I laughed out loud suddenly, almost euphoric at the magnificence of the sheer force of nature on display. In that moment, I felt as if I too were part of the maelstrom, intrinsically attached to both the heavens and the earth, unable to comprehend the miracle that created it, just exhilarated knowing I belonged to it.
Realising I was about to be drowned if I didn’t close the window and pull my upper half back inside, I ran to the bathroom, scattering drops across the carpet, and took a shower. I emerged, headache gone and feeling as refreshed as the storm-cleansed air around me. Lying on the bed, I looked at the letters that Yara had given me and tried to make sense of all she had told me earlier. But my thoughts kept spinning back to Floriano, to the patient way he had waited for me all afternoon and the sensitivity he’d shown afterwards. And I realised that whatever these envelopes contained, I wanted – really wanted – to share the contents with him. I picked up my mobile and scrolled down to find his number.
‘Olá, Floriano, it’s Maia here,’ I said when he answered.
‘Maia, how are you?’
‘Watching the storm. I’ve never seen anything quite like it before.’
‘It’s certainly one of the things that we cariocas can say we do spectacularly well,’ he agreed. ‘Do you want to come round and have some supper? It’s pretty basic, I’m afraid, but you’re very welcome.’
‘If the rain stops, then yes, I’d like to.’
‘I’d give it another nine minutes or so, looking at the sky. So I’ll see you in twenty, okay?’
‘Yes, thank you, Floriano.’
‘Enjoy the puddles.’ I heard the smile in his voice. ‘Tchau.’
Exactly nine minutes later, I ventured downstairs and outside, my Havaianas and ankles submerged in the deluge of water that was still flowing off the pavements and down into the inadequate drains. There was a wonderful freshness to the air and as I walked, I saw more and more locals emerging back onto the streets.
‘Come up,’ Floriano said when I rang his intercom.
Arriving at the top of the stairs, he met me with his finger to his lips. ‘I’ve just got Valentina to bed. She’ll be up immediately if she thinks you’re here,’ he whispered.
Nodding silently, I followed him upstairs to the roof terrace, which was miraculously snug and dry beneath the sloped roof.
‘Help yourself to some wine and I’ll go downstairs and organise supper.’
I poured myself a small glass of red, feeling guilty I had come without an offering and promising myself I’d take Floriano out for dinner the next time we met to repay him for his hospitality. He’d already lit candles on the table, for darkness had fallen in earnest now, and there was the sound of soft jazz music playing from hidden speakers in the eaves above me. The atmosphere was tranquil, which was surprising, placed as it was in the centre of such a throbbing city.
‘Enchiladas with all the trimmings,’ he said as he appeared with a tray. ‘I went to Mexico a few years ago and fell in love with their cuisine.’
I stood up and helped him unload the steaming dish of enchiladas and bowls of guacamole, sour cream and salsa, wondering if he ate like this every night.
‘Please, help yourself,’ he encouraged as he sat down.
I ate hungrily, impressed by his culinary prowess. I doubted if I could serve even a simple meal such as this with the same ease. In fact, I thought miserably, I hadn’t held a dinner party since I moved into the Pavilion in Geneva thirteen years ago.
‘So,’ said Floriano, when we’d finished eating and he had lit a cigarette, ‘did you discover all you needed to today?’
‘I discovered many things, but sadly, not the one thing I came to Brazil to find out.’
‘You’re referring to your mother, I presume?’
‘Yes. Yara said that wasn’t her story to tell.’
‘No. Especially if your mother is still alive,’ agreed Floriano.
‘Yara said when I asked her that she didn’t know. And I think I believe her.’
‘So . . .’ Floriano studied me with interest. ‘Where will you go from here?’
‘I’m not sure. I remember you saying that you could find no record of Cristina’s death on the register.’
‘No, I couldn’t, but for all we know she left Brazil and went abroad. Maia, would it be a trial for you to tell me the story that Yara told you today?’ he asked me. ‘I confess, having come this far, I’m eager to know.’
