‘And you, Senhorita Bel. I worry about you going across the sea without me. Please write to me often, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ Bel agreed. ‘I’ll tell you all the things I can’t speak of to my parents,’ she added with a conspiratorial smile. ‘So make sure you keep my letters hidden. I must leave now, but please write to me and tell me everything that happens here. Take care, Loen.’ She kissed her and left the room.
As Bel climbed into the car, she pondered on how even her maid seemed to be experiencing the one feeling she now knew for certain she’d be deprived of for the rest of her life: passion.
Both her parents accompanied her on board the ship in Rio’s main port, Pier Mauá. Carla glanced round the comfortable suite in awe.
‘Why, it’s just like a room on land,’ she said, walking to the bed and sitting down on it to test the mattress. ‘There are electric lights and even pretty curtains,’ she enthused.
‘Don’t tell me you expected Bel to travel by candlelight lying in a hammock on the deck?’ joked Antonio. ‘I can tell you that what this passage has cost warrants every modern convenience imaginable.’
For the thousandth time, Bel wished her father would desist from weighing everything by the amount of cash it had cost him. The ship’s bell rang out to alert all remaining non-passengers to its imminent departure and Bel hugged her mother to her. ‘Please take care, Mãe, until I’m back. You haven’t seemed yourself lately.’
‘Stop fussing, Bel. I’m just getting old, that is all,’ Carla insisted. ‘Now, look after yourself until you’re home safe with us again.’
As Carla released her daughter, Bel could see the tears brimming in her mother’s eyes.
Antonio then took her in his arms.
‘Goodbye, my princesa, and I hope that once you have seen the beauty of the Old World, you will still wish to come back home to your loving mother and father and your fiancé.’
Bel went upstairs with them to the deck and waved them goodbye as they set off down the gangplank. As they shrank to specks from her high vantage point, for the first time Bel experienced a rush of anxiety. She was travelling across the world with a family she hardly knew. And as the ship’s horn blasted the nerve endings in her ears, and the gap between vessel and shore began to widen, she waved frantically at them.
‘Adeus, my sweet mother and father. Keep safe, and God bless you both.’
Bel enjoyed the voyage, with its endless stream of entertainments for the well-heeled guests. Maria Elisa and she whiled the hours away swimming in the pool – a pleasure far sweeter because it had always been denied to her in Rio – and playing croquet on the artificial grass on the upper deck. The two girls giggled over the admiring glances of the many young men aboard as they entered the dining room every evening.
As an engaged girl, Bel’s large ring afforded protection from overly affectionate males emboldened by wine as they danced to the ship’s band after dinner. But Maria Elisa enjoyed a number of innocent flirtations, which Bel supported and lived through vicariously.
During the voyage, she came to know Maria Elisa’s family far better than she ever would have done in Rio, thrown together upon the ocean as they were. Maria Elisa’s two younger brothers, Carlos and Paulo, were fourteen and sixteen respectively, at the awkward stage between childhood and adulthood, with rough growth beginning to sprout on their chins. They rarely plucked up the courage to speak to Bel. Maria Elisa’s mother, Maria Georgiana, was an intelligent, sharp-eyed woman, who Bel soon learnt was prone to sudden bursts of anger if something didn’t suit her. She spent much of the day playing bridge in the elegant salon, while her husband rarely surfaced from his cabin.
‘What does your father do in there all day?’ questioned Bel of Maria Elisa one evening as they were nearing the Cape Verde islands off the coast of Africa, where the boat was docking for a few hours to pick up supplies.
‘He is working on his Cristo, of course,’ Maria Elisa had answered. ‘Mãe says she has lost the love of her husband to Our Lord, a person he has so often said he doesn’t believe in! Ironic, isn’t it?’
One afternoon, Bel knocked on the door of what she had thought was Maria Elisa’s cabin. Receiving no reply, she opened the door and called out for her. She immediately realised that she’d made a mistake, as a surprised Heitor da Silva Costa looked up at her from a desk covered with sheets of complex architectural calculations. Not only had they taken over the desk, but the bed and the floor too.
