The Seamstress (46 page)

“We must greet modernity with modern style,” he said, settling the matter and smiling at Emília.

The
Graf Zeppelin
was scheduled to arrive at four
PM
. By five o’clock it had not appeared. Below the pavilion, the crowds grew agitated. Trolley cars had worked triple shifts in order to bring spectators to the event. City workers had cleared an area for midrange ticket holders: students, journalists, merchants, and families that were not invited to the pavilion. In this area, planks had been placed over the muddy ground and long, wooden pathways with handrails were constructed to steer the middle-income crowds back and forth from their trolleys. Beyond this, in a fenced and muddy expanse bordered by a thousand police officers, stood “the masses,” as Dona Dulce called them. They were loud and jubilant, singing and dancing despite the heat. Emília saw two little girls, barefoot and giggling, weave through the crowd. They wore green ribbons in their hair.

Beside Emília, Degas leaned slightly over the pavilion’s rails. Below, in the middle-class platform, stood Felipe. He wore a tatty suit and a misshapen fedora. Back in Taquaritinga, Emília recalled, she used to think Felipe’s clothes were the picture of elegance.

When he saw Degas, Felipe took off his hat and waved it, slowly at first and then more energetically. Degas turned his back, staring intently at the pavilion’s band. Felipe stopped waving. He looked directly at Emília, who quickly turned away. According to Degas, Felipe had been expelled from the Federal University Law School because of his continued vocal support of the Green Party. Since then, they’d had no study sessions together. Degas’ grades had fallen.

At six
PM
, the orchestra stopped playing. The mayor began his speech. Emília shaded her eyes and stared at the landing tower. It looked like a giant cup and saucer balanced on top of a red-and-white post. The mayor explained that the tower acted as a kind of hitching post, connecting to the end of the
Graf Zeppelin
and stabilizing it. Passengers and crew would exit at ground level from the cabin attached to the dirigible’s belly. They would not stay in Recife long. The
Graf Zeppelin
would refuel and fly to Rio de Janeiro. The “captain,” Claudio Chevalier, an aristocrat, pilot, and the mayor’s guest of honor, had traveled all the way from Rio to participate in the landing. Once the
Graf Zeppelin
had refueled, Captain Chevalier would board the dirigible and assist with the flight.

The mayor’s voice was strong, but it could not carry to the crowd below, who began to mill about. On the pavilion, people clapped politely for Chevalier. Emília watched the crowd below shade their eyes and stare at the sky, believing the
Graf Zeppelin
had arrived. Chevalier removed his black pilot’s cap and waved.

He was a small man with dark crescents beneath his eyes and a tangle of brown hair. He reminded Emília of a sagüi. Such monkeys were common in Taquaritinga and, to Emília’s surprise, in Recife as well, where they skipped along the Tramways power lines, stole fruit, and filled the air with their high-pitched squeaks. Like Chevalier, they had small, glistening eyes and muffs of fur protruding from their heads.

Beside her, Degas pulled out a handkerchief. He gently dabbed his face and neck. When the clapping subsided and the orchestra began to play, he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and left. Emília straightened her hat and followed her husband.

Degas wove through the guests until he reached the front of the pavilion, where Chevalier stood. The pilot greeted a crowd of ladies. Degas edged near him. When the group of ladies fell away, Chevalier smiled and extended a hand. Degas’ forehead shone with sweat. Without his usual charm, Degas sputtered an introduction, then wiped his palm on his suit trousers and gripped the pilot’s hand. Her husband looked large and awkward compared to the sprightly Chevalier. Emília felt a pang of pity for him.

The pilot smiled and looked past Degas. He jutted his chin toward Emília.

“I have another lady fan,” Chevalier said.

Degas turned around. Emília saw a flash of recognition on his face followed by annoyance.

“Oh, no,” Degas muttered. “This is my wife.”

Captain Chevalier took Emília’s hand in his, pulling her forward, loosening her glove.

“I was told Northerners were unattractive,” Chevalier said, his eyes remaining on Degas. “Now I know that’s false.”

His Rio accent was thick and exaggerated. He did not pronounce his
t
’s. Emília slipped her hand away. She tugged her glove straight.

“I was told that Southerners were tall,” she said. “But now I know that’s false.”

Chevalier blinked. Degas wrinkled his brow. His mouth opened, but before he could speak, Chevalier did.

