next hour, I ploughed through the letters – of which there must have been over thirty – and set them in a pile in date order.
I was itching to begin reading the immaculate, beautifully scripted writing. My mobile rang, and I heard Floriano’s voice on the other end of the line full of excitement.
‘Maia, I have news. Can I come over and see you in an hour?’
‘Would you mind if we met tomorrow morning? I think I may have picked up a stomach bug,’ I lied guiltily, wanting the rest of the day to read the letters.
‘Tomorrow at ten then?’
‘Yes. I’m sure I’ll be okay by then.’
‘If there’s anything you need, Maia, please call me.’
‘I will, thank you.’
‘No problem. Feel better,’ he said.
Switching off my mobile, I called down to room service to bring me two bottles of water and a club sandwich. Once they had arrived and I had distractedly wolfed down the contents, I picked up the first letter with trembling fingers and began to read . . .
Izabela
Rio de Janeiro
November 1927
13
Izabela Rosa Bonifacio was stirred from sleep by the scratchy pattering of tiny feet across the tiled floor. Sitting bolt upright, she looked down from her bed and saw the sagui staring up at her. In its hands – miniature, hairy facsimiles of her own – the monkey was holding her hairbrush. Bel couldn’t help but let out a giggle as the sagui continued to stare at her, its liquid black eyes pleading with her to allow it to escape with its new plaything.
‘So, you wish to brush your hair?’ she asked it as she slithered forwards on her stomach to the bottom of the bed. ‘Please’ – she held out a hand towards the monkey – ‘give it back to me. It’s mine, and Mãe will be so cross if you steal it from me.�
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The monkey inclined its head towards its escape route, and as Bel’s long, slim fingers reached out to swipe the hair-brush back, the creature leapt daintily onto the windowsill and disappeared from view.
With a sigh, Bel fell back onto the bed, knowing she’d receive yet another lecture from her parents about keeping her shutters closed at night for this very reason. The hair-brush had been mother-of-pearl, a christening gift from her paternal grandmother, and as she’d told the monkey, her mother would not be amused. Bel wriggled back upwards and laid her head on the pillows, harbouring the vain hope that the sagui might drop the brush in the garden in its flight back to its jungle home on the mountainside behind the house.
A faint breeze blew a wisp of her thick, dark hair across her forehead, bringing with it the delicate scents of the guava and lemon trees that grew in the garden below her window. Even though the clock by her bedside told her it was only half past six in the morning, already she could feel the heat of the day to come. She looked up and saw there was not a single wisp of cloud marring the rapidly lightening sky.
Loen, her maid, wouldn’t knock at her door for another hour to help her dress. Bel wondered whether she should finally pluck up the courage to creep out of the house while everyone slept and take a swim in the cool water of the magnificent blue-tiled swimming pool that Antonio, her father, had just had built in the garden.
The pool was Antonio’s latest acquisition and he was very proud of it, as one of the first of its kind in a private house in Rio. A month ago he had invited all his important friends to see it, and everyone had stood dutifully on the surrounding terrace and admired it. The men were attired in expensively tailored suits, the women in copies of the latest Paris designs bought from the exclusive stores of the Avenida Rio Branco.
Bel had thought at the time how ironic it was that not one of them had brought their bathing suit, and she too had stood fully clothed in the burning heat, fervently wishing she could strip off her formal dress and dive into the cool, clear water. In fact, to this day, Bel had never seen anyone actually use the pool. When she had asked if she could take a swim in it herself, her father had shaken his head.
‘No, querida, you cannot be seen in a bathing suit by all the servants. You must swim when they are not around.’
As the servants were always around, Bel had quickly realised that the pool was simply another ornament, a grand possession her father could show off to impress his friends. Another stop on his never-ending quest to achieve the social status he craved.
When she asked Mãe why Pai never seemed to be content with what he had when they lived in one of the most beautiful houses in Rio, dined often at the Copacabana Palace Hotel and even had a brand-new Ford motor car, her mother would shrug placidly.
‘It is simply because, no matter how many cars or farms he owns, he can never change his surname.’
During Bel’s seventeen years on earth, she had gleaned that Antonio was descended from Italian immigrants, who had arrived in Brazil to work on the many coffee farms on the verdant, fertile land surrounding the city of São Paulo. Antonio’s own father had been not only hard-working but clever, and he had saved hard to buy his own parcel of land and begin his own business.
By the time Antonio was old enough to take over, the coffee farm was thriving and he was able to buy three more. The profits had made their family rich, and when Bel was eight years old, her father had bought a beautiful old fazenda five hours’ drive outside Rio. It was the place she still thought of as her home. Tucked away high in the mountains, the large plantation house was tranquil and welcoming and contained Bel’s most precious memories. Free in those days to roam and ride across the estate’s two thousand hectares as she pleased, she had experienced an idyllic, carefree childhood.
However, although Antonio was now closer to Rio, this had still not been enough for him. She remembered having supper with her parents one night, and listening to her father explaining to her mother why they must one day move to the city itself.
‘Rio is the capital, the seat of all power in Brazil. And we must be a part of it.’
As Antonio’s business grew, so did his pot of gold. Three years ago, her father had arrived home and announced that he’d bought a house in Cosme Velho, one of the most exclusive districts in Rio.
