The Woman in Red Page 3

  A middle-aged woman I vaguely recognized loudly whispered, “You would think she was at a funeral with that scowl.”

  As we hurried out of the church my shoe slipped off. When I turned back to retrieve it, an old woman gripped it in her hands. “I am so sorry, this is a very bad sign.” She crossed herself. “You should get a blessing from the priest. Your marriage is doomed,” she whispered.

  “I know,” I whispered back.

  Dreading my wedding night, I kept passing goblets of wine to Manoel, hoping that he would become too drunk to perform his duties. However, when the time came, drink didn’t slow him. I held my breath as he climbed on top of me, feeling slightly smothered by his weight. Manoel fumbled with his member and then tried to kiss me, but I turned away, squeezing my eyes shut. For a moment, he hesitated, but then he started pounding like I was a shoe that needed repair.

  Thankfully, it was over as soon as it began. He rolled off me, lying with his back to me. Meanwhile, I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. Please, God, I will do anything. Don’t let me be pregnant.

  * * *

  September 1838

  For three years I dealt with Manoel. He worked making or repairing shoes; when business was slow, which it often was, he went out fishing. However, most of what he earned he drank away at the tavern. Somehow, we managed to pay our rent every month and were able to put a little bit of food on the table. I picked up work cleaning houses when I could, but it wasn’t enough. I had to regularly choose between food, new clothing, and other basic needs.

  I daydreamed of being out with the gauchos, reveling in my memories of riding through the hills as I stirred a pot of fish stew. We had been eating a lot of fish lately, given that it was the only thing we could afford. The deep red sauce bubbled, releasing a pleasant aroma through our little home. My husband was late again, but I didn’t mind. I liked it better when I was alone. In those solitary hours I got to pretend I was my own person. I daydreamed about my time as a gaucho. As I stirred the stew, I tried to conjure the feeling of the air rushing past my face while I rode my horse. Unfortunately, Manoel stumbled through the door, bringing with him my miserable reality.

  “Anna! Anna! Your prince has arrived!” he exclaimed with arms outstretched. He stumbled over his feet but caught himself on our table. “Where is my supper?” He looked around the room, dazed. “I demand that you have my supper ready when I come home, woman.”

  I helped him to a chair. “And I demand a husband who isn’t a drunk. If only wishes were gold.” I dropped a bowl in front of him. “Did you drink all the money that you earned today?”

  He reached into his pocket and slammed a dirty fist on the table. Coins spilled from his fingers, spinning and rolling all over the table before he focused on shoveling food into his mouth. Half of it tumbled down the front of his shirt. I turned away from him in disgust. I heard his chair scrape along the floor. “I fought for you and I won. You are my prize. My prized jewel,” he said, trying to reach out for me.

  I pulled away, evading his grasp. “Well, it would appear that you were duped.”

  “Why do you not love me like other wives? They dote upon their husbands.”

  I rolled my eyes, knowing how this argument went. We had it every time he was drunk. He came home, complained about his life, and complained about me, culminating in a childlike meltdown. I sighed. “Because I never wanted to marry you.”

  “You shouldn’t say such things to me. I am a good husband.”

  “If you say so.” I walked into the bedroom, letting him follow me like a sick dog.

  “Without me, you would be nothing.”

  I nodded.

  He sat on the bed. “Why don’t you make love to me? A good wife would perform her duties.”

  I walked up to him as he slowly blinked his bleary eyes. Reaching out, I poked him in the middle of his forehead. With a heavy thud, he fell back onto his pillows, asleep. I finished putting him into bed and went back to the kitchen to finish eating my dinner alone.

  Two days later my mother arrived at my door. She sat down at my kitchen table with a heavy sigh. “Your husband came to visit me yesterday.”

  “Did he now?” I said, pulling my shawl tighter. A surprise visit from my mother required a gourd of strong mate. I went straight to the stove to begin brewing it as she went on.

  “He tells me you are being a cruel wife again.”

