The Seven Sisters

by Lucinda Riley

  As the sun began to dip below the mountains on the other side of the lake, we took a glass of white wine for me and a beer for Floriano and I led him down to Pa Salt’s secret garden by the water’s edge. It was a riot of July colour, each plant and flower at the peak of its beauty. It reminded me today of a famous garden I’d seen once somewhere in the south of England when I had visited it with Jenny and her parents: everything laid out so perfectly, its intricate parterres lined by immaculately clipped box hedges.

  We sat together on the bench under the gorgeous, fragrant rose arbour overlooking the water – the spot where so many times in the past I’d found my father deep in contemplation – and toasted each other.

  ‘Here’s to your last night in Europe,’ I said, with a slight catch in my voice. ‘And to the success of your book. As it’s already number six on the bestseller list in its first week in France, it might go to number one.’

  ‘You never know.’ Floriano shrugged casually, although I knew he’d been overwhelmed by the positive reaction from the French media and the bookshops. ‘And of course, it’s all due to the wonderful translation. What is that?’ he asked me, pointing to the centre of the terrace.

  ‘It’s called an armillary sphere. I think I told you that it appeared in the garden soon after Pa Salt died. It has all of our names engraved on a band and a set of coordinates for each sister. And an inscription written in Greek,’ I explained.

  Floriano stood up and wandered over to inspect it. ‘Here you are.’ He indicated one of the bands. ‘And what does your inscription read?’

  ‘Never let fear decide your destiny.’ I gave him an ironic smile.

  ‘I think your father knew you well,’ he said, turning his attention back to the armillary sphere. ‘And what about this band? There’s nothing on it.’

  ‘No. Pa named us all after The Seven Sisters stars, but even though we all expected one more to arrive, she didn’t. So there have only ever been six of us. And now,’ I mused sadly, ‘there’ll never be a seventh.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful parting gift to give his daughters. Your father sounds as if he was an interesting man,’ Floriano said, sitting down again next to me.

  ‘He was, even though since his death I’ve realised we girls knew so little about him. He was an enigma,’ I shrugged. ‘And admittedly, I keep asking myself what he was doing in Brazil when I was born. And why it was me he chose.’

  ‘That’s a little like asking why a soul chooses its parents, or why it was you who was chosen to translate my book, which is where it all began for us. Life is random, Maia, a lottery.’

  ‘Maybe it is, but do you believe in fate?’ I asked him.

  ‘A month ago, I’d almost certainly have said no. But I’ll let you into a little secret,’ he said, taking my hand. ‘Just before I met you, it was the anniversary of my wife’s death and I was feeling very low. Remember, like you, I’d been alone for a long time. I remember standing on the edge of my roof terrace, and gazing up at the Cristo and the stars above it. I called out to Andrea and asked her to send someone to me who would give me a reason to go on. A day later, my publisher passed on your email, asking me to take care of you while you were in Rio. So yes, Maia, I believe you were sent to me. And I to you.’ He squeezed my hand, then in the way he always did when a moment had become too serious, lightened the mood by saying, ‘Although having seen the way you live, I’m not expecting you back at my tiny apartment any time soon.’

  Eventually, we walked back and Marina, even though I’d told her not to bother with supper, intercepted us on the way up to the Pavilion.

  ‘Claudia has made a bouillabaisse which is on the warmer in the kitchen if either of you are hungry.’

  ‘I am,’ Floriano said eagerly. ‘Thank you, Marina. Will you join us?’ he asked her in stilted French.

  ‘No thank you, Floriano, I’ve already eaten.’

  We sat in the kitchen eating the delicious bouillabaisse, both suddenly aware that this would be our last supper together. As he had already extended his time in Europe, with Valentina’s grandparents kindly agreeing to have her a little longer, I knew he must return home to his daughter. And I . . . well, I didn’t know.

  After supper, I took him into Pa’s study to show him what I’d always thought was the best photograph of him and us six girls. And I named all my sisters for him.

