Page 145 of The Seven Sisters
His question elicited a nod.
Recalling Landowski’s words, Laurent surveyed the boy carefully. ‘I see,’ he said quietly, ‘that like any artist, you speak through your craft. Truly, you have a gift. Treasure it, won’t you?’
The boy nodded, and gave him a sudden smile of gratitude. Laurent placed a hand on his shoulder, and, with a small wave of goodbye, he wandered off to further contemplate his own misery in the bars of Montparnasse.
Maia
July 2007
Last Quarter
16; 54; 44
46
I stared at Yara as she finally lapsed into silence, then looked up at the portrait of Izabela that hung on the wall above the fireplace, thinking of the dreadful decision my great-grandmother had been forced to make. I simply had no idea what I would have done in the circumstances. Even though we’d lived at different times, in different cultures, the underlying dilemmas had not changed at all, especially for women . . .
‘So did Gustavo ever mention what he had discovered to Bel?’ I asked Yara.
‘No, never. But even though he may not have outwardly spoken the words, my mother always said she could see the pain in his eyes. Especially when he looked at his daughter.’
‘Senhora Carvalho? Her first name is Beatriz, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I myself remember Senhor Gustavo once entering the drawing room when the two of us were ten or eleven. He stared at his daughter for a long time, almost as though she was a stranger. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I think now that perhaps he was trying to decide whether she could possibly be his blood. Senhora Beatriz was born with green eyes, you see, which my mother once said were reminiscent of Senhor Laurent’s.’
‘So your mother suspected that he was Beatriz’s natural father?’
‘When she told me the story before she died, she said she had never been in any doubt,’ Yara explained. ‘According to her, Senhora Beatriz was the image of Senhor Brouilly and she also had artistic talents. She was only just in her teens when she painted that portrait of Izabela.’ Yara pointed to the painting. ‘I remember her saying that she wanted to do it in memory of her poor dead mother.’
‘Izabela died while Beatriz was still a child?’
‘Yes,’ Yara nodded. ‘We were both eighteen months old and it was just when theCristowas being blessed and inaugurated on Corcovado Mountain in 1931. There was an outbreak of yellow fever in Rio and Senhora Beatriz and I were confined to the house. But of course, Senhora Izabela insisted on going to watch theCristoceremony. Given her history, it obviously meant a lot to her. Three days later, she went down with the fever and never recovered. She was only twenty-one.’
My heart contracted at the thought of it. Even though Floriano had shown me the birth and death dates from the register, I hadn’t taken them in at the time. ‘After all that turmoil and tragedy, to die so young,’ I said, a catch in my voice.
‘Yes. But . . . forgive me, Lord, for saying so’ – Yara crossed herself – ‘the only blessing was that the fever also took Senhora Luiza a few days later. They were interred together in the family mausoleum at a joint funeral.’
‘My God, poor Bel, destined to lie next to that woman for all eternity,’ I murmured.
‘And it left her little girl without a mother, living in a household of men,’ Yara continued. ‘From what I have said, you can understand how distraught her father was after the death of his wife. He still loved her, you see, despite everything. And as you might imagine from what I’ve told you, Senhor Gustavo took comfort in the bottle and sank deeper and deeper into himself. Senhor Maurício did his best with his granddaughter – he was always a kind man, especially after his own wife died – and at least he organised a tutor to come in to give Senhora Beatriz lessons, which was more than her father could manage.’
‘Were you living here in the Casa at the time?’ I asked.
‘Yes. When my mother told Senhora Izabela that she too was pregnant and requested a transfer to thefazendato be with my father, Izabela could not bear to let her go. So instead she arranged for Bruno, my father, to come here and work as a handyman and driver for the family, as Jorge was close to retirement. This was my childhood home too,’ Yara mused. ‘And I think that it holds much happier memories for me than it does for my mistress.’
‘I’m surprised that Gustavo agreed to Izabela’s request that Loen stay here. After all, she was the only other person who knew the truth,’ I queried.
‘Perhaps he felt hehadto agree.’ Yara’s eyes were knowing. ‘With the secret they shared, each held power over the other, whether or not they were master and servant.’
‘So you grew up with Beatriz?’
‘Yes, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she grew up with us. She spent more time in our little house – which Senhora Izabela insisted be built for my parents and me at the bottom of the garden here – than she did in the Casa. And my family became the closest thing she had to one of her own. She was such a sweet little girl, affectionate and loving. But so lonely,’ Yara added sadly. ‘Her father was too drunk to know whether she was there at all. Or maybe he ignored her because she was a constant reminder of the doubts he always harboured in his mind about his dead wife. It was something of a blessing that he died when Senhora Beatriz was seventeen. She inherited the house and the family stocks and shares. Up until then, Senhor Gustavo had refused to let her pursue her passion for art, but when he passed on, there was nothing to stop her,’ Yara explained.
‘I can understand why Gustavo wasn’t supportive of his daughter’s creative ability. It must have rubbed salt into an already open wound. Actually, Yara, I can’t help but feel sympathy for him,’ I admitted.
‘He wasn’t a bad man, Senhorita Maia, just weak,’ Yara agreed. ‘So when Beatriz turned eighteen, she told her grandfather she was going to Paris to enrol at the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts, just as she knew her mother had done before her. She stayed in Paris for over five years, only returning to Rio when she heard that Maurício, her grandfather, had died. I think she had many adventures,’ smiled Yara wistfully. ‘And I was happy for her.’
The picture Yara was painting of the woman I had met five days ago here in the garden was so different from the one I had conjured up in my mind. I realised I had imagined her to be far more like Luiza. But perhaps that was simply because she was old and had been so determined not to acknowledge me.