‘Senhorita Izabela, good afternoon. How can I help you?’
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, senhor. I was looking for Maria Elisa and I have simply come to the wrong cabin.’
‘Please, don’t worry. I myself become confused trying to find my way around. All the doors look the same,’ said Heitor with a comforting smile. ‘As to my daughter, you can try her cabin next door, but she could be anywhere on this ship – I confess to not keeping track of her whereabouts.’ He gestured towards the desk. ‘I have been distracted by other things.’
‘May I . . . may I see your drawings?’
‘You are interested?’ Heitor’s pale eyes lit up with pleasure.
‘Why yes! Everyone in Rio says it is a miracle that this statue will be built on top of such a high mountain.’
‘They are right. And as the Cristo cannot perform it Himself, I must.’ He smiled wearily. ‘Here,’ he beckoned her. ‘I will show you how I believe it can happen.’
Heitor indicated a chair for her to pull over, and for the next hour showed her how he would build a structure strong enough to support his Christ. ‘Iron girders, and a new innovation from Europe called reinforced concrete will fill His innards. You see, Bel, the Cristo is not a statue, He is simply a building dressed as a human being. He must withstand the harsh winds that circle around Him, the rain that will pound on His head. Not to mention the bolts of lightning that His Father in heaven sends down to us mortals here on earth to remind us of His power.’
Bel sat there in awe. Listening to the poetic yet detailed way Heitor spoke of his project was a pleasure and she felt honoured to be trusted with the information.
‘And now, when I reach Europe, I must find the sculptor who can breathe life into my outer vision of Him. The engineering of building His insides will not matter to a public who will only ever see His outer packaging.’ He looked up at her thoughtfully. ‘I think, senhorita, that is very common in life too. Do you not agree?’
‘Yes,’ Bel replied tentatively, having never thought of it before. ‘I suppose I do.’
‘For example,’ he elaborated, ‘you are a beautiful young woman, but do I know the soul inside you that fires you? And the answer is, of course, that no, I do not. So, I must find the right sculptor for the job, and return to Rio with the face, body and hands that His onlookers desire.’
That night, Bel climbed into bed feeling a little uncomfortable. Even though Heitor was old enough to be her father, she was embarrassed to admit she had developed a crush on Senhor da Silva Costa.
18
Six weeks after the steamer had left Rio, it docked gracefully at Le Havre. The da Silva Costa party duly boarded the train to Paris, where a car was waiting at the station to transfer them to an elegant apartment on the Avenue de Marigny just off the Champs-Élysées. The plan was to base the family there, near the office Heitor had rented in which to work and to meet the many experts he wished to consult with to finalise the structure of his Christ.
When he travelled to Italy and Germany to speak to two of the most renowned European sculptors of the day, the plan was for his family to travel with him.
But for the next week, Bel knew she could soak up Paris. After dinner that first night, she pulled up the sash window of the high-ceilinged room she shared with Maria Elisa and peered out, breathing in the new and very foreign smell, and shivering slightly in the cool evening air. It was early spring, which in Rio meant temperatures in the high seventies. Here in Paris, she surmised that it was barely in the fifties.
On the street below, she watched the Parisian women drifting along the pavement of the gracious boulevard, arm in arm with their beaux. They were all elegantly clad in the new, almost boyish fashion inspired by the house of Chanel, which featured simple, unstructured lines and knee-length skirts that were a world away from the formal corseted gowns Bel was used to.
She sighed and pulled her luxuriant hair out of its top-knot, wondering if she might dare to have it cut in the new short bobbed style. Her father, of course, would almost certainly disown her – he was always saying that her hair was her crowning glory. But here she was, thousands of miles away, and out of his grasp for the first time in her life.
A jolt of excitement shot through her and she craned her neck to the left where she could just see the twinkling lights of the Seine, the great river that flowed through Paris, and the Left Bank beyond. She had heard much talk of the Bohemian group of artists that populated the streets around Montmartre and Montparnasse; the models who were prepared to be painted naked by Picasso, and the poet Jean Cocteau, whose outrageous lifestyle, reputedly fuelled by opium, had even reached the gossip columns of Rio.
