Whatever his wife might or might not have done, there was no apparent benefit to himself if he declared that he knew and threw her out. She would obviously run to Brouilly in Paris and that would be the end of their marriage.
Other women in society had affairs, he rationalised. And other men, he thought, as he recalled a particular peccadillo of his father’s, whom he’d once met at a charity dance. The woman had made it obvious there was more between the two of them than simply friendship.
Ultimately, it would give him more satisfaction to return home and tell his mother he had investigated the situation and found not a shred of substance than it would to confront Izabela with the letter.
Gustavo looked at the waves pounding relentlessly against the fragile softness of the sand and sighed in resignation.
Whatever she had done, he loved her still.
Taking the letter from his pocket, he walked nearer to the shore, tore the page into pieces and threw them into the air, watching them flutter like miniature kites before they fell towards earth and disappeared into the sea.
45
Paris, December 1929
‘So, Brouilly, you’re back in one piece.’ Landowski eyed him as Laurent walked into his atelier. ‘I had written you off for good, thinking you’d joined some Amazonian tribe and married the chief’s daughter.’
‘Yes, I’m back,’ Laurent agreed. ‘Is there still a place for me here?’
Landowski turned his attention from the enormous stone head of Sun Yat-sen and studied his erstwhile assistant. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, turning to the young boy, who had grown and filled out since Laurent had last set eyes on him. ‘What do you think? Have we work for him here?’
Laurent felt the boy’s eyes on him. Then he turned to Landowski, and with a smile, he nodded.
‘So, the boy says yes. And from what I can see, it seems there’s not much left of you and that it is your turn to require feeding up. Was it dysentery or love?’ Landowski asked him.
Laurent could only shrug miserably.
‘I believe your smock is still on the hook where you left it. Go and put it on and come and help me with that eyeball you worked so hard on before you left us for the jungle.’
‘Yes, professor.’ Laurent made to move towards the hooks by the door.
‘And Brouilly?’
‘Yes, professor?’
‘I am sure that you will be able to pour all your recent experiences – good and bad – into your sculpture. You were technically competent before you left. Now, you have the ability to be a master. One must always suffer to achieve greatness. Do you understand me?’ Landowski asked him gently.
‘Yes, professor,’ Laurent replied with a catch in his voice. ‘I do.’
Later that evening, Laurent sighed and wiped his hands on his smock. Landowski had left the atelier to return next door to his wife and children hours ago. As he made his way by candlelight towards the kitchen to wash the clay from his hands, he stopped suddenly in his tracks. From somewhere close by, he could hear the faint but exquisite sound of a violin. The violinist was playing the mournful first few bars of The Dying Swan.
His hands paralysed under the tap, Laurent felt tears he still had not shed prick his eyes. And there, in the tiny kitchen, which was the place he’d watched Izabela care so tenderly for a suffering child and known then that he loved her, Laurent wept. For him, for her, for all that could have been, but never would be now.
As the music drew to its poignant finale, he dried his eyes roughly on a cloth, and walked out of the kitchen in search of the musician who had allowed him to break the dam that had sat inside him ever since Loen had delivered the soapstone tile from Izabela in Rio.
The tune on the violin had changed and he could now hear the haunting melody of Grieg’s Morning Mood, evoking – as it always had for him – a sense of a new day and new beginnings. Comforted somewhat, he followed his ears and took his candle, making his way outside into the garden, then held it up to illuminate the player.
The young boy was sitting on the bench outside the atelier. In his hands was a battered fiddle. But the sound coming from the instrument belied its shabby appearance. It was pure, sweet and extraordinary.
‘Where did you learn to play like that?’ he asked the boy in astonishment when the piece had ended.
As usual, he received only a piercing gaze in return.
‘Who gave you the fiddle? Landowski?’
His question elicited a nod.
Recalling Landowski’s words, Laurent surveyed the boy carefully. ‘I see,’ he said quietly, ‘that like any artist, you speak through your craft. Truly, you have a gift. Treasure it, won’t you?’
