The Seamstress (77 page)

With a little over two months left until the Bergmanns’ arrival, Emília had to move forward with her plans. When Dr. Eronildes visited Recife, he would specify a meeting date. Then Emília would unlock her jewelry box and give Eronildes her sister’s old penknife—the one with the bee carved on its handle—to pass along to the Seamstress. The knife would serve as proof that the meeting was real, that Emília would be present.

Emília told the Coelhos that she needed new fabrics to satisfy upcoming orders for New Year’s and Carnaval balls. She said that she wanted to use different kinds of materials and that a shop in Maceió had a large selection. The charity shipments had made Dr. Duarte a fan of Emília’s “sewing hobby.” He had no objections to the trip. Dona Dulce was always happy to see Emília out of the house but didn’t like the idea of a young wife traveling alone.

“I won’t be alone,” Emília said. “I’m taking Expedito. And Raimunda, of course, to mind him while I shop.”

Dona Dulce had no complaints about this arrangement. Emília’s mother-in-law was grateful to live without Expedito for a few days and hopeful that she could pump Raimunda for gossip about the trip once they’d returned. Only Degas resisted the trip—if Emília left, he’d have no one to cover for his whereabouts during lunchtimes. He could not cross into the Bairro Recife to meet Chevalier. Because of this, Degas asked questions about the textile shop: Where was it located? Why hadn’t he heard of it? How could they offer anything better than Recife’s many fabric stores? Emília had her answers planned out but none of them satisfied Degas. Finally, she discovered a response that would.

“When I come back,” she said, “we’ll have so much cloth, I’ll have to go to the atelier seven days a week. You can drop by as often as you like. I’ll need you to bring me breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

Dr. Duarte gave Emília a check for her train fare to and from Maceió; Emília decided that she would not use the return ticket. The riverboat ride to Eronildes’ ranch would last much longer than the time she’d been allowed for her shopping trip. Emília sewed her escape fund into the linings of three bolero jackets. Once in Maceió, she would leave a note with the maid, Raimunda, saying she’d left Degas. There would be a scandal; she could never return to Recife. Degas might get angry and reveal the truth to Dr. Duarte about Luzia and Expedito. Emília wouldn’t risk going back.

Emília wasn’t sad to leave Recife. She and Degas had no future together, and she disliked the way the Coelhos talked about Expedito’s prospects. They planned to steer him into a trade like carpentry or ironwork. If he stayed in Recife, Expedito would spend his life fixing the Coelhos’ rented properties or lifting boxes in their warehouses. A “drought baby” couldn’t attend the university. Emília had transformed her life once; she could do it again. But this time she didn’t hope for romance or wealth or any of the childish expectations she’d once harbored. Emília hoped only for solace. She had enough money saved to travel south after leaving Dr. Eronildes’ ranch. If Degas revealed their secret, Emília and Expedito could cross the southern border into Argentina. She could buy two second-class tickets on a steamer bound for New York, where Lindalva and the baroness had settled. Even in a foreign place, a good seamstress could always find work.

Emília began to arrange her bags weeks before her intended departure. She selected her wardrobe carefully—if she took too many clothes the Coelhos would be suspicious. Emília had to pack stylish dresses and hats, but her clothes couldn’t be too smart or she would look odd on the riverboat trip. After she left Maceió, there would be no porters or butlers to wait on her, so her suitcase couldn’t weigh more than she could carry. There were also Expedito’s clothes to choose and worry over. Emília spent afternoons in her room, folding and unfolding garments.

One day, shortly before Dr. Eronildes was scheduled to arrive in Recife, Emília heard the front door slam. Downstairs, Dr. Duarte shouted at a servant; Emília couldn’t make out his words. A maid scurried to the second floor and knocked on Emília’s door.

“Dr. Duarte wants to see you,” the girl said and lowered her voice. “He’s cismado about something. Looks like he’ll chew through leather—”

“Where’s Expedito?” Emília interrupted, grabbing the maid’s elbow.

Startled, the girl backed away. She replied that the boy was in the courtyard, playing with Raimunda. Emília let her go. The maid rubbed her arm and stalked downstairs. Emília leaned against the door frame. If Dr. Duarte had discovered the purpose of her trip, she was finished. She stared at the pile of clothes on her bed. Expedito was in the courtyard; if she had to, she could run and grab the boy. She could dash out of the Coelho house before they had a chance to stop her. Emília took a deep breath and walked downstairs.

