The Seamstress (74 page)
The theater burned like a great bonfire. Its flames rose fifteen meters in the air. The heat made Luzia’s cheeks flush. It made her eyes water. It was hot enough to burn that horrible projector, to destroy that white sheet where she’d seen Gomes’s ghost. Thick flakes of ash rained upon the cangaceiros. Orange cinders rose, floating from the theater and falling onto thatched houses, igniting roofs. Cinders landed on the cangaceiros’ clothes, making the men and women swat themselves. An ember fell on Luzia’s hand—the hand of her good arm—and burned, like a bullet entering her skin.
The cangaceiros ran into the scrub, retreating from the burning town. Luzia felt the blaze’s heat upon her back. Faraway objects were blurs without her glasses, but Luzia could still see the fire’s light: it faded and returned, like a memory.
1
D
eath had a unique smell. The scent turned Emília’s stomach. She didn’t blame the dead—their natural odor of decay wasn’t what disgusted her. The smells made by the living to cope with death were what bothered her. People burned thick sticks of incense to honor the dead and, at the same time, they squirted heavy amounts of creolina, bleach, and alcohol across floors and over furniture to wipe away any vestiges of the body’s failure. Blood, urine, vomit, and spittle were all erased, their smells overpowered by the spicy and medicinal scents preferred by the living.
On Finados Day in Recife’s most prestigious cemetery, Emília put a handkerchief over her nose to blot out the smell. Tombs of marble and granite shone with water and soap bubbles. Women from Old and New families gingerly held sponges and dabbed their ancestors’ nameplates. Some cleaned the graves’ statues, gently wiping angels’ wings and faces. A group of well-dressed girls gossiped while they lit incense sticks and arranged large wreaths of flowers. Servant women—their hair wrapped under cloth, their faces intent—scrubbed the sepulchers with brooms. Their dead were far away, buried in unmarked graves along the cattle trail or in cemeteries at the edges of the city. They would honor their deceased later that day, after their mistresses let them go home. Until then, the servant women were forced to spend the holiday honoring strangers, as was Emília.
A wrought-iron fence—freshly painted black—demarcated the Coelho family tomb. In the stone structure were blank squares, empty spaces for Dr. Duarte, Dona Dulce, Degas, and his wife. Emília shuddered at the thought of spending eternity beside the Coelhos. She wiped the deceaseds’ nameplates with a wet cloth. Near her, Dona Dulce scrubbed until the Coelho name shone. Raimunda swept the site. Expedito, on the ground beside Emília, enthusiastically pulled weeds from the tomb’s edges. Dona Dulce glared at him. Small children stayed near their mothers, but older boys joined the men under the shade of the cemetery’s largest tree. Dr. Duarte and Degas were there, chatting with other husbands and sons, waiting for the cleaning to end so that they could pay their respects.
Emília wiped her brow. Finados, she decided, was her least favorite holiday. She recalled how she and Luzia had whitewashed their parents’ tombs in Taquaritinga. Their mother and father’s graves had probably turned gray with dirt. Aunt Sofia’s, too. All of Emília’s dead had been left but not forgotten; she would light candles for them later, at the Coelho house. Emília would have liked to return to Taquaritinga. Not to show off, as she’d once dreamed of doing, but to take care of those graves she’d left behind. By doing this, she could show Expedito his true family. Unfortunately, it would be a long time before she could take him into the interior again—the countryside was too dangerous.
Despite Degas’ covert weapons shipments, the Hawk and the Seamstress continued to successfully attack Trans-Nordestino construction sites. Cangaceiros began to steal soldiers’ weapons, which was proof that they were running low on their own munitions. Still, the bandits managed to have a steady supply of bullets and guns. Dr. Duarte suspected that colonels and ranchers who’d returned to their farms after the drought had also returned to their roles as coiteiros. Most colonels disliked Gomes for dismantling their political machines in the countryside and making them powerless. They also disliked the Trans-Nordestino roadway cutting through their lands. Though they’d pledged their allegiance while in Recife, there was a chance that the colonels secretly supported the Hawk and the Seamstress in order to undermine Gomes. Emília often thought of Dr. Eronildes—the Rio Branco Relief Camp had closed after the rains and she hadn’t heard from him since then. She assumed he’d gone back to his ranch but didn’t know if he continued to help the Seamstress.
