The Seamstress (75 page)

“Are you part of the publishing Chevaliers, the ones who own papers in the South?”

“Yes.”

“How is your family bearing the new constraints? Are they allowing the Propaganda Ministry’s censorship?”

Chevalier laughed nervously. “I’m not involved in the newspaper business—”

“I wouldn’t call it censorship, my dear,” Dr. Duarte interrupted. “I would call it responsible monitoring. The revolution isn’t guaranteed. We have to maintain a certain order. There are still Southern Communists led by Prestes. There are those São Paulo rebels funded by the old guard. We can’t let such elements corrupt the people. Later we can relax our grip, but for now we must keep tight reins on the horse.”

“My daddy was a horse breeder,” the baroness said, wiping a piece of bread with butter. “Fine animals. Intelligent. The first thing Daddy taught me when I learned to ride was that the reins are an illusion—more for our comfort than theirs. You control a horse with your legs, and with kind authority. It is a relationship of equals. Or it should be.”

Dr. Duarte wasn’t listening. He stared across the room, transfixed. “My guest has arrived!” he said.

Emília turned in the direction of his gaze. Dr. Eronildes Epifano appeared in the dining room. His hair was still longer than a city man’s, reaching his ears and haphazardly combed back, but it had thinned. His suit had been poorly pressed, leaving uneven folds in his jacket and crooked pleats in his pants. Around his right sleeve he wore a black band. When he came to their table, Emília saw dark, bruise-colored circles beneath his eyes. Broken capillaries, like bits of red thread trapped beneath his skin, were scattered across his nose and cheeks.

“Forgive me,” Dr. Eronildes said, staring at Emília. Quickly, he turned his gaze to Dr. Duarte. “I’m late.”

After shaking hands with Dr. Duarte, Eronildes wove around the table to introduce himself to Dona Dulce. As the guest drew close, Emília’s mother-in-law scrunched up her nose. Emília attributed her mother-in-law’s reaction to snobbery, but when Dr. Eronildes rounded the table and clasped her own hand, she realized she was wrong. Beneath the powdery scent of his shaving balm, Emília smelled something sweet and rank. It was as if his insides were fermenting beneath his skin. The scent reminded her of Recife’s streets the morning after Carnaval, the gutters overflowing with spilled sugarcane liquor, fruit rinds, vomit, and other unsavory things expelled by revelers. Emília was confused by Eronildes’ presence and repulsed by his smell. She quickly recalled Dona Dulce’s lessons—above all, etiquette was about thoughtfulness. A lady never showed displeasure. Emília held tightly to Dr. Eronildes’ hand and smiled.

For lunch there was broiled fish and sururu mussels. Coconut milk bubbled and frothed in massive silver tureens. Mussels bobbed in the broth. Waiters placed porcelain bowls of rice, manioc flour toasted to a golden brown, and individual plates of limes near each diner. Dr. Duarte scooped mounds of malagueta peppers onto his meal.

“Mr. Chevalier, do you eat peppers?” Dr. Duarte asked.

“My stomach is sensitive,” the pilot replied.

“Nonsense!” Dr. Duarte snorted. He motioned for Chevalier’s plate. Their guest obediently passed it to Dr. Duarte, who piled the small red peppers on it.

“You must learn to build resistance!” Dr. Duarte said. “The body is controlled by the mind. Isn’t that right, Degas?”

“Yes, sir,” Degas mumbled. He glanced at Chevalier, who took a bite of his food and quickly reached for his water glass. Chevalier took several long gulps and then wiped his eyes with a napkin. Lindalva giggled. Across from them, Dr. Eronildes smiled. Degas reddened.

“What brings you to Recife, Doctor?” Degas asked loudly. “Business?”

“Not exactly,” Dr. Eronildes replied. He fingered his black armband. “My mother passed away in Salvador some weeks ago. I traveled there for the funeral. Now I have to settle some matters of her estate here in Recife.”

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Emília said. Dr. Eronildes nodded.

“We’re looking at properties after lunch,” Dr. Duarte said. “For Eronildes’ consultório.”

A dry lump of manioc flour caught in Emília’s throat. She coughed.

“Are you moving here?” she asked hoarsely.

“I’m considering it,” Eronildes replied. “Salvador has too many memories.”

“What about your ranch?” Emília said.

Dr. Eronildes stared at her, his eyes bloodshot. “It hasn’t recovered from the drought. I planted everything new; it was a hefty investment. But the cotton’s not producing like it used to. My cattle are young. They’re too skinny to sell. It was my mother’s wish—or requirement, really, in her will—that I return to the coast. She was worried for me. She wanted me to settle down, open a practice, marry.”

