Page 109 of The Seven Sisters
‘Yes, Senhor Brouilly,’ Levy echoed his thoughts. ‘Here in Brazil, the rich are very rich and the poor are . . . starving,’ he shrugged.
‘Are you Portuguese, monsieur?’
‘No. My mother is Italian and my father German. And I am a Jew. Here in Brazil, you will find a very large melting pot of different nationalities, although it is the Portuguese who consider themselves the true Brazilians. We have immigrants from Italy, Spain, and, of course, the Africans, who were brought over as slaves by the Portuguese to work on the coffee farms. And nowadays, Rio is experiencing a huge influx of Japanese. Everyone comes here seeking their pot of gold. Some find it, but others sadly do not, and end up in thefavelas.’
‘It’s very different from France. Most of our residents are French born and bred,’ commented Laurent.
‘But this is the New World, Senhor Brouilly,’ Levy said, ‘and we will all make it what it is, whatever our original place of birth.’
*
For the rest of his life, Laurent would never forget the bizarre spectacle of Christ’s enormous head sitting in a field, while chickens pecked at the soil around it and a large cockerel preened itself as it sat atop His nose.
‘Senhor da Silva Costa called me at five this morning, anxious to know his preciousCristohad made the journey safely. So I decided to reconstruct the pieces here and make sure there is no damage. And so far, all is well,’ Levy confirmed.
The sight of the head, last seen as a whole in Landowski’satelierand now here in Rio thousands of miles away, almost brought a lump to Laurent’s throat.
‘It looks to me as if He was kept safe on His journey. Maybe watched over by heaven,’ said Levy, also moved by the sight. ‘I won’t endeavour to put the hands together yet, but I had a look and they too seem to have escaped without a scratch. One of my workers will take a photograph to mark the occasion for all of us. I will also send it to Senhor da Silva Costa, and Landowski of course.’
The photograph duly taken, and having closely surveyed the head and hands so he too could write to Landowski and reassure him, Laurent hoped the same good luck had befallen his sculpture of Bel, currently sitting in a crate on the dock somewhere inside the main port.
After agonising over the sale, Laurent had taken Landowski’s advice and decided to accept Senhor Aires Cabral’s offer of two and a half thousand francs. Landowski had been right: he could always sculpt another and it was a windfall that was impossible to refuse, whatever the future held.
‘So, your initial mission has been completed successfully, although I am sure you are eager to see the construction site at Corcovado Mountain,’ Levy continued. ‘It is truly something to behold. I am living up there with the workers, as we only have a relatively short time in which to complete the project.’
‘I would love to see it,’ Laurent said eagerly. ‘I’ve struggled to imagine how it is possible to build such a monument on the top of a mountain.’
‘So have we all,’ Levy agreed phlegmatically. ‘But rest assured, it is happening. Now, Senhor da Silva Costa tells me that you are in need of accommodation while you are here. He asked me if I would help you find some, given that I’m sure you don’t speak a word of Portuguese.’
‘No, monsieur, I do not.’
‘Well, it just so happens that I have an apartment going spare. It’s in an area called Ipanema, not far from Copacabana Beach where you are staying presently. I bought it in my bachelor days before my marriage, and have never had the heart to part with it. I would be happy to let you have the use of it for the time you are here. Senhor da Silva Costa, of course, will pick up any bills, just as you agreed in France. I think you will like it as it has a spectacular view and is full of light. Perfect for a sculptor like yourself,’ he added.
‘Thank you, Monsieur Levy. I am overwhelmed by your generosity.’
‘Well, we shall go and visit it. And if it suits you, you can move in later today.’
By late afternoon, Laurent was the proud tenant of a spacious, airy third-floor apartment in a beautiful block near Ipanema Beach. The graceful high-ceilinged rooms were elegantly furnished and when he opened the door to the shady balcony, he could see the beach in the distance. The warm wind brought with it the unmistakeable smell of the ocean.
Levy had left him there to settle in after they’d retrieved his suitcase from the hotel, telling him he’d be back later to introduce him to the maid who would cook and clean for him during his stay.
Laurent wandered wide-eyed from room to room, the luxury of having such space all to himself after his squalid attic room in Montparnasse, let alone the thought of a maid to wait on him, almost too much to comprehend. He sat on the enormous mahogany bed and lay back, enjoying the breeze from the ceiling fan that brushed his face like tiny wings. Breathing a sigh of contentment, he promptly fell asleep.
That evening, as promised, Levy brought Monica, a middle-aged African woman, to see him.
‘I’ve warned her that you don’t speak any Portuguese, but if you agree, Monsieur Brouilly, she will clean the apartment, shop for provisions in the local market and prepare your evening meal. Anything else you need, there is a telephone in the drawing room. Please, call me at any time.’
‘I really can’t thank you enough for your kindness, Monsieur Levy,’ Laurent replied gratefully.
‘You are our honoured guest here in Brazil, and we can’t have you reporting back to Senhor Landowski and the rest of Paris that we live like heathens,’ Levy smiled, raising a knowing eyebrow.
‘Indeed not, monsieur. From what I’ve seen so far, I think you are more civilised than us in Paris.’
‘By the way, did your own sculpture arrive safely?’ Levy enquired.
‘Yes, it is at the dock, and the authorities said they will notify the buyer and arrange for it to be delivered to him.’
‘The Aires Cabrals are doubtless away on honeymoon. They married only yesterday.’
