The Seamstress (69 page)

Expedito had learned to say “ma-ma.” Eventually, he’d want to call Emília “Mãe,” and she would have to correct him. She would be “Tia Emília.” She would tell him to pull up his socks, to write his alphabet and drink his cod-liver oil. Tia Emília would be a part of his daily reality, while his mother—his
real
mother—would be a part of his imagination, just as Emília’s mother had been for her. Emília finally understood Aunt Sofia’s burden: having to compete with an imagined mother who was always prettier, kinder, and smarter. Fantasy was always better than reality. One day, when he was old enough to keep a secret, Emília would have to tell Expedito exactly who his mother was. Even then, reality wouldn’t beat out fantasy. His mother was brave, audacious, and strong. A cangaceira! What was Emília compared to this? No one called her brave.

Emília worried about Expedito’s safety in the Coelho house. She sensed enemies in every room, both in the front of the house and in the back quarters. The washerwoman was loyal to Dona Dulce and sometimes did not boil Expedito’s diapers, which led to rashes along his backside and thighs. The cook, bitter about having more work, sometimes hacked open old coconuts and mixed their foggy, sour contents with the rest of Expedito’s coconut water. When Emília brought these things to Dona Dulce’s attention, her mother-in-law expressed disbelief and reluctantly chastised the servants. Emília worried about what would happen when Expedito began to walk, to smudge and break things in Dona Dulce’s pristine house. She wasn’t sure what her mother-in-law was capable of; Dona Dulce often spoke of sending “that child,” as she called Expedito, away to a religious academy “as soon as he learned to speak.”

The day Expedito arrived, Dona Dulce had quickly declared her dislike. “I won’t have another backlands beggar in my home!” she’d said. Dr. Duarte was forced to escort his family into the parlor and shut the doors.

“Emília will take care of him,” Dr. Duarte had said. “Won’t you?”

Emília nodded rigidly. She’d wanted to open the parlor’s glass cabinets and break Dona Dulce’s porcelain figurines, her ancient crystal, her precious knickknacks. Emília stayed still only because she needed her mother-in-law’s acquiescence.

“I know you’re a charitable woman, Mother,” Degas chimed in. “We can help this boy. We’ll be in the papers because of him. They’ve written such positive stories about me and Emília.”

Dona Dulce stared helplessly at her son. Her pale lips slackened into a pout. “Fine,” she said, shifting her gaze to Emília. “But he won’t be a Coelho.”

“Of course not, Dulce!” Dr. Duarte said. “We’ll put another name on the documents.”

Ever since then, Expedito had been considered a pet, a temporary distraction with no permanent claim on the Coelho legacy. Emília preferred it this way. She was responsible for Expedito’s care, for his successes and his failures. On the adoption documents, she listed herself as his only guardian. She gave him her surname: dos Santos. Emília’s maiden name had no distinctive roots or family legacy. It belonged to so many Northeasterners that it was untraceable.

Still, Emília worried that others would discover Expedito’s origins. She avoided Dr. Duarte’s study and his Criminology Institute. As Expedito grew, Emília feared her father-in-law’s measuring eye. In Degas, Emília sensed greater dangers. He liked to watch Expedito crawl on the floor of Emília’s bedroom. Sometimes Degas held out his hand to the boy and marveled at Expedito’s strong grip. In these moments there was tenderness in Degas’ voice, and his face softened into an awed, affectionate expression. Then, as if he didn’t want to become too fond of the boy, Degas tugged away from Expedito and left the room.

Degas saw that Emília loved Expedito, and he used this to his advantage. During Expedito’s first months in Recife, Degas made Emília accompany him to British Club luncheons and stand close to him during government-sponsored events. Emília didn’t refuse Degas. She was careful not to obey him too eagerly though—that would indicate fear on her part, which would only confirm Degas’ suspicions about Expedito. At any point Degas could tell Dr. Duarte or Dona Dulce that Emília’s drought baby was really her nephew, and that her sister was a tall woman with a crooked arm, very much like the Seamstress.

Most often, Degas forced her to vouch for his whereabouts during the workweek. Emília often took Expedito and his nurse to the atelier. She continued to organize large donations of clothing for the flagelados. On the days when Emília worked, Degas appeared during the lunch hour. He told Emília to stay in the atelier instead of returning to the Coelho house to eat. Then he disappeared out the shop’s side door. During dinner with Dr. Duarte and Dona Dulce, Degas made Emília say that they’d lunched together.

