Page 18 of An Immaculate Deception

Could it be that Leandro isn’t who I thought he was?

A frisson rolls through me, a slight dizziness, and I almost drop the lamp.

At dinner tonight I will speak with him, find gentle and tactful ways to ask about the renovation, about the guests. Leandro is a jovial person with a sunny disposition. He laughs easily and loves to sing and play the violão. At least before the accident, outside the peeling walls of the Santa Tereza. He once rode two hours in the rain to meet me in the plaza, and when he arrived drenched, he had a smile on his face. He is not the type to nurse sullen fumes. He threw himself at the driver’s seat to try to rescue us in the storm. He wasn’t cowardly, frozen in fear. That’s the real Leandro.

As I cross the corridor that leads to the staircase, I pass his study. I hear the creaking of the floorboards as he moves around in there. Perhaps I should speak to him right now. Hi, I’m carrying your baby, in case you don’t remember me telling you last night. Also, why are you keeping a rotting cake in the kitchen for months on end? And whose perfume is in that room upstairs?

I would like to speak to him openly about my concerns, to have him hold me and remind me of his love for me, if not in words, then in tender touch and smiles. But Leandro is still in shock. I’m not entirely sure what is going on inside that head of his. Doctor Lobo made such a point that we were to avoid anxious situations, even going so far as to forbid visitors. If I confront him too soon, will his condition deteriorate?

The door of Leandro’s study is slightly ajar, just a palm’s width. The gap is small enough to give the person inside the illusion of privacy, yet big enough for a peeper to have full view of what’s inside.

I shouldn’t.

It would be wrong. An invasion of his privacy. And what if he catches me?

I hesitate. I hear odd noises. Soft ripping. Shuffling, thudding. Subtle movement, hard to discern. He likely is just reading correspondence. Tearing envelopes, opening letters, folding them.

I position myself so close to the door that it’s easy to lean my head in a little and gain view of the room within.

The study is one of the nicer rooms in the house. The walls are covered in tall bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. I can smell the dusty paper from here. How I long to get my hands on some forbidden literature. Toward the window there’s a large desk topped with piles of papers, bookends, a cuspidor, a cigar case, and a heavy leather-bound manuscript. The window brings in the final wisps of blue daylight, and the thick carpet looks like it was imported from a far-flung country. A candelabra glows on the desk.

Leandro stands before a bookshelf with his back to me. At first glance, it looks like he’s leafing through different books as though searching for something. But then I notice a large pile of papers on the ground beside him.

He has a book in hand. He rips out a page, tosses it into the pile. Then he returns the book to its slot, hands moving quickly. He picks up the one next to it, opens it just as quickly, tears out a page, and tosses it into the pile.

He does it again with the next book. Opens. Rips. Tosses. Replaces.

And the next one.

And the one after that.

There must be dozens and dozens of pages in that pile. How long has he been doing this?

And most important…why?

Could it be to make a fire? I did see a fire pit outside, but who uses pages of books from the library as kindling?

A chill sweeps up my spine. My finger goes to the base of my neck, but my cross is gone.

This is the father of my child.

10

The whole house seems to come alive when Doctor Lobo joins us for dinner. His infectious high spirits, his booming voice which bounces off the walls. He is the total opposite of this sulking, brooding version of Leandro. His presence makes me feel better, infuses the house with a sense of normality, and I resolve to speak to him in private about my concerns. He may have some insight into Leandro’s personality or background that explains all this, or at the very least he can advise in a medical capacity. But how much can I reveal? How well does he know Leandro?

He hangs his hat on the hatstand, takes off his gloves, and tells me I look astonishing.

“Have you spoken with my mother?” I ask as we settle at the table.

“She is a lovely woman, your mother,” Doctor Lobo says as he spoons boiled macaxeira onto his plate. He tells me how Mother was very concerned initially, and insisted on coming here in person, but eventually capitulated when Doctor Lobo assured her that I would be returning in two and a half days and under his close watch in the meantime.

“You’ve performed a miracle.”

I wish I could have watched this exchange. There is no one else in the world who could have convinced my mother to allow me to spend time alone with Leandro, medical retreat or no. But I also suspect that her relenting had little to do with concerns for my health. As far as Mother is concerned, the damage is already done, as I am already with child.

Doctor Lobo carries the dinner conversation, first by divulging rumors that Dom Pedro I helped compose the old national anthem, and how some believe this makes it morally repellent to prefer it over the new one. I am reminded of Mother’s warnings that it is improper for a young lady to engage in political discussions, and am therefore glad when he switches topics to his time abroad. As with most men of his station, his family sent him to learn his trade in Europe as a young man, and he studied medicine at the University of Padua in Italy before returning to Brazil to open his own medical practice. I don’t mention that Mother says European cities are epicenters of godlessness and immorality. I find Doctor Lobo’s stories fascinating, but Leandro hardly speaks, stuffing food in his mouth with vague disinterest. I catch him eyeing me often, but when I meet his gaze he looks away.

The old, pre-accident Leandro would not have looked away. He would have locked eyes with me, maybe even winked. He would have at least pretended he was interested in Doctor Lobo’s stories, would have laughed and joked. He would be the spark of the night, spontaneously reciting verses, and later when the moon aged he would play his violão and sing for us. The old Leandro would be eating a lot and not just picking at his bean stew, looking as though our company is insufferable.