Chapter 50
The first rays of dawn slip through the narrow crack in the curtains.
Mother tilts her head as she regards me, as though I am a work of art, an idol hanging above an altar. She reaches out a hand toward my cheek, lips slightly parted.
She stares at the air, eyes distant, processing. Like a motion picture is playing in her mind. She then touches her own cheeks, furrowing her brows. Her mouth tilts downward into a slight frown.
“Mother?” I say.
“It was a brook,” she says, gaze turned inward, but in her own voice. “The utmost deep, the darkest place…”
“What…?”
My heart is on the edge of a knife. If her mind is still broken, I do not think I have the courage to pick up the axe again.
“Our carriage fell into a brook,” she says haltingly.
“A shallow swamp. There was a stench of a marsh. Your father was caked in the mud, partly sunk in the black ooze. It was so dark. I waded through murky waters, freed the horse. I went to him and held his hand. He couldn’t lift himself up.
But he laid his hand on my belly and said: ‘Our baby.’ And he smiled.
Those were his last words: ‘Our baby.’ ”
She smiles weakly, eyes glistening. Even now, so many years later, this memory brings her emotion.
Perhaps this is what her mind did not want to remember—his loss.
She continues: “The wind brought gushing rain and I trudged up to the road and waited. I don’t remember much after that, but I remember that when a carriage finally came by and picked us up, I was barefoot. And my hands were cold.”
She waves her hand at the air. “Then nobody cared if he was going to propose or not. Nobody believed me. But he was going to propose. He loved us.”
“I believe you.”
She smiles. She looks tired.
She looks down at Lobo’s body, face down behind the bed. I stiffen, afraid of how she will respond. Now she knows all the things I have done: my affair with Joaquina, my use of black magic to bring her back, and the murder of Doctor Lobo.
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” she says, looking at Doctor Lobo. But it’s almost as if she is speaking to herself. I don’t quite know what she means.
I untie all the knots. She gets to her feet, steps around Doctor Lobo’s mangled body, and stops before the antique brass mirror. She removes the cover I had placed on it.
She faces the mirror, regarding her own image. Her face is placid, reflective. Her fingers touch her cheek. Even in this tired state, there is a fierceness to her gaze that was absent in Strange Madalena. She gives a half laugh, almost a snort.
“I was her all along,” she mutters.
“Who?”
“The foul woman.”
“What foul woman?”
She doesn’t respond. Just shakes her head.
She sits back on the edge of the bed. “I look like my mother.”
As the first rays of morning fill the room, my mind clears somewhat. I am in a room with a dead body, drenched in blood, and my right hand is trembling.
“Oh God,” I croak. “That man, that masked man. What if he comes back looking for Lobo?”
“He won’t.”
“But—”
“He doesn’t want to be incriminated. He’ll never show his face here again.”
Suddenly, I hear horses outside. I pull open the curtains and the pale light of dawn pours in. I squint, and I make out the shiny black horse and the official uniform of the police inspector. I stare in dull horror.
“Who is it?”
“The police inspector. I don’t understand…I never sent for him…”
Mother makes a tsk sound with her mouth. “I told Maria das Dores to send for him earlier.”
I round to stare at her. “You did?”
Mother does not look frightened. She’s scanning the blood-drenched room. The floorboards and the sheets are blood soaked. The walls have blood splatters on them, the vanity, the carpets, and even the washbasin.
I am entirely drenched in blood. My shirt, pants, face, and arms are red. I could change quickly into clean clothes, but my skin is stained as well, and now my heart pounds in my chest in panic. It would take hours to scrub the blood off my skin.
Then comes a knock at the door: familiar in its aggressiveness.
Mother shakes her head. Don’t answer.
I don’t stir. We listen, then the knock comes again, this time louder.
Then I hear the front door opening.
“Hello…?” he calls out. “Senhor Neves?”
I recognize the voice; it’s the same fellow who came by the other day.
“Your housekeeper sent for us,” he says. I hear the creaking of the steps as he comes up the staircase, slowly. He remembers the layout of the house.
Mother places a finger to her lips, wordlessly telling me to not stir.
I press my back to the wall and shut my eyes, afraid of making a noise.
“Senhor Neves? Are you here?”
He’s now on the upper landing. We are in the room closest to him. If he decides to check the rooms, he will see us.
I look meaningfully at the axe. Desperation makes me consider it. I did it once; I can do it again. But will it bring more police officers here? I can’t think straight…
Mother makes her way to the door. She steps out, then shuts the door behind her.
Mother is clean because I wiped the blood off her.
“Good afternoon, senhora…” The officer sounds surprised. “Oh, it’s you…” A pregnant pause. “I am glad to see you recovered.”
“Have I met you?” Mother says.
“We’ve never been introduced. I saw you when I last visited, but you were sleeping. I spoke with your son, Leandro.” He pauses.
“What gives you the right to enter this house uninvited?” Mother says.
“We, uh…received a note to check this location—”
“The housekeeper has an unfortunate penchant for the dramatic. Leandro and I had a minor argument yesterday, that is all. He is resting now, not to be disturbed. As you can see, there is nothing amiss here. Now, why don’t I walk you to the door?”