  “When have I ever been a kind wife?” I asked, looking out the window. The sky was darkening with the onset of the afternoon rains. Every day at precisely the same time, the sky would open up and a torrential downpour would wash over us. It also meant that my mother would be visiting for longer than I would prefer.

  “Anna, you have to be good to your husband. You don’t want him to leave you, do you? Then you will have nothing.”

  “Mother, I have nothing now.” I spread my arms out to show the expanse of my small kitchen with its tiny woodstove, wobbly table, and dingy cabinet that held what little food we had. I didn’t even have a parlor. Below us was a general store; above us, another apartment, even smaller than ours. “I did as you told me and married the man. What more do you want? I cannot love a man I do not respect.”

  “Who said anything about love?” my mother said with a wave of her hand as I poured the mate. “A woman who marries for love is a fool.”

  “Why did you marry Papai?” I asked, setting the mate in front of her.

  “Because he was exciting. I was just a girl in São Paulo; I wanted adventure, a new life.” She sipped her drink. “Look at where it got me. If I had listened to my mother, my life wouldn’t have been so hard. Maybe my sons wouldn’t have died. A woman is nothing without her sons.” She stared into her tea, scrying for what I could only imagine were the ghosts of the brothers I had never met—the two boys born in between Maria and I, the one who came out with the umbilical cord wrapped firmly around his neck and the other, who gasped for air but was too weak to live through the night. “Listen to your mother. Be good to your husband. You don’t want to be a ruined woman.”

  * * *

  November 1838

  It had been over a month filled with tense politeness since my mother came to visit. Heavy rains rhythmically pattered against the windows. Manoel slipped into the apartment after a long day in the shop. His clothes were soaked, and water slid from his hair onto our floor, creating little puddles around his feet. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of mildewed old sweat that followed him. Manoel kissed my cheek before quietly sitting at the table. “I received a large order today.”

  “From who?”

  “The Silvas.” He refused to meet my eyes.

  “Aren’t they friends of yours?”

  He shrugged. “What does it matter? An order is an order.”

  “Are you giving them a lower price?”

  “I can’t charge any less than I do already.” He pushed his food around his plate: stewed fish and rice again. “Do you think we could—”

  “No.” I didn’t even let him finish the question.

  “It’s been three months.” He looked up at me. His eyes searched my features for a hopeful sign.

  “I have a headache.”

  His grip tightened on his fork. “You’ve had a headache for three months.”

  I shrugged. “It’s a constant ailment.”

  He dropped his fork. “I’m going out.”

  I watched as he stomped out of the room.

  Two weeks later I was walking home from the market when I heard someone mention my husband. I paused, unseen by Senhor and Senhora Silva. “You can’t keep giving Manoel money.”

  “I know.” Senhor Silva turned from his wife’s scorn.

  “It is not your responsibility to take care of him.”

  “I said I know.” Senhor Silva let out a loud puff of air. “We have been friends since we were children. I can’t stand by and watch him become destitute.”

  “If he goes destitute it is his choice.”

  “Man
oel has a wife he needs to take care of. Wouldn’t you want someone to step in and help us if we were in that situation?”

  I watched from behind a pillar as Senhora Silva kissed the palm of his hand. “You will never let us be in that position.” Such a simple act, that kiss, but it filled me with immense jealousy. I wanted someone whose palm I could kiss in the middle of a busy street. Someone I could give little affections to, not caring who saw. Someone I could trust. I wanted a partner. My basket handle creaked under my tightening grip.

  A few days later Manoel sat at our table, stinking of stale ocean and the pungent sour smell of iron and mud that comes from gutting fish. He wiped a dirty hand over his tired face as he watched me finish making supper. I dropped the plate of pan-fried fish and rice in front of him.

  “Why do we have to eat this slop again? I know we have no money, but we don’t have to eat the same food every day.” He knocked the plate off the table with a swipe of his arm. “Pick that up and make me something else.”

  “No.”

