‘And what happened to Antonio?’ I asked.
‘Oh, he recovered, as my mother always thought he would,’ Yara said with a smile. ‘He went to live at the Fazenda Santa Tereza, and with the small amount of money he’d been handed by Gustavo to start again, he bought a tomato farm. You might remember I told you before that they are the financial mainstay of Paty do Alferes. With his head for business, by the time Antonio died, he had what you might call a tomato empire, owning most of the local farms surrounding thefazenda. I remember that like Senhora Izabela before her, Senhora Beatriz used to love it there when she visited. Her grandfather adored her and taught her to ride and swim. He left the farms to her, and it is those that have provided the source of her income since her husband passed on. It’s not much, but it has paid the bills here.’
‘Who was Beatriz’s husband, my grandfather?’ I asked her.
‘Evandro Carvalho, and he was a very talented pianist. He was a good man, Senhorita Maia, and it was a true love match. After Senhora Beatriz’s difficult childhood, our family were so pleased to see her happy. And the Casa finally came back to life. Beatriz and Evandro held soirées for the creative community here in Rio. They also set up a charity to raise money for the city’sfavelas. I can assure you, Senhorita Maia, that while age and pain have affected her as she nears the end, she really was very beautiful when she was younger. Everyone who knew her respected and loved her.’
‘Then it’s such a pity that I will never see that side of her,’ I mused.
‘No . . .’ Yara sighed heavily. ‘But death comes to us all.’
‘And . . .’ I steeled myself to ask the question that had been burning through my brain for the past ten minutes. ‘Beatriz and Evandro had a child, didn’t they?’
I saw Yara’s eyes dart uncertainly around the room. ‘Yes.’
‘Just one?’
‘There was another, a boy, but he died in infancy. So yes,’ she agreed, ‘one.’
‘A girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘And her name was Cristina?’
‘Yes, Senhorita Maia. It was I who helped bring her up.’
I paused, uncertain of what to say next. The words that had poured out of Yara like a babbling brook for the past hour had suddenly dried up too. I looked up at her expectantly, willing her to continue.
‘Senhorita, I don’t believe I have done damage by telling you the past, but . . .’ she sighed, ‘I do not think it is my place to say any more. The rest is not my story to tell.’
‘Then whose is it?’ I begged her.
‘It is Senhora Beatriz’s.’
Desperate as I was to press her further, I could see that Yara had begun to look anxiously at the clock ticking on the wall.
‘I have something for you,’ she said, putting a hand into one of her voluminous pockets and handing four envelopes to me. Almost, I felt, as a peace offering for being unable to tell me more. ‘Those are the letters sent via my mother by Laurent Brouilly to Senhora Izabela, when they stayed at thefazendain Senhora Carla’s last days. They will show better than I ever could the feeling that existed between the two of them.’
‘Thank you,’ I said as I watched her stand. I suppressed an urge to hug her, so grateful was I to finally hear of my ancestry and the tragic story that lay behind it.
‘I must return to Senhora Beatriz,’ she said.
‘Of course,’ I said, rising too, stiff after sitting so tensely while trying to catch every word Yara had spoken.
‘I will show you out, senhorita,’ she said.
‘It would be easy for us to drive you up to the convent,’ I suggested to her as we walked along the corridor, across the entrance hall and Yara opened the front door. ‘I have a car waiting for me outside.’
‘Thank you, but I still have things to do here.’ She looked at me expectantly, as I hesitated beside her.
‘Thank you for all you’ve told me. Is it possible that I might just ask you one last question?’
‘It depends what it is,’ she said, as I felt her eyes willing me to cross the threshold and leave.
‘Is my mother still alive?’
‘I do not know, Senhorita Maia,’ Yara sighed. ‘And that is the truth.’
