*
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.”
While we walked to her home through the impasse of silence I had created, I fell into despair, presuming I’d scared her off with my direct manner. At her door, I apologized for speaking inappropriately.
“John, please say no more, you have done nothing wrong,” she said, placing her hand over my mouth for a moment. Her touch made me jump. “I understand you better than you think. My father and I, there isn’t a day that passes that we do not miss my mother.” She smiled sadly. “Please come inside and sit with us. There is no need to be reticent. We are people who understand loss.” She took my hand and gazed deep into my eyes. “Please, I am your friend,” she assured me.
Five small words, but the way she said them – with the care of a person setting delicate flowers in a simple vase – convinced me that she understood that it was not mere momentary diversion I sought from her. I brought her hand back to my lips. The possibility that my loneliness was at an end … I smiled and kissed her once more, closing my eyes to breathe in her scent.
We discovered Senhor Egédio stoking the fire. I was touched by the eager affection he displayed toward Francisca and impressed by the sense of ease he created around him. He offered me a glass of wine.
“I should like to show you something, John,” he said. Scratching the whiskers on his chin, his eyes twinkled mischievously. “I shall return presently. And, Francisca, if you discuss me while I am gone I shall know!” With that, he disappeared upstairs.
“He never sits still. I was born to a weaver’s shuttle,” Francisca whispered.
Egídio came back into the room carrying a stack of mantillas. When Francisca saw them draped over his arm, she hid her head in her hands and groaned.
“What is it?” I asked her.
“The clever lass is embarrassed because she made them,” her father said.
He held them in the cradle of his arm for me to study, as though each were an infant. He had large coarse hands, with flecks of dirt in his fingernails, but his extreme gentleness in all things involving his daughter moved me – and reassured me as well that I was right where I ought to be.
Francisca cringed while we discussed her handiwork and refused to come and join us. “No, no, no,” she said, shooing us both away playfully.
In one mantilla of deep red she had incorporated a fire-colored pattern of autumn leaves. In another of chestnut, she had created a white and yellow blazing sun. I had never seen anything like them, as shawls in anything other than block colors were generally not worn in Porto. But what impressed me most was her imagination.
When I caught her eye and smiled, she sighed. “Papa lives to torture his children.”
“It is called pride, child,” he corrected with a wink.
Francisca continued to dismiss her work as I asked her questions about knitting techniques and methods. “With all that goes on in the world, who could possibly care what I make?” she told me.
I refused to give in to her modesty. “If,” I said, adopting the pose of a fine British gentleman, “if, young lady, I were to commission you now to make a waistcoat for me with the sun – or any other design you choose – incorporated in its weave, would you finally believe my admiration is real?”
As she still thought that I was merely being polite, I gave her a hard look and tossed her a hundred-reis coin, which she caught in both her hands. She shook her head at such an absurdity, then grinned. I could tell that although I may not yet have won her heart, I had indeed gained her trust.
*
The next evening she wore the red shawl I had given her as a gift. We walked again by the river, and she suggested that we take the ferry to the far bank. Without warning she looked at me defiantly, hoisted up the fringe of her dress, and raced off toward the boat, laughing all the way. I didn’t try to catch her; it was such an unladylike thing to do that I couldn’t take my admiring eyes off her.
Once on the ferry, I could think of nothing but kissing her, and my conversation was patchy at best.
In great danger of fainting, I risked everything by pressing my lips to hers.
*
Later that evening, defying all convention, we dared to enter my home unchaperoned. We were so nervous that we did not speak. My heart seemed to be beating outside my body.
After we’d kissed for a time once again, I slipped my fingers under the ruffles of her dress. She started when I did so, and I begged forgiveness for my impetuosity. But she clasped my hand and said, “Your fingers are cold, John, that’s all.”
Then she asked where my room was.
Hence, it was in my old bed that we first made love, creating a raft of our own entwined bodies and drifting off to sea.
Afterward, I was giddy. I pranced about the room stark naked, singing Robert Burns’s “Rantin’ Rovin’ Robin” in an operatic voice.
The next night, I asked if she would be my wife, and she agreed.
As a parting gift, I gave Francisca the letter from Joaquim to Lúcia that had fluttered out of The Fox Fables when I was seven, which had taught me so much about the language of love. She sat with her legs crossed on my bed like a child and read it by candlelight. While she was reading, I went to my window and, gazing up at the stars, whispered a prayer for Violeta’s safety. I think it was my way of saying good-bye to her forever.
After Francisca and I had slunk back to her home like criminals, she brought out my going-away present. It was a vest knitted of black wool, with the moon in different phases patterned into the weave. That seemed the most promising gift possible, as it was the moon, Midnight had said, who had told men and women of their eternal life.
