The Seamstress (76 page)

2

At the Coelho house, Emília woke Expedito from his nap and carried the sleepy-eyed boy into the courtyard. The central fountain gurgled and spat water. The jabotis had crowded into the yard’s only shady spot. Expedito collected wilted lettuce leaves scattered across the brick floor and fed the turtles. Emília knelt beside him. Soon the doors to Dr. Duarte’s study opened and, inside, the corrupião burst into a startled song. Emília’s father-in-law and Dr. Eronildes walked toward them.

“Ahhh!” Dr. Duarte said, extending his stubby hands. “There’s the Colonel! That’s what we call him around here.”

Dr. Duarte patted Expedito’s head. The boy stopped feeding the jabotis and turned his dark eyes toward the stranger. Dr. Eronildes’ hands shook. He clamped one with the other.

“Are they jabotis?” Eronildes asked.

Expedito nodded.

“They live a human lifetime, you know,” Eronildes said, “sometimes longer. They’ll probably outlive us all.”

Expedito watched the turtles, as if pondering the stranger’s words.

“Except for Expedito,” Emília said. “He’ll live to see another set of turtles, God willing.”

“Yes,” Eronildes replied. “Of course he will. Thanks to you.”

“And to you,” Emília said. “We’re both responsible for his life.”

Dr. Eronildes nodded. His face was shiny and pallid, like a boiled round of inhame yam. He fidgeted with his jacket and wiggled his leg. Dr. Duarte placed a hand on his guest’s back, as if to steady him.

“The Green Party’s old-fashioned; it doesn’t serve drinks at its events,” Dr. Duarte said. “But I like a little
cana
now and again, to kill the parasites. I have some fine cachaça in my study, or White Horse if you prefer it.”

Eronildes licked his lips. “White Horse,” he said. “With ice.”

Dr. Duarte nodded. “I’ll tell the maid to crush some. It shouldn’t take long. Emília and the Colonel will keep you company.”

Emília watched her father-in-law walk away. She’d never seen Dr. Duarte move so quickly or pay such deference to a guest. He rarely shared his small stock of imported whiskey. Next to Emília, Dr. Eronildes sniffed the air. She smelled it, too—a burning odor, like rice left too long on the stove.

“Are bonfires customary here during Finados?” Eronildes asked.

“No,” Emília replied.

Inside the house she heard Dr. Duarte shouting for ice. Eronildes edged closer.

“We should warn her,” he said.

The burning smell had gotten stronger and she believed Eronildes was referring to it. “Dona Dulce’s not cooking anything,” Emília replied.

“No,” he hissed. “About the Bergmanns.”

Emília’s mouth felt very dry, her tongue sandpapery. “Yes,” she finally said. “You’re going back to your farm. You do it.”

“She won’t believe me.”

“Why not?”

“She’s suspicious of anyone who comes to Recife, and rightly so. I’ll need your backing.”

“You have it. Tell her I heard about the Bergmanns, too.”

“Why don’t you tell her?”

“I can’t talk about a gun in the society papers!” Emília said, irritated by his ignorance.

Dr. Eronildes shook his head. “No,” he said. “Tell her in person.”

The burning smell had grown stronger now—less grainy and more chemical. Near Emília’s feet, Expedito stared intently at her and the doctor, as if he understood their conversation.

“How?” Emília asked.

Eronildes drew closer. His breath was warm and sour, tinged with stale liquor.

“I can set up a meeting at my ranch. Your husband said the Bergmanns would take three months to arrive. Maybe more if there are rough seas. And the ship may sit in port here, after it arrives, to be inspected.”

Emília shook her head. “Dr. Duarte will get it out quickly. He has an export business. He knows all the customs agents.”

“All right,” Eronildes continued, “so we have ninety days at best. If you take a train south, to Maceió, it will take a full day. Then you’d have to go to Propriá—near the São Francisco—and that would take at least two days because there are no train lines connecting them. I’m not sure how long a riverboat ride will last; that depends on the water level. Even if the boat ride takes two weeks, if you leave early enough, you’ll reach my ranch before the Bergmanns reach Recife.”

“You’ve thought this through.”

Dr. Eronildes licked his lips. “Yes. All during lunch.”

Emília felt ashamed by her panicked and illogical thoughts during the luncheon. She wanted to be as clearheaded as Eronildes, but even then, in the relative safety of the courtyard, she felt muddled and overwhelmed.