“She’s sensible,” Dona Dulce interrupted.

Dr. Duarte nodded. “Farmers lose money. Doctors make it.”

“That depends on the farmer,” the baroness said.

“So, you have to make a choice now,” Degas said. “You can’t be two men anymore.”

Eronildes held Degas’ stare.

“I’ll keep the ranch,” the doctor finally said. “It won’t be a working property, but I’ll be able to visit. And I won’t have to move anytime soon. My mother’s wishes for her estate will take months for the lawyers to implement.”

“You’ll be returning to your ranch then?” Dr. Duarte asked. “For a long stint?”

Eronildes nodded. “I’m going back tonight.”

“You won’t leave without meeting Expedito,” Dr. Duarte said. “He’s a lad now: fat, hardy, full of pep!” He placed a pepper between his fingers and wagged it at Chevalier. “Less than three years old and the boy can eat a malagueta without flinching.”

Chevalier stirred in his seat.

“No word from the boy’s parents, I assume,” Degas asked Eronildes.

“I’m his parent now,” Emília interrupted.

“We’ll go to the house after lunch,” Dr. Duarte said, ignoring them. “So Eronildes can meet the boy.”

“Sir,” Degas said, “Mr. Chevalier and I would like to speak to you after lunch, in your study.”

“We can speak here,” Dr. Duarte said.

“It’s business,” Chevalier said, lowering his voice. “Government business.”

“You should go to the interventor’s office for that,” Dr. Duarte replied. “I’m not a government worker. I’m only a scientist.”

Chevalier looked at Degas.

“Papai,” Degas said, forcing a laugh. “Don’t be modest. We all know you’re more important than you make yourself out to be.”

“Modesty is a great virtue,” Dr. Duarte said. “Almost as great as propriety.”

“It has to do with the cangaceiros,” Chevalier persisted. “Have you read the latest
Diário de Pernambuco
?”

Dr. Duarte stiffened. “Yes. Of course.”

Emília watched Dr. Eronildes across the table. He stared at the pilot warily.

“So you’ve read my proposal in the editorial pages?” Chevalier said.

“About flying a plane over the scrub?” Lindalva said.

“Exactly!” The pilot smiled.

“There’s popular support for it,” Degas said. “I’ve heard people talking. It would be just like the war films!”

“Horrible stuff, those films,” the baroness said.

“It will be much easier to weed out the cangaceiros by air,” Chevalier continued. “Once I’m done, the police can find the bodies and bring them back to your lab for analysis.”

“And how would you exterminate them?” Dr. Duarte asked.

Emília fumbled with her water glass. It knocked against her plate and spilled, darkening the tablecloth.

“Duarte!” Dona Dulce huffed. “We shouldn’t talk about such things on Finados. Respect the dead.”

The baroness waved her crooked hand. “The dead won’t hear us,” she said. “They’ve got bigger concerns.”

“Have you ever flown in the backlands?” Dr. Duarte asked Chevalier.

“No,” the pilot replied. “But I’ve flown over ocean and in fog. I know how to fly, sir.”

“I’m not concerned about your flying,” Dr. Duarte said. “I’m concerned about your landing.”

“Oh, I can land, too,” Chevalier said, smiling.

“Where?” Dr. Duarte asked, his cheeks flushed. “If I’m correct, when you fly in from Rio de Janeiro, you have to make several stops to refuel. Perhaps you don’t realize this, but our state of Pernambuco is over eight hundred kilometers long. If you fly into the backlands, at some point you’ll have to land. There are no airstrips. So, how would you propose to land?” Dr. Duarte tapped his fingers against the table.

“The government can easily build landing strips,” Chevalier said. “Aren’t you building a roadway?”

“Attempting to build a roadway. It has proved harder than we’d imagined.”

“In Rio it would be a simple job,” Chevalier said.

“We aren’t in Rio,” Dr. Duarte replied. “If you miss it, perhaps you should return there.”

A sudden round of applause came from the front of the dining hall. Interventor Higino stood. He gave a brief speech about the sacrifices of the departed soldiers and road workers, and how all Brazilians should honor their brave spirits. When he eulogized the theater-fire victims, Emília glanced at Dr. Eronildes. He stared straight ahead, ignoring her. At the end of his speech there was another wave of clapping. Interventor Higino raised his hands, asking for quiet.

“I’d like to turn our attention to our city’s most respected criminologist, Dr. Duarte Coelho.”

