The Seamstress (48 page)

The rains drove people indoors and seemed to dilute any political fervor. Arrests were made after the
Graf Zeppelin
riots, the instigators put into the Downtown Detention Center and forgotten. Even the newspapers calmed. They did not talk of revolution or political wrangling. Instead, they wrote about a meeting of sugar planters to discuss the precarious market; the first hydroplane, piloted by Mr. Chevalier, touching down in Recife’s harbor; a shipment of oranges that England would not accept because they came bearing “tropical diseases”; and the invention of the alcohol motor. All faraway and unfamiliar things, Emília thought. All distractions.

Slowly, the downpours ebbed and became a fine mist, as if the old rains were being shaken through a sieve. On July twenty-sixth, Degas came home early from classes. His face was flushed. He crumpled his hat in his hands. Dona Dulce ordered a maid to bring him water. Dr Duarte stepped out of his study to find out what was causing the commotion.

“Bandeira’s been killed,” Degas said. “Shot. Here. Downtown.”

José Bandeira—Gomes’s former vice-presidential candidate and Green Party hero—had been shot while eating pastries at the Gloria Bakery. Government radio reports claimed that the shooter was a jealous husband. They said that Bandeira had been fooling around with a cabaret singer and had died carrying a box from Krauze Jewelers in his pocket, a gift for his sweetheart. There were no photos of the woman, so Green Party newspapers and radio stations called her a hoax. When the killer was apprehended, he was identified as a political rival from Bandeira’s native state of Paraíba. After that, many accused the Blue Party of slander and assassination. To prove his party’s innocence, Recife’s mayor placed the killer in the Downtown Detention Center.

There was a three-day funeral procession for José Bandeira. Throughout Recife and the entire North, windows were shrouded in black curtains. Candles were lit. Men wore black armbands. Military posts hung funeral wreaths from their gates in solidarity with Gomes, their fellow military man. The owner of the Pernambuco Tramways ordered new uniforms for his trolley conductors, trading their blue suits for green. Green rags were tied to lampposts and to the handrails of trolleys. The decorated street dogs returned.

In the months after Bandeira’s death, as the wet season gave way to the dry, Recife’s Blue Party government arrested two prominent Gomes supporters after they’d discovered stockpiles of dynamite in the men’s Boa Vista homes. The British Club—Dr. Duarte’s favorite haunt—was closed due to unpatriotic activities. Blue officials arrested a twelve-year-old gazetteer for the
Jornal da Tarde,
the official newspaper of Gomes’s Liberal Alliance, claiming that the boy’s daily shouting of headlines was a call to arms. City police raided pensões and luncheonettes in the São José neighborhood, looking for student activists. Degas read the arrest reports aloud at the breakfast table. One morning, he could not finish his recitation. As he held the newspaper, the color drained from Degas’ cheeks.

“Well?” Dr. Duarte muttered. “Go on.”

“Mr. Felipe Pereira,” Degas mumbled. “Son of a colonel, taken into custody and placed in the Downtown Detention Center.”

Dr. Duarte put down his fork. “He’s that friend of yours, Degas?”

“Yes,” Degas answered. He ruffled the paper.

“He’s loyal to the party,” Dr. Duarte said.

When Degas did not respond, Dr. Duarte heaved himself forward and tugged the newspaper from Degas’ hands, revealing his son’s face. Dr. Duarte stared. His white eyebrows sloped downward, making a crease in his forehead. His eyes did not mirror his brow’s concern. His gaze had the same nervous intensity Emília had seen Dr. Duarte present before, in his study, each time he described a new theory or a potential candidate for measurement.

“I could use my influence,” Dr. Duarte said. “Get him out.”

Dona Dulce stirred her coffee. Her spoon grazed the bottom of the cup, producing a constant, dull scraping. Under the table, Emília felt the frantic tapping of Degas’ leg. It brushed against hers.

“No,” Degas answered.

Dona Dulce stopped her stirring. Degas’ voice seemed to echo in Emília’s mind. She recalled the crush of the trolley, the steady feel of Felipe’s arm holding her up, and later, the desperate grip of his hand.

“His family housed you all of those months during the university strike,” Emília blurted out. “He was our chaperone. Your friend.”

Degas’ leg tapped frantically. He did not face her. Instead, he stared at the newspaper article.

“That was the past. We’ve gone in different directions. He’s loyal to the party, but too vocal about it. He puts us all in danger. Makes us all look bad.”

