There was a light knocking on the courtyard door. Dona Dulce stepped inside.
“I heard the bird,” she said, looking at Dr. Duarte, then at Emília. “He seemed to be agitated, but I couldn’t step away from the kitchen.”
“Emília took care of it,” Dr. Duarte said.
“Good.” Dona Dulce smiled. Her teeth were small and her gums wide, like Degas’. “I hope you weren’t frightened by Dr. Duarte’s knickknacks. Between science and politics, I’d rather have science in my house. It’s the least unsavory.”
Dr. Duarte released a puff of air through his nose.
“Come,” Dona Dulce chirped, holding out her pale hand to Emília. “Don’t let him pester you with his conversation. He is always looking for a willing ear.”
8
That night, Emília could not sleep. She lay uncomfortably between the starched sheets of her bridal bed. That afternoon, in Dr. Duarte’s study, she’d learned why no attention had been paid to those sheets. The entire household thought Degas had ruined Emília before the wedding, that she was a loose woman. Perhaps this was why Dona Dulce disliked her.
Down the hall, Degas’ English record blared.
Onde posso achar o bonde?
“Where can I find the trolley?”
Emília got up. She put on her linen robe and walked to Degas’ childhood bedroom. Gently, Emília knocked on the door. When her husband didn’t answer, she let herself in. The room was smoky and cluttered. A Victrola phonograph stood in the corner. Unlike the ones in Taquaritinga, it did not have a brass horn. Instead, Degas’ model was housed in a tall wooden cabinet. Above the Victrola were shelves cluttered with relics of her husband’s childhood: a wooden puppet, it strings badly tangled; a cluster of tin animals; a train set. There were legal books scattered about, and at the base of the twin bed, a steamer trunk. The brass latches were dull with age. Along the leather lid were stickers covered with the emblems of countries. Degas sat in an armchair beside the room’s only window, which faced the Coelho courtyard. He smoked. Between puffs, he repeated the record’s strange phrases. When he saw Emília, Degas stopped in midsentence.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, clicking off the Victrola.
“No,” Emília said. “I can’t sleep.”
Degas turned toward the window. “Neither can I.”
Emília closed the collar of her robe. She stared at her bare feet, her fat toes. She regretted interrupting Degas’ lessons, but her father-in-law’s words still stung her.
Degas turned from the window. “Would you like a smoke?”
“No,” Emília replied, though she was curious to try a cigarette. “Dona Dulce says ladies don’t smoke.”
Degas clicked his tongue. “Half the ladies in Recife smoke. Mother knows that. It’s all right to have a vice, Emília.” Degas removed a tightly rolled cigarette from its silver case. “Just don’t get caught. It’s not the vice, but the discovery that’s dangerous here.”
“In this house, you mean?” Emília asked.
Degas shrugged. “This city,” he replied. “Anywhere, really.” His eyelids sagged, making him appear more tired than he proclaimed himself to be.
Emília took the cigarette. It felt delicate and weightless between her fingers. She recalled the long-necked actresses in her old magazines, how they posed with their cigarettes, and felt a rush of excitement. When Degas flicked his lighter, Emília found it hard to stay perfectly still. She took a long first puff. The smoke burned her throat. It made her nose tingle. Emília let out a violent cough. Degas moved closer.
“I don’t want to corrupt you,” he said and tried to take the cigarette from her hand.
Emília stepped back, moving out of his reach. “I’m not a child,” she coughed, her throat still scratchy. She bristled at Degas’ protectiveness, believing he’d given her the cigarette just to have the fun of taking it away. Emília took another puff, forcing herself to swallow the smoke.
“I spoke to your father today,” she said. “In his study. He told me about the telegrams you sent. The ones about me.”
Degas’ eyes widened. He shoved his silver lighter into his pocket. “It was the only way, Emília. My parents wouldn’t have consented otherwise.”
“Now I know why the maids whisper about me,” Emília said. Her mouth tasted both sweet and smoky. The cigarette in her hand was partway gone; a gray clot of ashes stuck to its lit end. Quickly, Emília took another puff.
“That’s nonsense,” Degas replied, lowering his voice. “They don’t know a thing. My mother is discreet. She’d never let the real reason get out.”
“But it’s not real.”
Degas bit the side of his cheek. “Sometimes we must tell people what is necessary and not what is true.”
