The Seven Sisters

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You look much better. How are you feeling?’

  He nodded at her, and she knew he understood.

  ‘I’m leaving France the day after tomorrow, to return to my home in Brazil.’ Bel pulled a small notebook and a pencil from the purse she carried with her, and scribbled in it. ‘If you ever need anything, please contact me. Here is my name and my parents’ address.’ She ripped the sheet of paper from the notebook and handed it to the boy, watching as he read it, mouthing the words carefully. Digging once more into her purse, she brought out a twenty-franc note. Pressing it into his small hands, she leaned forward and kissed him on the top of his head.

  ‘Goodbye, querido, and good luck.’

  Later, when Bel looked back on her time in Paris, one of the things she would remember vividly was the long, sleepless nights. As Maria Elisa slumbered contentedly in her bed, Bel would tweak the curtains open a fraction and sit on the window seat watching the Paris streets below her, dreaming of the delights outside.

  This particular night, as she sat with her hot forehead pressed against the cool glass, was the longest of them all. And the questions she asked herself were ones that would determine her future.

  When the dark night ended and her decision was made, she crept desolately back to bed as a grey dawn seeped through the gap in the curtains, echoing her mood.

  ‘I have come to say goodbye,’ she said as Laurent’s look of hope disintegrated and fell like dust into the stony ground below him. ‘I cannot betray my parents. You must understand why.’

  He looked down at his feet. With effort, he said, ‘I understand.’

  ‘And now, it’s best that I go. Thank you for coming to meet me, and I wish you all the joy and happiness that life can offer. I’m sure that one day I will hear of you and your sculptures again. And I am sure they will be talked about with reverence.’

  Bel stood up, every single muscle in her body taut with the tension of holding her emotions in check, and reached up to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Goodbye, Laurent, and God bless you.’

  Then she began to walk away from him.

  A few seconds later, she felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘Bel, please, if you ever change your mind, know that I am waiting for you. Au revoir, my love.’ And then he turned and ran swiftly across the grass in the opposite direction.

  26

  Somehow Bel got through the following twenty-four hours and the special dinner that had been prepared for her by the da Silva Costas.

  ‘Sadly, we won’t be there to celebrate with you on your wedding day,’ Heitor said as the family toasted her with champagne. ‘But we want to wish you and your fiancé all the happiness in the world.’

  After dinner, they presented her with a beautiful Limoges china coffee pot and a set of cups, to remind her of the time she had spent in France. And as the family dispersed from the table, Heitor smiled at Bel.

  ‘Are you happy to be going home, Izabela?’

  ‘I am looking forward to seeing my family. And my fiancé, of course,’ she added quickly. ‘But I will miss Paris very much.’

  ‘Perhaps one day, when you see the Cristo monument on the top of Corcovado Mountain, you will tell your children how you came to be present as it was created.’

  ‘Yes, I feel honoured that I have been,’ Bel agreed. ‘How are you progressing with it?’

  ‘As you know, Landowski has almost finished the four-metre model, and now I must find somewhere to go which has room for me and my draftsmen to enlarge the scale to thirty metres. Landowski will begin work next week on the full-sized head and the hands. He told me when I last saw him that he had had Senhor Brouilly take casts of both your and Senhorita Lopes de Almeida’s hands as possible prototypes. Who knows,’ Heitor said, ‘one day, those elegant fingers of yours may end up casting benediction on Rio from the top of Corcovado Mountain.’

  Maria Georgiana insisted on coming with Maria Elisa to see Bel safely aboard her ship home. Thankfully, as soon as Bel had been installed in her cabin, she left the two girls alone for a few minutes as she bustled off to check arrangements with the purser. ‘Be happy, dearest Izabela,’ Maria Elisa said, kissing Bel goodbye.

  ‘I will try,’ she agreed, as her friend watched her face carefully.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, I . . . suppose I’m simply nervous about my wedding,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, write to me, and tell me all about it, and I will see you when I too am home in Rio. Bel, I . . .’