‘As long as you don’t do what you threatened and put it into one of your novels,’ I said, only half in jest.
‘I write fiction, Maia. This is reality, and you have my word.’
For the next half an hour, I briefed Floriano on as much as I could remember of what Yara had told me. Then I reached into my handbag and drew out the four envelopes she had given me when I was about to leave.
‘I haven’t opened these yet. Perhaps I’m nervous, like Gustavo was when he opened the letter he took from Loen,’ I conceded as I handed them to him. ‘Yara said they’re written from Laurent to Izabela during the time she was away nursing her mother at the fazenda. I want you to read one first.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ he said, his eyes lighting up as I’d known they would at discovering solid evidence of a piece of the historical puzzle.
I watched as he pulled the yellowing sheet of paper out of the first envelope and began to read. Eventually, he looked up at me, obviously moved by what he’d read. ‘Well, Monsieur Laurent Brouilly may have been a great sculptor, but judging from this, he had a way with words too.’ Floriano cocked his head to one side. ‘Why does anything written in French seem more poetic? Here,’ he said, handing it to me. ‘You read this, while I struggle on through the next one with the aid of my schoolboy language skills.’
‘Meu Deus, these letters almost bring tears to an old cynic’s eyes,’ he said a few minutes later, echoing my thoughts exactly.
‘I know. Even though I heard from Yara of the love Bel and Laurent shared, somehow reading the actual words brings it to life,’ I whispered. ‘In some ways, even though her story ended in such tragedy, I envy Bel,’ I admitted, pouring myself another glass of wine.
‘Have you ever been in love?’ Floriano asked me in his usual blunt fashion.
‘Yes, once. I think I mentioned it to you,’ I said hurriedly. ‘And told you it didn’t work out.’
‘Ah, yes, and that one experience has apparently scarred you for life.’
‘It was a little more complicated than that,’ I countered defensively.
‘These situations always are. Look at Bel and Laurent. If you read these, you might presume they were simply a young man and woman in love.’
‘Well, that’s how my first love affair began, but not how it ended.’ I shrugged as I watched him reach for another cigarette. ‘Do you mind if I have one too?’
‘Not at all. Please, go ahead,’ he said as he proffered the pack.
I lit the cigarette, inhaled and smiled at him. ‘I haven’t had one of these since university.’
‘Well, I wish I could say the same. Valentina is forever trying to persuade me to give them up. And maybe one day I will,’ he said taking a deep drag. ‘So, this love of yours who broke your heart . . . do you want to tell me what happened?’
After fourteen years of remaining completely silent on the subject, and, in fact, doing anything and everything to avoid talking about it, I wondered what on earth I was doing on a roof terrace in Rio with a man I hardly knew feeling almost ready to tell him.
‘Really, Maia, you don’t have to,’ Floriano said, seeing the fear in my eyes.
But instinctively, I knew that this was the reason why I’d come to him tonight. The story I’d been hearing over the past few days – coupled with Pa Salt’s death – had unleashed the pain and guilt of what I had once done. Then there was Floriano, of course, whose life circumstances had held up an unflattering mirror to my own sad, solitary life.
‘I will say it,’ I blurted out before I lost my ne
rve. ‘When I was at university, I met someone. He was a couple of years older than me and I met him in the last semester of my second year. He was in his final year and about to leave. I fell in love with him and was very careless and stupid. When I went home for the summer, I realised I was pregnant. But it was too late to do anything about it. So,’ I sighed, knowing I must tell the story quickly and get to the end before I broke down, ‘Marina, the woman I’ve mentioned to you, who brought all us six girls up, helped me arrange to go away and have the baby. Then’ – I paused, garnering every ounce of courage I had to speak the words – ‘when he was born, I gave him up immediately for adoption.’
Taking a large gulp of wine, I screwed my fists into my eyes to dam the torrent that was in danger of flooding out of them.
‘Maia, it’s okay, cry if you want. I understand,’ he said softly.
