It was another conundrum I knew I would never find the answer to. And I decided that I must stop asking ‘why’, and simply accept that I’d been blessed to have had him as a wonderful mentor and loving father, who had always been there for me whenever I’d needed him. And that I must learn the lesson of trust in another human being’s goodness. Which, naturally, brought me back to the subject of Floriano.
Instinctively, I looked out of the window and moved my eyeline up to the skies. By now, he was somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. It was odd, I thought, after spending fourteen years existing in a void, having absolutely nothing to ponder, or if I did, not wishing to, that I found myself with so many emotions to deal with now. The feelings I had for Floriano had emerged suddenly – like the tight bud of a rose that blossoms magically overnight into glorious colour – and felt overwhelming, but also completely natural.
I missed him, I admitted, not because of some transient passion, but with a quiet recognition that he was now part of me. And somehow, I knew that I was part of him too. Instead of a mad desperation, I felt a calm acceptance of something that had begun between us, which needed nurturing if it wasn’t to wither and die.
Grabbing my laptop, I opened it, and as I’d promised him I would, I wrote Floriano an email. I explained to him as succinctly as possible what Beatriz had told me this morning. And that I was going back to the convent to see her again tomorrow.
Rather than hesitating as I would normally over my closing statement, I followed my instincts. And pressed ‘send’ without editing it. Then I left the hotel and crossed the road to have a swim in the bracing waves that flung themselves onto Ipanema Beach.
The following morning, Yara was waiting for me in the entrance hall of the convent, as she had been the day before. Today, however, she greeted me with a bright smile and reached shyly to clasp my hand.
‘Thank you, senhorita.’
‘What for?’ I asked her.
‘For bringing the light back to Senhora Beatriz’s eyes. Even if only for a short time. And you are feeling all right after what she had to tell you?’
‘To be honest, Yara, it wasn’t what I was expecting, but I’m coping.’
‘She did not deserve that child as a daughter, nor did you deserve her as a mother,’ Yara muttered tensely.
‘I think we often don’t deserve what we get. But then, maybe in the future we get what we deserve,’ I said, almost to myself as I began to follow her along the corridor.
‘Senhora Beatriz is lying down, but she still insisted that she wanted to see you. Shall we go in?’ she asked me.
‘Yes.’
And today, for the first time, we walked into the room together, without any need for Yara to check first that her mistress was prepared for me. Beatriz was in bed looking dreadfully frail, but her features broke into a smile when she saw me.
‘Maia.’ She indicated for Yara to pull up a chair by her bed. ‘Come and sit down. How are you today, my dear? I was concerned for you overnight. What I told you must have been such a shock.’
‘I’m fine, Beatriz, really,’ I said as I sat down by her and patted her hand tentatively.
‘Then I am glad. I think you are a strong person and I admire you for it. Now,’ Beatriz said, ‘enough of the past. I wish to hear about your life. Tell me, Maia, where do you live? Are you married? Do you have children yet? An occupation?’
For the next half an hour, I told my grandmother everything I could think of about myself. About Pa Salt, and my sisters and our beautiful home on the shores of Lake Geneva. I told her about my translating career, and was half tempted to tell her about Zed and confide in her about my subsequent pregnancy and the adoption of my baby. But I realised instinctively that all she wanted to hear was that I’d been happy, so I didn’t elaborate.
‘And what about the future? Tell me about that very attractive man who accompanied you to see me at the Casa. He’s quite famous here in Rio. Is he just a friend?’ She eyed me slyly. ‘Something told me he was more than that.’
‘Yes, I like him,’ I confessed.
‘So, what will you do from here, Maia? Will you return to Geneva, or stay in Rio with your young man?’
‘As a matter of fact, he flew to Paris yesterday morning,’ I explained.
‘Ah, Paris!’ Beatriz clasped her hands together. ‘One of the happiest times of my life. And, as you already know, your great-grandmother visited when she was younger. I believe you’ve seen the sculpture of her in the garden that my father had shipped over from Paris as her wedding gift?’