*
So it was that I left for London already betrothed, and though my two months’ sojourn with Mother and Aunt Fiona was heartwarming, and the majesty and madness of London made my mouth drop open in amazement on many an occasion, I wished to be home in Porto at every moment.
Mama was, of course, overjoyed to hear of my impending marriage. She had become as eager and open with me as when I was young, and nothing gave her more pleasure than simply sitting with me. She had me describe everything about my evenings with Francisca, and though I was careful to omit the more intimate details, she guessed the truth soon enough.
“You have always shown great patience for many things, John, most of all for me. But you have never wanted to wait for affection.” She laughed. “Though I suppose that is a good thing. Why must so deep a love as you have found wait?”
Francisca and I exchanged letters twice weekly, which served to deepen our intimacy. She wrote to me once that she had woken in the night to hear me imitating birds.
Then you spoke to me, and you said, “Fly, Francisca, anywhere you wish. I shall try my best not be jealous.” Isn’
t that odd?
Dream or not, I wrote back, we shall endeavor to make it true. Though I beg you not to soar so high that I lose sight of you. And you must promise to always return to me.
I give you my vow, she agreed.
She always signed her letters, Your friend, Francisca. That meant everything to me.
*
We were married three months after my return, on September the Fourteenth of 1813, by which time Francisca had missed her time of the month on three successive occasions.
I was eager for my mother to attend the ceremony, particularly as we had rediscovered so much of our spontaneous affection during my stay in England, but she was hesitant to declare herself ready to return to Porto. In the end, we decided it best to proceed without her. I assured her that she would be with us in spirit, and that her blessing was all that mattered.
We were married in the São Bento Church, where I compromised with Francisca and agreed to take Christian vows – like thousands of Portuguese Jews before me. Luna, Benjamin, Gilberto, Senhora Beatriz, and Grandmother Rosa were all in attendance. Having sobbed throughout the proceedings, my grandmother told me afterward that I was a villain for failing to bring Francisca to her for her permission.
I played the gemsbok and would not be provoked.
Our first child was born on the Twenty-Eighth of February of 1814. It was a difficult birth, and Francisca was weak for weeks afterward. We named her Graça in honor of Graça Olive Tree.
Lying with my wife and our new baby in my parents’ old bed, I discovered for the first time that I wished to disappear into my wife and child. This, I’ve found, is one of the great mysteries of our fear of death, for if passing away were to mean merging into a loved one – into one of my daughters, for instance – I should not mind it in the least. Yet ceasing to exist the way we do, without this union with another being to whom we are tied by affection, has always struck me as damnably unfair.
*
Esther was born just over a year later, on the Seventh of March of 1815. This birth proved even more troublesome and led to complications for Francisca, who became prey to fits of rage and melancholy. For nearly two months she didn’t care whether Esther lived or died. Nor could I trust her with Graça, since she had on two occasions struck out in fury at her.
The lighthearted friend I’d married was replaced by a bedraggled Medea. Her silken hair grew tangled, as though burnt by the heat of madness raging inside her. I contracted a wet nurse to suckle Esther, and as I was loath to let a physician purge Francisca or apply his accursed leeches, she was tended to by Benjamin. At all hours that good man would come to our home to help with Francisca and the children.
In my wife’s lucid moments, tears of fear and regret fell in an endless stream, and I spent much of my time trying to reassure her.
“Do not abandon me,” she once begged, clawing at me in her panic. “Please, John, I could not bear it.”
“I could never abandon you,” I replied, but my fears for our future compromised that pledge. I placed her shawl over her shoulders and sang softly to her until she fell asleep.
Needless to say, this was a miserable time for us – a terrible test of our love. For a time, I am ashamed to admit, my affection for her was eclipsed by anxiety and resentment.
I am certain that Benjamin’s calming curatives saved her life in the end and safeguarded her sanity in the process. For as quickly as she vanished, she returned to me. A change became apparent to me in the wee hours of one cool night in May, when she came to my old bedroom, where I was trying to calm Esther, who’d been crying so much that I was worried for her health.
When I opened the door, my wife kissed me on the cheek and held out her hands for the baby.
I hesitated, but Francisca assured me, “Your friend is back and all is well.”
“It is truly you?”
She took my hand and brought it to her lips. It is strange to say so now, but when we embraced I could smell the change in her. I nuzzled my head into her neck, then burst into tears and placed Esther in her arms. After we discussed what had transpired over the past weeks – for she had little memory of much of what she’d said or done – I returned to our bed in my parents’ old room, where I slept for a good twelve hours.
Having suffered this terrible time, we thought it best not to have any more children.