  Manoel quickly stood up, throwing his chair back. “You will obey me! I am your husband and it is your duty to do what I say. I am tired of you defying me. Because of you I am an embarrassment! Now pick that up and make me something else.”

  “You can eat it off the floor for all I care. I am not your slave!” He reached his hand back to hit me. I stared at him without flinching. “Go ahead.”

  He lowered his hand without taking his eyes off me. “Why do you hate me so much? Why can’t you be a good wife?”

  “Because you picked the wrong woman. You are weak and pathetic.” My eyes narrowed, taking in his hangdog expression. “Look at you…You make me sick.” I spit.

  He stormed out of our house without saying a word. He was going to find comfort at the bottom of a bottle. I looked around me at my meager home, which I hated, living with a man I hated even more. This wasn’t the life I wanted to live. It was time I made a change, even if it ruined me. I packed a bag and left the apartment, never to look back.

  Five

  February 1839

  The disputes of the rich are the burden of the poor. The magistrates of Rio Grande do Sul, the state south of Santa Catarina, decided to break away from Brazil, led by General Bento Gonçalves. A former friend of Dom Pedro I, the great Portuguese king who had liberated us from colonial rule, Gonçalves considered himself a proud monarchist. He had stood by Dom Pedro’s side when he declared, “I am staying!” in the face of the colonialist nobility that wanted to keep Brazil from moving forward. Gonçalves had escorted the Queen Regent Leopoldina to the historic meeting on that sunny September day in 1822, where she signed the declaration of independence keeping us from becoming a colony again.

  However, after the deaths of his friends, he had been pushed aside. The young prince, Dom Pedro II, fell under the influence of men who did not have the interests of southern Brazil at heart—one of those interests being the sale of jerky. The gauchos became angry because their jerky, which was sold only in Rio Grande do Sul, was being taxed out of the market. Meanwhile, imports from Argentina and Uruguay were not only able to avoid the tax, but being sold at a discount to the population. The gauchos rose up in defiance and Gonçalves, a native of Rio Grande do Sul, felt it was his duty to lead the rebellion.

  The anger of Rio Grande do Sul spread into Santa Catarina, infecting everyone with its hunger for rebellion. Laguna buzzed with news of the riot in São Joaquim. Gauchos there had stormed the village center and burned down the constable’s building, with him inside. People argued in the streets. Those who were loyal to the king thought the rioters were rogue gauchos from Rio Grande do Sul. Others, who didn’t like the Imperial government’s influence, found the events inspiring. If São Joaquim could rebel against Brazil, so could Laguna.

  I was living in the small home of my godfather with my mother and sister. Maria, the glorious wife of the ship caulker, had been sent home by her husband in disgrace. After four years of marriage she had not produced a child. By law, he was able to set her aside for another, younger bride who might be able to give him children.

  Our godfather was often out. A house full of three bickering women was more than enough for a man who intended to be a bachelor his whole life. His small one-story house was three hundred yards from the harbor, but my mother liked to tell the other women, “We are on the right side of Laguna, west of the cathedral. We all know the east side is for the poor.” But really, there was not that much difference, especially since we were across the street from the cathedral.

  At eighteen years old, I found my time at the washing well a welcome respite from my crowded home. There I could listen to the gossip while I took my time laundering our clothes. One morning while it was still cool I made my way down to the well. The rainy season was fading away and the bright sun poured over the city, giving it a pleasant warmth. As I was washing, I heard a soft sniffle behind me. I turned to find Manoel standing there. Dark red veins spiderwebbed the whites of his eyes. He sniffled, wrinkling his nose.

  “Hello, wife.”

  “Manoel.” I bundled the shirt that I was holding into a ball in front of me. “Why are you here?”

  Manoel smiled. “I just came to see you. It’s been a while; you look well.”

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  He sighed deeply. “I’ve joined the Imperial cavalry. We are riding south.”

  I felt the air escape my lungs. He was going to fight in the Imperial Brazilian Army. Useless Manoel, who could barely cobble a shoe. I gulped. “When?”

