The Seamstress (31 page)

“She’s the only female partner in the International Club,” Degas said, smiling. “It’s an important visit.”

“That daughter of hers is a horror,” Dona Dulce interjected. “A suffragette.” She frowned and inspected the invitation. “I will have to accompany you.”

12

The baroness resembled one of the courtyard turtles. Her chin jutted square and firm above her wrinkled neck, which moved slowly from side to side. She tilted her eyes, as dark and bulging as two jabuticaba berries, back and forth between Dona Dulce and Emília. They sat in deep wicker chairs on her porch, which overlooked Derby Square and the palatial headquarters of the Military Police. A trolley slid down the street, screeching along its rails and forcing the women to pause in their conversation until the car passed. Emília stared at the baroness’s jasmine trees, shaped into perfect squares. Pink and white quartz stones were set in a round pattern, slicing the front garden into a pie that alternated between flowers and stones. Dona Dulce sat, smiling and rigid, beside Emília. She spoke of her Carnaval preparations and lamented how late the holiday would fall that year—in the first week of March instead of in the month of February. The baroness swayed in her wicker rocker. She wore a string of pearls, each as large as one of Emília’s front teeth. Her gray hair lifted and flattened in the breeze.

“Does this girl speak?” the Baroness interrupted. “Or is she a mute?”

“She’s shy,” Dona Dulce replied.

“Do you like sweets?” the baroness asked, tapping Emília’s arm. She had large, knobby-knuckled hands. Her fingers were crooked and stiff, like pink claws.

“Yes, senhora,” Emília responded.

“Good. I’m suspicious of people who dislike sweets.”

The baroness rang her serving bell. A maid appeared and deposited a tray of grapes dipped in condensed milk and rolled in sugar. She placed the grapes before Emília.

“So, you’ve married Degas,” the baroness said. “He was a quiet child. He played with my Lindalva, remember, Dulce?” The old woman chuckled. “He adored her dolls.”

Dona Dulce smiled widely. “The two of you share something in common,” she said. “Emília is from the countryside as well.”

“I know,” Baroness Margarida replied. She picked through the sugared grapes. “The marriage announcement in the paper was so small I could barely read it. It said you’re from Toritama? I’m not familiar with that town.”

“I’m from Taquaritinga do Norte,” Emília said. “It was a misprint.”

“Taquaritinga!” the baroness said, forgetting the grapes. “We’re both mountain girls, then. I was raised in Garanhuns. I adore the interior. I make a trip each year during the wet months on account of my arthritis.”

The baroness held up her crooked hands.

“My daddy was a cattle rancher,” the old woman continued. “Paulo Carvalho—ever heard of him?”

Emília shook her head. The baroness frowned.

“Well, no matter. The Carvalhos are extinct now. Except for myself and my Lindalva. Thank God for the old baron! Everyone thought he was a banana tree that had already given its fruit,” she winked, “but he proved us all wrong.”

Emília smiled. Dona Dulce’s cheeks reddened.

A girl stepped out of the side door. Her dress was the color of an egg yolk. Its skirt revealed her calves and a pair of smart white shoes. Her black hair was cut even shorter than Emília’s and held by a white scarf wrapped around her head, in the style of a bohemian or a film artist. Emília looked down at her gray gown. She felt ridiculous.

“Ah, Lindalva!” The baroness smiled. “Speak of the devil.”

Lindalva leaned behind her mother’s chair. Her face was smooth and round, like the convex side of one of Dona Dulce’s silver soup spoons. There was a large gap between her front teeth.

“Hello!” she breathed, as if she had just run onto the porch.

“Lindalva was the one who spotted you puttering around Derby Square,” the baroness said, motioning to the park. “Spying to see which side would pick you up.” She winked at Dona Dulce, then tilted her eyes to Emília. “Do you like my garden?”

“It’s lovely,” Emília replied, quickly recalling Dona Dulce’s first lesson.

“I built the wall around it low so that, from our porch, we can see Derby Square. It’s quite pleasant. We can see who comes and goes. But, the price we pay for our curiosity is that all of those Old family gossips can peek over my wall and into my garden. If they peek today, they will see that you are having tea here, with us.” She smiled. Her jabuticaba-berry eyes shone. “You will find, my dear, that Recife is a city of noble families with low walls.”

“I’d like to show her the house,” Lindalva said, extending her plump, short-fingered hand to Emília. “Come along. Mother will keep Dulce company.”

