Page 85 of The Seven Sisters
I was awoken by a harsh jangling noise, and it took my disoriented senses a few seconds to compute that it was the telephone by the bed making the discordant sound. Reaching over to the side table, I put the receiver to my ear and muttered, ‘Hello?’
‘Maia, it’s Floriano. How are you feeling?’
‘I’m . . . better,’ I said, immediately feeling guilty for the lie I’d told him the night before.
‘Good. Are you up to meeting today? I have a lot to tell you.’
And I you, I thought, but didn’t say. ‘Of course I am.’
‘The weather is beautiful, so let’s take a walk along the beach. Shall I see you at eleven in the lobby downstairs?’
‘Yes, but please, Floriano, if you have other things to do, I—’
‘Maia, I’m a novelist, and any diversion that gives me an excuse not to sit down at my desk and write is always a welcome one. See you in an hour.’
Ordering breakfast from room service, I reread the first few letters in order to have them clearer in my mind. Then, seeing the time, took a fast shower and presented myself in the lobby promptly at eleven.
Floriano was already waiting for me, sitting reading a page from a bulging plastic wallet that sat on his lap.
‘Morning,’ I greeted him.
‘Morning,’ he replied, glancing up at me. ‘You look well.’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said, sitting down next to him and deciding to tell him the truth immediately. ‘Floriano, it wasn’t just my stomach that kept me in my room last night. Yara, the elderly maid, handed me a package just before we left the Casa yesterday,’ I confessed. ‘And swore me to secrecy.’
‘I see.’ Floriano raised an eyebrow at my news. ‘And what did this package contain?’
‘Letters, written by Izabela Bonifacio to her maid at the time. A woman called Loen Fagundes. She was Yara’s mother.’
‘Right.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the letters yesterday. I just wanted to read them through before I did. And swear to me you won’t breathe a word about them to anyone else. Yara was terrified of Senhora Carvalho finding out that she’d given the letters to me.’
‘Of course. No problem. I understand.’ He nodded sagely. ‘After all, it’s your family history, not mine. And I think you’re someone who always finds it difficult to trust. I’m sure you have many other secrets you keep to yourself. So, do you want to share the content of the letters with me or not? It is up to you and I won’t be at all offended if you say no.’
‘Yes, of course I’m happy to share them,’ I confirmed, discomfited by his incisive assessment of me, which mirrored the essence of what Pa had said in his letter.
‘Then we walk and talk at the same time.’
I followed Floriano out of the lobby and together we crossed the road onto the wide promenade that fronted the beach. Its many kiosks, which sold fresh coconut water, beer and snacks to beach-goers, were already busy with customers.
‘We will walk up to Copacabana and I shall show you where your great-grandmother had her grand wedding.’
‘And her eighteenth birthday party,’ I added.
‘Yes, I have some photos of that too taken from the newspaper archives in thebiblioteca. So,’ he suggested, ‘if you’re comfortable doing so, Maia, tell me all you have discovered.’
As we strolled along Ipanema Beach, I told him in as much detail as I could what I had learned from the letters.
When we arrived at what Floriano told me was Copacabana Beach, we walked as far as the famous Copacabana Palace Hotel. Newly refurbished and completely unmissable, it gleamed bright white in the sunshine, one of the most iconic jewels in Rio’s architectural crown.
‘It’s certainly impressive,’ I said, gazing up at the facade. ‘I can see why this would have been the obvious choice for Bel and Gustavo’s wedding. I can just imagine her standing there in her beautiful wedding dress, being feted by the great and the good of Rio.’
The morning sun was very strong now, so we took two stools under a shady umbrella at one of the beach kiosks. He ordered a beer for himself and a coconut water for me.
‘The first thing to tell you is that my friend in the UV imaging department of the Museu da República has confirmed the two names on the back of the soapstone tile. He’s still working on the date and the inscription, but the names are definitely “Izabela Aires Cabral” and “Laurent Brouilly”. Of course, thanks to the letters, we both now know irrefutably who Bel’s amour in Paris was. He went on to become a very well-known sculptor back in France. Here.’ Floriano pulled some pages out of his plastic wallet and handed them to me. ‘These are some of his works.’
I looked at the grainy images of Laurent Brouilly’s sculptures. They were mostly simple human shapes, similar to the one I’d seen in the garden of A Casa das Orquídeas. And a large number of men clad in old-fashioned soldiers’ uniforms.