Dr. Duarte’s face was flushed. His lips were crimped together. He brusquely waved Emília inside his study and shut the door behind her. Inside, Degas waited. Emília’s husband sat before Dr. Duarte’s desk, his hat in his hands, his eyes darting between his father and his wife. Degas appeared as confused as Emília, making similar calculations as to what had caused Dr. Duarte’s anger and how he could escape it. In the corner sat a rotating fan with a half-thawed block of ice upon its grille. Emília felt a burst of cold air upon her.

“Sit,” Dr. Duarte commanded.

Emília obeyed. The fan turned its face away. The room suddenly felt stuffy and warm.

“I won’t dillydally,” Dr. Duarte said. “Degas has a habit of visiting you during lunch, Emília. At your atelier.”

Her father-in-law’s voice had none of the affectionate mocking he usually used when speaking to her. It was stern. Emília’s heart beat fast. Degas looked at her.

“Yes,” she said. “He visits.”

“And what do you eat? Air?” Dr. Duarte said. “No one sees you at restaurants.”

“They bring us food,” Degas replied.

“Where are the receipts?” Dr. Duarte demanded. “Show me.”

Degas stared at his lap. “I don’t have them.”

“Well then!” Dr. Duarte yelled, slapping his desk and startling Emília. “You eat imaginary food from imaginary restaurants brought to you by imaginary waiters!”

He stared at his son. Breath wheezed in and out of Dr. Duarte’s nose.

“There are hundreds of Military Police patrolling the streets now,” Dr. Duarte continued. “Did you think no one would see you? Did you think that the city is blind?”

Dr. Duarte stopped. Spittle had collected at the corners of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and looked at Emília.

“I’m sure, Emília, that you were only showing loyalty to your husband. I’m sure you played no knowing part in his outings. Some unfortunate news has come to my attention, Degas. It seems that your friend Mr. Chevalier has been caught in…in…” Dr. Duarte wrung his thick fingers. “There are things I can’t say in front of a lady. All I can tell you is that there is a street boy involved. A deviant. And Mr. Chevalier was quick to name you, Degas, as a dear friend.”

“Me?” Degas said, reddening. “So I’m guilty by association!”

“There should be no association with those types!” Dr. Duarte spat out. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I’ve paid the police,” he continued. “The street boy won’t leave the station. Thanks to the National Security Law he’ll be cleaning their lavatories for the rest of his life. I also posted bond for Mr. Chevalier. He’ll go back to Rio tomorrow. By boat.”

Dr. Duarte fell into his desk chair with a thump, as if his knees had given out.

“Son,” he said weakly, “this is nothing that discipline and goodhearted effort won’t cure. It isn’t irreversible. It is a mental weakness. We will drain it from you. There is a clinic, just outside São Paulo—the Pinel Sanatorium. They specialize in this sort of thing. The Fonseca’s boy went there, not too long ago. He came back cured.”

Degas looked pale. Emília recalled Rubem Fonseca—once a short, sturdy soccer champion for the engineering school’s team, he’d returned from his medical leave without any interest in the sport. At the International Club dances, Rubem Fonseca sat at a back table, smoking cigarette after cigarette, greeting tablemates with a dead stare and a weak handshake.

“I’ve spoken to the director,” Dr. Duarte said. “They have a spot for you, Degas. I will accompany you. We’ll leave this week and say it’s a business trip. You’ll stay as long as it takes; Dr. Loureiro said most cases take two months. I’ll tell your mother you’re traveling. Emília, you’ll still go on your fabric trip. Things must continue as normally as possible—Dona Dulce can’t suspect a thing. It will unhinge your mother, Degas. Don’t go to her for help. Do you understand?”

Degas nodded. He’d crumpled his hat in his hands.

“Emília,” Dr. Duarte said, “I know this is unpleasant information, but you must hear it. People will ask questions and you must give credible answers. You are your husband’s moral guide. When he returns, he’ll take you to dinners, to the theater, to the cinema. You won’t budge from his side. That way, there can be no relapses.”

Emília nodded. Dr. Duarte waved them away, claiming he had to purchase ship tickets and inform the Pinel Sanatorium of their arrival. Emília and Degas left the study and walked up the stairs as a pair, as if their penance had already begun.

