your shoes. Respectable people wore alpercata sandals with leather straps and rubber soles. Common farmers wore rope flip-flops. Pé-rapados wore no shoes at all; they had to scrape the mud-crusted soles of their feet with the dull edges of knives before entering stores or attending church. Gentlemen wore wingtips, and ladies—real ladies—wore heeled pumps. Aunt Sofia did not approve of heeled shoes, so Emília hid the pumps in her sewing bag and put them on after she left the house.
Luzia slowed her stride. She looked disapprovingly at Emília’s shoes but said nothing. Emília was thankful for her sister’s silence; she didn’t want another quarrel that morning. Two women swept their front steps. Plumes of dust rose around their feet. They leaned upon their brooms as Emília and Luzia passed.
“Good day,” Luzia said, nodding.
“Victrola,” the older woman replied.
“Emília,” the younger woman said, then covered her mouth to suppress her laughter. The older woman smiled and shook her head. Emília gripped the scarf that covered her shorn hair.
“It looks fine,” Luzia whispered. She flashed the giggling women a stern look, then shouted, “If you want a laugh, buy a mirror and take a look at yourselves!”
Emília smiled. She squeezed her sister’s hand. Months before, Emília had seen a hat in Fon Fon —a beautiful feathered creation that clipped to the hair like a small skullcap. Emília admired the little hat so much she sewed one of her own. She couldn’t find smooth black feathers like the ones on the model’s hat, so when Aunt Sofia killed a rooster, Emília saved the prettiest feathers: red, orange, and some black speckled with white. Despite Aunt Sofia’s objections, Emília wore her feathered skullcap to the market. She felt quite elegant, but as they moved through the market stalls people laughed and called her a strange chicken. Emília wanted to rip the hat from her head in embarrassment, but Luzia whispered: Don’t take it off. She held out her crooked arm and Emília took it. As they moved past the vegetable stalls and around the butchers’ pens, Luzia stared ahead, her body straight and tall, her face ferociously still. Luzia did not have the pale, petite looks of a Fon Fon model, but she had somehow mastered their elegance, their look of confident disdain. Afterward, Emília had tried to copy that look in her little mirror. She never could.
“You know, Lu, you’re quite good on the new machine,” Emília whispered.
Luzia shrugged. “You’re better. I’m sorry about your soap.”
Emília nodded. It could have been worse. At least Luzia had not revealed anything about the notecards. Emília had purchased a set of sky blue correspondence cards from the papelaria in Vertentes. Each month she addressed one to Professor Célio. She sharpened their thick sewing pencil to a perfect point (they did not have an ink pen; Emília longed for one) and composed her messages on scraps of butcher paper before carefully transferring the words to the correspondence card. The messages were tentative at first:
I would like to compliment you on your teaching abilities.
Sincerely,
Maria Emília dos Santos
Professor Célio wrote back— It is because I have talented pupils —and Emília’s messages grew bolder:
Dear Professor, my heart beats quickly each time you stand near my machine.
Yours Sincerely,
Maria Emília dos Santos
And he responded in kind, in her favorite note yet—
Dearest Emília,
I have watched the way you guide cloth through the machine. You have lovely, nimble fingers.
Atenciosamente,
Professor Célio Ribeiro da Silva
Emília patted her sewing bag. The envelope inside had two wet circles where Emília had spritzed her perfume—jasmine toilet water she’d purchased with a chunk of her savings. This card was the boldest yet, suggesting a meeting outside class. Emília felt a nervous shiver run though her. She held her bag tighter.
Colonel
Luzia slowed her stride. She looked disapprovingly at Emília’s shoes but said nothing. Emília was thankful for her sister’s silence; she didn’t want another quarrel that morning. Two women swept their front steps. Plumes of dust rose around their feet. They leaned upon their brooms as Emília and Luzia passed.
“Good day,” Luzia said, nodding.
“Victrola,” the older woman replied.
“Emília,” the younger woman said, then covered her mouth to suppress her laughter. The older woman smiled and shook her head. Emília gripped the scarf that covered her shorn hair.
“It looks fine,” Luzia whispered. She flashed the giggling women a stern look, then shouted, “If you want a laugh, buy a mirror and take a look at yourselves!”
Emília smiled. She squeezed her sister’s hand. Months before, Emília had seen a hat in Fon Fon —a beautiful feathered creation that clipped to the hair like a small skullcap. Emília admired the little hat so much she sewed one of her own. She couldn’t find smooth black feathers like the ones on the model’s hat, so when Aunt Sofia killed a rooster, Emília saved the prettiest feathers: red, orange, and some black speckled with white. Despite Aunt Sofia’s objections, Emília wore her feathered skullcap to the market. She felt quite elegant, but as they moved through the market stalls people laughed and called her a strange chicken. Emília wanted to rip the hat from her head in embarrassment, but Luzia whispered: Don’t take it off. She held out her crooked arm and Emília took it. As they moved past the vegetable stalls and around the butchers’ pens, Luzia stared ahead, her body straight and tall, her face ferociously still. Luzia did not have the pale, petite looks of a Fon Fon model, but she had somehow mastered their elegance, their look of confident disdain. Afterward, Emília had tried to copy that look in her little mirror. She never could.
“You know, Lu, you’re quite good on the new machine,” Emília whispered.
Luzia shrugged. “You’re better. I’m sorry about your soap.”
Emília nodded. It could have been worse. At least Luzia had not revealed anything about the notecards. Emília had purchased a set of sky blue correspondence cards from the papelaria in Vertentes. Each month she addressed one to Professor Célio. She sharpened their thick sewing pencil to a perfect point (they did not have an ink pen; Emília longed for one) and composed her messages on scraps of butcher paper before carefully transferring the words to the correspondence card. The messages were tentative at first:
I would like to compliment you on your teaching abilities.
Sincerely,
Maria Emília dos Santos
Professor Célio wrote back— It is because I have talented pupils —and Emília’s messages grew bolder:
Dear Professor, my heart beats quickly each time you stand near my machine.
Yours Sincerely,
Maria Emília dos Santos
And he responded in kind, in her favorite note yet—
Dearest Emília,
I have watched the way you guide cloth through the machine. You have lovely, nimble fingers.
Atenciosamente,
Professor Célio Ribeiro da Silva
Emília patted her sewing bag. The envelope inside had two wet circles where Emília had spritzed her perfume—jasmine toilet water she’d purchased with a chunk of her savings. This card was the boldest yet, suggesting a meeting outside class. Emília felt a nervous shiver run though her. She held her bag tighter.
Colonel
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