Of Violeta, I said only that she was looking very well and that her house was comfortable.
As I wrote, I added tails, snouts, and paws to my letters, just as Midnight would have. I felt him staring over my shoulder and praising my penmanship as finally worthy of a Bushman.
When Violeta called me down, I found she had laid out her oval sitting-room table with pretty blue and white porcelain — like Mother’s, with a windmill pattern.
“I shall never forget her many kindnesses to me,” she told me. She took my hand and brought it to her lips. “That is for your mother when you next see her.”
I gave her Mama’s message of love, then made quick work of a chicken pie that she had been kind enough to purchase for me at a nearby pastry shop.
We were seated at opposite ends of her table, by the windows to her garden. Her yellow curtains were closed tight. She asked questions about my sea voyage in a voice of studied calm, endeavoring to keep her own nervous nature in check.
Standing, she lifted away a corner of the curtain to gaze outside. When she turned back to me, her face was drawn and sad.
Believing I must have offended her with something I’d mentioned about my trip, I said, “Violeta, I shall stop droning on about nothings. Please forgive me. It’s just that I’m extremely agitated. I wish to know everything about you coming to America. I want to hear about your life.”
She fiddled with the lace of her fichu. “No, no,” she said with a frown, as though the very idea of talking about herself was distasteful. “I am certain it would only put you to sleep.”
“John, why don’t we go for a walk,” she proposed in Portuguese.
“A walk? Now?”
“It sometimes helps me. Though you’d have every right to refuse me. You’re probably too tired.”
She used the formal tense of
While she got ready, I took advantage of my time alone to caress open the drawers of a breakfront in her sitting room. I did not know what I hoped to find. At first, I came upon only thread, remnants, and other such nothings. Then, in one of the lower drawers, I discovered an ancient leather ball, the size of a man’s fist. It was one of Fanny’s — I could still see her jagged teeth marks, as though she had only just made them.
Violeta and I ambled down John Street without speaking, under the shade of cottonwood and horse-chestnut trees. The warm sunlight danced on and off my shoulders.
“Are there many Africans in New York?” I asked Violeta.
“There must be several thousand.”
“None are kept as slaves, I hope.”
“I’ve been told that any Negro who was born in New York after 1799 is considered free by birth. Those who were born earlier are still in bondage. Though most, I think, have been sold elsewhere. I confess I’m not sure, but there can’t be very many left in the city — a few hundred perhaps.”
At Broadway we turned north. I watched the passersby under parasols and the carriages rushing here and there — admired the cleverly painted shop signs, as well.
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” I smiled.
Violeta had walked ahead. “Yes, indeed,” she replied matter-of-factly, waiting on me.
Risking being run down by a wagon or trampled by a horse, I stood at the center of Broadway to gaze south at the stone fortress at the tip of the island and the masts of sailing ships beyond. Then I faced the other way and looked out toward a horizon of woods far to the north.
On our walk, Violeta asked me no questions at all, and I dared not make further inquiries of her. I grew glum and quiet. Onlookers must have presumed an unhappy marriage. When we reached Grand Street, a popular boulevard of shops perpendicular to Broadway, Violeta said, “I should like to continue on with you, but there are things I need to attend to at home. We’ll meet in the afternoon for tea. Shall we say four o’clock?”
Before I could say anything, she rushed off. Cursing her inscrutability, I continued my walk. Curiously, I thought of Lourenco Reis, the necromancer. I suppose that in my childish mind I believed that Violeta had been placed under a wicked spell and that only I might free her.
At three-thirty I started back toward home. Violeta had baked a dozen scones during my absence, and the smell was heavenly. Watching me with charmed eyes, she said, “You eat as you always did when your mother was out. Crumbs everywhere.”
“Is that good or bad?”
She laughed; our time apart had plainly rekindled her affection for me. “Very good indeed, you evil thing!”
I again asked her to tell me how she had reached New York.
“Not now, it would just spoil our fun,” she replied.
We talked instead of events in Portugal and Europe over the past two decades. On her insistence, we spoke in English. I sometimes framed my replies so as to try to learn whether she had maintained a correspondence with her mother and brothers. But she was too clever for me and wouldn’t give anything away.
After tea, I headed upstairs to finish my letter to my family. To my surprise, I discovered a room full of new furniture: a chest of drawers with brass handles, a handsome case clock with lion’s feet, two comfortable armchairs in willow-green brocade, and a dark mahogany writing desk on which Violeta had left a note:
John, you will always have a place in my home. And I shall make no claim upon your time while you remain here. It is enough to find you doing so well. After all I have lived through, after so much that I never wish to see again, to find that someone for whom I have nothing but fond affection has become so fine a person …Well, let usjust say that your presence is a gift I had no right ever to expect. Indeed, if you will excuse my emotion, it is the greatest gift I could ever have imagined. Be patient with me. Fondly, Violeta.
That night, I awoke at three in the morning. Venturing down the stairs, I discovered Violeta fast asleep in her chair. I considered waking her so that I could help her up the stairs. Instead, I tiptoed away like a thief to her bedroom door. I planned to hunt through her wardrobe and secretary, to search under her mattress and pillows, but I stayed only a moment; over her bed hung the round tabletop Daniel had carved and left her as his last gift. The likeness to her at its rim was still uncanny, but when I moved closer, I discovered that cuts had been made in her cheeks and eyes. None of the other children’s faces had been damaged in the least.
The next morn over breakfast, I summoned the courage to tell Violeta about Midnight.
“Was he the small man I sometimes saw you with in the months before I left Porto?”
“Aye, he befriended me after … after Daniel’s death. And after we had ceased being friends. If he hadn’t helped me, I’m sure I’d never have lived to adulthood.”
I told her then how he and I had watched her from afar in New Square. “He’d prayed for the Hunters in the Sky to help you reach America,” I said.
“Then there were two of us praying for that,” she replied quietly.
I naturally had to speak of my father’s treachery and of the ruination of my parents’ marriage. She listened attentively to everything I said, her chin on her fist. Her only movement was to give my hand a firm squeeze when I spoke of my certainty that Mama had ceased loving me for years.
Speaking of Midnight left me in a state of anxious despair, and I knew I could wait no longer to make my travel plans to Alexandria. I told Violeta that I wished to book my passage immediately, to which she replied in a
