Her Mother's Mother's Mother and Her Daughters

by Maria José Silveira

  Whisked away by the family of her father’s friends, who had also provided a quick and simple burial, Eulália took refuge on a farm a few miles from São Paulo, where she spent those days lost in her private fog.

  At the end of July, the rebels abandoned the city, making their way northwest to the state of Mato Grosso. That marked the initial formation of the group that would later become known as the Prestes Column—named after their young leader. The group would march again months later, joining up with rebels from Rio Grande do Sul, and would cross a good part of the country over the next two years, always under pursuit.

  The city center had been left in ruins. People walked through the streets, shocked at the destruction and the war whose motives they had not understood.

  Eulália returned with her father’s friends to their mansion in Higienópolis, where Umberto came to look for her. Everything that had happened to her, her father’s unexpected death, the experience of war, the fear, the helplessness, the future that suddenly appeared like a dark cloud obscuring everything—it had all left its weight and mark upon her.

  She was thinner, paler, and she had never felt so adrift.

  Like all the city residents, Umberto and Eulália went to see the ruins wrought by the war. She leaned on him as she waded through the wreckage, the city’s and her own, her world as turned upside-down and bombarded as the streets they walked, the gates and the walls collapsed, an acrid burning smell invading her nostrils, broken glass on the ground, cinderblocks exposed, singed, black, revealing the wounds of the devastated city.

  That was no place for a lovers’ walk and much less for a marriage proposal. But it was there, among the strange smells and ruins, that Umberto told her that he wished to marry her. He did not want her to return to Rio, but to stay there, where he would watch over her forever.

  Umberto would later ask himself numerous times what had brought him to marry that strange girl whom he had barely known at the time. Perhaps it was a consequence of the nonsensical emotion brought on by war. Perhaps he had confused love with his strong desire to protect her, and the sort of compassion he had felt since the first time he’d laid eyes on her. But there was also his desire for the creamy softness of her milky skin, the longing to fold her up in a strong embrace that would take her breath away. There was also the vanity of knowing he was so loved, his pride at feeling the caress of a passionate gaze as fervent as Eulália’s.

  Back when he’d received her first letter, in which she’d introduced herself as Adriana’s friend and said that she’d fallen in love with him from afar, he thought she was a bit flighty, a bit odd, but he had responded regardless, partly for the satisfaction of his conquest, partly from feeling so flattered, and partly for the adventure of it. When she continued to write him and even sent her photo, her delicate little face smiling lovingly from the paper, he again responded and, before he realized it, was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the next letters when they took too long to arrive. Her smile in the photo, the letters with thoughts and comments that lacked any sort of logic, the perplexity of it all—something about her began to stir something within him, even if he wasn’t exactly sure what it was.

  When he met her in São Paulo, he thought she was different from all the other girls he had known. Her delicateness, her skin so white and smooth, her somewhat ethereal manners; he would never forget when she had sat down on that bench in the square on that afternoon, the sun just a touch too strong for winter, and opened her mouth, revealing her small, white teeth. She looked at him with such intensity and desire that he thought, for the briefest moment, that she was about to faint. Ever since then, that briefest of instants, he knew that if it were up to him, he would never let her out of his sight.

  When her father died suddenly, and in that period in which the city seemed to have suddenly transformed into some sort of hell, with her so alone in the midst of that nightmare, he felt even closer to her, as though fate itself, that mysterious force, was placing her under his wing. He could not and would not leave her on her own, and it was then that he asked her to marry him, in the middle of a city of ruins.

  Umberto was an enthusiastic defender of the rebels, though his father—an armchair anarchist—had told him loud and clear that it wasn’t worth taking sides in that fight, that neither one of them was worth a damn.

  His father was a tailor with a steady clientele in São Paulo. He lived on the top floor of a small two-story house in Bexiga, with his shop on the ground floor. In addition to Umberto, the youngest, and his older brother, who helped out and learned his trade, he had three other employees, all men. The tiny room with its long tables and heavy irons smelled of clean, freshly pressed cloth, marking chalk, and sweat.

