Page 38 of The Seven Sisters
I stared at the woman’s features. And yes, even I could see my own face mirrored there. ‘Perhaps,’ I shrugged.
‘Maia, it’s uncanny,’ Floriano stated categorically. ‘And I can tell you that there’s a lot more where that came from. There’s an entire archive of Izabela’s photographs from old newspapers, which I accessed on microfiche in the Biblioteca Nacional do Brasil. She was thought at the time to be one of the most beautiful women in Brazil. She married Gustavo Aires Cabral at the cathedral here in Rio in January 1929. It was the society wedding of the year.’
‘Of course, it could simply be coincidence,’ I said, feeling uncomfortable at Floriano’s implicit comparison between me and the society beauty of her day. ‘But . . .’
‘Yes?’ he said, eager for me to continue.
‘When I was at A Casa das Orquídeas, I noticed a sculpture sitting in the corner of the terrace. It stuck out because it was so unusual and not the kind of thing you’d normally expect to find in a garden. It was of a woman sitting on a chair. And looking at this photograph, I’m sure it was the same woman. And yes, at the time I remember thinking that she looked familiar.’
‘Because she looks like you!’ he said, as the waitress took the drinks from her tray and placed them on the table. ‘Well, I feel that we’ve already made some progress.’
‘And I’m very grateful, Floriano, but I still don’t think the old woman I met yesterday wishes to tell me anything, or would ever acknowledge me. Why should she? Wouldn’t you behave the same in the circumstances?’ I challenged him.
‘Admittedly, if a complete stranger walked into my garden, even if shedidbear an uncanny resemblance to my mother, and then announced she’d been told she belonged to my family, I would indeed view her with suspicion,’ Floriano agreed soberly.
‘So, where do we go from here?’ I asked him.
‘Back to see her. I think I should accompany you. It will help give you some gravitas when she hears my name.’
I couldn’t help a wry smile at Floriano’s total conviction that the old woman would know who he was. South Americans, I’d noticed, seemed to have a refreshingly unabashed openness and honesty about their own gifts and achievements.
‘I also want to see that sculpture you mentioned, Maia,’ Floriano continued. ‘Would you mind if I came with you?’
‘Not at all. You’ve been so good helping me with all of this.’
‘I can assure you, it’s been a pleasure. After all, you are the spitting image of one of the most beautiful women Brazil ever produced.’
I blushed, feeling uncomfortable at the compliment. My cynical mind turned immediately to whether he’d expect favours in return for his help. Casual sex was the norm these days, I knew, but not something I could ever contemplate.
‘Excuse me,’ he said as his mobile rang and he spoke in fast Portuguese to someone he called ‘querida’. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’ He looked at me and sighed. ‘Sadly, I have to leave you,’ he said, draining hiscaipirinha. ‘Petra, the girl I live with, has managed yet again to lose her key.’ He rolled his eyes and signalled for the bill.
‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘this is on me, as a thank you for all your help.’
‘Then I say thank you too.’ He nodded graciously. ‘What time should I collect you tomorrow?’
‘Whenever suits you. I have no plans.’
‘Then I suggest ten thirty, before Senhora Beatriz Carvalho has lunch and an afternoon nap. Don’t get up,’ he said as he rose from his chair. ‘Stay here and finish your wine. Until tomorrow, Maia.Tchau.’
He walked away from me, nodding easily at the waitress who was staring at him with a look of appreciative recognition. I sipped my wine, feeling ridiculous that, just for a moment, I’d imagined he would want to sleep with me.
But, just like everybody else, he had his own life. Well, I thought as I lifted my wine glass to my lips, perhaps I was about to find mine.
12
Floriano arrived promptly in the lobby of the hotel the following morning and we took off in his red Fiat. He weaved through the incessant traffic confidently, as I caught my breath at the near misses.
‘Where do you come from?’ I asked him, to take my mind off his terrifying driving. ‘Are you a true Brazilian?’
‘And what do you thinkisa true Brazilian?’ he asked me. ‘There is no such thing. We are a race made up of half-breeds, different nationalities, creeds and colours. The only “real” Brazilians were the originalnativosthat the Portuguese began murdering after they arrived here five hundred years ago, claiming the riches of our country for themselves. And many more who didn’t die a bloody death succumbed to the diseases the settlers brought with them. To cut a long family history short, my mother is descended from the Portuguese and my father is Italian. There’s no such thing as a pure bloodline here in Brazil.’
I was learning fast about the country that might have produced me. ‘So what about the Aires Cabrals?’
‘Well, interestingly, they were pure Portuguese, until Izabela, your potential great-grandmother, arrived on the scene. Her father was a very rich man of Italian extraction, who, like many at the time, had made a fortune from coffee. And reading between the lines, I presume that the Aires Cabrals had fallen on hard times, like so many of the lazy, aristocratic families had. Izabela was very beautiful and from a wealthy family, and so one can only presume a deal was struck.’
‘So it’s fair to say your conclusions are supposition rather than fact at this point?’ I asked him.
‘One hundred per cent supposition. Which, apart from dates and the odd letter and diary, is always the case when one is first investigating an historical situation,’ Floriano qualified. ‘Nothing can ever be certain, because the voices one must hear from to confirm the story definitively are no longer with us. As an historian, you have to learn to put the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle together to create the whole picture.’