‘Yes, I did notice it,’ I confirmed lightly, wondering where this conversation would lead.
‘When I was in Paris and studying at the Beaux-Arts school, the sculptor responsible for it was one of my professors. So I introduced myself to him one day after class and told him I was Izabela’s daughter. To my surprise, Professor Brouilly said he recalled her most clearly. And when I told him of her death, he seemed genuinely grief-stricken. After that, he seemed to take me under his wing, or at least developed a special interest in me, inviting me to his beautiful house in Montparnasse and taking me for lunch at La Closerie des Lilas. He said it was where he’d once spent a splendid lunch with my mother. He even took me to the atelier of Professor Paul Landowski and introduced me to the great man himself. By then, of course, Landowski was old and rarely sculpting, but he showed me photographs of the time when the moulds for the Cristo were prepared in his atelier. Apparently, my mother was there too while Landowski and Professor Brouilly were working on it. He also found a mould from his store cupboard that he said he’d taken of my mother’s hands as a possible prototype for the Cristo’s.’ Beatriz smiled in fond remembrance. ‘Professor Brouilly was so generous to me with both his time and affection. And for years afterwards, we corresponded, right up until his death in 1965. The kindness of strangers,’ Beatriz mused. ‘So, Maia, my dear, are you to follow in your great-grandmother’s and grandmother’s footsteps and make the journey from Rio to Paris? It is certainly easier to get there than it used to be. It took me and my mother almost six weeks to get there. By this time tomorrow you could be sitting in La Closerie des Lilas sipping absinthe! Maia, dear? Did you hear me?’
After what Beatriz had just related to me, I was too choked to speak. No wonder Yara had been so wary of telling me the story of my past. It was clear that this woman knew nothing of the father who had originally given her life.
‘Yes. Perhaps I will go to Paris,’ I agreed, trying to recover my equilibrium.
‘Good.’ Beatriz seemed satisfied with my answer. ‘And now, Maia, I’m afraid we must move to more serious matters. This afternoon, I have a notário coming to see me. I am intending to rewrite my will and leave most of what I have to you, my granddaughter. It isn’t a lot, sadly, just a house that is falling down and needs many hundreds of thousands of reais to renovate it. Money which you don’t have, I’m sure. So perhaps you may want to sell it and I wish you to know that I don’t mind in the least if you do. But I do have one condition, and that is that you allow Yara to live in it until her death. I know how frightened she is about the future, and I want to reassure her that she will be taken care of. And the Casa is as much her home as it has been mine. She will be left a bequest, a sum of money that should see her through the rest of her life. But if it does not, and she lives longer, I trust that you will take care of her. She is my closest friend, you see. We grew up as sisters.’
‘Of course I will,’ I said, trying to hold back my tears.
‘I do have some jewellery too that belonged to me and to your great-grandmother. And the Fazenda Santa Tereza, my mother’s childhood home. I run a small charity which helps women from the favelas. The charity uses the farm as a place of refuge for them. If you were able to keep that going, I would be very happy.’
‘Of course I will, Beatriz,’ I whispered, my throat constricting at her words. ‘Beatriz, I really feel I don’t deserve this. Surely you have friends, family—’
�
�Maia! How can you say that you don’t deserve it!’ There was real passion in Beatriz’s voice now. ‘Your mother gave you away at birth, denied you your heritage, which, might I add, once upon a time meant something here in Rio. You are a continuation of the Aires Cabral line, and although money can never make up for the loss you have suffered, it is the least I can do. And should do,’ she underlined.
‘Thank you, Beatriz.’ I could see that she was becoming agitated and I didn’t want to upset her further.
‘I trust that you will use the legacy wisely,’ she said, as I saw the now familiar wince of pain.
‘Shall I call for the nurse?’
‘In a few moments, yes. But first, Maia, before you’re tempted to say that you will stay with me until the end, I will tell you equally firmly that after today, I do not want you to come and visit me again. I know where I’m headed and I don’t wish for you to witness my final demise, especially as you are still grieving for your adoptive father. Yara will be with me and she is all I need.’