“She’s a pistol,” he said to Degas. “You have excellent taste.”

Emília felt a prickling heat rise along the back of her neck. Chevalier spoke as if she were a well-chosen accessory—a pocket watch, a silk tie, a finely woven Panama hat—and nothing more. Emília stared at Degas. His starched collar was limp.

“You look flushed,” Degas said, patting her back. “Find a waiter and get some punch, won’t you? I don’t want you fainting.”

Emília nodded. She did not want to be near Degas or the pilot, though part of her wanted to stay, to intrude on their conversation. Emília headed for the pavilion’s bar. There, she ordered a cup of sugarcane liquor topped with fruit juice. Before she took a sip, a hand gripped her shoulder and wrenched it back.

“Stand up straight! Don’t sulk!”

The voice was low and nasal. When it tried to bark another order, it dissolved into giggles. Emília turned around. Lindalva pulled her close, kissing her cheeks. Her friend wore a huge straw hat, the brim lifted and held back with a pearl-studded pin. The hat’s straw was bleached white and so finely woven that it was soft and malleable, like a manioc pancake. Lindalva lifted the cup from Emília’s hand and took a sip. She pursed her lips.

“Your drink is spiked, Mrs. Coelho,” Lindalva said.

Emília took the cup back. “I hate this Zeppelin.”

“How do you know?” Lindalva laughed. “You haven’t even met it.”

“I don’t need to.”

“You sound like Mother,” Lindalva said.

The baroness had left town before the
Graf Zeppelin
’s landing, preferring to spend the winter at her country house in Garanhuns.

“Well, this Zeppelin character is very rude,” Lindalva said. “He’s late for his own party.”

Emília nodded and sipped her punch. Her gullet burned. Through the crowd she watched Degas. He hunched close to Chevalier and nodded intently as the pilot spoke. Chevalier smiled and gestured with his hands, adoring the attention. Degas offered him a cigarette and he accepted, leaning close as Degas lit it.

Lindalva took the punch from Emília and had another sip.

“That Captain Chevalier is a cad,” she said. “Someone should introduce him to a hairbrush.”

Below them, on the muddy ground, the crowd cheered.

“Oh,” Lindalva sighed, taking Emília’s hand. “Look.”

In the distance was a glimmer, like a mirror in the setting sun. Emília squinted. The orchestra stopped. A hush fell upon the crowd. Slowly, the
Graf Zeppelin
hovered, moving toward the marsh. It was long and bullet-shaped, narrowing at the end with a finned tail. It floated toward them serenely, like a silver cloud. From far away it looked small and weightless, reminding Emília of the fire balloons she and Luzia had made. As it moved closer to Camp Jiquiá, Emília realized that it was massive.

“It’s like a great whale,” a woman beside her said.

“No,” a man replied, “it’s like a ship, sailing in the air.”

“Viva Mr. Zé Pelin!” a voice from the crowd below called out. There was a wave of laughter. On the pavilion, ladies and gentlemen chuckled.

The sun had nearly set when the
Graf Zeppelin
loomed over them, shading the pavilion. Its engine buzzed. The white passenger box attached to its belly looked miniscule. As the
Graf Zeppelin
descended toward the landing tower, ropes were dropped. Uniformed officers shouted and ran along the landing strip, as if commanding a giant, clumsy animal. When it lurched into position, its nose connecting to the landing tower and its belly touching down, the crowd erupted.

There were cheers, whistles, and then the faraway pop of firecrackers. Emília looked away from the
Graf Zeppelin
and into the crowd. Fireworks and explosives of any kind had been strictly forbidden near the dirigible. In the crowd below, a green flag unfurled.

“Viva Gomes!” a man yelled. “Fight for a New Brazil!”

On the pavilion, there were gasps. Below, in the middle-class section, a group of students released green streamers. Emília saw Felipe in the crowd, hooking his arm back and throwing the green serpentinas to the masses, who cheered. The circle of police surged inward.

There were more loud pops, then screams. Penned within Camp Jiquiá, the crowd moved forward. The pavilion lurched. Emília felt the painted wooden planks shift beneath her feet, like the sand on Boa Viagem Beach.

“Come along,” a man beside Emília said to his wife. “Let’s leave before some disgrace occurs.”

