‘Well, I suppose that helps somewhat,’ Beatriz agreed. ‘Because I‘m afraid to say that the story leading up to your adoption is not a pretty one. It‘s a dreadful thing for a mother to admit that she struggled to like her own child, but I‘m sad to tell you that is how I came to feel about Cristina, your mother. Forgive me, Maia, the last thing I want to do is to cause you further grief. But you are obviously an intelligent woman and it would be wrong for me to throw you platitudes and lies. You would see through them, I‘m sure. But you must remember that, just as parents can‘t choose their children, neither can children choose their parents.’
Understanding what Beatriz was trying to tell me, I wavered for a few moments, wondering if it was best, after all, if I didn‘t know. But I‘d come this far, and perhaps, for Beatriz‘s own sake, she should be allowed to explain. I took a deep breath. ‘Why don‘t you tell me about Cristina?’ I said quietly.
Beatriz saw I‘d made my decision. ‘Very well. Yara says she‘s told you already about my life, so you will have heard that my husband – your grandfather – and I were very happily married. And the icing on our cake was when we discovered I was pregnant. Our first son died a few weeks after he was born, so when I finally gave birth to Cristina a few years later, she was even more precious to us.’
I took a deep breath, my thoughts flying momentarily to my own lost son.
‘And after the experiences of my own childhood,’ Beatriz continued, ‘I was determined to make sure that my baby would be brought up with as much love as I and her father could give her. But to be blunt, Maia, Cristina was difficult from the day she was born. She rarely slept through the night, and by the time she was a toddler she had become prone to huge tantrums which would sometimes last for hours without abating. When she went to school, she was constantly in trouble, her teachers sending letters home saying she had bullied this girl or that and reduced them to tears. It‘s a terrible thing to admit’ – Beatriz‘s voice was quavering now at obviously painful memories – ‘but Cristina seemed to have no compunction about hurting people, no remorse at all after the act.’ She looked up at me, her eyes full of agony. ‘Maia, my dear, please tell me if you wish me to stop.’
‘No, keep going,’ I encouraged numbly.
‘And of course, her teenage years were the worst. Her father and I despaired of her total lack of respect for authority, whether it was us or anyone else who had dealings with her. The tragedy of it all was that she was extremely bright, as her teachers never stopped reminding us. Her IQ had been tested when she was younger and it was far above average. In the past few years, as mental health issues have been investigated more thoroughly, I‘ve read articles about a syndrome called Asperger‘s. Have you heard of it?’ she asked me.
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Well, apparently the sufferer almost always has a high level of intelligence, and they also seem to show little sensitivity or empathy towards others. And that is the best way I can think of to describe your mother. Although Loen, Yara‘s mother, always told me that Cristina reminded her of my grandmother, Luiza, whom I barely remember. She died when I was two, you see, at the same time as my mother.’
‘Yes, Yara told me.’
‘So, whether it was genetic, or would these days be termed a syndrome – or perhaps a mixture of both – Cristina‘s personality made her almost impossible to deal with. And none of the many experts we consulted could offer any solutions.’ Beatriz shook her head sadly. ‘When she was sixteen, she began to stay out, frequenting some of the seedier bars in the city and falling into the wrong company. Which, as you can imagine in Rio – especially thirty-five years ago – could be extremely dangerous. On more than one occasion, she was brought home by the polícia, drunk and dishevelled. They threatened her with prosecution for underage drinking and that calmed her down for a while. But then we discovered that she was not attending school, and instead meeting her friends – many of whom lived up in the favelas – and spending her time there with them.’
Beatriz paused and stared out of the window at the distant mountains before turning her gaze back to me. ‘Eventually, the school had little choice but to expel her. She‘d been caught with a bottle of rum in her school bag and had plied the other girls with it. Subsequently, they‘d all arrived for afternoon lessons drunk. Her father and I employed a private tutor so that she could at least finish her examinations and we could keep a closer eye on her activities too. Sometimes, we even resorted to locking her in her room when she insisted she wanted to go out for the night, but the rages that ensued would be cataclysmic. And besides, she would always find a way to escape. She was completely out of control. My dear, could you possibly pass me the water from my bedside table? All this talking is making my mouth quite dry.’