In the beginning of the year, rain had finally reached the backlands. Telegraphed reports had said that, as the first rains fell, relief-camp residents cried and screamed prayers of thanks to São Pedro. The rains were so heavy and the ground so dry that large, muddy gullies formed, uprooting trees and leveling abandoned houses. The mud became a problem and relief camps had to be closed without delay. Residents who wanted to return to farming were given a packet of seeds and sent away. Those who wanted to leave the Northeast were offered transportation south, where they worked in factories or in homes as domestics. Men who wished to work for President Gomes as soldiers or as roadway builders were herded into separate groups and given food and uniforms.
President Gomes sent a telegram from Rio and pressed Interventor Higino for a solution to the cangaceiro problem. Interventor Higino, in turn, pressed Dr. Duarte. The government had spent large amounts of money and resources to build the Criminology Institute on the basis of Dr. Duarte’s assertion that his science could find practical solutions to crime. He’d promised to better understand the criminal mind and thus find ways to predict their behavior and catch offenders before more crimes could be committed. Now, Interventor Higino pressured Dr. Duarte to fulfill these promises. Emília’s father-in-law became secretive. He kept his study locked. Instead of hiring a taxi, he made Degas drive him to all appointments. Each morning, Dr. Duarte and Degas drove to the port and returned to the Coelho house smelling of salt air and carrying packets of fresh fish for lunch. On the Finados holiday, Dr. Duarte sneaked away from the group of men under the cemetery tree and went to some unknown destination. Dona Dulce shook her head.
“He has no respect for the dead,” she said and scrubbed the tomb’s nameplates harder.
When Dr. Duarte returned, he bypassed the shade tree and walked straight to the Coelho tomb. There, he handed Expedito a gift. It was a medallion that looked like two
z
’s interposed one over the other. To Emília, it resembled a smashed insect.
“It is German,” Dr. Duarte had said, stooping to face Expedito. “A symbol of their new führer. It comes from across the ocean.” He looked up at Emília. “Like our solution.”
“To what?” she asked.
Dr. Duarte smiled. “Degas has brought the car around. We can’t be late for the luncheon.”
Beside Emília, Dona Dulce nodded. They would have to go back to the house and change clothes; they couldn’t attend Interventor Higino’s memorial luncheon smelling of bleach and sweat.
The Finados lunch was in honor of fallen soldiers, roadway workers, and victims of the Seamstress’s notorious theater fire. Months before, newspapers had given extensive coverage to the theater disaster, where an entire town was burned and hundreds maimed on account of the Seamstress’s foul temper. The fire had turned public opinion against the Seamstress and the Hawk: there were no more clever advertisements using the cangaceiros’ images. One ad for vitamin pills had proclaimed, “The Hawk runs all day and all night. He takes Dr. Ross’s life pills for vigor and stamina!” Another ad for a fabric store showed the only photograph of the Seamstress—the one taken alongside the first pair of kidnapped surveyors—and said, “The Seamstress has doubts about being arrested, but she never doubts that the Casa de Fazendas Bonitas will always be the cheapest!” After the theater disaster, these ads were pulled. Recifians found no humor in the cangaceiros. Even scrubland residents who’d once respected the cangaceiros now disliked them. The theater fire had killed many people’s relatives, and vigilante groups went after the cangaceiros for revenge. President Gomes and Interventor Higino latched on to this public outcry, calling the theater fire a “maiming of innocents,” and dedicating a small memorial to the victims along Recife’s Capibaribe River.
Emília had spent months feeling guilty because of the guns hidden in her charity shipments. After the theater fire she wondered if her guilt was misguided. Perhaps Degas was right—the Seamstress was a killer, and killers should be caught. Her previous targets had been linked to the Gomes government: soldiers, road workers, surveyors. Those killed in the fire were common citizens. Emília felt deeply disappointed and didn’t understand why. To feel disappointment meant that she’d harbored expectations of the Seamstress, that she somehow believed the cangaceiros’ fight was just and that they would act honorably. Rebellion was different from common criminality—this was the distinction Emília had made in her mind. The theater fire changed things. Suddenly, Celestino Gomes was seen as the man who would rid the countryside of violence. When Emília recalled her brief meeting with President Gomes in Rio, her disappointment quickly turned to dread. No matter her intentions—good or bad—the Seamstress had waged a war she could never win.