‘It’s just that . . . I haven’t ever told anyone this,’ I admitted, feeling my heart palpitating in my chest. ‘And I’m so ashamed . . . so ashamed . . .’
The tears began to fall, even though I’d done my best to stop them. Floriano came to sit next to me on the sofa and took me into his arms. He stroked my hair as I babbled incoherently about how I should have been stronger and kept the child, whatever it took. And how not a single day had gone by since they took my baby away from me a few minutes after I’d given birth to him that I hadn’t relived that terrible moment.
‘They never even let me see his face . . .’ I moaned. ‘They said it was for the best.’
Floriano offered no sympathy or platitudes, until the last shred of despair left me like the final whistle of air from a popped balloon and my entire body sagged in exhaustion. I lay there silently against his chest, wondering what on earth had possessed me to tell him my terrible secret.
Floriano remained silent. Eventually, I asked in desperation, ‘Are you shocked?’
‘No, of course not. Why would I be?’
‘Why wouldn’t you be?’
‘Because,’ he sighed sadly, ‘you did what you thought was right at the time, under the circumstances you faced. And there’s no crime in that.’
‘Perhaps murderers also think what they did was right,’ I countered morosely.
‘Maia, you were very young and very frightened, and I presume the father was not around to make an honest woman of you? Or to even support you?’
‘God no,’ I said with a shudder as I remembered my last conversation with Zed at the end of that summer term. ‘To him, we were no more than a fling. He was leaving university and about to begin his future. He told me he felt long-distance relationships rarely worked and that it had been fun, but it was best if it ended there. While we were still friends,’ I added with a grim chuckle.
‘And you never told him you were pregnant?’
‘I didn’t realise I was for sure until I arrived home and Marina took one look at me and carted me off to the doctor’s. By that time, I was too far gone to do anything but have it. I was so naive, so stupid,’ I berated myself. ‘And so in love that I was prepared to do anything he wanted me to.’
‘Which I presume meant not spoiling his enjoyment of you with contraception?’
‘Yes.’ I hid my blushes in his shirt. ‘But I should have – could have – protected myself more carefully. I wasn’t a child, after all, but I suppose I just didn’t believe it would happen to me.’
‘Many inexperienced young women don’t, Maia. Especially in the first flush of love. Did you speak to your father about it?’ he asked. ‘It sounds as though the two of you were very close.’
‘We were, but not in that way. It’s impossible to explain, but I was his little girl, his first child. And he had such high hopes for me. I was flying at the Sorbonne and was expected to gain a first-class degree. To be honest, I would have died rather than ever tell him how stupid I’d been.’
‘What about Marina? Did she not try to persuade you to tell your father?’
‘Yes, she did, but I was adamant that I couldn’t. I know it would have broken his heart.’
‘So instead, you broke your own,’ Floriano countered.
‘It was the best option at the time.’
‘I understand.’
We sat there on the sofa in silence for a while, and I stared at the candle flickering in the darkness, reliving the pain of the decision I’d made.
‘It must have occurred to you at some point that your father had adopted six girls of his own,’ Floriano ventured suddenly. ‘And that perhaps he, of all people, would understand the predicament you were in?’
‘It didn’t at the time.’ My shoulders slumped in renewed despair. ‘But of course, since he died, I’ve thought about it constantly. Even so, I can’t explain who he was to me. I idolised him and wanted his approval.’
‘More than his help,’ Floriano clarified.
‘It wasn’t his fault, it was mine,’ I said, brutal with the truth. ‘I didn’t trust him, didn’t trust in his love for me. And I’m sure now that if I had told him, he would have been there for me, he would have . . .’ My voice trailed off to a whisper as fresh tears sprang to my eyes. ‘And I look at you and Valentina, in similar circumstances, and see how my life might have been now if I’d had the guts to be stronger, and think what a mess I’ve made of things so far.’
‘We all do things we regret, Maia,’ Floriano said sadly. ‘I wish every day that I’d been firmer with the doctors who told me to take my wife home from the hospital, when I knew instinctively that she was desperately ill. Perhaps if I had, my daughter would still have a mother, and I’d have a wife. But where does self-recrimination get us?’ he sighed. ‘Nowhere.’