  ‘What is it?’

  The ship’s bell rang out to give a thirty-minute warning.

  ‘Remember this time in Paris, but please, try to embrace your future with Gustavo too.’

  Bel stared at Maria Elisa and knew instinctively what she was saying to her.

  ‘I will, I promise.’

  Maria Georgiana reappeared in the cabin. ‘The purser had a crowd of guests around him so I could not speak to him in person, but make sure that you introduce yourself to him. He already knows you’re a woman travelling alone, and I’m sure he will provide someone suitable as a chaperone.’

  ‘I will, I assure you. Goodbye, Senhora da Silva Costa. Thank you for all your kindness.’

  ‘And you must swear to me that you won’t set foot off this ship until you dock safely at Pier Mauá,’ she added. ‘The moment you’re delivered safely to your parents, I would appreciate a telegram.’

  ‘I assure you I will do so the second I arrive home.’

  Bel followed them up onto the deck to say her final goodbyes. Once they had left, she went to lean on the railings. She looked out over the port of Le Havre, knowing it was her last glimpse of France.

  Somewhere to the south lay Paris, and somewhere in it was Laurent. The ship began to move smoothly out of its berth, and Bel stood there gazing at the shoreline until it finally melted into the horizon.

  ‘Goodbye, my love, goodbye,’ she whispered. And, consumed by utter misery, she walked down to her cabin.

  Bel took her supper in her room that evening, unable to face the jolly atmosphere of the dining room, full of happy occupants looking forward to the voyage. She lay on her bed, feeling the gentle rocking of the ship, and, as night fell, watched her porthole become as black as her heart.

  She’d wondered whether, when she left terra firma, and the ship and her life were pointed towards home, the dreadful pain in her heart would begin to ease. After all, she would see her beloved mother and father and be back in the familiarity of her own country.

  Plans were already well underway for the wedding day itself and Antonio had written in a state of high excitement, saying they were to be married in Rio’s beautiful cathedral, an honour only rarely bestowed.

  But try as she might, as the ship moved further and further away from Laurent, her heart felt as heavy as the stone boulders that sat at the back of Landowski’s atelier.

  ‘Blessed Virgin,’ she prayed, as tears spilled down her face and onto her pillow. ‘Give me the strength to live without him, for at this very moment, I don’t know how I can bear it.’

  Maia

  June 2007

  Full Moon

  13; 49; 44

  27

  When I’d finished reading the last letter, I saw that it was past midnight. Izabela Bonifacio was on board the steamer, facing the return to a man she did not love and leaving Laurent Brouilly behind.

  L a u . . .

  With excitement coursing through my veins, I realised I now knew the origin of the first three letters on the back of the soapstone tile; Laurent, Bel’s secret love. And the sculpture of the woman on the chair in the garden of the Casa must surely be the very one that Bel had sat for during those heady days in Paris? Though how it had made its way across the sea to Brazil, I had no idea.

  Tomorrow, I would not only reread the letters – I’d been so eager to discover the story I knew I hadn’t taken in the detail – but also look up Monsieur Laurent Brouilly on the internet. His name certainly rang a bell.
But for now, exhausted, I removed my clothes, pulled the sheet around me and fell asleep with my hand still resting on my history.

  I was awoken by a harsh jangling noise, and it took my dis-oriented senses a few seconds to compute that it was the telephone by the bed making the discordant sound. Reaching over to the side table, I put the receiver to my ear and muttered, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Maia, it’s Floriano. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m . . . better,’ I said, immediately feeling guilty for the lie I’d told him the night before.

  ‘Good. Are you up to meeting today? I have a lot to tell you.’

  And I you, I thought, but didn’t say. ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘The weather is beautiful, so let’s take a walk along the beach. Shall I see you at eleven in the lobby downstairs?’