She knew from her art history lessons that the Left Bank had originally been the haunt of artists such as Degas, Cézanne and Monet. But these days, a new and far more daring set led by the Surrealists had taken over. Writers such as F. Scott Fitzgerald and his beautiful wife, Zelda, had been photographed at La Closerie des Lilas drinking absinthe with their famous Bohemian friends. From what she understood, the whole set ran fast and wild, drinking all day and dancing all night.
‘Time for bed, Bel. I’m exhausted from all the travelling.’ Maria Elisa broke into her thoughts as she entered the bedroom. ‘Please can you shut that window? It’s freezing in here.’
‘Of course.’ Bel pulled the sash down and went to the bathroom to put on her nightgown.
Ten minutes later, they lay side by side in their twin beds. ‘Goodness, Paris is so cold,’ said Maria Elisa, physically shivering as she pulled the sheets up to her chin. ‘Do you not think so?’
‘No, not really,’ Bel replied as she reached to switch off the bedside lamp. ‘Goodnight, Maria Elisa, sleep well.’
As Bel lay there in the dark, she was gripped by a restless anticipation of what this city, and the crowd across the river, whose lifestyles so excited her, could hold. And she felt very warm indeed.
Waking early the following morning, Bel was up and dressed by eight o’clock, so eager was she to go out and do nothing more than walk the streets of Paris, inhaling the atmosphere. Heitor was the only member of the family in the dining room when she arrived for breakfast.
‘Good morning, Izabela.’ He glanced up at her, pen in hand as he sipped his coffee. ‘Are you well?’
‘Yes, very well indeed. I’m not disturbing you, am I?’
‘No, not at all. I’m glad of the company. I was expecting to breakfast alone as my wife is complaining of a sleepless night due to the cold.’
‘Sadly, your daughter too,’ reported Bel. ‘She’s asked for the maid to take her breakfast to her in bed. She thinks she might have a chill.’
‘Well, from the look of you, it’s good to see that you’re not suffering from the same affliction,’ Heitor commented.
‘Oh, even if I had pneumonia this morning, I would still be up,’ she assured him as the maid poured her some coffee. ‘How can one feel sick in Paris?’ she added as she reached for an unusual horn-shaped pastry from a basket in the centre of the table.
‘That is a croissant,’ Heitor informed her as he saw her studying it. ‘Delicious eaten warm, with fruit confiture. I too love this city, although sadly I’ll have little time to explore while I’m here. I have many meetings to attend.’
‘With possible sculptors?’
‘Yes, which of course I’m excited about. Also, I have an appointment with an expert on reinforced concrete, which may not sound so romantic, but for me, it may provide the key to my project.’
‘Have you ever been to Montparnasse?’ Bel ventured as she bit into the sweet pastry and her taste buds offered their approval.
‘Yes, but not for many years. I went when I was a young man on my classical tour. So, the idea of the Left Bank and its . . . unusual inhabitants appeals to you?’
Bel saw Heitor’s eyes were twinkling. ‘Yes. I mean, it was the birthplace of some of the greatest artists of our generation. I like Picasso very much.’
‘So, you’re a Cubist?’
‘No, and no expert either. I simply enjoy great works of art,’ she clarified. ‘Since my art history instruction in Rio, I’ve become interested in the artists who produce them.’
‘Then no wonder you are eager to explore the Bohemian quarter. I warn you, senhorita, it’s very . . . decadent compared to Rio.’
‘I imagine it’s decadent compared to everywhere!’ Bel agreed. ‘They are living in a different way, trying out new ideas, pushing the world of art forwards . . .’
‘Yes, they are. However, if I decided to make Picasso’s style of painting my inspiration for the Cristo, I think I would have a problem,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘So, sadly, my search will not be leading me to Montparnasse. Now, I’m afraid I must be rude and leave you. I’m due at my first meeting in half an hour.’
‘I shall be quite content by myself,’ Bel replied, as she watched Heitor stand and gather up his papers and notebook.
‘Thank you for your company. I enjoy our conversations very much.’
‘As do I,’ Bel said shyly, as he gave her a nod and left the room.