  “Today.” He looked down, kicking a pebble. I stood watching him, my fear keeping me rooted to the spot. It was customary for the women, whether they be wives, lovers, or putas, to travel along with their men so that they could cook and tend to their husbands when they weren’t fighting. Like cattle or, worse, slaves. I silently prayed Manoel wouldn’t ask me to join him. I wanted to leave Laguna, but not like this. My stomach tightened as he opened his mouth to speak again. I spoke first. “If you are coming here to ask—”

  “No. At least, I already know what your answer would be if I did ask. It’s just, Anna, I came to say that I’ve always felt like I have had to be something for you. Something more than what I am.”

  “Manoel, I—”

  “No. I need to say this.” He puffed out his chest. “I have never been able to live up to your expectations. No matter what I do I am never good enough for you. I need to move on with my life and show you and everyone else that I am not a fool.”

  He left me there, clutching my laundry in my fists.

  * * *

  June 1839

  My days were tedious, spent doing household chores, occasionally helping my mother and sister in their work as housemaids for the wealthy. I looked forward to spending my evenings with my best friend, Maria da Gloria. We had met by chance, both washing our family’s laundry. She had forgotten the lye. I had a little extra.

  We were brimming with ideas of what the world was supposed to be like. It wasn’t long before Maria became my closest friend in Laguna. For a while she was my only friend. I both admired and envied her. Her curly hair made an unruly crown around her head—the only reminder that she was a descendant of freed slaves. When Maria smiled, everyone around her shared her joy.

  Maria’s father, Carlos, was a known sympathizer of the rebellion. His home was a safe haven for the most vocal of the rebels. Carlos encouraged Maria to speak her mind. She was his only child and he took pride in her independence. Maria’s mother, Dylla, was an amazing cook. She could make a feast for an army with just a little flour and chicken.

  “It isn’t fair that our own government favors the products of foreign nations over those of its own people,” Carlos said one evening, slapping the newspaper down on their table.

  “The loyalists claim it’s a matter of quality,” Dylla said as she stirred the beans.

  “Quality? How are Argentina’s cows better than ours?” Maria asked. She stood at Dylla’s el
bow, helping to prepare our dinner. “The people can’t determine which one they like better if they can’t afford both to compare.”

  “You are absolutely right,” Dylla said as she added more herbs to the beans. “What do you think, Anna?”

  I looked up in surprise. “I, um…That is…”

  Maria elbowed me in the ribs. “In this house, we value a woman’s opinion.”

  “‘Value’?” Carlos smiled mischievously. “I don’t think I would be able to stop the opinions even if I tried.”

  Maria threw a dishrag at her father, which he blocked just in time by raising his newspaper.

  Dylla smiled reassuringly at me. “Come now. You’ve got to have an opinion. Please share.”

  “We’ll only judge you if it’s the wrong one,” Carlos joked.

  “Well, I feel…” I began, looking at the friendly, expectant faces. “That it’s our government’s responsibility to take care of its people first.” I took a breath, feeling my thoughts start to come out faster. “In taking care of its people it must make sure that the people can earn a decent living, not to make them rich, per se, but enough so that they can feed themselves. The imports from other countries, whether it is jerky or something else, should be the expensive products. Not what is made here.”

  “Well said!” Maria exclaimed.

  “Why, Maria, I do believe you have been a horrible influence on this poor girl,” Carlos teased. “I don’t think I have ever been prouder to call you my daughter.”

  Laughing, Maria hugged her father. I laughed along with them. I felt proud that my opinion had been so well received, but at the same time, I felt a twinge of pain in my chest. Why couldn’t my family be this open and friendly?

  The door burst open and a group of men spilled through, led by Francisco, Maria’s fiancé. Francisco saw himself as the leader of Laguna’s rebels. The son of poor freed slaves, he was eager to make a name for himself, and battling against the Brazilian Imperial government was the most expedient way to make it happen.