Floriano walked through the door as I stood on the threshold, experiencing a fleeting moment of trepidation that I was entering the apartment of a man who was, to all intents and purposes, a stranger. I pushed the thought away, remembering the first night we’d met, when he’d had to return home to let in the girl he lived with, and followed him inside.
The sitting room we entered was as Floriano had described: a jumbled melange of objects used and never returned to their rightful place. A battered leather sofa and armchair formed a seating arrangement and a coffee table overflowed with books, papers, a food-encrusted bowl and a brimming ashtray.
‘I’ll take you upstairs. It’s far more pleasant up there, I swear,’ he said, walking along the corridor.
Climbing another flight of stairs, we arrived on a tiny landing which had two doors. Floriano opened one of them to reveal a terrace, the majority of which was protected by a sloping roof. Beneath it was a sofa, a table and chairs and a desk in the corner which held a laptop, above which was a shelf of books. The front of the terrace beyond the overhang of the roof was open to the elements, and all along the balcony edge pots full of flowers added vibrancy and colour to the atmosphere.
‘This is where I live and work. Make yourself comfortable,’ he said, strolling to his desk, opening his laptop and sitting down.
I walked to the edge of the terrace and immediately felt the burning sun on my face. Leaning on my elbows, I looked upwards to see a small city of buildings tumbling haphazardly down the hill only a few hundred metres away. From the tops of the buildings, I could see kites flying in the breeze and hear the muffled thrum of what sounded like drums.
After the sterility of my hotel room, I suddenly felt I had a finger on the real, throbbing pulse of the city. ‘It’s beautiful here,’ I breathed. ‘Is that afavela?’ I pointed into the air at the houses on the mountainside beyond us.
‘Yes, and until a few years ago, a very dangerous one. Drugs and murders were commonplace, and even though it backs onto Ipanema, one of the most exclusive areas in Rio, no one would live in the streets nearby,’ Floriano explained. ‘But now it’s been cleaned up and the government has even provided a lift for its residents. Some said the money would have been better used for some kind of basic healthcare provision for them, but at least it’s a start.’
‘But Brazil is becoming very prosperous, isn’t it?’ I queried.
‘Yes, but as with any fast-growing economy, to begin with it’s a tiny percentage of the population that gains from the new-found wealth, and little changes for the vast majority who are poor. It’s the same in India and Russia at present. Anyway,’ Floriano sighed, ‘let’s not get onto the topic of social injustice here in Brazil. It’s my favourite hobby horse, and we have other things to discuss.’ He turned his attention back to the computer. ‘Now, I’m assuming that Senhora Carvalho is one of the lucky few who can afford to avoid the appalling public hospitals here in Rio. So I’m looking for a list of the private ones and then we can call them. Here we are.’ I walked back towards him and leant over his shoulder to study the screen. ‘So, we have approximately ten. I’ll print off their telephone numbers.’
‘Why don’t we take half each?’ I suggested.
‘Okay,’ he agreed. ‘But just make sure you announce yourself as a close relative to the switchboard, maybe a granddaughter’ – Floriano shot me an ironic glance – ‘otherwise they won’t give you any information.’
For the next fifteen minutes, Floriano disappeared downstairs with his mobile and I remained up on the terrace with mine, working through the list of numbers. None of them brought any joy, with everyone we spoke to confirming that a Senhora Carvalho had not been admitted in the past twenty-four hours. When Floriano eventually reappeared carrying a tray, his face told a similar story.
‘Don’t look so downhearted, Maia,’ he said as he placed a platter of different kinds of cheeses, salamis and a fresh baguette onto the table. ‘Let’s eat and think.’
I ate hungrily, realising it was now past six in the evening and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. ‘What was the mystery you thought might be solved by something you’d read in Bel’s letters?’ I prompted him, as he finished eating and wandered across to the open part of the terrace to light a cigarette.
‘Well,’ he said, leaning over the balcony and gazing out into the descending dusk. ‘The young woman whom Bel mentions in her letters, Margarida Lopes de Almeida, was always thought to have been the model that Landowski used for theCristo’s hands. In the letters, Bel confirms that Margarida was indeed in Landowski’satelierand was also a gifted pianist. For her entire life, Margarida never denied the rumour that they were indeed her hands that graced the sculpture. And then, on her deathbed a few years ago, she retracted, saying that they were not her hands Landowski had used.’
Floriano watched me to see if I could follow where he was leading.
‘Bel writes that she also had her hands cast by Landowski at the same time as Margarida,’ I answered.
‘Exactly. Of course, it may be that neither of the moulds Landowski took were used in his final sculpture, but perhaps Margarida always knew there was some doubt. Who knows? Maybe instead the hands were those of Izabela, the young woman who was with her at theatelierat the time.’
‘My God,’ I breathed, hardly able to compute the enormity of what Floriano was suggesting. That it might actually be my great-grandmother’s hands that reached out so iconically, loving and protecting the world beneath them.
‘To be honest, I doubt we will ever be able to ascertain the truth of the matter, but you can understand why the letters have excited me so much,’ said Floriano. ‘And would excite many others too, if Yara ever agrees to you sharing their contents with the world. So, not just for the sake of discovering your own heritage, Maia, but for that of Brazil’s too, we must not give up on trying to find out more.’
‘No, we mustn’t,’ I agreed. ‘But surely now we’ve come to a dead end?’
‘Which we have simply to reverse out of before planning another route forward.’
‘Well, there was one other thing I was thinking earlier,’ I said.
‘And what would that be?’ Floriano encouraged.
‘Yara made it very clear that her mistress was seriously ill. That Senhora Carvalho was dying. At the time, I thought that Yara was perhaps using this as an excuse to get rid of us. But Senhora Carvalho certainly looked frail and the table next to her was full of pill bottles. What I’m trying to say is that in Switzerland, if someone was reaching the end of their life and they were in terrible pain, they would go into a hospice. Do you have those here in Brazil?’
‘For the rich, yes, we do. As a matter of fact, there’s one just outside Rio which is run by nuns. And certainly the Aires Cabrals were a devout Catholic family. You know, Maia, you could be right.’ Floriano stood up and was just making his way across to his computer when the door burst open. A small, dark-eyed child in a Hello Kitty T-shirt and pink shorts hurtled across the room and threw herself into his arms.
‘Papai!’
‘Hello,minha pequena. How was your day?’ he asked, smiling down at her.
‘It was good, but I missed you.’