They walked hand in hand into the house. It was larger then the Coelho house, but simpler. The baroness had less furniture and many large windows. They entered a bright room with a black-and-white-checkered floor. Lindalva guided Emília onto a cushioned love seat and sat closely beside her. She scanned Emília’s gray dress, as if seeing it for the first time.

“Are you in mourning?” Lindalva asked, her brow wrinkling in concern.

“No,” Emília replied, then sputtered, “yes.”

“Which is it?”

“My aunt and my sister, they passed away last June, but then I was married and—”

“Did Dulce pick that out for you?” Lindalva interrupted.

“Yes,” Emília sighed, relieved.

“Well, I hope you don’t mind my saying so,” Lindalva said, leaning closer to Emília, “but it’s completely boring. You’re a lovely girl. You should emphasize your figure. There’s a shop in Rio de Janeiro that makes
spectacular
mourning dresses. Premade, of course. Everyone in the South is buying prêt-à-porter these days. I’ll give you their address. I just got back from there. I graduated from the Federal University, in Portuguese literature. Would you like to see a photograph of my graduation?”

Emília nodded absently. Lindalva had the energy of a hummingbird, staying still just long enough for Emília to grasp what she was saying before she darted on to something else entirely. Emília had no desire to see the photograph but she couldn’t be disagreeable. Lindalva rushed across the room, her yellow skirt fluttering behind her. She returned with a velvet case. Inside was a large photograph. A group of young women in white ball gowns sat in two orderly rows.

“There were so few girls in my class. Before he passed away my father insisted I go to school. Mother studied at the Catholic University here in Recife after they married, did you know that? It was quite radical at the time.” Lindalva smiled and handed Emília the plate. “Pick me out.”

Emília stared at the spoon-faced girl before her, then back at the photograph. There were so many girls. How would she choose? She quickly scanned their gray-and-white faces, and finally pointed to the girl with the gown she thought was the prettiest—a flounced dress covered in ribbons and tulle.

“Good lord no!” Lindalva chuckled. “I’m not dark skinned now and I certainly wasn’t then! Try again.”

Emília’s head ached. She wanted to go back to the porch, to sit quietly and listen to Dona Dulce ramble on about Carnaval. She absently pointed to another girl.

“No.” Lindalva smiled. “Here I am.”

She pointed to a girl in the back row, wearing a large hat with a single white feather protruding from its front brim. Emília recognized the round face, the gap-toothed smile. Lindalva quickly shut the photograph’s velvet box.

“I promised my mother I’d return to Recife. I’m very fond of the city, but the people here are completely dull. Especially the women. Things are so rigid. It’s not at all modern. You
must
visit São Paulo. There, a woman can walk alone on the street. She can drive a motorcar without being sneered at. I saw you in the park and begged Mother to invite you. I thought you would be so different from these ninnies. I mean, you’ve held a job! A seamstress!” She clasped Emília’s hand. “I’m a firm believer in women not living parasitically.

“I’m sure Dulce and Dr. Duarte are happy about you. They’ve been absolutely salivating to marry Degas off.” Lindalva’s face reddened and she gripped Emília’s hand tighter. “How on earth did you come to know Degas Coelho?”

“I came to know him,” Emília repeated, as if Lindalva’s words were like the lessons on Degas’ language records, “in Taquaritinga. During his winter vacation.”

“What convinced you to marry him?”

“His shoes,” Emília said absently, recalling Degas’ polished, two-toned wingtips. The instant she’d said it, Emília regretted admitting such a thing aloud. She sounded like the ninnies Lindalva had disparaged earlier. She wanted to say that Degas was new and different. That his presence made her forget the dull monotony that her life had become; that during their walks he’d called her innocent and pure, while everyone else in town thought just the opposite. In the end, he didn’t have to convince her. He’d simply claimed her, and she’d let him.

Lindalva let out a laugh. “I’ve heard worse reasons for marrying,” she said brightly. “Mother says we women would be better off if we forgot about love. She thinks that an ugly, liberal husband is the best kind.”

“Well, I don’t,” Emília said. “I think love is important. It’s essential.”

She was startled by the firmness of her own voice, and angry, suddenly, at the spoon-faced girl. Angry, too, at Dona Dulce for her constant prodding and correcting. Angry at Degas for his cool kisses on her forehead, and for his silence each night when he turned his back to her and slipped into his childhood bedroom.