  ‘You’re all so very different,’ he commented. ‘And your father was an attractive man too, wasn’t he?’ Floriano added as he replaced the photograph on the shelf. As he did so, something caught his attention. He stood for a few seconds staring at it intently. ‘Maia, have you seen this?’ He beckoned me over and pointed to the statuette sitting on the shelf amongst Pa Salt’s collected personal treasures. I stared at it, realising why he had asked me.

  ‘Yes, many times, but it’s just a copy of the Cristo.’

  ‘I’m not so sure . . . May I take it down?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, wondering why he seemed so interested in a statuette that was sold by the thousand for a few reais in any tourist shop in Rio.

  ‘Look how finely this is sculpted,’ he said, his fingers brushing the grooves of the Cristo’s robe. ‘And look here.’ He pointed to the base, which I could see had an inscription on it.

  Landowski

  ‘Maia,’ he said, his eyes full of genuine wonder. ‘This isn’t any old mass-produced copy. It’s signed by the sculptor himself! Don’t you remember in Bel’s letters to Loen that she talked of the miniature versions Heitor da Silva Costa had Landowski make before they settled on the final design? Here,’ he said as he passed it to me and I took it into my hands carefully, surprised at its heaviness. My own fingers traced the delicately sculpted features of the Cristo’s face and hands. And I knew Floriano was right, that this was the work of a master craftsman.

  ‘But how on earth would Pa have got hold of it? Maybe he bought it at auction? Or maybe it was a gift from a friend? Or . . . I really don’t know,’ I said as I lapsed into a frustrated silence.

  ‘Those might be possibilities. But apart from those owned by the Landowski family, the only other two known surviving statuettes are owned by Heitor da Silva Costa’s relatives. It would have to be authenticated, of course, but what a find!’

  I saw the excitement brimming in Floriano’s eyes. I understood he was seeing this through an historian’s eyes, whereas I was merely trying to work out how my father had come across it in the first place. ‘I’m sorry, Maia, I’m getting carried away,’ Floriano apologised, ‘and I’m sure you’ll want to keep it anyway. Would anyone mind if we took it with us into your Pavilion just for tonight? I’d like the privilege of staring at it for at least a while longer.’

  ‘Of course we can. Everything in this house belongs to us sisters now, and I doubt the others would mind.’

  ‘Then let’s go to bed,’ he whispered, reaching out to stroke one of my cheeks gently with his fingers.

  I slept badly that night, a pall falling over me at the thought of Floriano leaving tomorrow. Even though I’d told myself firmly to take our relationship one moment at a time, as the hours ticked past towards morning, I found I could not. I turned over and watched Floriano sleeping peacefully next to me. And then thought of how, when he left Atlantis, my life here would revert to exactly how it had been before I left for Rio.

  Floriano and I had barely talked of the future, and certainly not in terms of concrete plans. Even though I knew he did feel something for me, as he’d told me so many times when he’d made love to me, it was very early days in our relationship. And given we lived on opposite sides of the world, I had to accept that the chances were that it would simply peter out and become no more than a fond memory.

  I thanked God when the alarm went off and the long night was finally over. I jumped out of bed immediately and went to shower as Floriano dozed on, frightened of any postmortem or meaningless conciliatory words he might speak to me on the imminent parting of our ways. Dressing quickly, I announced to him
that I was off to the kitchen to make breakfast, as Christian would be waiting at the launch in twenty minutes. Then, as he appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later, I left the room hurriedly, telling him I had to go up to the main house and that I’d see him down by the pier in ten minutes.

  ‘Maia, please . . .’ I heard him call, but I was already out of the front door and walking fast along the path towards the house. When I got there, unable to face Marina or Claudia, I locked myself in the downstairs cloakroom, willing the minutes on my watch to pass so that the moment he left would be over soon. With only a few seconds to spare until the launch left, I emerged, opened the front door and walked down across the lawns, seeing Floriano was already there talking to Marina.