“These days, one can’t be too vocal,” Dona Dulce said, staring at Emília. “Better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.”

“Green members aren’t fools,” Dr. Duarte said. “But I agree, Degas. We’re all soldiers in this struggle. We can’t be casualties of our own egos. Some men are too involved in their own adventures to think of the collective good. The strongest men show restraint.” Dr. Duarte patted his son’s hand roughly. “I’m glad I won’t have to waste my influence.”

Degas nodded. He continued reading the list of arrests in a calm voice, but beneath the table Emília felt his leg tapping.

8

Days later, government officials questioned Dr. Duarte. His import-export business was investigated for tax fraud. His warehouses and rental properties were searched. Despite all of this, Dr. Duarte remained unruffled. He sat in his study and read his phrenology journals. He smiled and whistled the national anthem along with his corrupião. He listened to the radio religiously. Degas lingered near his father. Like one of the winter’s large, awkward mosquitoes, Degas carefully circled Dr. Duarte, asking about the latest science journals, talking about their properties and the government’s investigation, until he finally touched down upon the subject that concerned him most.

“Will there be a revolt?” Degas asked.

On the evening of October third, 1930, radio reports said that Celestino Gomes and a group of loyal military men had taken over the governor’s office in the Southern state of Rio Grande do Sul. In the North, in their neighboring state of Paraíba, a pro-Gomes group took control of a military base.

“It’s beginning,” Dr. Duarte said.

Despite Dona Dulce’s objections, Dr. Duarte ordered all of the maids and the errand boy to their homes in faraway Mustardinha. When they’d left, he put chains around the front and back gates. He unfurled a green flag and hung it outside the Coelhos’ concrete fence. Then he took an ancient revolver from its shelf and huddled with it beside the radio. Before dawn on October fourth, reports said that a group from Recife’s
Jornal da Tarde
office was caught smuggling guns in rolls of newspaper. Soon afterward, the Pernambuco Tramways shut down its offices. There was no electric or telephone service in the state capital. The Coelhos’ radio went dead.

An hour later, dozens of leaflets flew over the Coelhos’ wall. The Frattelli Vita soda company had printed flyers on their bottle labels and distributed them throughout the city. They called upon all loyal Gomes men.
Revolution!
the flyers said.
Fight for a New Brazil!

Dr. Duarte brought a flyer inside the house. He’d spent the night beside the radio and his suit was wrinkled, his face unshaven. He placed the flyer and his revolver into Degas’ hands.

“If I were thirty years younger, I would fight beside you,” Dr. Duarte said, his eyes shining.

Degas read the flyer. He gripped the gun tightly. Dr. Duarte’s enthusiasm made Emília believe that Degas would leave that instant, wearing only his striped pajamas. That was the way Taquaritinga boys reacted to fights. Growing up, Emília had watched dozens of fathers and sons leave their houses with such urgency in reaction to a family fight or territory feud, they’d left even their alpercata sandals behind. They took only their knives. In the Coelho house, things were different. Dr. Duarte escorted his son to the dining room and waited while Dona Dulce and Emília—left without maids or a cook—toasted bread, made manioc pancakes, and steamed cornmeal. Degas ate slowly. There was a hush over the breakfast table, and whatever Degas wanted—salt, jam, butter—was placed in his hands before he even reached for it. Afterward, Dr. Duarte escorted his son upstairs to help him shave his face. Dona Dulce found a satchel and packed a dozen hard-boiled eggs, several jars of pickled beets and banana jam, a loaf of bread, a set of handkerchiefs. Emília was ordered to iron a pair of Degas’ trousers.

She hadn’t pressed clothes since her last days in Taquaritinga. The iron felt heavy and awkward in her hands. Emília was careful with the trousers even though she believed ironing them was ridiculous; they were bound to get wrinkled and dirty. Who knew what kind of fighting was going on beyond the Coelho gate? The question frightened Emília. It made her feel sorry for Degas.

When she’d finished pressing the pants, she draped them over a hanger and went in search of her husband. He was not in the lavatory, or in his childhood bedroom, or in Emília’s room. She felt frustrated by his disappearance. Emília couldn’t go back to the kitchen; Dona Dulce would chastise her, declare her incapable. Emília resolved to search every room of the house.

