Chapter 9
It takes all of my self-control not to march into Leandro’s study and demand an explanation for the sorry state of this place.
Instead, I follow Maria das Dores back to the casa grande, where we end the tour in the kitchen.
I wonder if the comendador knows how little his son has accomplished, or if Leandro has been telling him the same tall tales he’s been telling me.
The more I think about it, the more certain I am that Leandro never outright stated renovations were underway, but rather implied it by painting a very vivid picture of his plans and vision.
“Sinhá Madalena?” Maria das Dores says, bringing me back to the present. “Do you have any questions?”
I look around the dense kitchen. Rows of wall-mounted shelves and dressers packed tight with ceramic mugs, tin colanders, spice jars, silver jugs, and canisters with preserved goods.
A dozen pots and copper saucepans hang from the ceiling above the central table.
A modest four-person table sits flush against the wall, where the servants eat their meals.
Beside it, a narrow table with an array of cooking wares and…
I stop in my tracks. Inside a cake stand, encased by an oval glass lid, lies a mottled white-gray cake, consumed with fuzzy mold.
I freeze, unable to peel my eyes away from the sight.
I’ve seen bread and fruit occasionally dotted with specks of gray, but this is something else…
Maria das Dores turns away to fetch me an oil lamp, muttering that it’s too dark to go up without it, and I cannot believe anyone would talk about anything in this room while this abomination lies in plain sight.
Just then I see the mass twitch. It shifts oddly, as though it’s alive.
I blink. A fissure opens and an army of black dots bursts through, scattered here and unified there.
Dozens of ants tunnel through craters in the mound’s collapsing body.
They crawl freely through the mass, emerging from the insides in clumps, and my stomach turns.
There is condensation on the inside of the glass lid, and I suspect that if the lid were to be lifted, the whole kitchen would be consumed by a nightmarish, foul odor.
Nausea flares at the thought and I clamp my hand against my mouth.
“Deus do Céu,” I mutter, “what is that, Maria das Dores?”
I point to the mold monster.
She turns to look at it. “Fubá cornmeal cake.”
“Perhaps so, a decade ago.”
She hands me the oil lamp.
“You are the cook,” I press. “How can you keep such a thing in the kitchen? If Leandro sees—”
“He ordered me to keep it.”
I’m speechless. “Why would he do that?”
She gives me the I-only-follow-orders shrug. “Now, if there’s anything else you should require…”
I head to my room, lamp in hand. Sometimes foods get forgotten for days or weeks, but not long enough to turn into that.
Why has Leandro ordered her to keep a putrid, rotting cake lying around?
Why did he make it sound as though renovations were well underway, when he hasn’t even started?
It’s as if the house is falling prey to mold and slime and vipers and grime and whatever else moves under the earth.
Why did he lie about whoever has been staying in that lavender room of late? Why was the police inspector here?
Could it be that Leandro isn’t who I thought he was?
A frisson rolls through me, a slight dizziness, and I almost drop the lamp.
At dinner tonight I will speak with him, find gentle and tactful ways to ask about the renovation, about the guests.
Leandro is a jovial person with a sunny disposition.
He laughs easily and loves to sing and play the viol?o.
At least before the accident, outside the peeling walls of the Santa Tereza.
He once rode two hours in the rain to meet me in the plaza, and when he arrived drenched, he had a smile on his face.
He is not the type to nurse sullen fumes.
He threw himself at the driver’s seat to try to rescue us in the storm.
He wasn’t cowardly, frozen in fear. That’s the real Leandro.
As I cross the corridor that leads to the staircase, I pass his study.
I hear the creaking of the floorboards as he moves around in there.
Perhaps I should speak to him right now.
Hi, I’m carrying your baby, in case you don’t remember me telling you last night.
Also, why are you keeping a rotting cake in the kitchen for months on end?
And whose perfume is in that room upstairs?
I would like to speak to him openly about my concerns, to have him hold me and remind me of his love for me, if not in words, then in tender touch and smiles.
But Leandro is still in shock. I’m not entirely sure what is going on inside that head of his.
Doctor Lobo made such a point that we were to avoid anxious situations, even going so far as to forbid visitors.
If I confront him too soon, will his condition deteriorate?
The door of Leandro’s study is slightly ajar, just a palm’s width. The gap is small enough to give the person inside the illusion of privacy, yet big enough for a peeper to have full view of what’s inside.
I shouldn’t.
It would be wrong. An invasion of his privacy. And what if he catches me?
I hesitate. I hear odd noises. Soft ripping. Shuffling, thudding. Subtle movement, hard to discern. He likely is just reading correspondence. Tearing envelopes, opening letters, folding them.
I position myself so close to the door that it’s easy to lean my head in a little and gain view of the room within.
The study is one of the nicer rooms in the house.
The walls are covered in tall bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes.
I can smell the dusty paper from here. How I long to get my hands on some forbidden literature.
Toward the window there’s a large desk topped with piles of papers, bookends, a cuspidor, a cigar case, and a heavy leather-bound manuscript.
The window brings in the final wisps of blue daylight, and the thick carpet looks like it was imported from a far-flung country. A candelabra glows on the desk.
Leandro stands before a bookshelf with his back to me. At first glance, it looks like he’s leafing through different books as though searching for something. But then I notice a large pile of papers on the ground beside him.
He has a book in hand. He rips out a page, tosses it into the pile. Then he returns the book to its slot, hands moving quickly. He picks up the one next to it, opens it just as quickly, tears out a page, and tosses it into the pile.
He does it again with the next book. Opens. Rips. Tosses. Replaces.
And the next one.
And the one after that.
There must be dozens and dozens of pages in that pile. How long has he been doing this?
And most important…why?
Could it be to make a fire? I did see a fire pit outside, but who uses pages of books from the library as kindling?
A chill sweeps up my spine. My finger goes to the base of my neck, but my cross is gone.
This is the father of my child.