“I don’t know,” she said. “The Coelhos won’t let me travel alone.”

“Make up an excuse.”

“How will she know I’m coming?” Emília asked, afraid to say her sister’s name aloud.

“I’ll tell her,” Eronildes said.

“But you said she doesn’t believe you.”

Eronildes reddened. “She reads the papers. You can say something about your trip, to give her proof. And you should take the boy.”

Emília stared at the courtyard doors, suddenly eager for Dr. Duarte to return, for their conversation to be cut short. Luzia would want Expedito back—what mother wouldn’t want her child returned to her?

“No,” Emília said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Beads of sweat dotted Dr. Eronildes’ upper lip and his chest rose, as if he was taking a deep breath, but instead of inhaling he held his pale hand to his mouth.

“Are you all right?” Emília said, worried he was going to be sick.

Eronildes nodded. “It’s unfortunate,” he said. “You’re right. We’re human. We have to accept death as our destiny. Some are foolish enough to believe they can escape it by living calm lives. Others are foolish enough to tempt death; they think it won’t touch them no matter how dangerously they behave. In reality, no one is immune. No one can be saved. Forgive me for asking you.”

Eronildes spoke in a tone laced with disappointment, as if he was speaking to a selfish child. Emília wanted to get away, to leave the doctor stewing in that hot courtyard, but if she stormed off she would be acting exactly the way he made her feel—like a scared, infantile woman.

“I meant it’s too dangerous for Expedito, not for me,” Emília said.

“No, no,” Eronildes replied, waving his hand. “A meeting’s too risky for all of us. It’s better to stay away. Sometimes we want to be upright, but in the end we have weaker natures than we’d hoped. I wish this weren’t the case.”

“Stop it,” Emília said, annoyed by his sudden reluctance. “I’ll do it, and so will you. There’s no choice…”

Emília’s voice cracked. She couldn’t finish her sentence. Her thoughts were rapid and disjointed. They made her feel unbalanced. She reached behind her, searching for the fountain’s tiled edge, and sat. Drops of water hit her neck and back. In the air, the burning smell intensified, reminding Emília of the days after the revolution. Dr. Eronildes wrung his hands and stared.

“I’ll do whatever you decide,” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve upset you.”

Emília didn’t respond. She wasn’t upset; she was excited. Emília hadn’t been strong enough to save her little sister when the cangaceiros took her away. She hadn’t been strong enough to resist Degas when he’d insisted on using her charity shipments as a cover. Now she could be strong. Now she had the chance to save Luzia.

“Set up a meeting and I’ll go,” Emília whispered. “I’ll warn her.”

Before Eronildes could agree, Dr. Duarte returned to the courtyard empty-handed. Degas accompanied him.

“I just received a phone call,” he said, his breath short. “Communists, anti-Gomes factions, are burning the port. We’ll have to postpone our meeting.”

“Of course,” Dr. Eronildes said and followed Degas and Duarte into the house.

Emília remained seated. She ripped a fern from a crack in the fountain’s tile. Near her, Expedito patted the jabotis’ shells. He whispered to the turtles, drawing his face close to theirs as if he was informing them of the port fire. Maybe there would be another revolution, Emília thought. Maybe the port would be destroyed and the Bergmanns would never arrive. If that happened, there would be no threat to the cangaceiros, but then Emília would be denied her chance to save her sister. Which did she want more?

She stared at the place where Dr. Eronildes had stood just minutes before. She’d believed his presence at the Finados luncheon was an excuse to see her and arrange a meeting with Luzia, but he’d followed Dr. Duarte out of the courtyard so suddenly. He hadn’t said good-bye. Emília sensed shame in his exit. His drinking had gotten worse; any man would be ashamed of such a dependence on liquor, Emília reasoned. But she’d sensed desperation in his voice, in the urgent way he’d whispered to her. He’d said that his mother’s will was tied up and that his ranch wasn’t profitable. His suit was threadbare and his rancher’s boots were poorly polished, the leather cracking along the creases. Financial troubles would make any gentleman desperate, but Eronildes was a professional. He was a doctor, and he could turn to his profession in times of need. Emília closed her eyes. Doctoring was the only bond Dr. Duarte and Eronildes shared—nothing else joined them. Dr. Eronildes had acted honorably in the past, she told herself. He would continue to do so.