  It was there that Eulália went to live after they were married.

  The wedding took place not long after Floriano’s death. When things calmed down a bit and Eulália was able to return to Rio, she was already engaged. She was truly in love with the kind Italian man with the dimples and, like anyone who is in love, didn’t give much thought about her family’s situation. She had no idea of the extent to which her new life would be different and, even if she had, she did not see much alternative. When she arrived in Rio, she found her brothers at each other’s throats over their grandfather Acioli’s modest mansion and its furniture, the little that remained of their inheritance.

  Eudoro, the eldest, who had married a young society woman whose father was also in financial straits, had returned to his grandfather’s mansion to live with his wife while Floriano was still alive. Gaspar, who had inherited the family’s penchant for gambling and the night-life, was beginning to earn a living from a small casino he had built on a deserted beach in Urca; he finally agreed to take the furniture and works of art and to sell them, while Eudoro and Eulália stayed on in the mansion.

  When Eudoro promised to sell the mansion as soon as possible and split the profit with her, Eulália packed her things and returned to São Paulo to marry Umberto.

  Gaspar wished to accompany his sister and was curious to meet the family of Italians, but he was unable to leave his casino unattended at that time. He promised to visit them soon. As far as Eudoro and his wife were concerned, they didn’t have enough money left over to pay for travel and lodging in São Paulo, and they feared they might be asked to help with some of the wedding expenses if they were to attend.

  So Eulália set out alone to begin her new life.

  The Rancieris welcomed her with open arms.

  The changes, however, were too drastic for her. The handsome home inhabited by a small millionaire-bourgeois family was traded for a semi-proletarian house with few rooms and many mouths to feed: the couple, their five children, and their new daughter-in-law. The newlyweds took up one of the rooms, and the remaining four Rancieri siblings piled up in another. They were all men, which was one more reason the family welcomed Eulália as though she were their first daughter; the effusive and exuberant affection of the Italians, however, knocked her off course. She was more confused than ever, completely at sea. She sought any possible excuse to remain alone in her room and pray.

  Where was she, she asked herself, where was she?

  Her family had fallen apart; she was ashamed to seek out her school friends given her living conditions: one bedroom of a tiny neighborhood home. She would die of embarrassment because of her mother-in-law, an unsophisticated, fat, horrific woman who didn’t even speak Portuguese, and who yelled all the time. Adriana, her good friend Adriana—had she tricked her, making her believe that Umberto was from a rich family? Had Adriana already known everything? My God, how she wanted to die! Or perhaps Adriana herself had died! If Adriana were dead, her shame would be diminished, dear Saint Rose! But if she hadn’t, what could be done?

  Nothing.

  She’d heard of young women working as telephone operators. But her, work? What a hare-brained idea! How could she possibly?

  And if she were to pass Adriana in the street, good heavens!

&
nbsp; Adriana lived in São Paulo, so in the event she might one day run into her in the street, she would pretend she didn’t see her—she would never, ever see Adriana ever again. Adriana no doubt knew she had married Umberto. Umberto with his dimples, such a handsome man!

  When Umberto embraced her, she forgot everything. When they were together, things no longer seemed so dire.

  During the hours she didn’t lock herself in the room, Eulália would go to the tailor’s workshop to be closer to Umberto. There she would stay, watching the burning red embers an employee placed inside a clothes iron, the sharp hiss of the bit of damp cloth when it met the heat of the piping-hot metal, the sweet smell rising from the ever-so-singed cloth, the laughter of the young men, and her father-in-law telling old stories of the anarchists back in Italy. Umberto, the measuring tape hanging around his neck, lowered his head to run the chalk along the thick wooden ruler to mark the cloth, allowing her to catch a glimpse of that glassy little drop of sweat rolling down his neck, filling her again with desire.

  That masculine environment, there next to her handsome Umberto, was the only place she liked to be.