‘But Beatriz—’
‘No buts, Maia. The pain is so dreadful now that even though I have resisted so far, this afternoon I will ask the nurse for some morphine. And then the end will come quickly. So . . .’ Beatriz forced a smile. ‘I am only happy that I have been lucky enough to share my last lucid moments with my beautiful granddaughter. And you are beautiful, my dear Maia. I wish so many things for your future. But most of all, I wish that you will find love. It is the only thing in life that makes the pain of being alive bearable. Please remember that. Now, you may call for that nurse.’
A few moments later, I hugged Beatriz to me and we said our final goodbyes. As I left the room, I could see that her eyelids were already drooping and she managed a fragile wave as I closed the door behind me. Sinking onto the bench, I put my head in my hands and sobbed quietly. I felt an arm wrap around my shoulder and looked up to see that Yara had sat down beside me.
‘She never knew that Laurent Brouilly was her father, did she?’
‘No, Senhorita Maia, she didn’t.’
Yara took my hand and we sat together, both of us mourning the tragedy of the situation.
After I wrote down my address, telephone number and email on a piece of paper that Yara had handed to me, she walked me outside to the waiting car.
‘Goodbye, senhorita. I’m glad that all was resolved between you and Senhora Beatriz before it was too late.’
‘It’s all down to you, Yara. Beatriz is very lucky to have had you as a companion.’
‘And I her,’ Yara countered as I climbed into the car.
‘Please promise to let me know when . . .’ I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
‘Of course. Now, you go off and live your life, senhorita. As perhaps you have learnt from your own family’s story, every moment of it is precious.’
Taking Yara at her word, back at the hotel I checked my emails with far more anticipation than usual. And managed a smile when I saw that Floriano had replied. Paris was wonderful, he said, but he needed an interpreter to help him with his bad French.
I have also discovered something you should see, Maia. Please let me know when you will be arriving.
I laughed to myself as I read this, for he wasn’t asking me whether I would arrive, but when. I called down to the concierge and asked them to check whether there was availability on a flight from Rio to Paris, and they called up ten minutes later to tell me there was only room in the first-class cabin. I gulped as I heard the cost, but then agreed and asked them to book the seat. And felt Pa Salt, Beatriz and Bel cheering me on.
I then left the hotel and went deep into Ipanema, back to the market, and bought a number of ‘unsuitable’ dresses that the former Maia would have been horrified at. But this was the new Maia, who thought that, just maybe, she was loved by a man, and she wanted to please him and look her best.
No more hiding, I told myself firmly as I also purchased two pairs of shoes with a heel to them and walked along the road to a pharmacy to test out some scent, something I hadn’t worn for years. I then bought a new red lipstick.
That night, I went upstairs to the hotel roof terrace to catch a last glimpse of the Cristo as the sun began to set. Sipping a glass of chilled white wine, I thanked Him and the heavens for bringing me back to myself.
And as I left Rio early the next morning with Pietro, I looked back at Him, high above me on Corcovado Mountain, feeling with a strange certainty that I’d be back in His embrace very soon.
50
‘Hello?’ said a familiar voice at the other end of the phone line.
‘Ma, it’s me, Maia.’
‘Maia! How are you, chérie? It seems an age since I heard from you last,’ Marina added with a hint of reproach in her voice.
‘Yes, I’m sorry I’ve been bad at keeping in touch, Ma. I was . . . busy,’ I said, trying not to giggle as a hand snaked up my naked stomach. ‘I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be home tomorrow around teatime. And that’ – I swallowed hard before I announced it – ‘I’ll be bringing a guest with me.’
‘Shall I make a room up in the house, or will she stay with you in the Pavilion?’
‘My guest will be staying with me at the Pavilion.’ I turned to Floriano and smiled.
‘Lovely,’ her bright voice answered. ‘Shall I have supper ready for you?’
