Page 39 of The Seven Sisters
‘Yes. I suppose you’re right,’ I mused, understanding what he meant.
‘Of course, with the age of the internet and everything now recorded on it, history and the research of it will change. We are entering a new era where there will be fewer secrets, fewer mysteries that need to be uncovered. Thank God I’m also a novelist, because Mister Wikipedia and his friends have usurped my position as an historian. My memoirs when I’m old will be worthless; my story will be there for all to see on the web.’
I thought about this as Floriano – without even asking me to point him in the right direction – turned into the drive of A Casa das Orquídeas.
‘How did you know exactly where it was?’ I asked in amazement as he parked confidently in front of the house.
‘My dear Maia, your potential long-lost family is famous in Rio. Every historian knows this house. It is one of the few remnants left of a lost era. So,’ he said, switching off the engine and turning to me. ‘Ready to go?’
‘Yes.’
With Floriano leading the way, we approached the house and walked up the front steps.
‘The bell doesn’t work,’ I told him.
‘Then I will knock.’
And so he did. Loudly, as if to wake the dead. Receiving no response within thirty seconds, Floriano banged on the door again, even harder this time, which brought the sound of feet running on tiles towards it from the inside. I then heard bolts being drawn back and locks turned. Finally, the door was pulled open and I saw the grey-haired African maid whom I’d encountered on my last visit standing on the threshold of the house. As soon as she saw me, her features contracted in recognition and panic.
‘Sorry for disturbing you, senhora, but my name is Floriano Quintelas. I am a friend of Senhorita D’Aplièse. I can assure you we do not wish to disturb or unsettle your mistress. However, we have some information that we think may well be interesting to her. I am a well-respected historian and also a novelist.’
‘I know who you are, Senhor Quintelas,’ the maid said, keeping her eyes on me. ‘Senhora Carvalho is taking coffee in the morning room, but as I’ve already informed your friend, she is a very sick woman.’
As I listened to the formal way in which the maid spoke, I wanted to giggle. It was as if she was acting in a second-rate Victorian melodrama.
‘Why don’t we come in with you and explain to Senhora Carvalho who we are?’ Floriano suggested. ‘And then, if she feels she is not up to a conversation with us, I promise we’ll go away.’
Floriano already had a foot over the threshold, which forced the flustered maid to back up and lead us both into a grand tiled entrance hall, with a sweeping curved staircase rising to the floors above. An elegant mahogany pedestal table sat in the centre of the floor and an imposing long-cased clock was positioned against one wall. Under the curve of the stairs, I could see a long narrow corridor running off the hall, which clearly led to the back of the house.
‘Please be so kind as to lead the way,’ Floriano invited the maid, adopting her formal tone.
She paused hesitantly, as though weighing something in her mind. Then she nodded to us and headed for the corridor, with the two of us following in her wake. However, as we all arrived outside a door towards the end of the dim passageway, the maid turned to us. And this time I could see she was adamant we would not gain entry until she had spoken to her mistress.
‘Wait here,’ she said firmly.
As the maid knocked and then entered the room, closing the door in our faces, I turned to Floriano.
‘She’s simply an old, sick lady. Is it right to upset her?’
‘No, Maia, but equally, is it fair that she may be refusing to divulge the details of your true parentage? That woman behind the door may well be your grandmother. Her daughter, your mother. Do you really care if we are disturbing her morning routine for a few minutes?’
The maid emerged from the room. ‘She will see you for five minutes. No more.’ Again I felt her glance at me closely as we walked into a dark room that smelt musty and damp. The decor clearly hadn’t been altered for decades and, as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I noticed the threadbare oriental rug beneath our feet and the limp, faded damask curtains that hung at the window. However, the general shabbiness was offset by the beautiful antique furniture of rosewood and walnut, and the magnificent chandelier suspended overhead.
Senhora Carvalho was sitting in a high-backed velvet chair, a blanket across her knees. A jug of water and numerous pill bottles were sitting on the side table beside her.
‘You’re back,’ she said.
‘Please forgive Senhorita D’Aplièse for bothering you further,’ began Floriano. ‘But you can imagine that for her, finding her family is a serious business. And she will not be deflected.’
‘Senhor Quintelas,’ the old woman sighed, ‘I told your friend yesterday that I cannot help her.’
‘Are you sure, Senhora Carvalho? Surely you only have to look at that portrait that hangs on the wall above the fireplace to see that Senhorita Maia isn’t here for some ulterior motive? She is not after money, but only wants to trace her family. Is that so wrong? Can you blame her for it?’
I glanced in the direction that Floriano had pointed and saw an oil painting of the woman I now knew to be Izabela Aires Cabral. This time there was no doubt in my mind. Even I could see I was the very image of her. ‘Izabela Aires Cabral was your mother,’ Floriano continued. ‘And you also had a daughter, Cristina, in 1956.’
The old woman sat, her lips pursed together in silence.
‘So you’re not prepared to even consider the chance that you may, in fact, have a granddaughter? I have to tell you, senhora, that proof of Senhorita D’Aplièse’s heritage is at this very moment being gathered by a friend of mine at the Museu da República. We’ll be back,’ Floriano promised.