  Her husband’s family was from northern Italy, from the Veneto region. Her mother-in-law practically spoke only Italian and made polenta every single day, as though they were still in Italy and had no other type of food. Their neighbors and friends also spoke Italian, and they spoke it loudly, and all at the same time. Eulália felt ready to keel over, a bit dizzy; she couldn’t spend extended periods amid all that commotion, and would eventually lock herself back in the bedroom.

  Without realizing it, she began to drink. Only a little at first. She would drink one, perhaps two small glasses of her father-in-law’s wine, and it was as if something came loose inside her. A knot was undone and her heart grew lighter, her valves and veins and doors and windows opened up. She took a liking to that sensation, and the first couple glasses quickly became four, five. Some nights, she almost felt happy, a sensation she wasn’t used to and which left her a bit silly, laughing at herself and her life. She never had a hangover, and so the pleasure of drinking did not lead to her ruin. She remained intact, waiting for the next occasion to do it all over again.

  On Sundays, her father-in-law would go out after lunch to meet some friends, anarchist sympathizers who were, however, not given to radicalism; they were professionals, craftsmen who little by little were managing to make a life for themselves in Brazil and who wanted the best for everyone, that no one would suffer so much infelicitá, dio mio, tanta miseria! It was a fun group of good-natured Italian men for whom the anarchist tradition was more a lifestyle than a political movement.

  Eulália attended Mass with her Catholic mother-in-law; she would wrap herself in her black shawl so no one could recognize her. None of the men, not even Umberto, went with them. That’s how it had always been in their family: the boys had permission to go to church with their mother until the age of seven, when their father would grab them by the neck and say: Questo allora è finito! Basta!, and their mother would continue with only the younger ones. But by that time the youngest son had already turned seven, and so Eulália and her mother-in-law went to church by themselves.

  When the couple’s first daughter was born, her father-in-law had a small room constructed just for them in the back of the house. Eulália chose the name Rosa Alfonsina. Rosa for her favorite saint, and Alfonsina for the nun whom she had admired in school and to whom she still wrote long letters about how everything in her life was just perfect, how God had been extremely generous with her, how it was as if her husband’s family were her own, how they had brought a considerable fortune from Italy and how everyone lived in luxury in a gorgeous mansion in São Paulo where she anxiously awaited the nun’s visit one day. And had Sister Alfonsina by chance heard any news about Adriana?

  Despite her love for her husband, Eulália felt she could not handle such a life for much longer. Her hopes hung on the money they would receive from her family mansion, whose sale, meanwhile, her brother had repeatedly delayed.

  Her husband told her that business was improving, that their clientele was growing, and that, in fact, her father-in-law had begun to build another house next to the existing family home, which would be entirely dedicated to the family business.

  Nonetheless, Eulália was unable to adjust to the simple life of an immigrant family. She dreamed of her former clothes, the luxury she’d known, her mansion in Rio, the enormous bedroom that was hers alone, the thick curtains that fell smoothly and gracefully to the floor, enclosing the bedroom in a dark circle of warmth and comfort. Now, through the curtainless windows of the couple’s miniscule bedroom, the cold seeped in and dug into her bones like sharp little daggers. She began to wear a wool coat even during the summer.

  The knots of troubled feelings in Eulália’s soul wound tighter and tighter.

  Her excessive and somewhat distorted religiosity returned with absolute force and influence. Besides the wool coat, she began to walk everywhere with a rosary in her hand, praying, her lips opening and closing with her silent invocation; on the trolley, in the kitchen, seated on the tiny porch, in the bathroom. These prayers were her company, her refuge, her obsession, her way of life. When she prayed, she asked everything of Saint Rose. That her parents’ fortune be restored. That her father-in-law fall ill and leave the business in Umberto’s hands alone. That her mother-in-law drop dead in the kitchen like her father. That her husband’s entire family return to Italy, leaving only her and Umberto and their daughter in the house. That her brother would tell her the mansion was hers alone, that she could return there to live with her husband. That Adriana would see her in the street next to Umberto and their daughter and think that she was very rich and happy. That Adriana would never see her in the street, but think that she was married to Umberto and that they were millionaires and happy and lived in a gorgeous mansion in Rio. Saint Rose, hear my prayer!