Because of the cigarette, Emília felt light-headed. She leaned against the Victrola’s wooden cabinet.
“It’s my name that’s ruined. Not yours,” she said softly. “You made yourself look honorable, marrying me even though…” Emília’s ears rang. She held tighter to the record player. “You never took liberties with me, Degas. I wouldn’t have let you. I want you to tell your parents. I want them to know. It won’t make a difference for you, now that we’re married. But it will for me.”
Degas blinked. He leaned against the other side of the wooden record player. Gently, his fingers stroked its brass label. On it was the image of a dog, its ear cocked toward a record horn. Above it, the word
Victrola
was printed in large, curling letters.
“I heard this was your sister’s name,” Degas said. “Such a strange name.”
Emília felt queasy; she’d smoked too much. The cigarette was hot in her hands, its lit tip almost reaching her fingers. “It was a nickname,” she replied.
“That’s terrible luck, what happened to her,” Degas continued, ignoring Emília. “Just terrible. You’d think because she was crippled, those cangaceiros would have let her be.”
“I didn’t think you knew about her,” Emília said.
Degas smiled faintly. “It’s sweet you would think that. It proves how pure you are, how uncontaminated by gossip. Felipe told me, but everyone spoke of it. Even the colonel’s maids. Never in front of you, of course.”
Degas moved around the Victrola. He placed his hands on Emília’s shoulders.
“Everyone believes that silence is a consideration,” he said softly. “But really, it’s a persecution. When someone’s the object of gossip, they’re really the object of silence. You know what that’s like. So do I. That’s why I was drawn to you, Emília. I wanted to help you out of that undignified situation.”
“God rest her soul,” Emília choked out, staring at the Victrola.
“Don’t be upset,” Degas said. He wrapped his arms tightly around her. “I won’t tell anyone what happened to her. Father is perverse about such things. He calls himself an authority on criminals. Really, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about; he just adds a dash of mathematics to his conclusions so they sound more expert.” Degas loosened his grip. When he spoke again, he lowered his voice. “We have to be discreet about your family troubles, Emília. What hurts your reputation hurts mine, and vice versa. It’s like the story I told my parents: true or not, it wouldn’t do you or me any good to spread such things about. That’s what’s noble about marriage—we are bound to shield each other from talk.”
Emília nodded absently. Part of her felt strangely grateful to Degas, while the other part wanted to return to her bedroom and lock the door.
“You don’t look well,” Degas said gently. “Get to bed.” He took the cigarette stub from her hand. “It’s easy to overdo it, Emília. You don’t know your limits yet, but you’ll learn.”
9
The next day, Dona Dulce found Emília in the courtyard.
“You’ve had enough rest,” Dona Dulce said, untying her starched apron. “Now, we must work.”
She led Emília into a vast, mirrored space on the house’s lower level. The room was hot and dark. Reception chairs were stacked along its walls. Dona Dulce locked the hallway door behind them. She left the courtyard door’s curtains closed.
“It’s no good keeping you cooped up in the house,” Dona Dulce said. “People will think we’re hiding you and come up with all kinds of reasons as to why.”
A long, thin stick leaned against the room’s mirrored wall. Dona Dulce took it in her hands.
“Walk,” she said.
The room’s mirrors made it seem as if there were rows and rows of wheaten-haired Dona Dulces, all stern and commanding, their amber eyes set on Emília.
“Walk,” Dona Dulce repeated.
Emília stepped away from her mother-in-law. Dona Dulce watched her in the mirrors.
“Don’t be stiff,” she called out.
Emília quickened her pace.
“No!” Dona Dulce shouted. “Don’t stride as if you were a horse. And do not swing your arms. You aren’t swatting flies! Go slowly. Don’t rush—that indicates nervousness.”
Suddenly, Dona Dulce glided beside her. She poked Emília’s stomach hard with the stick.
“Tuck it in,” she said firmly. “This was the way the nuns taught me. It’s not easy, but it must be done. Be thankful I am willing to teach you or else you’d never be able to leave the house. It will be easier to mold your habits since you haven’t been previously taught. In this regard, I’d rather have you than some of these obstinate young women in this city, who think they can do away with manners altogether. Tuck it in!”