‘No, please don’t worry. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know exactly what time we’ll need Christian to meet us.’
‘I’ll wait to hear from you. Goodbye, chérie?
‘Goodbye.’ I replaced the receiver in its cradle on the bedside table and fell back into Floriano’s arms, wondering what on earth he would make of my childhood home.
‘You mustn’t be shocked, or think I’m grand or anything. It’s just the way my life has been,’ I explained.
‘Querida,’ he said as he pulled me into his arms, ‘I am fascinated to see how you live now. But always remember I know where you come from. Now, on our last day here in Paris, I’m taking you to see something very special.’
‘Do we have to go?’ I asked him, stretching my body languidly into his.
‘I think we should,’ said Floriano, ‘eventually . . .’
Two hours later we dressed, left the hotel and Floriano hailed a cab. He even managed to give the driver a coherent address in French.
‘We’re going to somewhere off the Champs-Élysées?’ I confirmed, as much for the driver’s sake as my own.
‘Yes. Do you doubt me and my prowess at my favourite new language?’ He smiled.
‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘But are you sure you meant a park?’
‘Hush, Maia,’ he said, putting a finger to my lips, ‘and trust me.’
Sure enough, we alighted next to the iron railings of a small, square expanse of green just off the Avenue de Marigny. Floriano paid the driver, then took my hand and led me through the gate and along the path that took us to the centre of the gardens. A pretty fountain played there, and Floriano pointed up to a bronze statue of a reclining, nude woman which sat atop it. Accustomed to seeing many erotic images all over Paris, I turned to Floriano askance.
‘Look at her, Maia, and tell me who she is.’
I did as he bid, and suddenly I saw her. Izabela, my great-grandmother, naked and sensuous, her head thrown back in pleasure, her hands thrown out, her palms facing upwards to the heavens.
‘Do you see now?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I whispered.
‘Then it will be no surprise to you that I discovered this sculpture is by none other than Professor Laurent Brouilly, your great-grandfather. I can only believe it is his silent tribute to his love for your great-grandmother. And now, Maia, look at her hands.’
I looked, and saw the palms and the delicate fingertips. And yes, I did see.
‘They are much smaller, of course, to fit the size of this sculpture, but I have compared them to the Cristo’s hands, and I am convinced they are identical. I will show you
the photographic evidence later, but for me, there is no doubt. Especially as it is the very gardens where Izabela told Loen she met Laurent for the last time here in Paris.’
I looked up at Izabela and wondered how she would feel if she could see how she’d been once again immortalised; no longer the innocent virgin as in the first sculpture, but subtly, sensuously, by a man who had truly loved her. And a father who, through the hands of fate, had also been able to know and love the daughter they had conceived together.
Floriano placed an arm around my shoulder as we eventually walked away. ‘Maia, we are not saying goodbye here like Bel and Laurent once had to. And you must never believe we will. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, then we can leave Paris. And one day,’ he whispered into my ear, ‘I will write a beautiful book as my tribute to you.’
I watched Floriano’s face as we sped across Lake Geneva towards my home. Even though it felt to me as though I had been away for many months, in reality, it was only three weeks. The lake was busy with tiny craft, their sails fluttering in the breeze like angels’ wings. The day was still very warm, even though it was past six in the evening, and the sun hung clear and golden above us in a cloudless blue sky. As I saw the familiar wall of trees in the distance, I felt as though I had lived another lifetime since I’d left Atlantis.
Christian steered the boat in to the pier, secured it and then helped us both out. I saw Floriano reach for our luggage, and Christian stop him. ‘No, monsieur. I’ll bring those up to the house for you later.’
‘Meu Deus!’ he commented as we walked across the lawns. ‘You truly are a princess returning to your castle,’ he teased me.
Up at the main house I introduced Floriano to Marina, who did her best to hide her surprise at the fact my guest was a ‘he’ not a ‘she’. Then I took him on a tour of the house and gardens, and through his eyes I saw the beauty of my home anew.
The Seven Sisters Page 48