‘Of course,’ I said, going to fetch the beaker and straw from the table and handing it to her. As she attempted to hold it, I saw her hands were shaking too much to do so, so I put the straw to her lips and held it there while she sucked.
‘Thank you,’ she said, as her green eyes looked up at me in distress. ‘Are you sure you can cope with hearing more, Maia?’
‘Yes,’ I said, putting the cup down and returning to my chair.
‘Well, one day I discovered that my mother‘s emeralds – the necklace and earrings she had been given by her parents on her eighteenth birthday and which were worth a fortune – had disappeared from my jewellery box. Nothing else had been taken, so it was unlikely there‘d been a burglary at the Casa. By now, Cristina was spending almost all her time at the favela – her father and I deduced that there was some man involved – and I began to notice how her eyes seemed permanently glazed and the pupils enlarged. I consulted a doctor friend of mine, and he told me it was likely that Cristina was taking some form of drugs.’ Beatriz shivered at the thought. ‘And of course, when he told me how much such substances cost, it explained the missing emeralds. We believed she‘d stolen them, then sold them on to pay for her habit. By this time, her father and I were on the brink of divorce. Evandro had had enough and something had to give. Cristina had turned eighteen a couple of months before – I remember so vividly giving her my mother‘s moonstone for her birthday and her face falling because she knew it was not of any great value. That,’ Beatriz said, as tears came to her eyes for the first time, ‘was perhaps the most upsetting of all the terrible things she had done. It was my most precious possession, because I knew my father had once given it to my mother, and I discovered later that he had passed it on to me after she died. I gave it to my daughter, who could only wonder how many reais it would raise at a second-hand jewellery shop to fund her habit. Excuse me, Maia dear,’ she said as she fumbled for a handkerchief in the pocket of her robe.
‘Please, Beatriz, don‘t apologise. I understand how upsetting it must be to tell me this. But try and remember that you‘re describing a stranger to me, whether good or bad. I can‘t feel love for her, because I never knew her,’ I comforted her softly.
‘Well, I will now tell you that my husband and I decided we had to confront Cristina and warn her that unless she stopped taking drugs and stealing from us, we would have no choice but to ask her to leave the Casa. At the same time, we offered as much help and support as she needed, if only she would try to help herself. But by then she was addicted, and besides, her life was elsewhere, up in the hills with her favela friends. So eventually, we packed her suitcase and asked Cristina to leave our house.’
‘Beatriz, I‘m so sorry. That must have been unimaginably hard for you,’ I said, reaching towards her and squeezing her hand gently in sympathy.
‘It was,’ she agreed with a deep sigh. ‘We impressed upon her that if she ever wished to return to us and try to stop her habit, we would welcome her back with open arms. I remember her coming down the stairs with her suitcase as I stood by the front door. She walked straight past me, then turned back, just for a second. The hatred in her eyes for me at that moment has haunted me to this day. And’ – Beatriz was weeping ope
nly now – ‘I‘m afraid to say, that is the last time I ever set eyes on my daughter.’
We both sat in silence for a while, lost in our own thoughts. Despite my protestations that whatever Beatriz told me would not upset me, given the story she‘d just related, it was an impossible task. Because somewhere in my veins ran Cristina‘s blood. Was I too as flawed as she was?
‘Maia, I know what you are thinking,’ Beatriz said suddenly as she dried her eyes and surveyed me. ‘And let me assure you that from what I have seen of you and from what Yara has told me, there is not one iota of your character that reminds me of your mother. They say that genes skip generations and you truly are the living image of my mother, Izabela. And from what everyone told me of her, very like her in personality.’
I knew Beatriz was trying to be kind. And yes, right from the start, from when I‘d first heard about my great-grandmother and seen how physically alike we were, I had felt a natural empathy towards her. But it still didn‘t change the fact that my birth mother had been as she was.