‘But to give up my child, especially when the reasons were purely selfish and not motivated by poverty or war, has to be the worst crime of all,’ I stated.
‘Each of us thinks that our own mistake is the worst, because we have made it. We all live with guilt for our actions, Maia. Especially if we have chosen to keep them inside us for as long as you have. I’m sitting here feeling only sadness for you, not disapproval. And I really think that anyone else who heard your story would feel the same. It’s only you who blames yourself. Can’t you see that?’
‘I suppose so, but what can I do about it?’
‘Forgive yourself. It’s really as simple as that. Until you do, you won’t be able to move on. I know. I’ve been there.’
‘Every day I think about where my son might be, whether he’s happy and if the parents he went to are loving him. I sometimes hear him crying for me in my dreams, but I can never find him . . .’
‘I understand, but remember that you too are adopted, querida. Do you think you have suffered because of it?’ Floriano asked me.
‘No, because I haven’t known any other life.’
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘You’ve just answered your own question. You’ve told me once before that you didn’t think it mattered who brought up a child, as long as it was loved. It will be the same for your son, wherever he is. I’d wager that the only person truly suffering because of all this is you. Now, I think I could do with a brandy.’ He released himself from around me and went to a narrow shelf to retrieve a bottle. ‘Want some?’ he asked me as he poured a small amount into a glass.
‘No thanks.’ I watched him as he wandered across the terrace to light a cigarette and stood there looking out into the darkness. Eventually, feeling vulnerable and insecure, I went to join him.
‘You do realise,’ he said eventually, ‘that all this revelation about your own heritage has made you think even more about your son?’
‘Yes,’ I acknowledged. ‘After all, Pa Salt has allowed all of his adopted girls to discover their origins if they wish. Surely my child has a right to discover his too?’
‘Or at least a right to choose if he wishes to,’ Floriano corrected me. ‘You said yourself you were reticent about digging into your background. And besides, you were told from the start that you were all adopted. Perhaps your son hasn’t been given
that information. It’s entirely possible that he is unaware.’
‘I just wish I could see him once, to know that he is safe . . . happy.’
‘Of course you do. But perhaps you should put him first and realise that it may not be the best thing for him,’ he said gently. ‘Now, it’s past one in the morning and I have to be up bright and early for the little senhorita downstairs.’
‘Of course,’ I said, turning round immediately, crossing the terrace and retrieving my bag from under the table. ‘I’ll go.’
‘Actually, Maia, I was going to suggest you stay here. I don’t think you should be alone tonight.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, panicked by his suggestion and heading for the door.
‘Wait.’ Floriano chuckled as he caught up with me. ‘I didn’t mean you should stay with me. I meant that you could sleep in Petra’s room. She’s gone home to Salvador to see her family for a week. Really, please stay here. I’ll worry about you if you don’t.’
‘Okay,’ I agreed, feeling too exhausted to argue. ‘Thank you.’
Floriano blew out the candles and switched off his computer, then we both walked downstairs and he pointed me in the direction of Petra’s room.
‘You’ll be glad to know I changed the sheets and vacuumed after she left, so it’s quite presentable for a change. The bathroom is just along there on the right. Ladies first. Good-night, Maia,’ he said, coming towards me and dropping a gentle kiss on my forehead. ‘Sleep well.’
With a wave he disappeared back upstairs and I went to use the bathroom. Entering Petra’s room a few minutes later, I looked at the biology text books stacked on rough shelves above a desk, saw the jumble of cosmetics strewn over the dressing table and a pair of jeans tossed haphazardly onto a chair. As I stripped down to my T-shirt and climbed into the narrow bed, I remembered that I too had once been a carefree student with my whole life ahead of me – a pristine canvas waiting for me, the artist, to paint upon it – until I’d found out I was pregnant.
And with that thought, I fell asleep.
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