Emília had visited Rio de Janeiro back in July, after the new constitution was enacted. The newly elected First National Assembly had proclaimed Celestino Gomes president for a four-year term. In the assembly’s constitution, all mines and major waterways became federal property, as did all banks and insurance companies. Gomes had substantial control, yet he wanted more. The assembly’s constitution gave Gomes his workers’ rights policies: an eight-hour workday, vacation time, and minimum wage. However, the constitution struck down his federalized union. Gomes felt frustrated by the document and he invited prominent Green Party members to Rio for a summit. The meeting was advertised as a “unity gathering,” so Dr. Duarte and other invited officials brought their entire families. The trip was short. Emília didn’t get to see much of Rio—her most extensive view was from above, at the Christ the Redeemer statue. There, she’d come face-to-face with President Gomes. He was a small man but the air around him seemed to crackle with energy. When he looked at her, Emília sensed both magnetism and danger. She felt the inexplicable need to please him. Afterward, this annoyed her. She’d felt that way only once before, in the presence of the Hawk.
At the end of the Rio trip, when Emília heard that Gomes had united all of his Green Party invitees and taken them to the First National Assembly to protest the new constitution, she wasn’t surprised. Gomes announced that the constitution was merely a guide, not a mandate, and he would either ignore the document or change it. No one went against his wishes.
The memorial luncheon was a smaller, more intimate gathering than the Green Party’s celebration after the revolution. Black crepe hung from the International Club’s walls. White flowers decorated the tables. Some male guests wore black armbands as tributes to the loved ones they’d lost that year. Women wore fashionable but modest dresses in muted colors. Emília scanned the room and saw several of her designs: gray mermaid skirts, jackets with padded shoulders, scarves tied at the neckline. She’d had a rush of orders for the Finados holiday and she’d drawn her inspiration from the leading ladies she’d seen in motion pictures at the Royal Theater: Jean Harlow, Claudette Colbert, Joan Crawford. They were moody, elegant, and tough. Their thinly plucked eyebrows were arched in constant surprise, or perhaps skepticism. Emília copied their shapely suits, their wet-waved hairstyles. Other Recife women followed.
Unlike the revolutionary celebration, men and women were not separated at the memorial luncheon. Families and friends sat together. Dr. Duarte had his own table, and the seating arrangements were similar to those at the Coelho house: Dona Dulce sat on Dr. Duarte’s right; Degas sat beside his mother; Emília sat beside her husband. Guests were seated in order of importance, their rank determined by how close they sat to Dr. Duarte. Those deemed most important sat immediately to Dr. Duarte’s left. Those less important sat farther away. At the memorial luncheon, Dr. Duarte placed a hand on the seat beside him.
“I’m reserving this for a special guest,” he said.
“I’m not special, Duarte?” the baroness asked, resting her arthritic claw on his shoulder.
Dr. Duarte reddened. Dona Dulce straightened in her chair.
“Mother’s teasing.” Lindalva laughed. “We’ll sit beside Emília.”
“Of course,” Dr. Duarte replied, smiling now. “It’s better to have a full table.”
To Dona Dulce’s chagrin, the baroness and Lindalva took the places nearest Emília, closing off the table and leaving only three empty chairs. One belonged to Degas, who’d slipped off to the club’s smoking room. When he returned, the pilot Carlos Chevalier joined him. The man’s hair was bushy and wild because of the humidity. In his right hand was a silver-handled cane. Dr. Duarte raised his white eyebrows.
“What’s wrong with your leg?” he asked, pointing at Chevalier’s cane.
“Nothing,” Chevalier said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s the fashion.”
Dr. Duarte grunted. Degas directed Chevalier around the table, to the privileged spot beside his father.
“No,” Dr. Duarte said. “Take a seat over there.”
He pointed to the far end of the table—to the lone chair beside Lindalva. Degas pursed his lips. Chevalier smiled and walked around the group. As he moved past her, Emília smelled cigarette smoke and strong cologne. She wondered if Dr. Duarte had heard the same rumors about Degas and Chevalier that Lindalva had, or if her father-in-law simply disliked the pilot.
“Are you a captain in the army, Mr. Chevalier?” the baroness asked, her eyes glinting mischievously.
“No,” he replied. “It’s more of an honorary title. Like yours.”
The baroness stared. “My title was earned, my boy. The baron had a fine soul, but he wasn’t an easy husband.”
“In that case, I earned my title, too,” Chevalier replied. “I fly my own plane.”
“An interesting hobby,” Dona Dulce interjected. Her voice had the same wary tone she used when alerting Dr. Duarte to the fact that there was a salesman or a vagrant at the front gate. She exchanged a smile with the baroness. Emília was surprised to see the two women suddenly united.
Chevalier smiled. It was a wide grimace, as though he was mimicking the men in toothpaste ads.
“Flight is more than a hobby,” he said. “It is my passion.”
Degas fumbled with his napkin. Lindalva leaned forward in her chair.
