Page 32 of The Seven Sisters

‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, senhorita, but there have been no babies born under this roof since my own child, over fifty-five years ago. Isn’t that so, Yara?’ she said to her maid.

‘Sim, senhora.’

‘So, who gave you this information? Someone who wishes to form a relationship with me so that they can inherit this house when I am dead, no doubt?’

‘No, senhora, I promise that this has nothing to do with money. That’s not the reason I’m here,’ I said firmly.

‘Then please explain more clearly why youare.’

‘Because . . . I was adopted as a baby. My adoptive father died last week, and wrote me a letter saying that this house was where my family once lived.’ I stared at her, hoping the truth of what I’d said was visible in my eyes.

‘I see.’ Again she surveyed me carefully, seeming to hesitate before she replied. ‘Then I must tell you that your father has made a terrible mistake and you have had a wasted journey. I am sorry to be of no further help. Goodbye.’

As I finally allowed the maid to lead me away, I knew with absolute certainty that the old woman was lying.

10

Even though it was only eight in the evening when I arrived back at the hotel, my body was telling me it was after midnight and I made the mistake of falling into a deep and dreamless sleep, waking up with the dawn at five the following morning.

I lay in bed contemplating what I had seen and learnt yesterday. Despite the old woman’s vehement denials, every instinct I had was telling me that Pa Salt had not been wrong. However, I thought ruefully, I had no idea what I could do about it. Whatever both the woman and her maid knew, they’d made it obvious they weren’t going to share it with me.

I pulled the tile out of my handbag, again trying to decipher the writing upon it, but I soon up gave up. What was the use? All I had was a few illegible faded words and a date. A moment in time sitting on the reverse of a piece of triangular stone.

Turning to my laptop to distract me, I looked at my emails and saw a message from the Brazilian publisher I had been working for, whom I’d contacted during the long three-and-a-half-hour wait in transit at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris.

Dear Senhora D’Aplièse,

We are delighted you have decided to visit Brazil. Our offices are located in São Paulo, so it may not be convenient for you to travel here to see us, but we would be thrilled to make your personal acquaintance if you do. However, we have forwarded your email to Floriano Quintelas, the author himself, as he lives in Rio. I’m sure he would be happy to meet you and assist you during your time in our beautiful country. Please don’t hesitate to ask if there is anything you need.

With best regards,

Luciano Baracchini

The friendliness and warmth of the email brought a smile to my lips. I remembered from my last visit how different the culture was from the far more formal Swiss style. I was in no doubt that if I had a problem of any kind, these people who didn’t know me at all would welcome and assist me in any way possible.

I lay back on the bed, looking out of the window as the sun rose over the sea and the wide road beneath me began to thunder with early morning traffic. The city was waking up.

The question was, after yesterday, should I attempt to dig deeper to discover the secrets Rio was keeping from me?

Given the only alternative I had – returning to Geneva, which I knew was an impossibility for now – I decided to stay on for at least a few more days and play the tourist. Even if I’d already come to a dead end in finding my heritage, I could at least discover the city in which I might have been born.

I dressed, then took the lift downstairs and walked out of the hotel, crossed the road and found myself on Ipanema Beach. It was deserted because of the early hour and as I walked towards the waves crashing against the soft sand beneath my feet, I turned back and looked at Rio from the sea’s perspective.

A mass of buildings – all different heights and sizes – jostled for position along the seafront, with the tops of the hills behind just visible above the city skyline. To my right, the long sweep of the sandy bay ended in a rocky headland, while to the left, there was a stunning view of the twin peaks of Morro Dois Irmãos.

And there, standing completely alone, I felt an energy passing through my veins, and a sudden sense of lightness and release.

This is part of me, and I am part of it . . .

Instinctively, I began to run along the beach, my toes clenching to take hold of the slippery sand and support me as I threw my arms out to either side in a moment of sheer exhilaration. I came to a halt, panting and doubled over, laughing at my uncharacteristic behaviour.

I left the beach, crossed the road and began to walk deep into the city, noting the mixture of colonial and modern buildings forced to become stablemates along the streets due to changing architectural fashions.

I rounded a corner and found myself in a square where vendors were already setting up an early morning fruit and vegetable market. Stopping at a stall, I picked up a peach and the young man behind it smiled at me.

‘Please, take it, senhorita.’

‘Obrigada,’ I said, and walked away, my teeth piercing the tender, succulent flesh of the fruit, my footsteps halting as I looked up suddenly and saw the white figure of theCristoyet again hovering above me.