Pereira’s house stood in the distance, beyond the bustle of the market. It was a large white mansion at the top of the hill, behind the church. Red and orange bougainvillea fell over the sides of his fence. Both of the colonel’s capangas stood on either side of his front gate, feet apart, hats tilted, hands resting on their holsters. Beside them, the colonel’s white-haired farmhand tightened the saddles on two mules.
At first, Dona Conceição had offered the sewing lessons to Aunt Sofia. She’d refused, claiming she already knew how to sew. “But I will be the girls’ chaperone,” Aunt Sofia had insisted. It wasn’t safe for young ladies to travel alone. There was no real road into Taquaritinga, just a steep mountain path. The trip to Vertentes took three hours down the mountain and four hours back. Emília spent a sleepless night fretting over Aunt Sofia’s presence in class. Their aunt would not sit quietly; she would interrupt the instructor, telling him how to sew this stitch and that one, embarrassing Emília. Before the classes began, Emília spoke confidentially with Dona Conceição, who convinced Aunt Sofia that her elderly farmhand was a reliable, vigilant man. The old man lived up to his reputation. If it rained during the ride, he stopped the mules and produced umbrellas from his satchel. In Vertentes, he would not allow Emília and Luzia to walk to class—it was unseemly for young women to wander alone—and guided their mules to the classroom’s front door. Emília hated arriving on the back of a mule. She and Luzia rode the animals sidesaddle, like proper ladies, squeezed between the saddle horn that bumped their hips and the mule’s large cargo baskets that chafed their legs. Emília had to constantly adjust the skirt of her dress, which hiked up during the bumpy ride.
Emília wished they could ride to class on the colonel’s horses, two purebred manga-largas whose trots were smooth enough to suit Dona Conceição. Or in an automobile! The colonel stored his motorcar in Vertentes. It was a black Ford with an engine crank in the front grille. The colonel hauled it up to Taquaritinga only once, on an oxcart. When it arrived, Aunt Sofia was wary. She insisted there was an animal or spirit working within the machine. How would a metal contraption move on its own? The colonel insisted on turning the engine crank himself. His Ford was one of five automobiles outside of the capital, and he would not risk his hired men breaking it. He took off his suit coat. Sweat ran into his eyes. It beaded on his gray mustache. The crank rattled around and around until suddenly, from the belly of the car came a sputter, then a growl. The colonel climbed into the driver’s seat. He steered the Ford around the square. Old men, children, even Emília herself ran behind the car, hoping to touch it. The colonel honked the horn. It sounded like a hoarse moan, calling out to Emília above the din of the crowd. She would never forget the sound of it.
5
Women congregated at the door to the sewing class. Emília pressed to the front of the crowd. Luzia pulled her back. Their chaperone had disappeared into Vertentes’ dusty streets, off to run errands for the colonel.
“Let’s skip today,” Luzia said. “Let’s explore. He’ll never notice.”
Emília shook her head. “I won’t miss a lesson.”
“What do you care about the lessons?” Luzia said, releasing her arm. “You only want to see your professor. I can’t believe you’re fond of him.”
Luzia kicked a stone with the toe of her sandal. Her feet were long and thin—thin enough to fit into Dona Conceição’s pumps without squeezing.
“He’s cultured,” Emília said.
“He’s a sissy,” Luzia replied. “And his hands!” She squirmed dramatically. “They’re like the skin of a jia!”
“They’re a gentleman’s hands,” Emília said. “You can marry some brute with sandpaper fingers, but I won’t.”
Luzia pointed to the Singer
At first, Dona Conceição had offered the sewing lessons to Aunt Sofia. She’d refused, claiming she already knew how to sew. “But I will be the girls’ chaperone,” Aunt Sofia had insisted. It wasn’t safe for young ladies to travel alone. There was no real road into Taquaritinga, just a steep mountain path. The trip to Vertentes took three hours down the mountain and four hours back. Emília spent a sleepless night fretting over Aunt Sofia’s presence in class. Their aunt would not sit quietly; she would interrupt the instructor, telling him how to sew this stitch and that one, embarrassing Emília. Before the classes began, Emília spoke confidentially with Dona Conceição, who convinced Aunt Sofia that her elderly farmhand was a reliable, vigilant man. The old man lived up to his reputation. If it rained during the ride, he stopped the mules and produced umbrellas from his satchel. In Vertentes, he would not allow Emília and Luzia to walk to class—it was unseemly for young women to wander alone—and guided their mules to the classroom’s front door. Emília hated arriving on the back of a mule. She and Luzia rode the animals sidesaddle, like proper ladies, squeezed between the saddle horn that bumped their hips and the mule’s large cargo baskets that chafed their legs. Emília had to constantly adjust the skirt of her dress, which hiked up during the bumpy ride.
Emília wished they could ride to class on the colonel’s horses, two purebred manga-largas whose trots were smooth enough to suit Dona Conceição. Or in an automobile! The colonel stored his motorcar in Vertentes. It was a black Ford with an engine crank in the front grille. The colonel hauled it up to Taquaritinga only once, on an oxcart. When it arrived, Aunt Sofia was wary. She insisted there was an animal or spirit working within the machine. How would a metal contraption move on its own? The colonel insisted on turning the engine crank himself. His Ford was one of five automobiles outside of the capital, and he would not risk his hired men breaking it. He took off his suit coat. Sweat ran into his eyes. It beaded on his gray mustache. The crank rattled around and around until suddenly, from the belly of the car came a sputter, then a growl. The colonel climbed into the driver’s seat. He steered the Ford around the square. Old men, children, even Emília herself ran behind the car, hoping to touch it. The colonel honked the horn. It sounded like a hoarse moan, calling out to Emília above the din of the crowd. She would never forget the sound of it.
5
Women congregated at the door to the sewing class. Emília pressed to the front of the crowd. Luzia pulled her back. Their chaperone had disappeared into Vertentes’ dusty streets, off to run errands for the colonel.
“Let’s skip today,” Luzia said. “Let’s explore. He’ll never notice.”
Emília shook her head. “I won’t miss a lesson.”
“What do you care about the lessons?” Luzia said, releasing her arm. “You only want to see your professor. I can’t believe you’re fond of him.”
Luzia kicked a stone with the toe of her sandal. Her feet were long and thin—thin enough to fit into Dona Conceição’s pumps without squeezing.
“He’s cultured,” Emília said.
“He’s a sissy,” Luzia replied. “And his hands!” She squirmed dramatically. “They’re like the skin of a jia!”
“They’re a gentleman’s hands,” Emília said. “You can marry some brute with sandpaper fingers, but I won’t.”
Luzia pointed to the Singer
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