  ‘Where have you been, chérie? Your friend has to board the launch immediately or he will miss his flight.’ Marina gave me a quizzical stare before turning her attention to Floriano. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you and I hope we’ll be seeing you back at Atlantis soon. Now, I’ll leave you two to say goodbye.’

  ‘Maia,’ Floriano said as Marina left us. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing . . . Look, Christian is waiting for you. You’d better go.’

  He opened his mouth to say something, but I abruptly left his side and walked in front of him along the pier towards the launch, giving Floriano no choice but to follow me. Christian handed him into the boat and started the motor.

  ‘Adeus, Maia,’ Floriano said, his eyes full of sadness. The launch began to move away from the pier, and the engines churned noisily.

  ‘I’ll write to you!’ he shouted to me above the roar. Then he said something else which I didn’t catch as the launch sped away from Atlantis. And from me.

  I walked miserably back towards the house, berating myself for my childish behaviour. I was a grown woman, for God’s sake, and should be able to cope with what I had known from the start was this inevitable parting. Rationally, I knew it was a knee-jerk reaction to my past, the pain of the parting with Zed still – after all these years – burning laserlike into my psyche.

  Marina was waiting for me in front of the Pavilion, arms crossed and a frown on her face.

  ‘What was all that about, Maia? Had you two had an argument? Floriano seemed like such a nice young man. You hardly said goodbye. Neither of us knew where you were.’

  ‘I had . . . something to do. Sorry.’ I shrugged, feeling like a petulant teenager being told off for bad manners. ‘By the way, I’m going into Geneva to see Georg Hoffman. Is there anything you need?’ I asked her pointedly, changing the subject.

  Marina looked at me, and I saw something that resembled despair in her eyes. ‘No thank you, dear. Nothing.’

  She walked away from me, and I felt as ridiculous as I knew my behaviour had been.

  Georg Hoffman’s offices were situated in the business district of Geneva, just off the Rue Jean-Petitot. Georg’s office was sleek and modern, with huge floor-length windows giving an aerial view of the harbour in the distance.

  ‘Maia,’ he said as he stood up from his desk to greet me. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’ He smiled as he ushered me to a black leather sofa and we both sat down. ‘I hear you’ve been away.’

  ‘Yes. Who told you?’

  ‘Marina, of course. Now, what can I do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘Well . . .’ I cleared my throat. ‘I suppose it’s two things really.’

  ‘Right.’ Georg steepled his fingers. ‘Fire away then.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how Pa Salt came to choose me as his first adopted girl?’

  ‘Goodness, Maia.’ I saw his face register surprise. ‘I’m afraid I was your father’s lawyer, not his emotional confidant.’

  ‘But I thought the two of you were friends?’

  ‘Yes, we were, I suppose, from my point of view at least. But as you know, your father was a very private individual. And even though I’d like to think he regarded me as trustworthy, at the end of the day, I was an employee first and foremost and it was never my place to question him. The first I knew about you was when he contacted me to register your adoption with the Swiss authorities, and fill in the necessary forms for your first passport.’

  ‘So you have no idea what his connection with Brazil might have been?’ I persisted.

  ‘On a personal level, none at all. Although he did have a number of business interests there, of course. But then he had similar interests in many places across the world,’ Georg clarified. ‘So I’m afraid I really am unable to help you on that matter.’

  Disappointed, but not entirely surprised by his response, I pressed on with my line of enquiry.

  ‘When I was in Brazil, thanks to the clues Pa left me, I met my grandmother, who sadly passed away only a few days ago. She told me that when my father arrived to adopt me, he was accompanied by a woman. The orphanage assumed the woman was his wife. Was he married?’

  ‘Never, as far as I know.’

  ‘Then could this woman have been a girlfriend of his at the time?’

  ‘Maia, forgive me, but I really have no idea about your father’s private life. I’m sorry not to be able to help you further, but there we are. Now, what was the other matter you mentioned that you wanted to discuss with me?’