‘So now the Portuguese aristocrats will no longer be able to ignore me because they will be our neighbours!’ Antonio had crowed as he’d thumped the table in triumph.
Bel and her mother had shared a horrified glance at the thought of leaving their mountain home and moving to the big city. However, her normally gentle mother was adamant that the Fazenda Santa Tereza must not be sold, so that at least there was sanctuary if they needed to escape the heat of a Rio summer.
‘Why, Mãe, why?’ Bel had wept later that evening as her mother had entered her room to kiss her goodnight. ‘I love it here. I don’t want to move to the city.’
‘Because it is not enough for your father to be as rich as any of the Portuguese nobility in Rio. He wishes to be their equal in society. And to gain their respect.’
‘But, Mãe, even I understand how the Portuguese in Rio look down on us Italian paulistas. Surely he will never achieve his aim?’
‘Well,’ her mother had said wearily, ‘Antonio has achieved everything he has wished for so far.’
‘But how will you and I know how to behave?’ she’d asked. ‘I have lived in the mountains for most of my life. We will never fit in as Pai wishes us to.’
‘Your father is already talking about us meeting with Senhora Nathalia Santos, a woman from Portuguese aristocracy whose family has fallen on hard times. She earns a living by teaching families such as ours how to conduct themselves in Rio society. And she can make introductions for them too.’
‘So we’re to be turned into dolls, who wear the best clothes and say the right things and use the right cutlery? I think I would rather die.’ Bel had made a choking noise to express her displeasure.
‘That is about right, yes,’ Carla had agreed, chuckling at her daughter’s assessment, her warm brown eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘And of course, Izabela, you, his beloved only daughter, are his goose who may lay the golden egg. You are already very beautiful, Bel, and your father thinks your looks will bring you a good marriage.’
Bel had looked up at her mother in horror. ‘I am to be used as currency by Pai to gain social acceptance? Well, I won’t do it!’ She’d rolled over and thumped her pillows with her fists.
Carla walked towards the bed and settled her rotund figure on the edge of it, patting her daughter’s rigid back with a plump hand. ‘It’s not as bad as it seems, querida,’ she comforted.
‘But I’m only fifteen! I want to marry for love, not for position. And besides, the Portuguese men are pale and scrawny and lazy. I prefer Italian men.’
‘Come now, Bel, you cannot say that. Every race has its mixture of good and bad. I’m sure your father will find someone that you like. Rio is a big city.’
‘I won’t go!’
Carla bent forwards and kissed her daughter’s shiny dark hair. ‘Well, I’ll say one thing for you, you have certainly inherited your father’s spirit. Goodnight, querida.’
That had been three years ago and not a single thought that Bel had uttered to her mother then had changed since. Her father was still ambitious, her mother still gentle, Rio society as unbending in its traditions as it had been two hundred years ago, and the Portuguese men still deeply unattractive.
And yet, their current house in Cosme Velho was spectacular. Its smooth ochre-coloured walls and tall sash windows housed beautifully proportioned rooms that had been completely redecorated to her father’s specifications. He had also insisted on installing every possible modern convenience, such as a telephone and upstairs bathrooms. Outside, the perfectly landscaped grounds could rival the splendour of Rio’s magnificent Botanical Gardens.
The house was named Mansão da Princesa after Princess Isabel, who
had once come to drink the waters of the Carioca River that ran through the grounds and were purported to have healing properties.
Yet despite the undeniable luxury of her surroundings, Bel found the brooding presence of Corcovado Mountain – which rose directly behind the house and towered over it – oppressive. She often found herself longing for the wide open spaces and fresh clear air of the mountains.
Since arriving in the city, Senhora Santos, her etiquette tutor, had become part of Bel’s daily life. She’d learned from her how to enter a room – shoulders back, head held high, float – and had the family trees of every important Portuguese family in Rio drummed into her head. And as she’d received instruction in French, piano, history of art, and European literature, Bel began to dream of travelling to the Old World herself.
The hardest part of her tutelage, however, was that Senhora Santos had insisted she forget the native language of her family which her mother had taught her from the crib. Bel still struggled to speak Portuguese without an Italian accent.
She often looked in the mirror and allowed herself a wry chuckle. For, whatever pains Nathalia Santos had taken to erase where she came from, her true heritage betrayed itself in her features. Her flawless skin, which up in the mountains had taken only a hint of sunshine to darken to a deep glowing bronze – Senhora Santos had warned her time and again to steer clear of the sun – was the perfect foil for the rich waves of dark hair and enormous brown eyes that spoke of passionate Tuscan nights in the hills of her true homeland.
Her full lips hinted at the sensuality of her nature, and her breasts protested daily when they were restrained inside a stiffly wired corset. As Loen tugged each morning at the back fastenings, endeavouring to tame the outward signs of femininity, Bel often felt that the constricting garment was the perfect metaphor for her own circumstances. She was like a wild animal, full of fire and passion, trapped in a cage.
She watched a tiny gecko run like a streak of lightning from one corner of the ceiling to the other and mused that, at any moment, it could make its getaway through the open window, just as the sagui had done. Whereas she would spend another day trussed up like a chicken ready to be placed in the burning heat of Rio’s social oven, learning to ignore her God-given nature and instead become the society lady her father wished her to be.
The Seven Sisters Page 12