She’d followed Degas once, after he’d slipped through the shop door. Degas cocked his fedora low, shielding his face. He walked through the alleyways behind Rua Nova, crossing over the Maurício de Nassau Bridge and into the infamous Bairro Recife. Emília couldn’t cross after him; only men and women “of the life” lived in the inns and gambling houses of that neighborhood. Whatever Degas’ intentions were beyond that bridge, it was clever of him to escape into the Bairro Recife. If any gossips caught him there, they couldn’t admit it for fear of incriminating themselves.

In her old
Fon Fon
s, Emília had read about jealous wives becoming vindictive, but she knew that jealousy was often love gone awry. She and Degas had never been bound by love; they were bound by secrets. Emília believed they should not use each other’s secrets as currency. She, more than anyone, knew what it meant to love a person she should not and to be made to feel ashamed of it. If Degas had simply asked her for help, Emília would have given it. But Degas never asked, he threatened. He knew who her sister was, and what it would mean to reveal that knowledge. Before, he’d threatened only Emília and she’d pitied him, knowing his manipulation was born of desperation. But now Degas threatened Expedito. This, Emília could not stomach. Each time she saw Degas at the breakfast table she felt the urge to kick his shins. She wanted to scratch his precious English-language records with her sewing needles, to spit in the tin of pomade he kept in the bathroom.

Emília understood that if she continued to live with Degas, she would be consumed by her anger and turn as bitter and sharp-tongued as Dona Dulce. In order to escape this fate, she envisioned a future beyond the Coelho house. Emília had always been a frugal saver. Sewing, with its measurements and pattern making, forced her to calculate numbers quickly in her head. Emília’s ability with math translated to bookkeeping; she kept the ledgers for the atelier. Profits rose. At first, she and Lindalva had made only enough income to pay the rent and their seamstresses’ salaries. By April 1933, Emília and Lindalva’s smart suits and floral dresses were in great demand. The ink Emília used in their ledgers changed from red to green. She and Lindalva divided the profits evenly but, because of her marriage, Emília wasn’t allowed to open a bank account without her husband’s permission. Emília subverted this rule by filtering her earnings through Lindalva, who placed Emília’s profits in a separate account for safekeeping. “Your escape fund,” Lindalva called it. Emília never corrected her. And when Lindalva insisted on teaching her how to drive, Emília didn’t object.

Like the Coelhos, the baroness also owned a Chrysler Imperial with large, owl-eyed headlamps and curved wheel fenders. Once a week, Emília left Expedito on the porch with the baroness and climbed into the automobile. She stepped onto the thick running board and into the driver’s seat. Lindalva was a novice herself, but she instructed Emília from the passenger’s side, telling her to press the clutch and brake before inserting the key. They would only go around the baroness’s drive, but Emília’s hands still sweated. The steering wheel felt slick. When the engine growled on, the car shook. Emília fussed with the gearshift, forcing it into first. She released the brake. Her feet barely touched the pedals—her toes strained to hold down the clutch. She pressed the accelerator. The car roared. Startled, Emília lifted her foot from the clutch. The Chrysler jerked forward. Its engine sputtered, then stalled. This happened six times before Emília learned to balance her right and left feet, removing one while slowly lowering the other. When she did this, the car floated forward.

“Oba!” Lindalva cheered.

Emília giggled. She turned the wheel to maneuver around the drive. Her foot remained planted on the accelerator and the car sped forward. Emília’s heart beat wildly. It was too fast. At the next curve, she nearly nicked one of the baroness’s manicured jasmine trees before she pressed her foot to the brake. The car screeched. Lindalva slid forward on the seat, clutching the dash. The Chrysler jerked and stalled again. Lindalva laughed.

“Excellent work, Mrs. Coelho,” she said. Lindalva readjusted herself in the leather seat and faced Emília. “Are you going to the atelier tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Emília said, wiping her hands on her dress. “We have another charity shipment to send out.”

“Will you go with Degas?” Lindalva asked.

“Yes,” Emília replied. “Why?”

Lindalva shifted on the seat. “I’ve heard talk.”

“What kind of talk?”

