mouth, as though it were a veil. I could easily have believed her a sorceress of the forest, born during Midnight’s Age of the First People.
Before I could call out and ask her name, she crossed her arms over her chest, pirouetted round, and disappeared inside her house. I waited for two hours, but she failed to emerge.
The next evening at sundown, I found her seated on a stool on the street beneath her balcony, selling plants and flower bulbs. She didn’t see me, as she was painting a pot a fiery orange. Her hair sat in a swirl atop her head, except for delicate ringlets by her ears.
“Good evening,” I said gallantly.
Startled, she dropped her brush onto her skirt.
“Shit! Look what you made me do!”
I was charmed that she had uttered a curse word. “I heartily apologize, young lady,” I said, offering my handkerchief to her with what I hoped was a winning smile.
“But I shall ruin it,” she said, plainly considering me daft to even suggest it.
My next reply would provide Luna Olive Tree and Mama with mirthful shrieks of laughter for many years. I held out my offering to her with redoubled sincerity and said, “I should not mind you painting all of me orange, if it meant being touched by you everywhere.”
How in God’s name I could have said such a ridiculous thing, I do not know. Incensed, her dark eyes flashed ominously. She bluntly refused my handkerchief and wiped her fingers on her apron instead.
Humiliated and tempted to rush away, I tried my best to turn the conversation toward a safer topic. “It is a lovely sunset — all that pink and gold.” Receiving only silence by way of a reply, I cleared my throat and shifted my weight to my other leg in what I hoped was a gentlemanly manner.
“You are standing in my light,” she said, not even deigning to look at me.
As the sun was behind her and my shadow fell in the opposite direction, I presumed she was joking. Encouraged, I gave a small laugh and launched another inane volley her way. Looking at her plants, I said, “I wonder if one might eat a tulip bulb. Some people call them
“Sir,” she declared, “if I knew they were poisonous, you may be assured I would offer one to you at this very moment.”
My eyes filled with tears at her harsh words.
“Oh, sir, what have I done?” she exclaimed.
Burning with shame, I ran off.
I barricaded myself in my bedroom and cursed all women as daughters of Lilith, queen of the demons. Then I took off my clothes and scrutinized myself in Mama’s old cheval mirror. I was far too tall and pale. I wondered if a mustache might improve matters.
I made myself stay at home the next evening, but the day after saw a return of my blind courage and I risked approaching her again. At sundown, I found myself carrying a red damask shawl to her that I had purchased for a small fortune on the Rua das Flores. When she appeared on her balcony, she stared at me, and this time it was her eyes that welled with tears.
I tied two knots in the shawl and tossed it up to her. She caught it eagerly, then dropped her black mantilla to me.
She wore my shawl about her shoulders and flapped it like wings. Then she rushed inside.
By the next morning, I could stand no more insomnia. Begging Gilberto to be patient with me, I walked to the house of my tormentor once again, waited till the tolling of nine o’clock, and knocked on the door. I had practiced an eloquent speech for her parents all through the night, including impressive references to philosophy and art, but when a short man with a grizzled beard and long gray hair falling about his shoulders came yawning to the door, I fumbled my greeting.
“Speak up, son!” the man said gruffly.
“There is a young lady … a young … girl who appears on your balcony in the evenings. She sells flowers in the street as well.”
“My daughter Maria Francisca.”
“Yes, yes, that must be her. But … but perhaps if I begin again … My name is John Stewart. I am sorry to inconvenience you with my coming so early to your door.”
“No, no, I am pleased.” He smiled. “And starting with your name is always a splendid idea. But before we proceed any further, I should like to know precisely what your interest in my daughter might be.”
“Well, sir, I … I intend to marry her.”
I cannot explain why I dared to make this reply, except that I truly meant it.
Francisca’s father laughed. “You are not the first to suggest that,” he said. “But it is much more important” — here he reached for my arm to lead me inside — “to be the last.”
He introduced himself as Egidio Castro da Silva Martins. He had only three or four crooked teeth in his head, but large friendly eyes and a sweetly puckered mouth. He told me that he was a flower seller and that his shop was near St. Anthony’s Hospital.
A painting of Francisca’s mother hung above the mantelpiece. I saw that her daughter had inherited her thick black hair and mysterious eyes. They both looked like women who knew how to keep secrets — and create them too. Senhor Egidio told me she had left him ten years earlier when Francisca had been seven. He made a fist and shook it at her. “You done me wrong, you wicked woman!” he bellowed.
After I commented on her likeness to their daughter, he looked bemused and said, “As you can see, I well understand your dilemma, son.”
About his daughter’s future, he made it quite plain that he would allow her to make her own decision with regard to a husband. I then explained that I wished to invite her to stroll with me along the riverside.
“I shall put that proposition to her this afternoon, young man, and if you will return at eight this evening, you will have an answer.”
I thanked him for his help and then confessed that I had to leave in four days for two months in England.
“Perhaps it is a good thing,” he reassured me. “You will get to know each other over the next evenings, if Francisca agrees. And if a true bond of affection develops between you, one that is not severed by weeks of separation, then we all might be inclined to believe that a promising future awaits you.”
“And one other thing, sir …”
“Don’t be shy, son,” he said, slapping my back.
“I should only like to add that my Father was Scottish and my mother, though Portuguese, is of New Christian origins. I am, in short, half-Jewish and half-Scottish. I wish to make that plain from the outset. I shall understand if you consider it an obstacle, but I can assure you that — ”
Senhor Egidio held up his hands and smiled.
“Son, all that matters between the young is loyal affection. The rest is simply decoration.”
True to his word, for the next three evenings, Francisca and I were permitted to stroll through the city. She wore a different mantilla every night, and I bought colored lanterns for her to carry.
I was astonished to discover how timid she was: She refused to look into my eyes for any length of time. Months later, she told me that I was the first man she had ever felt an attraction for and that it sent chills through her down to her toes.
On our second evening, as we stood by the river, I talked of Daniel.
“I shall never get over his death,” I observed.
“But you would not want to. If you could, then what would his life have truly meant to you?” She brushed my arm as she spoke. She had beautiful slender hands.
“Aye,” I replied, “he was a wild and handsome lad.” Thinking of my betrayal, I added, “And most loyal to me.”
Continuing my policy of revealing my personality flaws from the start, I then said, “The many deaths I have known have left me broken and lonely. If you come to feel a fondness for me, which is what I hope, Francisca, then you will be giving your heart to a man who has done many reckless things and who may be a wayward misfit. I recognize the truth of this now, and the worst part is that I am not at all sorry for it.”