  ‘Yes, but please, Floriano, if you have other things to do, I—’

  ‘Maia, I’m a novelist, and any diversion that gives me an excuse not to sit down at my desk and write is always a welcome one. See you in an hour.’

  Ordering breakfast from room service, I reread the first few letters in order to have them clearer in my mind. Then, seeing the time, took a fast shower and presented myself in the lobby promptly at eleven.

  Floriano was already waiting for me, sitting reading a page from a bulging plastic wallet that sat on his lap.

  ‘Morning,’ I greeted him.

  ‘Morning,’ he replied, glancing up at me. ‘You look well.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said, sitting down next to him and deciding to tell him the truth immediately. ‘Floriano, it wasn’t just my stomach that kept me in my room last night. Yara, the elderly maid, handed me a package just before we left the Casa yesterday,’ I confessed. ‘And swore me to secrecy.’

  ‘I see.’ Floriano raised an eyebrow at my news. ‘And what did this package contain?’

  ‘Letters, written by Izabela Bonifacio to her maid at the time. A woman called Loen Fagundes. She was Yara’s mother.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the letters yesterday. I just wanted to read them through before I did. And swear to me you won’t breathe a word about them to anyone else. Yara was terrified of Senhora Carvalho finding out that she’d given the letters to me.’

  ‘Of course. No problem. I understand.’ He nodded sagely. ‘After all, it’s your family history, not mine. And I think you’re someone who always finds it difficult to trust. I’m sure you have many other secrets you keep to yourself. So, do you want to share the content of the letters with me or not? It is up to you and I won’t be at all offended if you say no.’

  ‘Yes, of course I’m happy to share them,’ I confirmed, discomfited by his incisive assessment of me, which mirrored the essence of what Pa had said in his letter.

  ‘Then we walk and talk at the same time.’

  I followed Floriano out of the lobby and together we crossed the road onto the wide promenade that fronted the beach. Its many kiosks, which sold fresh coconut water, beer and snacks to beach-goers, were already busy with customers.

  ‘We will walk up to Copacabana and I shall show you where your great-grandmother had her grand wedding.’

  ‘And her eighteenth birthday party,’ I added.

  ‘Yes, I have some photos of that too taken from the newspaper archives in the biblioteca. So,’ he suggested, ‘if you’re comfortable doing so, Maia, tell me all you have discovered.’

  As we strolled along Ipanema Beach, I told him in as much detail as I could what I had learned from the letters.

  When we arrived at what Floriano told me was Copacabana Beach, we walked as far as the famous Copacabana Palace Hotel. Newly refurbished and completely unmissable, it gleamed bright white in the sunshine, one of the most iconic jewels in Rio’s architectural crown.

  ‘It’s certainly impressive,’ I said, gazing up at the facade. ‘I can see why this would have been the obvious choice for Bel and Gustavo’s wedding. I can just imagine her standing there in her beautiful wedding dress, being feted by the great and the good of Rio.’

  The morning sun was very strong now, so we took two stools under a shady umbrella at one of the beach kiosks. He ordered a beer for himself and a coconut water for me.

  ‘The first thing to tell you is that my friend in the UV imaging department of the Museu da República has confirmed the two names on the back of the soapstone tile. He’s still working on the date and the inscription, but the names are definitely “Izabela Aires Cabral” and “Laurent Brouilly". Of course, thanks to the letters, we both now know irrefutably who Bel’s amour in Paris was. He went on to become a very well-known sculptor back in France. Here.’ Floriano pulled some pages out of his plastic wallet and handed them to me. ‘These are some of his works.’

  I looked at the grainy images of Laurent Brouilly’s sculptures. They were mostly simple human shapes, similar to the one I’d seen in the garden of A Casa das Orquídeas. And a large number of men clad in old-fashioned soldiers’ uniforms.

  ‘He made his name as a sculptor during the Second World War, in which he also fought as part of the Resistance,’ Floriano clarified. ‘His page on Wikipedia says he was honoured for bravery. Definitely a very interesting man. Here, this is a photograph of him. You might notice that he was certainly not unattractive,’ he added.