Emília’s father-in-law removed a batch of note cards from his pocket. He stood and smiled, then stared at the cards.

“The criminal,” Dr. Duarte said in a deep, theatrical voice, “according to Dr. Caesar Lombroso, is an atavistic being—a relic of a vanished race. It is a race that kills and corrupts our fellow citizens, our loved ones. For this reason, we must do all we can to exterminate that race. Interventor Higino has asked me to use this sacred holiday to announce a plan that will, hopefully, allow our soldiers, our road workers, and our innocent citizens to remain alive, so that next Finados we will have fewer to mourn.”

There was a smattering of applause.

“We are working with Germany,” Dr. Duarte announced. “It’s been kept out of the papers because the Hawk reads them. DIP’s made editors promise not to print anything about it. But I suppose there’s no harm in sharing our plan now. No one here has a loose tongue, I hope.”

Guests laughed. Dr. Duarte continued.

“We’ve purchased several Bergmanns. ‘Machine guns,’ the Germans call them. They shoot five hundred rounds a minute. With them, ten men become ten thousand. The cangaceiros won’t have time to think, or to shoot. They’ll be gone before they touch their holsters.”

Dr. Duarte winked at Emília.

“We’ll ship the Bergmanns secretly,” he said. “We won’t let the cangaceiros get hold of such a weapon. We’ll coax the cangaceiros into one spot, and then surprise them with our new firearm. Ladies and gentlemen, I have no doubt we will cure this scourge of criminality in our countryside. In the end, it is not the Bergmann gun that will do this, but our own resolve. As our great writer Euclides da Cunha said: the moral man does not destroy the criminal race by force of arms alone—he crushes it with civilization!”

The room thundered with applause. Emília felt an acidic mix of coconut milk and mussels rise into the back of her throat, burning it. She held her napkin over her mouth.

After Dr. Duarte sat, the lunch plates were swept away. Dessert was served.

“When will they arrive?” Emília asked. “These Bergmanns?”

Dr. Duarte hesitated, then whispered to his tablemates: “They’re on a ship as we speak.”

“Three months’ time,” Degas added. He placed a hand on Emília’s forearm. Not knowing if this was meant to be a comfort or a warning, Emília moved her arm away. She felt pressure in her head and behind her eyes, as if her brain had swelled.

“I trust we’ll all be discreet about this,” Dr. Duarte said to his guests.

“Yes,” Dr. Eronildes replied. He stared at Emília. “When I became a doctor, I took an oath. What I see or hear during treatment, and even outside treatment, that pertains to the lives of men, I will keep to myself.”

“And women?” Emília asked. “What about their lives?”

“Yes,” Lindalva chimed in, “our sex won’t be pushed aside.”

“I took the same oath,” Dr. Duarte said, staring at Eronildes. His voice trembled. “Medical men are loyal men, especially to each other. That’s part of the oath, too, if I recall correctly—‘hold those who practice as equals and as brothers, and if they are in need of money, I will give them a share of mine.’” Dr. Duarte wiped his eyes with his napkin. He looked at his son. “It’s a fine group to be a part of. A man is only worth the company he keeps.”

“I agree,” Degas said, his foot tapping wildly beneath the table. “I’m sure Dr. Eronildes agrees as well.”

The table’s occupants ate their desserts in silence. Emília gulped down her slice of cake, hardly tasting it. She wanted to hurry the meal along but, at the same time, she was reluctant to leave the dining room. As soon as the luncheon ended, they would return to the Coelho house and she’d have to introduce Expedito to Dr. Eronildes. Emília worried about the doctor’s sudden appearance in Recife, his financial troubles, and Dr. Duarte’s affinity for him. What worried her most were the Bergmanns. Dr. Duarte’s words squeezed themselves into her thoughts, relentless and irritating, like flies trapped inside her head.
Ten men become ten thousand. They’ll be gone before they touch their holsters.

After dessert, Chevalier excused himself from the dining room. Degas also stood and announced that he would drive the pilot back to his hotel. Dr. Duarte raised his hand, ordering his son to wait.

“He’s a grown man, Degas. I’m sure he’ll find his way without you. You’ll take us back to the house. Dr. Eronildes included.”

Dr. Duarte smiled at his guest. When Degas began to protest, his father’s good humor disappeared. Dr. Duarte’s voice grew low and stern.

“Degas,” he said, “you may have time to indulge playboys and media hogs, but I certainly do not. I don’t want him in my company again.”

Dr. Duarte stood and quickly escorted Dr. Eronildes from the table. Degas stared at his father’s empty chair and then hurried after him.