‘So, if you never saw Cristina again, how do you know she had me?’ I asked, wildly grasping at straws in the hope that there was some mistake. And that I wasn‘t after all related to this family. Or my mother.
‘I wouldn‘t have known, my dear, had it not been for a friend of mine who worked as a volunteer at one of the many orphanages in Rio around that time. Most of the babies came from the favelas and my friend happened to be there when Cristina brought you in. She didn‘t give her name, just left the baby and ran, as many of the mothers did. It took my friend a few days to realise where she recognised Cristina from – apparently she was painfully thin and had lost some of her teeth.’ Beatriz‘s voice cracked with emotion. ‘But eventually, she remembered. She came to see me to tell me you‘d been left with a moonstone necklace which, when she described it, I realised was the one I‘d given my daughter. Immediately, I went up to the orphanage with Evandro to claim you and to bring you home, so that I and your grandfather could take care of you as our own. But even though it had been less than a week since you‘d been brought in, you‘d already gone. My friend was very surprised because, as she said, there were a large number of newborn infants in the orphanage at the time. It often took many weeks for a baby to be adopted – if they ever were. Perhaps it was because you were a very pretty baby, my dear,’ Beatriz smiled.
‘So,’ I said shakily, knowing I had to ask the question that was hanging on my lips, ‘does that mean your friend saw my adoptive father?’
‘Yes,’ Beatriz confirmed, ‘and also the woman who came with him to collect you. My friend assured me that they both seemed very kind. Inevitably, Evandro and I pleaded with her to tell us where you‘d been taken, but she was only a volunteer and wasn‘t able to provide such information.’
‘I see.’
‘However, there was one thing that she was able to provide, Maia. In that drawer’ – Beatriz pointed to it – ‘you‘ll find an envelope. The orphanage took a photograph of each baby that arrived in it for their records. As you‘d gone and the file was closed, my friend asked the director of the orphanage if she could bring it to me as a keepsake. There, take a look for yourself.’
I went to the drawer and pulled out the envelope that sat inside it. Drawing out the photograph, I saw a blurred black-and-white image of a baby with a shock of dark hair and huge, startled eyes. I‘d seen a number of photographs of myself lying contentedly in Marina‘s arms or being cradled by Pa Salt when I was tiny. And I knew without a doubt that this photograph was of me.
‘So you never discovered who it was that adopted me?’ I asked Beatriz.
‘No. Although I hope you can imagine how hard we tried to. We explained to the director that we were your grandparents and had been intending to adopt you and bring you up as our own child. She asked what proof we had that you were even our grandchild. Sadly there was none,’ Beatriz said, sighing deeply, ‘because the birth mother was unnamed on your file. And even when I showed her a photograph of myself wearing the moonstone necklace, she said it didn‘t count as proof in the eyes of the law. I asked her – no, begged her – to let me at least make contact through her with the family who had taken you. She refused, saying that it had been proven disruptive in the past to put relatives of the old family in touch with the new. And their policy was firm and unbreakable. My dear,’ she sighed, ‘despite all our efforts, we came to a dead end.’
‘Thank you for trying,’ I whispered.
‘Maia, you must believe me when I say that if your adoptive father had not arrived as promptly as he did, both of our lives would have been very different.’
I tucked the photograph back into the envelope for want of something to concentrate on. Standing up, I moved to put it back into the drawer.
‘No, my dear, you keep it. I‘ve no need of it now. I have my real, living, breathing granddaughter standing in front of me.’
I saw Beatriz wince in pain and knew that my time was running out.
‘So, you never discovered who my real father was?’ I asked her.
‘No.’
‘And Cristina? Do you know what became of her?’
‘Sadly, as I said, I never heard a word from her again. So I‘m afraid I can‘t even tell you whether she‘s dead or alive. After she took you to the orphanage, she simply disappeared into thin air. As many did in Rio in those days,’ Beatriz sighed. ‘Perhaps, if you wanted to pursue it further, you might have more luck. These days, I know the authorities are more open to helping those in search of a long-lost parent. My instinct, if a mother really does have such a thing, is that Cristina is dead. Those on a mission to destroy themselves usually succeed. Yet it still breaks my heart to think about her.’
‘Of course it must,’ I replied softly, knowing only too well what that felt like. ‘But please, Beatriz, you should at least take some comfort from the fact that she took the moonstone necklace with her when she left the Casa. And then passed it on to me. The connection it held to you must have been important to her, despite everything that happened before and since. Maybe more than anything, it shows that underneath, she did love you.’
‘Perhaps.’ Beatriz nodded slowly, the ghost of a smile touching her dry lips. ‘And now, my dear, may I ask you to ring the bell for the nurse? I‘m afraid I must surrender and take one of those ghastly pills which knock me out, but at least allow me to tolerate the pain.’
‘Of course.’ I pressed the bell and watched as Beatriz held out a hand weakly to me.
‘Maia, please tell me that you won‘t let the story I‘ve told you interfere with your future. Your mother and father may have let you down, but you must know that myself and your grandfather never stopped thinking of you and loving you. And your reappearance means I can be finally at peace.’
I moved towards her and put my arms around her, for the first time embracing the physical presence of a blood relative. And only wishing that we had more time left together.
‘Thank you for seeing me. And although I didn‘t find my mother, I found you. And that‘s enough,’ I said gently.
The nurse arrived in the room. ‘Maia, are you here in Rio tomorrow?’ Beatriz asked me suddenly.
‘I can be, yes.’
‘Then come back and visit me again. I have told you about the bad things, but if you can spare the time, let‘s use what we have left to get to know each other better. You can‘t imagine how much I‘ve longed to discover who you are.’
I watched as Beatriz opened her mouth obediently to take the pills the nurse was proffering. ‘See you at the same time tomorrow,’ I said.
Her hand fluttered a weak goodbye, and I left the room.
49
Back at the hotel, I lay down on my bed, curled up into a ball and fell fast asleep. When I woke, I lay thinking about Beatriz and what she had told me, probing my newly opened consciousness for an emotional reaction. Surprisingly, I found little pain, even though the story my grandmother had related was dreadful by anyone’s standards.
I began to think about the profound reaction I’d had to the children I’d seen only yesterday at the favela, dancing for their lives, and realised that it had perhaps been the result of a connection I had with them that I hadn’t understood at the time; I was now almost certain that I too had been born in a favela. My mother’s actions – whatever her motivation at the time – had undoubtedly saved me from a desperately uncertain future. And besides, whoever my mother had been, or my father, I had found a blood grandmother who genuinely seemed to care for me.
I pondered whether I would try to search my mother out. And decided that I wouldn’t. It was obvious from what Beatriz had described that I had only been a biological by-product of her life and was, as such, unwanted. Yet, this train of thought inevitably led me to the fact that I had ostensibly done the same as far as my own child was concerned. So how could I judge my mother harshly or believe she never loved me, not knowing the full circumstances of her decision?
However, if nothing else, the events of today had made me realise that the one thing I did want to do was to leave my son something that explained why I had made my decision. There was no moonstone necklace or grandparent desperate to adopt him. No clues as to where he’d originally come from. As Floriano had pointed out, there was every chance that the adoptive parents he’d gone to would not have told him his true birth story. But just in case they had, or would in the future and one day he went searching, I wanted to make sure there was a trail for him to follow.
Just like the one Pa Salt had left his six daughters.
I understood now why Pa Salt’s coordinates had led me back to A Casa das Orquídeas rather than an orphanage. Even though I hadn’t been born there, perhaps he’d known I would find and meet Beatriz, the only relative from my past who’d cared enough to search for me.
I also pondered again why Pa Salt had been in Rio at the time I was born and why, out of all the babies available to adopt, it had been me that he’d chosen. Beatriz had mentioned nothing about a soapstone tile being left with me when my mother had deposited me at the orphanage. So just how had Pa Salt got hold of that?
The Seven Sisters Page 47