The Seamstress (63 page)

Emília brushed her fingertips across the faces of the girls in the Communion portrait. She traced the blurry angles of Luzia’s bent arm.

At three
AM
, the train slid safely into Rio Branco’s station. A small military band greeted the delegation by playing the national anthem. The relief camp’s sergeant shook hands with government officials as they descended from the train. Soldiers served as porters, placing the growing collection of bags onto carriages led by perilously skinny donkeys. Under the station’s gas lanterns, Emília saw the ripples of the animals’ ribs beneath their skin. The delegation’s photographers didn’t snap shots of the arrival; everyone on the train was tired, their bodies stiff, their suits wrinkled, their faces oily. Dr. Duarte announced that photos were best left for the next day, when they made their grand entrance into the camp. The delegates would sleep in the homes of Rio Branco’s last decent citizens—those merchants and property owners who’d stayed despite the drought. The wives of those remaining Rio Branco men greeted Emília, Mrs. Coimbra, and the nuns with hugs and bouquets of fabric flowers. There were no real flowers left in Rio Branco. As the band continued to play, the nuns held hands and said a prayer for their safe arrival. Dr. Duarte loudly greeted camp officials. Degas stayed close behind his father. Near her husband, Emília saw the doctor. His hair was poorly cut, his cheeks sunburned. He wore glasses and had a large, beaklike nose. Moving purposefully through the crowd, he stopped and quickly shook hands with each man he came across, then continued his route toward Emília.

When he reached her, the doctor stared intently at her face. The crowd around them pressed in close, making Emília and Eronildes bump against each other. The doctor blushed.

“Mrs. Coelho,” he finally said, squeezing her hand tightly. “I feel as if I know you.”

3

The sun revealed what night had hidden from the Recife delegation. Barbed wire, nailed tautly across posts two meters tall, surrounded the Rio Branco Relief Camp. Beyond the wire fence was the caatinga. The gray forest extended until the horizon, interrupted only by a brown scattering of termite mounds and the thin line of train tracks. Rio Branco—with its whitewashed buildings, its train station, and the relief camp’s rows of canvas tents—seemed like an insignificant addition to the caatinga’s territory. The town was eerily quiet. There were no birdcalls, no goats bleating, no peddlers shouting. There were only the sounds of the delegation walking toward the camp’s entrance. Reporters shouted questions. Government officials exchanged observations. The nuns muttered prayers. Within the camp, residents stirred. They exited their tents, blinking in the sunlight. Long lines of men and women extended from their separate toilet areas—pits filled with lye located in the camp’s far end. When the wind shifted, Emília’s eyes burned from the lye. She placed a handkerchief over her nose to blot out the stink.

The flagelados’s heads were shaved. Some still had white traces of delousing powder on their stubbled hair and necks. Women wore head scarves to disguise their baldness. Round metal identification tags stamped with numbers were pinned to each person’s shirt.

The delegation stopped beneath a banner that said,
“Welcome! Viva Gomes! Father of the Poor!”
Emília and the other delegates posed for photographs as the camp’s residents looked on.

During the night, soldiers had unloaded the train’s supplies and erected distribution tents. Emília’s tent, where she and Mrs. Coimbra would dole out clothing, was set next to Dr. Epifano’s medical tent. Dr. Duarte had a measurement tent where he would press his calipers to flagelados’ skulls and record data. He invited Dr. Eronildes to witness his measurements and monopolized the doctor’s attention. Dr. Duarte loudly complimented Eronildes’ work with the refugees, his diligence, his drive. He nudged Degas to agree. Emília’s husband nodded curtly at Eronildes.

Due to the heat, the distribution and medical tents were open on all four sides. Only Dr. Eronildes’ private residential tent, erected next to his medical one, had its canvas flaps closed. Behind his private tent was a yard enclosed by barbed wire and shaded by the camp’s only juazeiro tree. Inside the yard, a goat with a bulging udder nibbled at the tree’s bark. A soldier guarded the animal.

By nine
AM
, the sun began to bake the camp. Even under a tent’s protection, the heat was stifling. Sweat stained the armpits of Emília’s fashionable dress. It beaded on her forehead and ran into her eyes. Emília removed her hat and tied a scarf over her head. She and Mrs. Coimbra distributed clothing while the nuns wrote down each flagelado’s identification number, making sure no one received double. The refugees were awkward and gruff; there were no “pleases” or “thank yous.” Under her breath, Mrs. Coimbra said they were ungrateful. Emília corrected her.

