Page 73 of The Seven Sisters
‘Forgive me, senhor, but what do you mean?’
‘What about cladding theCristoin mosaic? Then the outer shell will not be subject to cracking, as each tile will be individual. I would have to source which stone to use, something porous, hardwearing . . . yes, like the soapstone that is found in Minas Gerais, perhaps. It is a light colour and may work well. I must bring Senhor Levy here to see this immediately. He leaves for Rio tomorrow and we must make a decision.’
Bel looked at Heitor’s exhilarated expression and followed in his wake as he walked swiftly out of the gallery.
‘You are happy to make your way home from here alone, Izabela?’
‘Of course,’ she replied. Heitor nodded at her, then walked off at a brisk pace away from her.
22
‘Bienvenue,Mademoiselle Izabela.’ Laurent walked towards her and kissed her on both cheeks as she entered theatelierwith Margarida. ‘First we shall brew some coffee together. And Mademoiselle Margarida,’ he said as she walked past them to don her smock, ‘the professor says that the left elbow of your sculpture needs work, but overall, it was a good attempt.’
‘Thank you,’ Margarida called back. ‘From the professor, that is a compliment indeed.’
‘Now, Izabela,’ said Laurent, ‘come with me and show me how you would brew coffee in your own country. Strong and dark, I’m sure,’ he said as he grabbed her hand and pulled her through to the tiny kitchen. Taking a brown paper bag from one of the shelves, he opened it and smelt its contents. ‘Brazilian beans freshly ground this morning from a shop I know in Montparnasse. I bought it especially to help relax you and remind you of home.’
Bel inhaled the aroma, and was sent flying over five thousand miles back across the seas.
‘So, show me how you like it,’ he insisted as he handed her a teaspoon and stood back so that she could continue.
Bel waited for the water to boil on the small hob, not wanting to admit she had never made a cup of coffee in her life. The servants performed this task at home.
‘Do you have cups?’ she ventured.
‘Of course,’ he said, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out two enamel mugs. ‘My apologies that they are not made of delicate china. But the coffee will taste the same anyway.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed nervously, as she spooned some coffee into the mugs.
‘Actually, mademoiselle,’ he said with a gentle smile, as he reached up to a shelf and pulled down a small silver pot, ‘we use this to make coffee here.’
Bel blushed in embarrassment at her mistake as he transferred the coffee grounds from the mugs to the pot and added hot water. ‘So, once this has brewed, we will sit together and talk.’
A few minutes later Laurent led her back into the studio, where Margarida was already sitting at a bench, working on her sculpture. Picking up a sketch pad, he guided her to the trestle table and benches where they had sat for lunch before, and pulled the curtain closed behind them.
‘Please, sit there.’ He indicated that she should sit opposite him. So’ – he lifted his mug – ‘you will talk to me of your life in Brazil.’
Bel stared at him in surprise. ‘Why would you wish me to talk of Brazil?’
‘Because, mademoiselle, currently you sit facing me like a beam of wood stiff with the tension of holding up a roof for one hundred years. I want you to relax, so that I can see the muscles in your face soften, your lips lose their tension and your eyes light up. If I cannot, then the sculpture will be the worse for it. Do you understand?’
‘I . . . I think so,’ Bel replied.
‘You don’t seem convinced. So I will try to explain,’ he said. ‘Many people think that the art of sculpture is only about the outer, physical shell of a human being. And indeed on a technical level, they would be right. But any great sculptor knows the art of producing a good likeness relies on interpreting the essence of the object they are portraying.’
Bel looked at him uncertainly. ‘I see.’
‘To use a simple example,’ he continued, ‘if I was sculpting a young girl, and I saw in her eyes that she had a soft heart that bled for others, perhaps I would place an animal, such as a dove, in her hands. I would have her cupping it tenderly. However, if I noticed another woman’s greed, perhaps I would place a showy bracelet on her wrist, or a large ring on her finger. So’ – Laurent opened the sketch pad, his pencil poised – ‘you will talk to me and I will sketch you as you do. Tell me, where did you grow up?’
‘For most of my childhood, on a farm in the mountains,’ Bel answered, and the image of thefazendashe loved immediately brought a smile to her lips. ‘We kept horses, and in the mornings I would ride across the hills, or take a swim in the lake.’
‘It sounds idyllic,’ Laurent interjected as his pencil danced across the sheet of paper.
‘It was,’ Bel agreed. ‘But then we moved to Rio, into a house at the bottom of Corcovado Mountain. TheCristowill one day be erected at the top of it. Although it is beautiful, and far grander than ourfazenda, the mountain which rises up behind it means it is dark. Sometimes when I’m there, I feel’ – she paused as she tried to find the right words – ‘as if I can’t breathe.’
‘And how do you feel being here in Paris?’ he queried. ‘It too is a big city. Trapped, like in Rio?’
‘Oh no.’ Bel shook her head, the frown that had appeared on her forehead disappearing immediately. ‘I love this city, especially the streets of Montparnasse.’