“Oh, Emília! You of all people should know how people talk in this city. It’s not the good kind.”

“About Degas?” Emília asked.

“No,” Lindalva continued. “About you.”

“Me?”

“That you’re covering for him. Encouraging him.” Lindalva furrowed her plucked eyebrows. “Do you know where he goes in the afternoons?”

Emília nodded. “The Bairro Recife. I followed him once, but only to the bridge.”

Lindalva sighed. She started to say something, then stopped and gripped Emília’s hand. “When we met, I promised I’d speak frankly.”

“So speak,” Emília said.

“He meets that pilot—Chevalier. He isn’t discreet about it. That’s what people are saying, anyway. People have forked tongues, Emília. They talk about Degas, but they condemn you for not reining him in. It’s not fair.”

Emília nodded. Lindalva hugged her and they left the car. Later, as Emília rode the first-class trolley with Expedito in her lap, Lindalva’s words lingered in her mind. Degas took great risks on his daily outings, yet Emília bore the brunt of the gossip. She felt a flicker of anger. She was used to being the subject of talk—she’d been gossiped about in both Taquaritinga and in Recife—but mostly as a result of her actions, not someone else’s. Now it seemed Degas and the Seamstress could do whatever they pleased, while Emília was left to worry about the consequences.

The next day, when Degas told her to stay in the atelier during lunch, Emília refused. Degas didn’t argue; they returned to the Coelho house where they ate alongside Dona Dulce and Dr. Duarte. During the meal, Degas brought up the Seamstress. When Dona Dulce chastised him, he changed his focus to Expedito.

“The boy’s growing so quickly,” he said, his gaze focused on Emília. “Father will be able to measure him soon.”

Emília lost her grip on her fork. It hit a plate. The clatter reminded Emília of the hinged doors of Aunt Sofia’s rat traps and how swiftly they fell once their counterweight was triggered. Her aunt refused to use poison, worried it would contaminate their food, so she used the metal traps instead and held the entire cage underwater, drowning the rats inside.

“Don’t look forward to it,” Emília finally said, staring at her plate. “I think you’ll find he’s a common boy.”

“I agree,” Dona Dulce said. “Common is the exact word.”

Emília didn’t argue with her mother-in-law. The next day, she allowed Degas to accompany her to the atelier and didn’t object when he slipped out and left her to eat lunch alone, in her office. There, Emília stared at her ledgers and at the growing numbers in her bank account. She and Expedito would be gone before any measurements could be taken. They would abandon this life for another one. They would go to the South, or even abroad. Anyplace where there were no Coelhos and no cangaceiros.

2

At the end of April 1933, the Seamstress attacked two Trans-Nordestino work camps. According to newspaper reports, cangaceiros killed engineers and burned supplies and tools. They’d told the road workers—all men recruited from relief camps—either to go back to their families or join the group. Some men left with the cangaceiros; most walked back to the nearest relief camp. The workers who returned had stories about the Seamstress: she was a fine shot and she wore her hair short, like a man. From afar, the road workers couldn’t tell her from the other cangaceiros, until she shouted orders. Her voice gave her away. Her height and crooked arm distinguished her from the other women in the Hawk’s group. The workers confirmed that there were, in fact, several long-haired cangaceiras who fought alongside the men. According to the escaped workers, the armed women were the most violent of the bunch.

After the attack, President Gomes merged the National Mail Service and the General Telegraph Union into one government department. He required the state of Pernambuco to extend its telegraph lines.
Diário de Pernambuco
articles said that new telegraph offices would make communication along the roadway easier. Messages could be relayed to Recife in minutes. Troops could be dispersed to exact locations instead of relying on word-of-mouth reports. The new telegraph stations would connect from larger, already existing communication hubs like those in Caruaru, Rio Branco, and Garanhuns. When the new telegraph lines were installed, the Gomes government would send in recently trained telegraphers; after the Crisis, plenty of young men needed jobs. By early May, stacks of wooden posts, reams of wire, and boxes of porcelain-and-glass telegraph connectors left Recife for the interior. The supplies traveled by train and were then transferred to oxcarts in order to arrive in strategic towns throughout the backlands.

The Seamstress stopped many of these shipments. Train stations were burned. Government troops were attacked. The Hawk sent another note to the capital: