The Seamstress (45 page)

Emília stared at the girls in her Communion portrait. She traced the line of Luzia’s bent arm, traced the subtle curves of her own child’s body that was turning into a woman’s, and she wondered what in their characters was fixed and what had been a matter of choice. Emília recalled the pressure of Dr. Duarte’s hands on her skull, the cold metal of his pincers. She recalled the words of the clipping on his desk:
And what man would be capable of penetrating the mysteries of such a contradictory soul?

“No man,” Emília whispered to the girls in her Communion portrait. “And certainly no pair of calipers.”

Over the following weeks, Emília began to study trouser patterns. “Ladies’ boating pants” was what the European fashion magazines called them. They were white and narrow waisted, with button flaps and wide legs. She could never sew a pair for herself; they were too risqué and the Auxiliary women would not approve. Still, she dreamed of the pants. Each afternoon, she stole change from Dr. Duarte’s billfold and bought her own newspapers. She stopped at a newsstand on her way home from Lindalva’s house. The stand’s owner was her conspirator. He wrapped her
Diário de Pernambuco
in fashion magazines and winked as he handed it to her. She clipped the articles she wanted and locked them in her jewlery box. She read about Luzia’s life as if her sister were a dark heroine in a romance. Emília felt excited to wake each day. Excited to see what Luzia would do next. Her sister was hundreds of kilometers away, but Emília felt as if Luzia was near her again. As if she was harboring a fugitive under the Coelhos’ noses.

4

In March, Celestino Gomes lost his bid to become president. On election day, Dr. Duarte and other wealthy Green Party members wore emerald lapel pins and drove their Chryslers to downtown voting stations. When the state’s votes were tallied, Gomes won Recife but lost the countryside. The colonels had united against him, giving all of the backlands’ votes to the current president and Blue Party candidate. The same thing happened throughout the North, while in the South, Celestino Gomes won his home state of Minas Gerais but lost all of São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro, where the Blue Party was strongest.

Recife’s mayor—a Blue Party man—called for a day of celebration. Dr. Duarte sulked in his study. Dona Dulce fretted over the consequences of her husband’s politics; she made three vats of banana jam in one afternoon. Emília could not make her weekly visits to Lindalva because there were reports of clashes in the streets. Green Party crowds milled about, declaring the election a fraud, while Blue Party supporters celebrated. In the days after the election, dozens of street dogs were killed, their green bandannas stuffed into their mouths.

After the killings, student leaders planned a Green Party rally outside the mayor’s palace. Emília and the Coelhos learned of the rally while listening to the parlor radio.

Dr. Duarte tapped his son’s arm. “I’m too old for agitation,” he said, “but you should join your peers.”

Color rose in Degas’ face. On election day, he’d reluctantly gone to the Green voting station with his father.

“It’s useless agitation,” Degas replied. “The elections are finished—”

“I agree,” Dona Dulce interrupted. She’d come from the kitchen and still wore her white apron, its scalloped edges wilted from the stove’s heat. There was an uncharacteristic flush to her cheeks. “Please, Duarte, no more political talk in the house. What’s done is done.”

Dr. Duarte wrapped his thick fingers together. He looked at Emília as if searching for an ally. She quickly returned her focus to her embroidery hoop. For once, Emília agreed with Dona Dulce and Degas. She was relieved that the elections were over and there would be no more Blue and Green nonsense.

“All right,” Dr. Duarte said, smoothing his thick white hair. “I’ll talk of science instead. You can’t deny me that. Emília, refresh my old mind. Of Dr. Kretschmer’s body types, the rotund ones—the men who are idlers and doubters—what are they called again?”

Emília looked up. Dona Dulce stared, her face rigid and expressionless, as if she’d dipped her skin in starch. Degas shifted in his chair. The stiff smoothness of his dress shirt wrinkled at the fold above his belly. On his face flickered the same worried look he’d given Emília each time he’d held her hand in public, as if pleading with her not to tug away.

“I don’t recall,” she replied.

She knew the word her father-in-law was looking for; it was
Pyknic.
When she’d first heard it, Emília had assumed the word was German, like the doctor who’d invented it, and it had reminded her of Padre Otto, although his bulk made him comforting and hearty, not lazy or weak natured.

“That’s surprising, Emília,” Dr. Duarte said. “You usually have such an exact memory.”

“Gomes should accept his loss,” Degas blurted out. “Isn’t that what you like to say: ‘Men honor their debts and accept their losses.’”

“Fair losses,” Dr. Duarte replied. “Men should accept fair losses and fight unfair ones. I’d hope my son would understand the difference.”

“I do,” Degas said. “To you—to us—the results are unfair. But to the Blue Party they’re more than fair, they’re right.”

“I didn’t think you’d become a turncoat so quickly,” Dr. Duarte said, smoothing his mustache.

Degas rose. His brow twitched, making it look as if he had something in his eye.

“Is your loyalty smashing a window?” he asked quietly. “Is it shouting in the street? That’s easy enough. I’ll go and do it.”

“You will stay put,” Dona Dulce interrupted. She focused her amber eyes on her husband. “Don’t goad him, Duarte. We’ll lose enough, now that your side hasn’t won. I will not have our son identified with this insanity.”

Dona Dulce rarely fought her husband. In the past months she’d been outvoted in her dislike of Emília’s new wardrobe. She’d allowed the acquisition of a sewing machine despite her muttered complaints that her house was not a seamstress’s office. She’d smiled patiently when Dr. Duarte wore his green ties and she’d endured all of Gomes’s radio speeches. But that night, she had reached her limit.

Dr. Duarte nodded. “Thank your mother, Degas. She protects you. She always has.”

Degas pushed past Dona Dulce and left the parlor.

After that evening, Degas spoke curtly to his mother. He avoided Dona Dulce’s gaze and brushed her away if she tried to straighten his collar or fuss with his thin wisps of hair. Degas winced each time Dr. Duarte spoke of Gomes, but he did not argue with his father again. He dutifully attended his legal classes. Instead of spending his afternoons away from the Coelho house, Degas began to stay home and sit in his father’s study. He accompanied Dr. Duarte on trips to visit the Coelho properties around the city and make sure the buildings hadn’t been vandalized by Blue Party loyalists. Degas was too busy with his father to spend time with his law school friends, or with Emília. He refused to take Emília to the fabric store because of the street clashes between Green and Blue supporters. Denied sewing supplies, and unable to make visits to Lindalva’s house, Emília was forced back into the Coelho courtyard, where she pretended to embroider. Secretly, she spied through the open study doors and observed her husband and father-in-law.

Dr. Duarte was still sore at Degas for not being a true Green Party loyalist. He needled his son with stories of Gomes patriots, and when Degas looked uncomfortable—his mouth set in a scowl, his body fidgeting, as if his chair was covered in bristles—Dr. Duarte changed tacks, complimenting Degas on his focus and his newfound attention to the family properties. Hearing these things, Degas hesitantly perked up. He reminded Emília of a horse on a tether, stubbornly tugging against its captivity but never breaking the tie. It tugged just to show it could, and when its owner returned with oats and a reassuring pat, it was reluctantly content.

Emília felt sorry for her husband, but she didn’t deserve to be denied her sewing materials. In response, Emília barely spoke to Degas. Dr. Duarte was also angry with his wife for her overprotectiveness. And Dona Dulce was furious with all of them: with Dr. Duarte for his crude politics, with Degas for his brusqueness, and with Emília for bearing witness to her disappointments. Dona Dulce took her anger out on the maids, who, in turn, overstarched the laundry and singed Dr. Duarte’s best shirts with the iron. Only the courtyard turtles and the corrupião bore no grudges.

As winter arrived, a muggy heat pressed on the city. There were two trolley car collisions, several knifings, and a riot at a local market when it was rumored that vendors were secretly selling donkey meat. From her room in the Coelho house, Emília caught a whiff of something decaying, like rotting fruit or poorly salted beef that had not kept. Soon, the scent invaded the Coelho house. She believed it was the city—its stale air, its stagnant swamp water—but the errand boy discovered that it was a street dog, dumped over the Coelhos’ back gate, its coat pocked with sores, its teeth set in a frozen snarl, its body bloated and ready to burst.

5

On May 22, 1930, at the same time that the Blue Party candidate was inaugurated as president in Rio de Janeiro, the
Graf Zeppelin
landed in Recife. The city papers buried the inauguration on page three, giving priority to the German dirigible. For weeks, the
Graf Zeppelin
had overshadowed politics. It would cross the Atlantic to make its first landing in South America, and the privileged site was not Rio de Janeiro but Recife. The North had trumped the South. After the elections, the city government built a landing tower in the flat marsh of Afogados. They named it Camp Jiquiá and equipped it with a fuel post, a pavilion for ceremonies, a chapel, and a radio tower. The
Graf Zeppelin
’s arrival was expected to draw a large crowd. In order to pay for Camp Jiquiá’s construction, the city planned to charge admission. The mayor declared the landing an official holiday and even the Coelho maids took the afternoon off in the hopes of seeing the dirigible.

The
Graf Zeppelin
was 230 meters long; Emília had read its dimensions in the papers. It could reach 110 kilometers an hour and would cross the Atlantic Ocean in a record three days. The newspaper called it “the Silver Fish.” Dr. Duarte called it a flying cow. When Emília asked what he meant, Dr. Duarte let out a sigh and smiled, as if relieved that someone other than Degas had taken notice of him.

“After the Dutch invaded,” Dr. Duarte began, setting down his breakfast utensils, “there’s a story that they wanted to build a bridge but had no money. Count de Nassau, the Dutch governor, built a platform and said that a cow was going to fly from it. People came in droves to watch and he charged admission! Nassau was a clever man, but devious. I would have liked to measure him.” Dr. Duarte paused and stared at his plate, as if imagining this measuring session. After a minute, he shook his head and continued. “There was no flying cow of course. They took a cowhide and stuffed it, then dropped it from the platform. People were so busy looking at the cow that they forgot they’d been cheated by the Dutchman.”

“They weren’t cheated, dearest,” Dona Dulce interrupted. “They got a bridge, after all.”

“They had their pockets picked!” Dr. Duarte snapped.

“They gave their money freely,” Dona Dulce continued, her voice soothing. “Don’t you always say that only born fools are drawn toward foolishness?”

Dr. Duarte grunted and returned to his meal. After breakfast, Dona Dulce took Emília aside and told her not to encourage his outbursts. Dr. Duarte was still bitter about the election. Contrary to Dona Dulce’s worries, he’d lost little influence. Many of the Old families and Blue Party leaders owed him money, which made them act favorably toward him. And despite the distraction of the
Graf Zeppelin,
the Green Party had not disappeared entirely. There were still harsh editorials in the
Diário de Pernambuco
about the continuing effects of the Crisis. There were still student opposition groups, which Degas, hoping to reconcile with his father, claimed to have joined. There were hushed references to a revolt. And Dr. Duarte still went to his meetings at the British Club, although he wore his Green Party pin hidden underneath his lapel. Emília wasn’t sure if he hid it from public view or from Dona Dulce.

On the day of the
Graf Zeppelin
’s landing, Emília spotted the pin’s gold nub protruding from Dr. Duarte’s lapel. Anyone openly displaying green, the city government said, would be barred from the landing ceremony. They did not want agitators, especially on the ceremonial pavilion where the Coelhos, along with the mayor and other prominent families, had been invited to view the Graf ’s landing. The pavilion’s borders were draped in blue fabric and in its center were rows of white wooden chairs. No one sat. There was a better chance of catching a breeze standing up, although when wind arrived it was warm and moist, like a pant. Handkerchiefs were out in abundance. Men wiped their foreheads and cheeks. Women waved silk fans before their faces. A small orchestra played at the narrow end of the pavilion. Sweat ran down the musicians’ necks and darkened their collars. A waiter in a white jacket worn so thin it looked like gauze placed a cup of fruit juice in Emília’s hands. The juice was sugary and lukewarm.

Emília felt the fabric of her dress clinging to her back. It was one of her creations—a belted, yellow-and-white gown that fell just below the knee.

“You look like an egg,” Dona Dulce had said before they left the Coelho house.

“I look like Coco Chanel,” Emília replied.

Her dress was not nearly as elegant as the Frenchwoman’s she’d seen in magazines, but she didn’t care. She no longer needed to heed Dona Dulce’s old-fashioned warnings. Emília was a member of the Ladies’ Auxiliary. She had social weight. She had her own agenda. The campaign for suffrage had ended with the March election but Emília’s dream of her own atelier had not. In the months since the election, she’d resurrected her weekly visits to Lindalva. Emília slowly transformed her friend’s disappointment into resolve. They could thumb their noses at the Blue leaders and run a business, Emília told her friend. They could single-handedly bring women’s trousers into style. They could educate their seamstresses, making them literate workingwomen to join the ranks of typists, schoolteachers, and telephone operators. Emília had even hinted at her plans to Dr. Duarte. The elections had thwarted his dreams for a state-sponsored Criminology Institute and he no longer needed a secretary, but Emília still went to his study whenever Degas did not. She listened to Dr. Duarte’s ideas and cautiously shared her own. When she spoke of her desire to outfit Recife women, she made sure to use the words Dr. Duarte liked best: modernity, advancement, innovation. She never used the term
business
; instead she said
hobby
. Dr. Duarte chuckled at her talk of dresses and hats and hemlines, but when Dona Dulce asserted that Emília could not wear her yellow-and-white dress to the
Graf Zeppelin
landing, Dr. Duarte shook his head.