Chapter 12
Mirrors are channels into the spirit world, my grandmother used to say.
I sit alone at the breakfast table, having arrived late. I barely slept. I lay in bed awake for hours, then my mind hovered in a hazy semiconscious state, wavering between slumber and consciousness for what felt like the remainder of the night. All I could do was pray.
I feel as awake as a sleepwalker or a zombie.
The breakfast table is set with cheese spreads, breads, and fruits, all covered with soft cloth to keep mosquitoes at bay, yet I have no appetite.
Breakfast was served nearly two hours ago and Leandro is working in his study now.
This fazenda needs a priest. But is there any amount of holy water that can fix this?
I simply cannot imagine us raising our baby here.
I sip the lukewarm coffee and force myself to eat a sweet bread. A dull ache tugs at my temples. I worry about my baby, and whether I gave him a fright. My poor baby. He is surely feeling all of my feelings, all of my worry and dread.
I fear I am beginning to understand what has happened here.
Why Leandro is a wreck. Why the renovations were never done.
Why the police inspector visited. The foul woman I saw haunts this house.
Leandro is haunted by a woman who was once his lover, and who died here.
Maybe she killed herself. Maybe it was a fateful accident or tragic illness.
She is haunting the house, sucking the oxygen out of the rooms and the life out of its dwellers, Leandro first and foremost.
It explains everything, I consider as I chew on stale sweet bread. Why Leandro is normal when he’s at the fairs with me, far away from these haunted walls, but when here he is sullen. Why the police inspector visited—he’s investigating her death.
This and the fact that the room still smelled of her perfume suggest that she hasn’t been dead for long.
Doctor Lobo’s words come to mind: Perhaps you didn’t know him as well as you thought you did.
Where was he last night?
Maria das Dores bounces into the room wearing a white linen apron with wings. She wishes me a stiff good morning, glancing pointedly at the clock. “Did you sleep well, Sinhá Madalena?”
“Not at all. I had a dreadful night’s sleep. I apologize for being late to breakfast.”
“What happened?”
I hesitate. What does Maria das Dores know about this house, exactly? She’s hard to read. Her eyes are shifty, as though she doesn’t want to look at me directly. As though she knows something.
“Do you sleep here, Maria das Dores?”
“No. I leave at dusk every night.”
“I heard sinister sounds,” I breathe. “In the middle of the night.”
Her eyes widen. “Sounds?”
“Thudding, like footsteps.”
“Perhaps Senhor Leandro was moving about—”
“I saw a dead woman in the big room.”
She gasps. Hand goes to her mouth. “Jesus!” Maria das Dores crosses herself. “A dead woman?”
I nod. “Do you know if a woman died in this house?”
Her face darkens. She hesitates.
“You can tell me,” I say.
Maria das Dores shakes her head stiffly. “I don’t know.”
“You must know. She was here, she slept in that room, the one where the perfume broke yesterday, with the vanity.”
Something creeps into her eyes. “What did she look like, the dead woman you saw?”
“Hideous, but I think that’s because she was dead. I imagine she was beautiful in life.”
Her features twist. “We must dispel such dark thoughts.”
I lower my voice. “He had a lover, didn’t he? Until recently?”
Her eyes widen. She knows.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Is the senzala empty?”
“The senzala?”
“Yes, the senzala.”
“Why yes, it’s empty. I never go in there, but it must be empty. Who would be in there?”
“Her.”
“Deus do Céu, Sinhá Madalena.” She starts to turn away, balancing a platter of breakfast cakes and fruits. She shakes her head. “You’ll give me a fright if you keep this up.”
“What about Leandro?” I ask. “How long has he been like that?”
“Like that, how?”
“So taciturn and reserved.”
She furrows her brows. I have made her uncomfortable, pushed too far. But there are so few people in this house to even ask. I think Maria das Dores knows about the foul woman. The way her face changed when I asked if a woman has died here. She knows about her.
“I…I don’t know.”
“What do you think of Leandro? Speaking honestly.”
“Senhor Neves is a very good patr?o. I am sorry that you did not sleep well. I will prepare a glass of warm milk for you to drink before bed tonight, that will soothe your nerves and give you good dreams. Now, if you will excuse me.”
The very good patr?o manifests in the dining room just as I am finishing my coffee. He’s not back to his normal self yet. He still carries that gaunt look, his under-eyes hollow and shadowy. He looks startled to see me.
“Good morning,” he says. “How do you feel?”
“Quite fine. How do you feel?”
“Quite fine.”
“Did you sleep well?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“In your bedroom?”
There is a pause. “Yes.”
“Nothing disrupted your sleep?”
“Did something disrupt your sleep?” he counters, alarmed.
It’s like talking to a mule. I try another route. “Who were the previous owners of the Santa Tereza?”
He stares at me blankly. I know that I’m being overly forward, as I was with Maria das Dores, but I need answers. And are my words really so complicated to understand?
“I don’t know.”
It’s my turn to stare at him. “You don’t know?”
He shakes his head.
I grit my teeth. “The comendador made you proprietor here, yet never told you anything about its previous owners?”
He scratches his head and a shadow crosses his face. Hostility? Irritation? Disappointment? I don’t know. I seem to displease him a lot lately no matter what I do.
“I don’t know anything about the prior owners.”
Liar.
“I am thinking about leaving early,” I announce.
“What?”
He looks like I just told him I’m planning to murder somebody.
“This medical retreat. It’s been lovely being here and I’m so grateful for your hospitality, but I am feeling a bit better. And I miss Mother. Well, that’s not true, but I am sure Mother misses me.” That is also not true, but I deem it necessary to imbue my reasoning with an air of cordiality.
I truly don’t know which option I loathe more: facing Mother without a proposal, or facing the foul woman again tonight. On second thought, I may prefer the latter.
How will this version of Leandro react if I tell him about the baby? Mute staring followed by confounded gawking? Blank non-comprehension infused with vague disdain?
I simply don’t think Leandro will propose while he’s in such a state of mind.
My stomach cramps at the thought that this could become his permanent state. I can’t even entertain that possibility, it’s too awful. What will become of me and my baby then?
But I do enjoy the utterly shocked look on his face right now. It gives me no small pleasure to see him so distraught at the idea of my leaving early.
“Perhaps I will take an early dinner, then leave just before dark,” I say with a shrug.
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Doctor Lobo said you must stay here to recover.”
“I don’t see why I can’t recover at home. And you hardly speak to me and I don’t want to be any sort of bother.”
His lips part slowly before words come out. “You’re no bother.” He pauses, meets my eyes. “I’d like you to stay.”
“You would?”
He takes a seat in the chair beside me and takes my hand in his. His hand is warm. “Yes, truly.”
A frisson runs through me and I realize this is the first time he’s shown me any affection since the accident. I didn’t think this version of Leandro was capable of such intensity. Of caring about anything, even me. It’s not an I love you, but it makes me feel loved just the same.
“Of course I’ll stay.”