Around her, there were whispers and then prodding. Emília looked for Dr. Duarte, for Dona Dulce, for Degas. She could not see them within the jostling group, all headed for the pavilion’s front, blue-bannered staircase. Lindalva’s hat was knocked from her head. Emília saw the orchestra members move quickly down the pavilion’s back stairs, holding their instruments above their heads as if wading through water. She took hold of Lindalva’s hand and followed them.

6

The back stairs led to the trolleys. The cars sat in a line, their normal route signs covered in white banners scrawled with “Camp Jiquiá.” Escapees from the middle-class section crowded the path. Trolley conductors blew their brass whistles and guided people aboard. Emília felt dizzy, her mouth too dry. She held firmly to Lindalva’s hand and boarded a car.

Emília had been told never to ride a trolley. If there was an emergency, if she found herself with no recourse, Dona Dulce had advised her to ride only the first-class Cristaleira. The Cristaleira cars had electric fans, glass windows, and dress requirements: gloves for ladies, ties and jackets for gentlemen. Her mother-in-law said that there were brawls aboard second-class cars. There were perverts who peeked up women’s skirts.

All of the Camp Jiquiá trolleys were second class, with metal rails and simple wooden seats. There was no room to sit. People pressed together until the car’s center became packed and airless. Lindalva gripped Emília’s arm. Men hung from the trolley’s side rails, balancing their feet on its entrance step. Emília envied them: it would be cooler there than inside. The assistant conductor walked around the outside of the car. His navy uniform looked terribly hot. He blew his whistle to indicate that the car was full. No one listened. People pushed past him, nearly knocking off his leather ticket satchel, and climbed abroad. In the crush, Emília believed she saw Felipe—his freckled cheeks flushed, his hand clapped on top of his fedora so the hat would not fall off. Then he disappeared.

“Go!” one of the orchestra men yelled to the conductor. “Or we’ll be crushed!”

The assistant hopped aboard the back rail of the car. The conductor rang the car’s bell, and with a jolt, the trolley pushed forward.

The orchestra men stood in a huddle near Emília. They’d opened their suit jackets and unbuttoned their collars. Some still wore the blue satin sash the mayor had required of all pavilion workers. Beside Emília, a boy held a half-eaten cob of grilled corn. Another small child hugged its mother’s leg. The woman stared suspiciously at Emília’s cloche. Beyond those packed closest to her, Emília saw only rows of hands gripping the trolley’s rails and the sweat-stained underarms of jackets and shirts. Emília wanted to take her hat off—her hair was dripping underneath it—but she had nowhere to put it. She held the trolley rail with one hand and her purse with the other. There was nothing in the bag but some hairpins, a handkerchief, and a one mil-réis note that she’d filched from Degas. It was practically worthless, but it gave her comfort. Emília hoped it would be enough to pay their fare.

She didn’t know how much a trolley cost. Imagine! When she was in Taquaritinga, she’d dreamed of riding trolleys. It was, after all, the way most Recifians traveled. Compared to Dona Conceição’s mules it was luxurious. Painted along the car’s ceiling were colorful advertisements.
Take Nogueira’s Vitamin Elixir! Use Dorly Soap! Make Your Hair Shine with Egg-Oil Hair Cream! Smoke Flores Cigarettes—They’re Made in Recife!

The trolley moved out of the lowlands and past rows of whitewashed houses, carpenters’ shops, juice stands, and open-air diners. In the hills were the mocambos: rows upon rows of crooked, palm-frond huts constructed by immigrants from the countryside. The sun had set completely and the sky turned a dark gray. Crickets sang. Inside the trolley, the passengers had calmed. They sighed and smiled at their escape. They shouted “Here!” at the conductor whenever he neared their stop. The assistant conductor hopped off and took their payment in his leather satchel. Lindalva kept her eyes closed and her hand locked around Emília’s arm. Emília did not know how far the trolley would go or where it would stop, but she did not feel scared. She felt giddy. Wasn’t this what she’d imagined Recife to be—this noisy crush, this ringing trolley bell, these smells, this chatter? Wasn’t this the city she had dreamed of?

As people exited the trolley, the car became less cramped. Emília paid closer attention to Lindalva. Her friend smiled weakly and patted her face with a handkerchief.

“We’re almost there,” Emília assured her, but she didn’t know where “there” was. She did not want to return to the Coelho house. She did not want to exit at Derby Square.