The Seamstress (70 page)

The backlands needs dams and wells. Not machines. If I see another one of these telegrafs, I’ll make one of your monkeys swallow it whole.

 

Emília didn’t agree with the cangaceiros’ fight against Gomes and the roadway, but she believed she understood their reasons. She recalled the day when her old boss, Colonel Pereira, brought his new motorcar to Taquaritinga. Some people—like Emília—had been thrilled by it. But most, including Aunt Sofia and Luzia, had stared suspiciously at the car. Later, their aunt proclaimed that the devil lay under the car’s hood. Novelty was dangerous. Change was frightening, and caatinga residents didn’t like being frightened. Instead of admitting their fear, they became angry. This, Emília thought, was what had happened to the Seamstress.

Coiteiros were taken into custody and questioned. During the drought, most colonels and ranchers had fled to cities like Campina Grande, Recife, and Salvador. All landowners were encouraged to pledge their loyalty to Gomes and his provisional government. To avoid the spectacle of being detained, several coiteiros appeared at the Coelho house to speak with Dr. Duarte. Most of these men wore tall rancher’s boots and simple suits, the jackets cut from sturdy linen. One by one, Emília’s father-in-law welcomed them into his study.

Emília wasn’t allowed to sit in on these meetings. She couldn’t eavesdrop from the courtyard either, because Dr. Duarte fastidiously closed all the doors to his study. The questioning of certain coiteiros was publicized but the ones who appeared at the Coelho house were strictly kept out of the newspaper; everyone knew that the Hawk and the Seamstress read the
Diário
. Once the drought ended, those colonels and ranchers who had met with Dr. Duarte would return to the countryside. Emília knew that, as former coiteiros, they would try to lure the cangaceiros back into friendship. They would try to trap them.

Ever since she’d adopted Expedito, Emília had taken the boy to as many social events as she could. Emília wore her most daring outfits: tight-fitting jackets; a dress with a revealing décolleté; a pair of boating pants. She wanted her photo in the Society Section. In each picture, she held Expedito in her arms or sat him on her lap. She would not pose for the photograph without him. Weeks before any of her charitable shipments went out, Emília mentioned it in the Society Section. She made sure the reporters included the train’s name and destination in their blurbs about the shipments. When news of her clothing shipments appeared in the Society Section, the trains were never attacked. Emília sensed that the Seamstress was listening to her.

After the coiteiros began to meet with Dr. Duarte, Emília appeared at several social events. She found Society Section reporters and looped her arm around theirs. Emília kept mum on national topics but gave opinions on international ones, such as the boycott of Jewish businesses in Germany.

“I’d hate to live there!” Emília said, knowing that if she kept her voice high and her words bold, she’d surely get published. “Imagine a place where you can’t tell friends from enemies! Where those who once supported you aren’t allowed to anymore.”

She hoped the Seamstress would heed her warnings. Emília had transformed herself into a city woman, but she still harbored a stubborn caatinga pride that made her hate trickery. Using coiteiros to trap the cangaceiros was a dishonest way to fight. At night, in her bed, Emília couldn’t sleep, wondering if her warnings would cause more harm than good—wouldn’t those turncoat coiteiros save innocent lives? The Seamstress was killing road workers and engineers. But the cangaceira had also given those men a choice: quit working or fight. If they chose to fight, wasn’t this their folly and not the Seamstress’s? Emília pushed her doubts aside and continued to appear in the papers.

Emília’s quotes were published regularly because women’s political opinions had become popular reading material. Each morning, Dr. Duarte chuckled as he read the
Diário
’s series: “What’s on the Minds of Women Voters.” Emília hated the stories they ran. “Can you imagine women’s debates in choosing a candidate?” one journalist wrote. “Who is most handsome? Who wears his mustache better? When elections come, I would rather be locked up in Tamarineira Mental Hospital than be trapped in the voting booth!”

Emília was excited about voting until she read the list of candidates—all belonged to the Green Party. Elections were scheduled for May 15, 1933, and, although Gomes had promised a presidential election, Brazilians would only be allowed to choose representatives in the First National Assembly. These representatives would pick the next president—there would be no direct vote for that office. Since the Green Party dominated the ballots, elected representatives would surely pick Celestino Gomes. There were no other presidential candidates.