Dona Dulce poked Emília’s shoulders, her rear, her chest. It seemed that when she tucked one in, the others naturally popped out. Still, Dona Dulce repeated her phrase over and over, as if singing a hymn. Next, she produced a broomstick from beside the covered chairs. She placed it behind Emília’s neck and roped her arms over it. Emília’s chest jutted forward.
“Our posture reveals our nature,” Dona Dulce said. “The sloucher is lazy—she hasn’t the self-discipline to hold herself up. Now walk.”
They spent many afternoons in that hot, mirrored room. Each time they left it, Emília’s dresses were damp, her hair matted to her forehead, her feet and neck sore. Even Dona Dulce had a hint of red flushing her pale cheeks. In the evenings, Emília watched street peddlers from her upstairs window. She watched how the men carried their entire stock—feather dusters and aluminum pails, brooms, bottles, and clay jugs—swinging from the pole across their shoulders, as precisely balanced as a scale. After Emília mastered her posture, Dona Dulce uncovered a chair and made her repeat the ritual of taking a seat and straightening her skirt. Emília rose and sat until her knees pained her. All the while, Dona Dulce kept her stick at hand and imparted other, subtler lessons to Emília: never sit beside a man who is not your husband; never reveal discomfort or dislike; never perform introductions unless you are the hostess; never shake hands.
With each rule, Dona Dulce’s voice grew lower, her jabs with the stick harder. She seemed irritated at having to say such things aloud, as if speaking them lessened their value. If Emília asked for explanations, Dona Dulce replied sharply.
“The chatterer reveals every corner of her shallow mind,” she said. “Better to keep your mouth closed until you are asked a question.”
Rules were rules, Dona Dulce explained. Had Emília been born into that world, had she been properly groomed and molded, such things wouldn’t need saying; they wouldn’t be simplified by words or made to sound like the cheap guidelines found in fashion magazines. They would have soaked in, through years of observation and routine, until there was no other way of being.
As summer wore on, there were more and more rules to memorize. After each lesson, Emília felt exhausted and shaken. There were so many mistakes she could make, so many vulgarities she could unknowingly commit. Still, Emília was determined to refine herself. If she learned the rules of her new world, if she embodied them, Emília believed that the stain on her character would be wiped away. Dona Dulce would respect her. Degas would treat her as a wife, and not as a poor country girl he’d rescued. He would take her to luncheons, to the cinema, and perhaps even on a honeymoon in Rio de Janeiro as he’d promised. And on that honeymoon, he might touch her as a husband should touch a wife. Emília sat taller, walked straighter. During meals she didn’t fuss with the dining implements. She kept her hands away from her face. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin instead of smearing it across her lips. She continued to have a horrible time identifying silverware, which Dona Dulce liked to set in elaborate rows beside and above their plates. During moments of doubt, Emília imagined Dona Dulce behind her, holding her hands like a puppet’s and saying, “Take your time. Do not shovel. Attack your food with vigor, but with as little ferocity as possible. And for all that’s holy, do not push away your plate when you are done.”
If she looked across the table and saw Dona Dulce’s wheaten eyebrows rise in reproach, Emília didn’t get upset or stop eating. Instead, she stared hard at the crisp line in the middle of the linen tablecloth and recalled what Dona Dulce had told her when she’d begun her lessons—that there was no mystery to all of this, that the road to refinement was as straight and unwavering as the crease that ran down the center of that cloth.
10
As a reward for her progress, Dona Dulce took Emília to buy fabric and meet with a dressmaker on Rua da Imperatriz. Emília hadn’t been able to sleep the night before, recalling the fashions she had seen in
Fon Fon
: tubular dresses with calf-length skirts and delicately ruffled collars. She deeply regretted leaving her magazines in Taquaritinga; Dona Dulce did not subscribe to
Fon Fon
.
The dressmaker’s atelier had a showroom and a fitting area for clients. Stacked against the room’s walls were tightly rolled bolts of fabrics. There were printed silks, shining taffetas, translucent crepes. Emília believed she would faint with excitement. Finally, she would be the one on the pedestal instead of the one holding the measuring tape. She would stand before the mirror and give orders to tuck this or hem that. Her excitement quickly faded. Dona Dulce placed no value on cloche hats, smart dresses, or heeled shoes with delicate clasps. She chose “classic” linens, all drab and neutral colored, and instructed the stylist to cut dresses similar to the simplest ones in the shop window: discreetly collared, low waisted, with straight skirts that revealed ankle but covered any hint of calf.