  Eulália was pregnant for the second time when she received the news of the fire at the mansion. So great was her despair that she fainted in the middle of reading Gaspar’s long letter recounting the tragedy in harrowing detail.

  Albertina, Eudoro’s wife, was mentally ill. Eudoro had been reluctant to send her to a clinic because he didn’t want anyone to know about her illness, which he considered a stain upon the family’s honor. Even Gaspar had known nothing. It’s true that he barely visited his brother’s house, but whenever he did he’d seen his sister-in-law, so pale, so thin, seldom saying more than “Good morning,” “Good afternoon,” “Be well.” She seemed a bit sickly to him, but he thought it was merely a passing thing. It wasn’t. She had violent episodes, and her husband would lock her in her bedroom, where he’d removed all the objects she might have used to hurt herself.

  Such was their life during those years in the mansion, which grew more and more decrepit given the lack of necessary upkeep, cleaning, or maintenance. The only people living there were Eudoro, his wife, and an elderly woman paid to care for his wife. Things had remained almost identical to the time their parents had lived there, including Diva’s studio and photo lab, with her photos stacked in piles of manila folders, all the liquids for developing and enlarging the photos in enormous bottles.

  During her latest episode, Albertina had, by a stroke of fate, found the door to her bedroom unlocked. It was night and, lighting a candle, she began to wander through the sleeping house, stopping in the rooms that had been Diva’s domain and setting fire to the curtains, the paper, the rugs, and the furniture.

  In a short time, everything was incinerated. The entire mansion, with Albertina, Eudoro, and the old caretaker inside. The other two had been sleeping and hadn’t managed to escape the flames in time.

  When Umberto walked into the bedroom, he found his wife unconscious, letter in hand.

  From that point on, she spent the rest of her pregnancy in bed, in a deep depression, lacking the strength to get to her feet.

  As everything had gone smoothly wit
h the birth of her first child, the complications of this pregnancy took the family by surprise. It was her mother-in-law who generally delivered the children in the family, and who had done so with Rosa Alfonsina, but this time, as soon as she realized that the child was positioned feet-first, she sent the men to call the midwife from the next neighborhood over. The midwife, older and more experienced, thought she could handle the situation, that the child would turn in time for a healthy delivery. As the hours passed, however, Umberto could no longer contain himself and decided to call a doctor.

  But by the time the doctor arrived, there was no longer anything he could do for the child or for Eulália. There was nothing he could have done even had he arrived earlier.

  It was a cold and dark winter night, with hardly a light in the sky.

  Eulália was buried the following day amid a mist-drenched morning, dressed in her wool coat, her rosary in her hands. The tiny white casket with her son was buried by her side.

  A PROMISING SIGN

  ROSA ALFONSINA

  (1926- )

  Rosa Alfonsina flashed the cameraman from O Cruzeiro magazine her most beautiful smile. They’d placed a heavy cloak of smooth, navy-blue velvet trimmed with fur across her shoulders, a scepter in her hands, and a sparkling gold crown encrusted with diamonds over her dark, honey-colored hair, all in a careful imitation of luxury. She wore a handsome dress of white silk whose incredibly narrow straps were two gold laces; it was a stunning dress made especially for her by her father, the famous designer Umberto Rancieri. She was full of life on that, her day of glory: she had just been crowned Miss São Paulo and was smiling with demure delight to all who applauded her and to the shining lights that lit the runway along which she walked, magnificent and regal.

  Rosa truly was beautiful, though she had inherited the wide hips of her father’s side of the family, which over the years might make her appear wider than she really was. But not at that present moment. She was just fine with her hips and had been crowned Miss São Paulo, after a tremendous battle with her father and grandmother for permission to participate, who didn’t even want to hear about such things, but now there they were, in the first row, proud as could be, wildly cheering her on.