She went to the courtyard and stared into the house’s glass-paneled doors. In the parlor, she saw Dr. Duarte fidgeting with the radio dials, hoping to receive a signal. In his study, the doors were open but only the corrupião was inside. The mirrored reception room’s shades were drawn. Emília was about to open its doors when she saw movement in the sitting room. A shadow. She stepped closer and looked through the door’s glass pane. The room was exactly as it had been on her first day in the Coelho house, except the electric fan was off and Degas stood in the corner, before the largest wooden Madonna. He wore a dress shirt and pajama bottoms. He stared at the statue, his head tilted up like a supplicant.

When Emília opened the courtyard door, he quickly stepped away from the Madonna.

“Come to herd me outside?” Degas asked.

“No,” Emília replied, holding up his trousers. “To give you these.”

“Good,” he said, tugging the pants from their hanger. “I was taking a last look around.”

“It won’t be the last,” Emília said, unable to hide the hesitation in her voice.

“Part of me hopes it will be,” Degas said. He draped the trousers over a chair.

“Is that what you were praying for?” Emília asked.

“No,” Degas snapped. “I don’t pray. I was studying her, that’s all.”

Emília looked up at the Virgin’s wooden face. The statue’s painted eyes looked wet and alive.

“Mother doesn’t like her,” Degas said. “She’s scared of her.”

Emília surveyed the sitting room and its collection of Madonnas. There were at least a dozen, large and small, wood and clay, set upon shelves and end tables beside other knickknacks.

“Then why would she collect so many?” Emília asked.

Degas shrugged. “Some were gifts. They’re valuable. Mother can’t exile her from the house; it’s not proper. But she can’t stand to look at her either. That’s why they’re all locked in here and not scattered about.”

“How do you know?”

“Mother told me once. She said she’d rather have God’s fury than her mercy.”

Emília nodded. Padre Otto used to say that the Madonna’s mercy was her power. That people feared the very kindness they requested because it bound them to the giver. Emília agreed; in Recife, any kindness became like one of Dr. Duarte’s loans—it could never be repaid, only accepted and worried over.

“I understand that,” Emília said. Degas looked surprised.

“Do you?” he asked.

“You took me away from Taquaritinga. Made me respectable. People remind me of your kindness often enough.”

Degas sighed. “I did what I had to do, Emília, to keep your secret. Don’t pester me for it.”

“For what?”

“He’s in that detention center because of his actions, not mine,” Degas hissed.

“But you kept him there,” she said. “You kept him locked up for your own reasons. Not for me.”

Emília tried to speak with conviction, but she wasn’t sure of Degas’ motives. They frightened her. She recalled what he’d said nearly two years earlier, when they were newly married and he’d brought up Luzia:
We are bound to shield each other from talk.

Degas rested his hand on the ironed trousers and studied them, checking Emília’s work. She stepped forward and pulled the trousers from the chair’s back. Degas looked up, startled.

“Your mother’s waiting,” Emília said. “Put these on.”

“I’ve thought it through,” Degas replied. “If we win, he’ll be released. People will call him a patriot. Me, too, if I fight. Patriots, they’re respected. They’re given all sorts of medals and honors. If we win, Father will have sway. I’ll ask him to give Felipe a post, somewhere nice. He’ll forget everything—me, your sister—for that opportunity. People have short memories when they’re given something better. You know that.”

“What if you lose?” Emília asked.

Degas shrugged. “They’d prefer a dead hero to a live son. And you’ll be a widow. That’s better than a wife, isn’t it?”

“Don’t talk that way,” Emília said. Her insides tingled, as if there were a dozen angry hens within her, pecking away. Without thinking, she gripped the trousers too tightly; her hands creased them. Emília laid the pants across the sofa and tried to smooth away the wrinkles.

“I’ll have to do these over,” Emília said. “I’ve spoiled them.”

Degas took her hand. “They’re fine. It was silly to iron them in the first place,” he chuckled. “When I went back to Britain as a young man—after I’d passed my gymnasium exams and convinced Father to send me back there, to a college prep school—I didn’t have to live in a dormitory like I had as a boy. I rented a room. But I didn’t know how to wash or iron or darn my socks. I was a mess. People on the streets, they stared at my wrinkled suits. At the terrible ties Mother sent to me. At my Panamas. The boardinghouse owner saw that I was in need of advice. She said, ‘Coelho’ (she called all of her boarders by their last names), ‘Coelho, make yourself invisible.’ So that very day I took the allowance check from my father and purchased a tweed suit, a trench coat, a striped tie, and a bowler, just like every other man in the city. I sat in my classes and at the pubs. No one singled me out. No one expected anything of me. It was wonderful.”