Before voting day, there were Green Party parades and rallies. Rows of uniformed schoolgirls—their hair tightly braided and tied with green ribbons—walked in neat lines, carrying banners scrawled with the words “Female Voters of Tomorrow!” Recife’s department stores advertised sales for registered voters. The Justiça Eleitoral took over abandoned buildings and made them voting centers, complete with curtained areas for voters to fill out their secret ballots.

On election day, Emília wore a tapered mermaid skirt and a crisply ironed blouse. On her head, she wore the fez that Lindalva had brought back from Europe. The hat was made of waffled brown fabric; Dona Dulce shook her head when she saw it. Dr. Duarte had instructed the other Coelhos to look “snappy” on election day because there would be photographers at the main voting station, near the Saint Isabel Theater. Despite the election code’s literacy requirements, President Gomes stressed the idea of a popular vote, so the Coelhos could not arrive at the voting station in their Chrysler Imperial. They, like other Green Party families, were encouraged to arrive on foot. Dr. Duarte instructed Degas to park the car in front of Emília’s atelier. From there, the Coelhos would walk arm in arm to the voting station.

When they stepped from the car, Degas and Dr. Duarte lingered near the atelier’s door. Dona Dulce crossed her arms and tapped a foot. Emília was also impatient to vote and go home; she didn’t like leaving Expedito and his wet nurse alone with the Coelho maids.

The atelier was closed, the seamstresses given the day off. Dr. Duarte walked the perimeter of the building. Degas followed his father closely, pointing at the atelier and speaking in a low voice. Emília couldn’t decipher his words. She stepped away from the car to better hear her husband. Before she’d moved a meter, Dona Dulce clamped her arm.

“Let them be,” her mother-in-law said. “You take too much of his father’s attention.”

As Degas spoke, Dr. Duarte turned toward him. His eyes widened, as if Degas had surprised him. Dr. Duarte clapped his son on the back.

“Brilliant!” he proclaimed.

Degas blushed. Dr. Duarte held his son’s shoulders.

“You see,” he said, his voice loud and excited. “You’ve exercised discipline these past years, Degas, and it’s paid off. It’s strengthened your mind!”

Dr. Duarte shuffled toward Dona Dulce and Emília. “Come along!” he said, waving Degas forward. “We’ll go over details later. We can’t be late to the polls.”

Dr. Duarte took his wife’s hand. Degas threaded his arm through Emília’s.

“What’s happened?” she asked.

Degas didn’t meet her eye. He walked quickly, trying to catch up with his parents. The street was crowded. Vendors catered to the throngs of well-dressed voters. There were paper fans and green flags for sale. Drink stands sold sugarcane juice in order to give voters “energy at the polls!” In the distance, drums thumped ferociously and trumpets followed their fast-paced beat, playing the national anthem.

“I gave him an idea,” Degas finally replied.

Emília tripped over a cobblestone. One of her shoes—high heels with peep toes that Dona Dulce deemed unhygienic—gave way. Her ankle bent unnaturally. Emília felt a sharp pain. She wobbled and Degas caught her. He circled an arm about her waist and Emília pressed into him, her chest against his. A passerby whistled, as if catching them in an illicit embrace. Degas quickly loosened his grip, making Emília step firmly on her injured foot. She winced. Ahead of them, Dr. Duarte and Dona Dulce disappeared into the crowd.

“Father will wrap it,” Degas said, staring at her ankle. “After we’ve finished voting.”

“Go ahead without me,” Emília replied. “My vote won’t matter. It’s only for show.”

“Now you don’t want to vote!” Degas laughed. “That child’s made you a different woman.”

“It has nothing to do with him.”

“Your priorities have changed,” Degas said, his arm still around her waist. “I understand that.”

Emília stared at her husband. His cheeks were flushed.

“What idea did you have, back at the atelier?” Emília asked.

Degas sighed. “I shared it with Father first,” he said. “I knew you would understand that.”

Emília took a deep breath. Her ankle throbbed.

“They’re looking for a better means of shipping supplies into the countryside,” Degas continued. “So they won’t be attacked and stolen.”

“What kinds of supplies?” Emília asked.

“Guns. Bullets. Things the cangaceiros shouldn’t get their hands on.”

“And?” Emília said.

“The Seamstress doesn’t attack your charitable shipments,” Degas replied. “You appear in the papers, announce the destination, and the items on that train always arrive safely.”