  I studied Laurent’s handsome face. With his strong features, chiselled jaw and razor-sharp cheekbones, he looked distinctly Gallic.

  ‘And here are Gustavo and Izabela on their wedding day.’

  I stared at the photograph, bypassing Izabela to look at Gustavo first. The contrast with Laurent could not have been more marked. His insubstantial physique, coupled with his small and pointed features, made me understand why Bel and Maria Elisa had likened him to a ferret. But I could see there was kindness in his eyes.

  Then I glanced at Izabela, her features so like my own. And was about to put the photo down, when I noticed the necklace she was wearing.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look.’ I indicated what Floriano should concentrate on in the photograph, my fingers instinctively clasping the moonstone around my own neck.

  He studied both the picture and me carefully. ‘Yes, Maia. It seems they are one and the same.’

  ‘That was the reason Yara gave me the letters. She said she recognised the necklace.’

  ‘So now you finally believe you are related to the Aires Cabrals?’ He smiled at me.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I said, genuinely convinced for the first time. ‘It’s irrefutable proof,’ I agreed.

  ‘You must be happy.’

  ‘I am, but . . .’ I put the pages down and sighed. Floriano lit a cigarette and stared at me.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘She left the man she loved in France to marry Gustavo Aires Cabral, whom she didn’t. It’s very sad.’

  ‘You are a romantic, Maia?’

  ‘No, but if you’d read the letters Izabela wrote to her maid about her love for Laurent Brouilly, you couldn’t help but be moved by the story.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll allow me to do that very soon.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Although, perhaps Izabela’s feelings for Laurent were just a crush and nothing more.’

  ‘True,’ he agreed. ‘But if so, why did your father give you that soapstone tile as a clue to your history? It would have been far simpler to have included a photograph of Izabela and her husband.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I sighed. ‘And maybe I never will. I mean, I have no more letters after October 1928, when she left Paris and returned to Rio. So, I have to presume that she married Gustavo and settled down with him here.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t think that was the whole story,’ Floriano said, producing another photocopied picture and passing it across to me. ‘That was taken in January 1929. It shows the plaster mould of the Cristo’s head just after it had been taken off the ship that had brought it across from France. Tha
t strange-looking object next to it is actually a giant-sized palm of a hand. There are two men in this picture. One of them I recognise as Heitor Levy, the project manager for the construction of the Cristo. Now look closely at the other man.’ Floriano indicated the figure with his finger.

  I stared at the features of the man leaning against the Cristo’s hand. I double checked it against the image Floriano had handed me only minutes earlier.

  ‘My God, it’s Laurent Brouilly!’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘So he was here in Rio?’

  ‘So it seems. I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to surmise that he was over here from France because of the Cristo project.’

  ‘And perhaps to see Izabela?’ I queried.

  ‘As an historian, one should never make such assumptions, especially as you’ve only read about Izabela’s feelings towards Laurent. We can’t be sure of how he felt about her,’ Floriano reminded me.

  ‘True. But in her letters, she talks about sitting in Paul Landowski’s studio for the sculpture that now stands in the gardens of A Casa das Orquídeas. She also tells Loen, her maid, that Laurent begged her to stay in France and not to return to Brazil. I wonder if he followed her here . . . But how do we discover whether they did meet again after he arrived in Rio?’

  ‘We ask your friend Yara, the maid,’ shrugged Floriano. ‘If she gave you those letters, I think it’s safe to say that, for whatever reason, she wants you to know the truth.’

  ‘But she’s terrified of her mistress. Giving me the letters is one thing, but speaking to me about what else she knows about my own heritage is another.’

  ‘Maia,’ Floriano said firmly, ‘stop being so defeatist. She’s already trusted you enough to hand over the letters. Now, how about we walk back to your hotel and I read them?’

  ‘Okay,’ I agreed.