*
Grandmother Rosa was still furious about the wedding and made no attempt to see Graça after she was born, but she did visit our house after Francisca’s difficulties had ended to get a first peek at Esther. She was now almost eighty years of age, yet she still insisted on dousing herself with her expensive French perfume.
After holding the wee infant in her arms, she started to cry. “John, is there no chance at all for me to start over with your children?” she whispered.
Convinced that her sentiments were genuine, I allowed her to visit whenever she wished, though I made Francisca swear she’d not leave her alone with either of the children until she’d proved her affection. The two of us would observe my grandmother at play with the girls on dozens of occasions over the coming years. And though she never displayed great patience or understanding, she did show them a certain brittle tenderness, which Esther in particular grew to adore.
When I asked my grandmother once why she had swallowed her pride and come to see Esther, she rolled her eyes as though I’d disappointed her with yet another silly question and said, “I’m old, John, and I’ve not much time left to me. You’ve got many more years than I do, so you hold the grudge for both of us if you want.”
Heartened that she had not lost her biting wit, I smiled admiringly at her, but she just cleared her throat and went back to the children.
*
Our marriage through those early years was a good one, I believe, though not without its difficulties. I was young and mule-headed, and it took me some time to respect Francisca’s opinion as equal to my own. I also worked too hard with Gilberto at our shop and occasionally returned home long after the children and Francisca were asleep, causing her to suffer bouts of profound loneliness. When I would inevitably fail to read her mind, she would sit sullenly by herself, her hands moving over her knitting with frightening swiftness. I would have to beg her many times before she would put down the shawl or scarf she was fashioning and tell me what was troubling her.
The more we found the courage to overcome our frailties, the greater our friendship became.
As anyone who has been married for a long while can attest, it is essential to adjust to the changes in one’s beloved every few years and, if you will, silently agree to marry them once again.
*
One rather startling discovery I made not too long after our marriage was that Francisca’s fondness for mantillas and vests of her own creation had led her to experiment – without my knowing – with boldly patterned fabrics for her own clothing. The second summer after Esther’s birth, by which time she had long regained her trim and girlish figure, she expressed this previously restrained desire by making herself two dresses from textiles woven in Morocco and the Portuguese colony of Goa.
As I say, I was not privy to this. Indeed, Francisca – demonstrating that penchant for secrecy I had first seen in her eyes – cut and sewed like a demoness during her afternoons, her patterns spread on the floor before her, while I was busy at my pottery and tile. By the time I returned home to her and the children in the evenings, she had everything safely tidied away, perfect innocence in her welcoming eyes.
I only chanced upon her secret one Friday evening at sundown while searching through one of her clothing chests for the red shawl I had given her when we’d first met, since – on a whim – I wished her to wear it at our Sabbath dinner with Luna Olive Tree and Benjamin. I ought to have asked her permission to rummage through her things, but since she was already at Luna’s house with the girls, I was in one of my typical frenzies.
Holding my lamp in one hand, rather like a tomb-robber, I lifted ou
t the first dress and laid it on our bed. “What’s this we have here?” I whispered to myself, delighted by the mystery.
It had bell sleeves and a low circular collar and was made of tightly woven wool – very soft to the touch – on which pink and crimson circles spun against a background of brown. The second, a long-sleeved empire gown, was bright canary yellow covered in black butterflies made from triangles trimmed in burgundy and orange. From a distance, their wings seemed to capture three different positions of a single flutter. It was miraculous.
I ran down our street to Luna’s house and, panting like Fanny at the finish line of one of our obstacle courses, insisted Francisca return home with me.
“What’s wrong?” my wife exclaimed, reaching for my arm in concern.
“Nothing.”
“Then why must – ”
“Just come. You will see when we get there.”
When she continued to protest, I dragged her off, like a child leading a parent to a treasure chest. Casting a look back over her shoulder as she shuffled behind me, she told Luna, “We shall return shortly – at least, I earnestly hope so.”
“Have no fear, I shall not sell the girls unless I get a good price,” Luna giggled.
Once we’d reached our bedroom, Francisca was confronted with the evidence of her deviousness. “You’ve found me out,” she gasped.
I kissed her hands and peeled them from her eyes, which were sealed tight. “As the spontaneous generation of gowns is an extremely rare phenomenon,” I said, “I am guessing that you made them.”
I laughed heartily, but she refused even to smile. Instead, she began to cry.
“But, Francisca, whatever could be wrong?”
Through her sniffles, it emerged that she believed I would regard her creations as hideous and would resent such an exuberant expression of her gifts.
“Oh, John,” she moaned, “sewing these dresses is the greatest folly I have ever permitted myself. I cannot say what made me do it.”
She misinterpreted my astonishment and pledged that she would never wear either of them if I objected. “Indeed, I shall throw them into the hearth.”
Hunting Midnight Page 27