Maria Elisa’s chill developed into a fever by lunchtime and the doctor was called. Her mother looked little better than her daughter, and both were prescribed aspirin and bed rest until the fever had passed. With all of Paris beckoning, Bel roamed the apartment like a caged animal, her frustration making her less sympathetic towards Maria Elisa than she knew she ought to be.
I am a terrible, selfish person, she scolded herself as she sat beside the window, longingly watching Paris living beneath her.
Finally, out of boredom, she agreed to play cards with Maria Elisa’s younger brothers, while the precious hours of her first day ticked by.
Due to the prolonged nature of Maria Georgiana’s and Maria Elisa’s illness, Bel’s impatience to be out and about grew apace. Towards the end of her first week, during which she had not once set foot on a Parisian boulevard, she plucked up her courage and asked Maria Georgiana whether she would permit her to take a walk in the street to breathe some fresh air. The answer, as expected, was no.
‘Certainly not unchaperoned, Izabela. And neither I nor Maria Elisa are currently well enough to accompany you. There’ll be plenty of time to see the sights of Paris when we return from Florence,’ Maria Georgiana said firmly.
Bel walked away from Maria Georgiana’s room wondering how she would manage to contain herself until they left for Florence. She felt like a starving prisoner, gazing through the iron bars of her cell at a box of chocolate delights, tantalisingly placed only a few millimetres from her reach.
It was Heitor who finally saved the day. For the past week they had met at breakfast, and although he was preoccupied, even he had noticed her forlorn solitariness.
‘Izabela, today I will visit Boulogne-Billancourt to meet the sculptor Professor Paul Landowski. We have already talked by letter and on the telephone, but I will go to his atelier for him to show me where and how he works. He is my current favourite for the commission, although I still have other sculptors to meet in Italy and Germany. Would you like to accompany me?’
‘I . . . I would be honoured, senhor. But I worry that I might get in the way.’
‘I am certain that you will not. I understand that you must be bored by your incarceration here, and while I speak to Professor Landowski, I’m sure we can find one of his assistants to show you round his atelier.’
‘Senhor da Silva Costa, I can’t think of anything I’d like more,’ Bel said fervently.
‘Well, don’t think of it as too much of a favour,’ responded Heitor. ‘After all, your future father-in-law is a member of the Catholic Circle, instrumental in promoting the idea of a monument on the top of Corcovado and organising fund-raising to build it. It would be a grave embarrassment to return you to Rio and tell him I have failed to introduce you to the cultural riches of the Old World. So,’ Heitor said, smiling at her, ‘we leave at eleven.’
As they drove over the Pont de l’Alma and onto the Left Bank, Bel peered eagerly out of the window, as though she expected Picasso himself to be sitting at a street café as they passed by.
‘Landowski’s atelier is some distance from here,’ said Heitor. ‘I think he’s less interested in drinking with his cronies in the streets of Montparnasse and more inspired by his work. And, of course, he has a family, which is not something easily accommodated on the Left Bank.’
‘His surname doesn’t sound French,’ said Bel, a little disappointed that Landowski was not part of the circle she craved to discover.
‘No, he comes from Polish ancestors, although I believe his family has lived in France for seventy-five years. Perhaps his temperament doesn’t suit the more outlandish vagaries of some of his contemporaries. However, he does embrace the new Art Deco style, which is becoming prominent in Europe. I think this may well prove very suitable for my Christ.’
‘Art Deco?’ questioned Bel. ‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘Hmm . . . how can I explain the style?’ Heitor murmured to himself. ‘Well, it’s as if anything you might see in the everyday world, like a table, or a gown, or even a human being, gets stripped down to its basic lines. It isn’t fanciful or romantic in the classical style of many of the great artists and sculptors of the past. It is simple, raw . . . as I believe Christ Himself wished to be seen.’
As they drove on, the landscape became more rural, the built-up city giving way to occasional clusters of houses along the roadside. Bel couldn’t help thinking how ironic it was that the moment she’d actually managed to escape the apartment, she was being driven away from the pulsating heart of the city she so longed to explore.
The Seven Sisters Page 17