“They’re starving,” she whispered, folding a pair of children’s knickers. “Manners aren’t important.”

Mrs. Coimbra’s eyes widened, as if she hadn’t considered this possibility. She nodded and served the next flagelado.

To ease people’s embarrassment about receiving charity, Emília was efficient and respectful, as if the flagelados were paying customers. She tried hard not to stare, but there were moments when she couldn’t help looking at a refugee’s blistered mouth. Most residents had eye infections, their lids crusted with pus. The flagelados’ underfed children, with their bowed legs and enlarged stomachs, were the hardest to ignore. Emília spoke to them in a soft voice, handing them dolls. The newest children in the camp were often the skinniest and their eyes were glazed and blank. These children took the dolls reluctantly, disinterested in everything around them. The children who’d lived longer in the camp had been better fed, and they snatched the dolls from Emília’s hands, clutching the toys against their bony, birdlike chests.

Throughout the morning, Emília felt the sensation of being watched. When she looked around, neither the nuns nor Mrs. Coimbra observed her. Only when she stared into the neighboring medical tent did she catch Dr. Eronildes staring back. When Emília sat down to take a break, she turned her stool toward the medical tent and watched the doctor work. Some patients were suspicious at first. They refused treatment and hid their children behind their legs. Dr. Eronildes calmly explained what he planned to do and how he planned to treat them. Before he touched a patient, he asked their permission. He gently tilted back their shaved heads and opened their infected eyes, squeezing in medicinal drops before the patient could flinch. He carefully spooned cod liver oil into their mouths, explaining that it would cure their night blindness, caused by hunger. There was a nurse—a flagelada herself—who helped him, taking over when he occasionally went into his private tent. Emília glimpsed an old woman in the tent. She bit a pipe between her lips and held something in her arms.

At noon, Degas arrived to announce lunch. The nuns had already left, escorted out of camp by a soldier. While another soldier dispersed the line in front of the clothing tent, Emília and Mrs. Coimbra closed the tent’s canvas sides. Degas sat. He stared at the medical tent.

“They say that doctor’s a coiteiro,” Degas said.

“Who says?” Emília asked.

Degas shrugged. “Everyone. Why do you think Father’s so complimentary to him? He wants information.”

“If he’d harbored cangaceiros, he’d be investigated and charged,” Emília said, keeping her voice low. “But he’s here. He’s a Gomes man.”

“You can be both,” Mrs. Coimbra said. “I’ve been to Salvador. He’s from a fine family there. That’s probably what’s kept him out of trouble so far. And the fact that he’s a medical man—”

“I’ve heard something else,” Degas interrupted.

Mrs. Coimbra moved closer to his stool.

“This is a charity mission, Degas,” Emília said. “Not a gossip column.”

Degas ignored her. “He’s got an infant in his tent. That’s what the goat is for. A refugee tried to steal its milk and the doctor nearly had him shot.”

Emília looked at the medical tent and next to it, the doctor’s private quarters. She’d heard so many children cry that morning. She hadn’t thought the cries came from Dr. Eronildes’ residence.

“Goat’s milk is good. It has nutrients,” Mrs. Coimbra said, pulling off her soiled gloves and putting on a fresh white pair. “Is the child his?”

Degas shrugged and smiled. “I wonder what else the respectable doctor’s hiding.”

Emília stared at her husband. “We all have our demons.”

Degas stood. “Shall we?” he said, holding out his arm to Mrs. Coimbra. She hesitated, then took it. He held his other arm toward Emília.

“Go ahead,” she said, fidgeting with her head scarf. “I need to straighten up.”

“Yes,” Degas replied. “Let out your hair, or else the soldiers will confuse you with one of the refugee women.”

After Degas left with Mrs. Coimbra, Emília spotted a soldier outside her tent. He would escort her from the camp. Emília quickly closed the tent flap. Inside, the soldier’s shadow against the canvas was large and warped. The air grew stuffy, but Emília didn’t want to leave the tent. Lunch would be a publicity event. Reporters would scribble in their notepads and photographers snap shots of the delegation. The lunch table would be crowded with government men complaining about the poor food. And all around them, beyond the porch, would be the caatinga, with its unsettling emptiness. How did Luzia survive in such a place? How did anyone?

