Page 46 of The Seven Sisters
‘And of course,querida, your gown of cream silk, embroidered with emerald thread, was planned especially to show off your birthday present,’ Carla added.
‘Tonight,’ Antonio mused in satisfaction, ‘there will be no woman in the room wearing adornments more beautiful or expensive. Even if they are wearing the crown jewels of Portugal themselves!’
Suddenly, all the girlish, natural joy at receiving such a magnificent present evaporated. As Bel stared in the mirror at her reflection, she realised that the jewellery had nothing to do with Antonio wishing to please his daughter on her birthday. It was just another way of impressing the many important people who would arrive tonight at her party.
Now, the gleaming green stones around her neck seemed vulgar, ostentatious . . . she was simply a canvas on which to exhibit the trappings of his wealth. And her eyes filled with tears.
‘Ah,querida, don’t cry.’ Carla was immediately by her side. ‘I understand you’re overwhelmed, but you mustn’t upset yourself on your special day.’
Bel reached instinctively for her mother and rested her head on her shoulder as fear for the future surged through her.
*
Bel looked back on her eighteenth birthday party at the Copacabana Palace – the night that she and, more importantly, her father were emphatically launched into Rio society – as a series of vivid, jumbled snapshots.
Gabriela had obviously made the right offering to Our Lady as, although the heavens had opened for the entire afternoon, at four o’clock, just as Bel had bathed and the hair stylist had arrived to pile her thick glossy mane on top of her head, the rain stopped. Strings of tiny emeralds – a further gift from her father – were woven through her chignon. And her gown, made of duchesse satin sent especially from Paris and expertly fitted by Madame Duchaine to accentuate her breasts, her slim hips and pan-flat stomach, clung to her like a second skin.
When she’d arrived at the hotel, a crowd of photographers, paid by her father to attend, had sprung into action as she’d emerged with Antonio from the car. A barrage of flashbulbs popped in her face as he led her inside.
The champagne fountain had flowed like water all evening, and rare beluga caviar, imported from Russia, had been handed round as freely as if it were cheapsalgadinhosfrom a street vendor.
After an extravagant dinner of lobster thermidor accompanied by the best French wines, Rio’s most fashionable dance band had performed on the terrace. The huge swimming pool had been covered over with boards so that the guests could dance under the starlight.
Antonio had refused point-blank to countenance any samba, which, although increasingly popular, was still considered the music of the poor in Rio. However, he had been persuaded by Senhora Santos to allow a couple of energetic maxixe numbers on the basis that the racy dance steps were these days considered the height of chic in the sophisticated clubs of Paris and New York.
Bel remembered being partnered on the dance floor by a series of men, their touch on her bare shoulder as insignificant as a mosquito she would immediately flick away.
Then Antonio himself had brought across a young man to meet her.
‘Izabela,’ he had said, ‘may I introduce you to Gustavo Aires Cabral. He has been admiring you from afar and would like the pleasure of a dance.’
Bel knew immediately from his surname that this diminutive, whey-faced man represented one of the most aristocratic families in Brazil.
‘Of course,’ she had said, lowering her eyes deferentially. ‘It would be my honour, senhor.’
She couldn’t help noticing Gustavo was so short that his eyes were barely on a level with hers, and as he had bent to kiss her hand, she was afforded a view of the already thinning hair on top of his head.
‘Senhorita, where have you been hiding yourself?’ he’d murmured as he led her to the dance floor. ‘You’re surely the most beautiful woman in Rio.’
As they’d danced, Bel didn’t need to look at her father to know that he was watching them with a self-satisfied smile on his lips.
Later, when her ten-tiered birthday cake had been cut, and everyone had been served a further glass of champagne from the fountain in order to toast her, a sudden blast of noise assailed Bel’s ears. Like everyone else on the terrace, she had turned her head in the direction of it, to see a boat floating on the waves close to shore, firing off hundreds of catherine wheels, rockets and starbursts. The coloured fireworks lit up the night sky above Rio, and everyone had gasped at the spectacle. With Gustavo hovering at her shoulder, Bel could only muster a false smile of gratitude.
*
Bel woke at eleven the next day and, having written to Loen – whom she knew would be desperate to hear news of the party – at thefazenda, she emerged from her bedroom and made her way downstairs. The Bonifacio party had not arrived home until well after four in the morning, and she found her parents taking a late breakfast looking distinctly bleary-eyed.
‘Look who it is,’ Antonio crowed to his wife. ‘The newly crownedprincesaof Rio!’
‘Good morning, Pai. Good morning, Mãe,’ she said as she sat down and Gabriela moved to serve her. ‘Just coffee, thank you,’ she said, as she waved the offer of food away.
‘How are you this morning, my dear?’
‘A little weary,’ she admitted.
‘Perhaps you drank a little too much champagne last night?’ said Antonio. ‘I know I certainly did.’
‘No, I only drank one glass all night. I’m simply tired, that’s all. Are you not at the office today, Pai?’