“Those trains carry relief supplies,” Emília said. “The cangaceiros know that. They respect charity.”

“Exactly. That’s what I told Father.”

“Why?”

“We’ll use it to our advantage,” Degas said. “We’ll wrap munitions in your charity clothes. They’ll reach the camps and be distributed to troops. If soldiers have new weapons, the cangaceiros won’t last.”

Emília loosened her grip on his arm. She stood on her own. A shooting pain rose up her calf. Her ankle was thick, the skin swelling over the side of her shoe.

“I’m not sending any more shipments,” she said. “Lindalva and I have decided. We’ve sent enough.”

“If this idea works, Emília, I’ll get the credit. Do you understand? People will believe I’m capable. They’ll forget…everything else.”

“You want to use me. Like always.”

“No. I want your help.”

“What if I don’t?”

The crowd of voters pushed Emília and Degas, impatient with their stopping. Degas wrapped his arm about Emília’s waist and lifted her roughly. She limped beside her husband, out of the crowd’s way.

“Nothing is easy with you!” Degas hissed, letting Emília go. He closed his eyes and kneaded his face with his hands. “You…everyone…make me into a person I don’t want to be. I like that boy. It would hurt me to tell Father who he is. I don’t want to do that.”

“Then don’t,” Emília said.

“I’m not a villain, Emília,” Degas said. “She is. She’s a criminal. She’s killed many people. Don’t forget that.”

“I never do,” Emília replied. “Don’t punish Expedito for it.”

“He’ll be safer when she’s caught,” Degas said. “When he grows, if his cranium is malformed, who will protect him? The more Father respects me, the better chance that child has. Do you think Father or Mother will send a drought baby to a decent school? You know they won’t. You know they expect him to be a gardener, or some sort of helper around the house. If this shipment plan works, Father will give me part of the business. We’ll be able to afford our own house. I can have privacy. You can give that boy whatever he needs. We can leave him a legacy.”

In the distance, the band stopped playing. Emília heard cheers; the polls were open. She experienced the same feelings she’d had years earlier, so many Carnavals ago, when Degas had placed the ether-soaked handkerchief over her nose and mouth—she was dizzy, confused, unsure of the words she’d heard. She only knew that she had to make a choice: doom her sister, or doom Expedito.

“His skull is normal,” she said. “You can’t prove a thing.”

“No,” Degas replied. “I can’t. But Dr. Eronildes can. That doctor hasn’t been detained because he’s serving in the camps. Once the drought’s over, Father will pressure him to talk. You know how persuasive Father is. If Dr. Eronildes is fragile, he’ll buckle and we’ll have to defend the child and ourselves. The more we pursue the Seamstress now, the less trouble we’ll have later.”

Degas turned his gaze toward the street. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d left the boy. You had no obligation to him. You were inviting trouble.”

“And you? What are you inviting?” Emília said. “I know why you cross that bridge every day.”

Degas looked at her, his eyes wide. He slumped against the shop’s window.

“I’m sorry, Emília, but there’s no choice now. Father’s excited. You’ll make another shipment whether you want to or not. We’re all forced to do things we don’t like.”

They walked slowly toward the voting station. Emília’s ankle throbbed, the blood pounding beneath its skin. Each time she wobbled, Degas tried to prop her up but she refused his help, pushing his hands away. The voting station was crowded with government officials, reporters, and most of Recife’s female voters.

“Ladies first!” Tenente Higino announced. The crowd laughed and cheered. Emília limped toward the curtained voting booths. In the center of the room sat the steel urna where completed ballots were deposited. In the voting booths were a stack of ballots and a cup of pencils. Emília fingered a pencil’s perfectly sharpened point. When she made dress patterns she liked her pencils this way; they made nice, even lines. If she made a mistake, she could always erase it. Ballots, she thought, shouldn’t be in pencil; the government should provide stamps or ink pens. But in an election without competition, there would be nothing on the ballots worth erasing. Emília closed her booth’s curtain. She hadn’t followed Lindalva’s example—Emília had registered to vote despite the election’s limited candidates. Now she regretted it. She wished she’d stayed at the baroness’s house in protest. She stared at the ballot and its candidates, all of them Gomes men. Emília checked random boxes, knowing her choice didn’t matter.