  As it was obvious I wasn’t going to get any further, I surrendered to the inevitable realisation that I would never know the full circumstances of my adoption. Then I took a deep breath to say what else I needed to. ‘I told you a few moments ago that my maternal grandmother died recently. She left me two properties in Brazil and a small amount of income in her will.’

  ‘I see. And you’d like me to act on your behalf during probate?’

  ‘Yes, but in fact, more importantly, I want to make a will too. And leave the properties to a . . . relative.’

  ‘I see. Well, that’s not a problem. And in fact, it’s one thing that I would recommend to all my clients, whatever their age. If you write a list of who exactly you’d like to leave anything you own to, and include small bequests to friends, et cetera, I can turn it into the necessary legalese.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I hesitated for a moment, trying to decide how best I could phrase what I wanted to say next. ‘I also wanted to ask you how difficult it is for parents who have given up their babies for adoption to trace their children.’

  Georg studied me thoughtfully, but didn’t seem remotely surprised by the question. ‘Extremely difficult, for the parent that is,’ he clarified. ‘As you can imagine, a child who is adopted, especially at a very young age, needs to feel settled and secure. Adoption authorities won’t take the risk of natural parents regretting their decision after the fact and introducing themselves to the child. You can imagine how disruptive it would be. And, of course, for the adoptive parents themselves, who have loved the child as their own, the reappearance of the natural mother or father would be very distressing, unless they agreed to it beforehand. However, if, like yourself, the adopted child wishes to seek out their natural parents once they are legally able to do so, then that’s a different story.’

  I listened intently to what Georg was telling me. ‘So, if an adopted child did want to seek out their natural mother or father, where would they go?’

  ‘To the adoption authorities. These days, here in Switzerland at least, they keep a very careful record of these things. He would go there. I mean’ – Georg corrected himself immediately – ‘that is where any adopted child would need to begin.’

  I watched a faint blush of colour tinge his pale cheeks. And in that moment, I realised he knew.

  ‘So, if a natural parent was – just for example – going to make a will and leave the child they’d given up for adoption a bequest, what would happen then?’

  I watched Georg pause as he thought about his words carefully. ‘A lawyer would use the same route as any adopted child. He’d go to the adoption authorities and explain the situation. They would then – if the child was over sixteen years of age – contact the child, or
, I should say, young adult concerned.’

  ‘And if the child wasn’t over sixteen?’

  ‘Then the authorities would contact the adoptive parents, who have the right to decide whether it would be beneficial for their child to know of the bequest at the time.’

  ‘I see.’ I nodded, now feeling oddly in control. ‘And if the adoption authorities were unable to trace the child concerned, and a lawyer had to use less . . . conventional means to find them, how easy would that be?’

  Georg stared at me. And in that moment, his eyes told me everything his words couldn’t say. ‘For a competent lawyer, Maia, it would be easy, very easy indeed.’

  I told Georg that I would do as we had discussed and construct a will. I also told him I would be sending him a letter, to be held by him and passed over in the event that any adoption agency, or male with the birth date I would give him, ever made contact. Then I left his office.

  Outside, unwilling to go home before I’d had a chance to digest what I had just learnt, I parked myself at a table of a café that overlooked the lake and ordered a beer. I normally hated beer, but somehow as I put the bottle to my mouth, refusing the glass the waitress brought with it, the taste was reminiscent of Rio and it comforted me.

  If Georg knew about my son, then so did Pa Salt. I remembered the words that had upset and destabilised me so much in his parting letter to me.

  Please believe me when I say that family is everything. And that the love of a parent for a child is the most powerful force on earth.

  As I sipped my beer in the sunshine, I was convinced I could now walk back to Georg’s office and confront him. Ask him to tell me exactly who it was that had adopted my son and where in the world he was. But I also knew that what Floriano had said to me made sense. However much I longed to tell my beloved son why I had given him up, and to achieve some form of redemption for myself, currently it was a purely selfish need.

  A sudden burst of anger filled me as I thought of the unseen and all-powerful hand of Pa Salt, who still seemed to control my life from beyond the grave. And maybe, I realised, that of my son too.