The boy nodded, and gave him a sudden smile of gratitude. Laurent placed a hand on his shoulder, and, with a small wave of goodbye, he wandered off to further contemplate his own misery in the bars of Montparnasse.
Maia
July 2007
Last Quarter
16; 54; 44
46
I stared at Yara as she finally lapsed into silence, then looked up at the portrait of Izabela that hung on the wall above the fireplace, thinking of the dreadful decision my great-grandmother had been forced to make. I simply had no idea what I would have done in the circumstances. Even though we’d lived at different times, in different cultures, the underlying dilemmas had not changed at all, especially for women . . .
‘So did Gustavo ever mention what he had discovered to Bel?’ I asked Yara.
‘No, never. But even though he may not have outwardly spoken the words, my mother always said she could see the pain in his eyes. Especially when he looked at his daughter.’
‘Senhora Carvalho? Her first name is Beatriz, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I myself remember Senhor Gustavo once entering the drawing room when the two of us were ten or eleven. He stared at his daughter for a long time, almost as though she was a stranger. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I think now that perhaps he was trying to decide whether she could possibly be his blood. Senhora Beatriz was born with green eyes, you see, which my mother once said were reminiscent of Senhor Laurent’s.’
‘So your mother suspected that he was Beatriz’s natural father?’
‘When she told me the story before she died, she said she had never been in any doubt,’ Yara explained. ‘According to her, Senhora Beatriz was the image of Senhor Brouilly and she also had artistic talents. She was only just in her teens when she painted that portrait of Izabela.’ Yara pointed to the painting. ‘I remember her saying that she wanted to do it in memory of her poor dead mother.’
‘Izabela died while Beatriz was still a child?’
‘Yes,’ Yara nodded. ‘We were both eighteen months old and it was just when the Cristo was being blessed and inaugurated on Corcovado Mountain in 1931. There was an outbreak of yellow fever in Rio and Senhora Beatriz and I were confined to the house. But of course, Senhora Izabela insisted on going to watch the Cristo ceremony. Given her history, it obviously meant a lot to her. Three days later, she went down with the fever and never recovered. She was only twenty-one.’
My heart contracted at the thought of it. Even though Floriano had shown me the birth and death dates from the register, I hadn’t taken them in at the time. ‘After all that turmoil and tragedy, to die so young,’ I said, a catch in my voice.
‘Yes. But . . . forgive me, Lord, for saying so’ – Yara crossed herself – ‘the only blessing was that the fever also took Senhora Luiza a few days later. They were interred together in the family mausoleum at a joint funeral.’
‘My God, poor Bel, destined to lie next to that woman for all eternity,’ I murmured.
‘And it left her little girl without a mother, living in a household of men,’ Yara continued. ‘From what I have said, you can understand how distraught her father was after the death of his wife. He still loved her, you see, despite everything. And as you might imagine from what I’ve told you, Senhor Gustavo took comfort in the bottl
e and sank deeper and deeper into himself. Senhor Maurício did his best with his granddaughter – he was always a kind man, especially after his own wife died – and at least he organised a tutor to come in to give Senhora Beatriz lessons, which was more than her father could manage.’
‘Were you living here in the Casa at the time?’ I asked.
‘Yes. When my mother told Senhora Izabela that she too was pregnant and requested a transfer to the fazenda to be with my father, Izabela could not bear to let her go. So instead she arranged for Bruno, my father, to come here and work as a handyman and driver for the family, as Jorge was close to retirement. This was my childhood home too,’ Yara mused. ‘And I think that it holds much happier memories for me than it does for my mistress.’
‘I’m surprised that Gustavo agreed to Izabela’s request that Loen stay here. After all, she was the only other person who knew the truth,’ I queried.
‘Perhaps he felt he had to agree.’ Yara’s eyes were knowing. ‘With the secret they shared, each held power over the other, whether or not they were master and servant.’
‘So you grew up with Beatriz?’