“I’ve upset you,” Lindalva said. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Emília replied, patting her face. “I’m not upset.”

“I don’t want you to think of me as a horrible gossip. I’m speaking candidly because that’s how I would like to be spoken to. You’ll see that it’s a rare thing here.” Lindalva took a breath and pressed her hand to Emília’s knee. “What are your plans?”

“My plans?”

“Yes. Your goals. The Coelhos can’t coop you up indoors forever. Especially you—a working woman! I’m sure you’re used to having an exterior life.”

“I don’t have plans,” Emília replied.

Lindalva sucked air through the gap in her teeth. “If you don’t make one for yourself, Dulce will make it for you.”

Emília picked at the fingertips of her gloves. She recalled their trip to the dressmaker, their conversation beside the reams of pink and blue fustão.

“Dulce always has plans,” Lindalva continued. “If she didn’t, she wouldn’t bother taking you about. It’s known that she can’t abide my mother. Dulce’s from one of those ancient families that was all title and no money. After she married Dr. Duarte, the Old families didn’t want her. And she thinks she is above all of the New families.” Lindalva paused. She stared at Emília. “People are saying that you’re an orphan; that you’re from a country family that died off, one by one, from consumption, and that you had to sustain yourself by sewing. They say that Degas rescued you. Is that true?”

“Who would say that?” Emília asked.

“Who do you think?” Lindalva asked, titling her head toward the porch. She shrugged. “The New families love tragic tales. Especially when the tragedy is far from their own lives.”

“But they could easily find out it wasn’t true,” Emília said. She thought of Colonel Pereira’s son, Felipe. She’d found out, through Dona Dulce’s warnings to Degas, that Felipe attended law school and lived in a boardinghouse in Bairro Recife, where ladies and gentlemen did not wander. In the capital, Felipe was transformed into a lowly student, not Old or New, but a part of that other, nameless group. Still, he was from Taquaritinga and he knew her origins.

“Listen very carefully to me,” Lindalva said, once again taking Emília’s hands between her own. “If you dig deep enough into any of these so-called-noble families, Old or New, the search will end up in the jungle or in the kitchen. No one here will question you too deeply, as long as you know that questioning can go both ways.”

Emília shifted. Her dress was tight beneath the armpits. She wanted to loosen her hand from Lindalva’s grip and leave. To her great relief, a maid entered and informed them that coffee had been served. They returned to the porch and sat with the Baroness and Dona Dulce. Emília concentrated on her coffee cup, uncomfortable with Lindalva’s constant chatter, and the friendly, collusive smiles she directed toward Emília each time Dona Dulce spoke. When they left, the Baroness Margarida pressed Emília’s hand between her red, clawlike fingers.

“I’ll see you again, after Carnaval,” the baroness announced. “There will be no need to interrupt your day, Dulce. I’ll send my car to pick her up.”

Emília’s head ached. Lindalva beamed.

13

Two weeks before Carnaval, clouds blew in from the Atlantic. The cata-vento twirled. Rain fell for five straight days, causing mud slides that carried houses down the hills of Casa Amarela. Reecife’s gutters overflowed into the swelling Capibaribe. Seamstresses arrived at the Coelho house under the cover of sturdy umbrellas, clutching sagging reams of tulle and sewing bags filled with sequins and iridescent feathers. For their first Carnaval as husband and wife, Degas and Emília would have coordinating costumes—they would be Amazonian Indians for two nights and a ruffle-collared Pierrot clown and his masked mate, the Columbina, for two more. Degas’ costumes had already been made, but Emília’s were more elaborate and required the Carnaval seamstresses to make a house visit.

The Coelho house was empty. Dr. Duarte and Dona Dulce had gone to their traditional Carnaval luncheon at the British Club, while Degas enjoyed “the Course” along Concórdia Street. The young set from Recife’s best families, Old and New, gathered in their automobiles and drove up and down the two-lane avenue. They threw confetti and long strands of paper serpentines. They held ether-soaked handkerchiefs to their faces and with the remaining contents of their glass flasks, they doused each other and the spectators along the street. Masses gathered along the roadway hoping to get a spray of ether and a glimpse of the gentlemen and young ladies ruining each other’s costumes. Emília had wanted to witness it for herself. She’d begged Degas to take her, but he said it wouldn’t be fitting for her first social outing. The Course could get ugly. Rival families were known to throw terrible things at each other’s cars: molasses, flour, rotten fruit, even urine.