Halfway up, Degas stumbled. Emília grabbed his arm, worried he’d faint and topple over the banister’s edge. Degas closed his eyes. Slowly, Emília guided him to sit. The tiled steps felt cool against the undersides of her legs. Degas leaned his forehead against the stairway rails, smudging the brass.

Emília felt a confusing mix of emotions. She was thankful Dr. Duarte’s anger wasn’t directed at her; he didn’t suspect Emília’s trip was a fake. She also felt vindicated because she’d been right about Chevalier—he was a cad—and Degas had finally been reprimanded for his deceit. But then she recalled the dead-eyed Fonseca boy and saw Degas before her, his face drained of color and his hands trembling. Emília didn’t want him to be punished.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Degas gave her a crooked smile. “Do you think I’ll be cured?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you hope for it,” Degas spat out. “Everyone wants me to be a different man.”

Emília shook her head. “I don’t know you, Degas. How can I want someone different when I hardly understand you now?”

Degas covered his eyes with his hands.

“I wasn’t really fond of Chevalier,” he said. “It was convenient, that’s all. It never felt undignified. I never had to linger on corners like a lout, waiting for some street boy. But I didn’t like Chevalier, not truly. Not like Felipe…”

Degas’ voice broke. He sucked at his lips, as if biting back words.

“I don’t want to be cured!” he said through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to be dead to these feelings. I’ve had moments of real joy, Emília. Do you understand?”

Degas took her hands in his, as if begging. Emília looked downstairs, in the shadows beyond the curved banister, and wondered if anyone was listening. She’d never felt physical love the way Degas expressed it. What she’d felt years ago for Professor Célio was a child’s crush, nothing more. The only physical connections she’d had were with Luzia and Expedito, and these were a different kind of love. Emília pulled her hands away.

“No,” Degas said quietly. “You wouldn’t understand. I robbed you of that. I wish I could leave this place. I wish I were buried with Felipe.”

“Don’t say that,” Emília replied.

“Do you know what they do in those sanatoriums? They use electricity. They inject hormones. They’ll kill me in a different way. I’ll come back, but I’ll be dead.”

Emília took his hand. “Don’t go. You don’t have to.”

“What can I do? Run away?” Degas stared at her. “Running isn’t as easy as you think, Emília.”

“I know,” she said, suddenly irritated by Degas’ soft voice.

“Do you?” Degas asked. “Promise me you’ll come back after Maceió.”

“Why?”

“Promise.”

“No.”

Degas shifted. His knees bumped hers. “There’s no textile shop, is there?”

Emília held the edge of the stair. She tried to prop herself up but Degas placed his arm across her legs.

“Stop it!” Emília said. “Stop being selfish! If I wanted to leave you, I’d have gone to New York with Lindalva. This has nothing to do with you, Degas. It’s more important.”

Degas’ arm slumped into her lap. “How important?”

“What if you could have avoided this trouble?” Emília whispered. “What if someone had warned you ahead of time? You would’ve acted differently if you’d known.”

“Maybe,” Degas said. “But maybe I wanted to be caught. Maybe I wanted it to end.” Degas edged closer to Emília. “The Bergmanns are coming,” he whispered. “You can’t stop it. Neither can she.”

“I can warn her. At least she won’t be blind to it.”

Degas nodded. “How will you find her?”

“That’s not your business,” Emília replied, suspicious. “She’ll come to me.”

“It’s that doctor,” Degas said. “He’s convinced you to go out there.”

“No one has convinced me.”

“Cancel the trip, Emília. Do it in the newspapers so she can read it. That way, he can’t refute it.”

“No,” Emília said, sliding away from Degas. “Why?”

“He’s using you,” Degas said. He rubbed his hair roughly, as if trying to prod a memory from his head. “Remember in your old town, how Felipe kept birdcages on his porch? He explained to me once how he caught those birds. He used to put food in the cages, to lure them in, but they got wise to that trick. So he’d put another bird inside. He’d tie its legs to the perch. And an outside bird, a wild one, would see its brother in there and believe it was safe. It would hop inside. It wasn’t the food that lured them, Emília. It was each other.”

Emília slid as far away from Degas as she could. Her back pressed against the stairway wall, her head nearly hit the handrail bolted above her. Degas spoke of birds and cages because he thought she was too simple, too dense, to merit a real explanation. He thought she was easy to trick.

“Dr. Eronildes is a good man,” Emília said. “He wouldn’t put me or Expedito in danger. I need his help, not the other way around. I’m using him.”