‘Yes, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she grew up with us. She spent more time in our little house – which Senhora Izabela insisted be built for my parents and me at the bottom of the garden here – than she did in the Casa. And my family became the closest thing she had to one of her own. She was such a sweet little girl, affectionate and loving. But so lonely,’ Yara added sadly. ‘Her father was too drunk to know whether she was there at all. Or maybe he ignored her because she was a constant reminder of the doubts he always harboured in his mind about his dead wife. It was something of a blessing that he died when Senhora Beatriz was seventeen. She inherited the house and the family stocks and shares. Up until then, Senhor Gustavo had refused to let her pursue her passion for art, but when he passed on, there was nothing to stop her,’ Yara explained.
‘I can understand why Gustavo wasn’t supportive of his daughter’s creative ability. It must have rubbed salt into an already open wound. Actually, Yara, I can’t help but feel sympathy for him,’ I admitted.
‘He wasn’t a bad man, Senhorita Maia, just weak,’ Yara agreed. ‘So when Beatriz turned eighteen, she told her grandfather she was going to Paris to enrol at the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts, just as she knew her mother had done before her. She stayed in Paris for over five years, only returning to Rio when she heard that Maurício, her grandfather, had died. I think she had many adventures,’ smiled Yara wistfully. ‘And I was happy for her.’
The picture Yara was painting of the woman I had met five days ago here in the garden was so different from the one I had conjured up in my mind. I realised I had imagined her to be far more like Luiza. But perhaps that was simply because she was old and had been so determined not to acknowledge me.
‘And what happened to Antonio?’ I asked.
‘Oh, he recovered, as my mother always thought he would,’ Yara said with a smile. ‘He went to live at the Fazenda Santa Tereza, and with the small amount of money he’d been handed by Gustavo to start again, he bought a tomato farm. You might remember I told you before that they are the financial mainstay of Paty do Alferes. With his head for business, by the time Antonio died, he had what you might call a tomato empire, owning most of the local farms surrounding the fazenda. I remember that like Senhora Izabela before her, Senhora Beatriz used to love it there when she visited. Her grandfather adored her and taught her to ride and swim. He left the farms to her, and it is those that have provided the source of her income since her husband passed on. It’s not much, but it has paid the bills here.’
‘Who was Beatriz’s husband, my grandfather?’ I asked her.
‘Evandro Carvalho, and he was a very talented pianist. He was a good man, Senhorita Maia, and it was a true love match. After Senhora Beatriz’s difficult childhood, our family were so pleased to see her happy. And the Casa finally came back to life. Beatriz and Evandro held soirées for the creative community here in Rio. They also set up a charity to raise money for the city’s favelas. I can assure you, Senhorita Maia, that while age and pain have affected her as she nears the end, she really was very beautiful when she was younger. Everyone who knew her respected and loved her.’
‘Then it’s such a pity that I will never see that side of her,’ I mused.
‘No . . .’ Yara sighed heavily. ‘But death comes to us all.’
‘And . . .’ I steeled myself to ask the question that had been burning through my brain for the past ten minutes. ‘Beatriz and Evandro had a child, didn’t they?’
I saw Yara’s eyes dart uncertainly around the room. ‘Yes.’
‘Just one?’
‘There was another, a boy, but he died in infancy. So yes,’ she agreed, ‘one.’
‘A girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘And her name was Cristina?’
‘Yes, Senhorita Maia. It was I who helped bring her up.’
I paused, uncertain of what to say next. The words that had poured out of Yara like a babbling brook for the past hour had suddenly dried up too. I looked up at her expectantly, willing her to continue.
‘Senhorita, I don’t believe I have done damage by telling you the past, but . . .’ she sighed, ‘I do not think it is my place to say any more. The rest is not my story to tell.’
‘Then whose is it?’ I begged her.
‘It is Senhora Beatriz’s.’
Desperate as I was to press her further, I could see that Yara had begun to look anxiously at the clock ticking on the wall.