A second shadow appeared along the tent flaps. The canvas curtain parted.

“Mrs. Coelho?” Dr. Eronildes said, peering inside. His dress shirt was wrinkled, his face shiny with sweat. He wiped a handkerchief across his brow.

“Would you like an escort?” he asked

“I already have one,” Emília said, pointing to the soldier’s shadow. “But I’d prefer your company.”

Dr. Eronildes looked startled. Like a nervous suitor, he wiped the fronts of his trousers with his large hands. Emília saw his awkwardness and his constant staring as signs of attraction; the doctor had a crush on her. She felt suddenly proud of her ability to disconcert. In one easy movement, she put on her hat and stepped beside him.

They walked slowly through the camp. The noonday sun reflected off the canvas tents, making Emília and Eronildes squint. Flies tickled their arms and necks.

“We’re late for the toast,” Emília said. “The delegates always toast.”

“That’s why I stayed away,” Eronildes replied. “I’m giving up drink.”

Emília nodded. She recalled his flushed face and trembling hands during their talk at the Saint Isabel Theater.

“I’m responsible for something now,” Dr. Eronildes continued. “I can’t risk it. I have to keep my head clear.”

The doctor looked at Emília, studying her reaction. No man—not even Professor Célio—had looked at her with such interest, such intensity. Emília tilted her hat farther over her face.

“I understand,” she said. “People depend on you here. It’s a terrible situation, this drought.”

Eronildes stopped walking. “Are you afraid to be here?”

“No,” Emília replied. “Should I be?”

Eronildes shook his head. “They won’t attack. Not this camp.”

“Why?” Emília asked, unable to hide her disappointment.

The doctor smiled. “Because I’m here.”

“They…” Emília stopped and lowered her voice. “The cangaceiros respect you?”

“I helped them in the past. Does that bother you?”

“No.” Emília felt suddenly dizzy. She looked around; there were soldiers nearby. Standing still would attract attention. Emília headed toward the camp’s gates. Dr. Eronildes kept pace beside her.

“You shouldn’t tell anyone else,” she said. “Especially my father-in-law. He measures criminal types. He’ll give you trouble.”

“Do you believe in his measurements?”

No one had asked her that question before. Some in Recife called Dr. Duarte’s work a fad. Others said it was an emerging science, gaining credibility in Germany, Italy, and the United States. All assumed that because Emília was Dr. Duarte’s daughter-in-law she believed in his work.

“He measured me once,” Emília said. “According to his data, I’m a normal specimen. I’m perfectly unextraordinary.”

“You don’t believe it?” Dr. Eronildes asked.

“No woman wants to believe that,” Emília replied, smiling. She looked at him coquettishly from beneath her hat brim. Dr. Eronildes did not smile back.

“I think Dr. Duarte’s right, about you at least,” he said. “You aren’t unique.”

Emília felt as if she’d been pinched. She pushed up the brim of her hat, ready to insult the doctor, but when she faced him she couldn’t be angry. He looked pained. His chin trembled. Emília had read him wrong—he didn’t fancy her, but there was something else, something she didn’t understand.

“I know a woman,” he said, his voice trembling and low. “She doesn’t look like you, not at first. But upon observation, you have the same mannerisms, the same way of moving, the same nose, the same shape of the face. When I look at you, I think you could be sisters.”

Emília’s mouth felt dry, her arm too heavy in his. She nodded and they walked on. It would look strange if she and the doctor arrived late for lunch.

During the meal, Emília didn’t look at Eronildes or speak to him. Despite her efforts to ignore the doctor, she was extremely conscious of his movements, his voice, what he ate and did not eat, how he responded to Dr. Duarte’s many medical questions.

Who is this man?
Emília thought. He’d admitted to being a coiteiro, but which cangaceiros had he helped and why? And was Degas’ other story true—did he harbor a child in his tent?

Over the course of lunch, Emília didn’t answer the reporters’ questions. She could barely lift her hands to swat flies from her mouth and her hair. Mrs. Coimbra stared at her. When the old woman spoke, Emília could barely hear. Mrs. Coimbra repeated her questions several times before concluding that Emília was suffering from heat exhaustion. She announced this to Degas and Dr. Duarte, who took turns analyzing Emília’s pasty complexion.