Expedito howled. Emília opened her eyes. A turtle had nipped the boy; he held one hand in the other. His face was red, his eyes welling. Expedito looked at Emília angrily, as if it had been her fault, as if she should have prevented it.

3

The port attack was quickly subdued. It was a small flare-up compared to the 1932 rebellion in São Paulo, but it had occurred in Recife, and the Northeast was supposed to be a Gomes stronghold. The president sent in troops. Within two weeks, Gomes had drafted the National Security Law. His law closed courts and created the Supreme Security Tribunal to hear cases against persons suspected of threatening Brazil’s national integrity. Habeas corpus was suspended. Anyone who contested Gomes or disturbed national order—from intellectuals to petty thieves—was jailed. Prisons became so crowded that naval ships were converted into floating jails in Rio de Janeiro’s harbor. In Recife, Military Police circulated in neighborhoods, concentrating on downtown and in the Bairro Recife where there were liberals and students.

A local anthropologist and a friend of Lindalva’s published a book that the
Diário de Pernambuco
deemed “pernicious, destructive, anarchist, and Communist.” The book said that Brazilians were not only products of the Portuguese but also of African and native influences. They were not a monolithic culture, the anthropologist said, but a trinity. Dr. Duarte called the book pornographic. Gomes’s government prohibited its sale and closed all African cultural centers and religious houses. The author went into exile in Europe.

Gomes enforced his National Security Law so quickly that people didn’t have time to react or to protest. Dr. Duarte, like many others, believed that Communism was a larger threat than Gomes’s new law. In the Coelho parlor, Emília sat between Degas and Dr. Duarte and listened to nightly radio reports. An Italian leader nicknamed Il Duce was preparing to invade Ethiopia. In Spain, there was talk of civil war. In São Paulo’s port, two hundred German Jews had disembarked from a ship, fleeing their new führer. The entire world was in turmoil, and Brazil was no different. Many Brazilians believed that Gomes was like a strict father, trying to protect them from instability. Others decided to leave the country before things worsened. Several of Recife’s scientists, writers, and professors discreetly took jobs abroad. Lindalva and the baroness closed their house on Derby Square and prepared for an extended trip to see a cousin in New York City. They packed trunks full of clothing and books. Lindalva closed her bank account and, during Emília’s last lunch on the baroness’s porch, she placed a large envelope in Emília’s hands. Inside were thick stacks of bills.

“Your escape fund,” Lindalva said. “Use it now. Come with us.”

The baroness nodded. “I don’t think a married woman should run from her responsibilities, but when a husband doesn’t consider a couple’s welfare, the wife must consider her own. The baron taught me that. The situation here will only get worse. Gomes has big eyes. He’ll want more and more, and then he won’t know what to do with it all.”

“Tell the Coelhos that we’ll be your chaperones,” Lindalva said, smiling. “We’ll keep you honest.”

“I can’t go,” Emília replied.

“The shop can close,” Lindalva pleaded. “The seamstresses will find work.”

“It’s not the shop,” Emília said, unable to face her friend. She felt her throat closing.

Lindalva and the baroness swore that they would return to Brazil, but Emília knew that she was losing her only allies. She wanted to go with them, to begin a new life in a foreign city, but she could not. She’d promised to make another trip. Instead of leaving Brazil, Emília had vowed to travel deeper inside it. Because of the National Security Law, any threat against the state—even by country bandits—was credible. Dr. Duarte and Interventor Higino anxiously waited for the Bergmanns to arrive. They sent more troops into the countryside. It pained Emília to read the newspaper each day and wonder which cangaceiros had been caught and decapitated. She couldn’t stand the strain. The only thing that gave her solace was Dr. Eronildes’ proposition: Emília would travel into the countryside and warn her sister. Only then would she feel free.

After his visit, Dr. Eronildes had sent thank-you cards to each member of the Coelho family, expressing his gratitude for their company during the Finados holiday.

Senhora Emília,

 

It was a pleasure seeing you and the boy again. I’m glad you are both in good health. You had mentioned that you wished to speak with a colleague of mine regarding Expedito’s educational opportunities. Would you still like to have this meeting? I will be in Recife in two weeks’ time. Please give me your response then, so that I may make the necessary arrangements. My colleague is difficult to get hold of, so time is of the essence.

In the meantime, I have prayed to Santa Luzia, as you recommended. I hope she will answer our prayers. Like any saint, she needs proof of our good intentions.

Atenciosamente,
Sr. Eronildes Epifano, M.D.