‘I have something for you,’ she said, putting a hand into one of her voluminous pockets and handing four envelopes to me. Almost, I felt, as a peace offering for being unable to tell me more. ‘Those are the letters sent via my mother by Laurent Brouilly to Senhora Izabela, when they stayed at the fazenda in Senhora Carla’s last days. They will show better than I ever could the feeling that existed between the two of them.’
‘Thank you,’ I said as I watched her stand. I suppressed an urge to hug her, so grateful was I to finally hear of my ancestry and the tragic story that lay behind it.
‘I must return to Senhora Beatriz,’ she said.
‘Of course,’ I said, rising too, stiff after sitting so tensely while trying to catch every word Yara had spoken.
‘I will show you out, senhorita,’ she said.
‘It would be easy for us to drive you up to the convent,’ I suggested to her as we walked along the corridor, across the entrance hall and Yara opened the front door. ‘I have a car waiting for me outside.’
‘Thank you, but I still have things to do here.’ She looked at me expectantly, as I hesitated beside her.
‘Thank you for all you’ve told me. Is it possible that I might just ask you one last question?’
‘It depends what it is,’ she said, as I felt her eyes willing me to cross the threshold and leave.
‘Is my mother still alive?’
‘I do not know, Senhorita Maia,’ Yara sighed. ‘And that is the truth.’
I knew that the meeting was at an end and she would say no more.
‘Goodbye, Yara,’ I said as I reluctantly made my way down the steps. ‘Please send my best wishes to Senhora Beatriz.’
She did not reply as I began to walk away, and it was only as I was passing by the crumbling stone fountain that she spoke again.
‘I will speak to her, senhorita. Goodbye.’
I heard the front door being shut and rebolted as I continued down the drive. My hands touched the hot iron of the rusting metal gate and as I opened then closed it behind me and crossed the road, I looked up at the heavy sky and saw there was a storm brewing.
‘How was it?’ Floriano had resorted to sitting on a grass verge in the shade. I could see a pile of cigarette butts next to him.
‘I learnt a lot,’ I said, as he stood up and unlocked the car.
‘Good,’ he said as we both climb
ed inside and he started the engine. He didn’t question me further as we drove back towards Ipanema, perhaps sensing that I needed some time to come back into the present from the past. I was silent for the rest of the journey, mulling over the story I’d been told. When we arrived on the forecourt of my hotel, Floriano turned to me. ‘I’m sure you feel exhausted and need some time alone. You know where I’ll be if you want some food and company later. And I promise it’ll be me, not my daughter, who’s the chef tonight,’ he assured me with a wink.
‘Thank you,’ I said, climbing out of the car. ‘For everything,’ I added as he nodded at me and reversed out onto the street. As I walked into the hotel, I didn’t understand why my legs felt as though they were two deeply rooted tree trunks that I had to drag out of the earth every time I asked them to take a step forward. I crossed the lobby slowly, took the lift upstairs and walked almost drunkenly to my suite. Expending my last burst of energy on unlocking my door, I entered the room, staggered to the bed and slept where I lay.
I awoke two hours later, feeling as though I was experiencing a giant hangover, and took an ibuprofen and a large slug of water for my aching head. Lying on my bed, I could hear the approaching storm rumbling ominously overhead in the grey-blue sky, and watched the clouds gathering in preparation. Too exhausted to move, I slept again and awoke an hour later to see it beginning in earnest. Jagged bolts of lightning split the dusky sky above the now frantic waves, and claps of thunder – the likes of which I’d never heard – boomed in my ears.
As the first pattering of raindrops began to land on the narrow windowsill outside, I looked at my watch and saw it was almost seven in the evening. I pulled up a chair right in front of the window and sat down in wonder to watch the storm take hold. The slanting rain was so heavy it bounced off every solid surface at right angles, the roads and pavements becoming streams of boiling, bubbling water below me. Sliding the window open, I stuck my head out and felt the cool, clear drops pelting on to my hair and drenching my shoulders.
The Seven Sisters Page 43