Page 26 of An Immaculate Deception

I have neither carriage nor horse of my own nor the faintest idea how to get home from here. I remember Leandro mentioning once that the Santa Tereza is in the interior of the province, a thirty-minute ride into town. I need either Leandro’s or Doctor Lobo’s permission and assistance to leave. I cannot do it on my own.

I head downstairs for dinner once the clock strikes six. I find Leandro sitting alone in the parlor. The dinner table is made up with fine china and crystal glassware. A cream-colored linen cloth has been starched and ironed, replacing the oilcloth one used during the day, and a flower vase sits at the center. The food is not yet served, but the wall clock indicates it’s nearly time for dinner. Long candles flicker on the table and mantelpiece.

Leandro doesn’t notice me as I approach. He has a burning cigarette in one hand and a glass of liquor in the other. Only when I stand right next to him does he look up at me, almost startled. He stands abruptly and asks me how I’m feeling. Then he takes my hand and kisses it gently.

“How was your afternoon?” I ask, noting the bottle of cognac and the overflowing ashtray.

“I…” He starts and stops, as though there’s something stuck in his throat. It is then that I notice the glassy, unfocused quality of his eyes. His forehead is damp and his hair messy. His shirt is untucked. Beside him sits a glass with ice cubes next to a half-empty bottle.

“I added a new lie to the box of lies,” he says.

I start to laugh, thinking he’s joking, then I stop.

“Is that some sort of a riddle?” I smile politely.

His features contort, then he grabs the glass and tips it back. He stands and goes to the window. When he passes me, I catch a whiff of alcohol. He is drunk.

He’s smoking by the window now, juggling the cigarette and the drink in one hand. Has something happened since this afternoon? He cannot possibly have just started drinking, given his state now. He must have started hours ago. If so, what prompted it? His mental state has declined from earlier, and that sets my heart on edge.

I fear how he will react when I propose to depart early. Best to wait for Doctor Lobo to arrive.

“Leandro…” I move to stand beside him. “Is everything all right?”

He’s gazing out the window so intently that I look for something he might be seeing beyond the glass. But I only see the driveway, the yard, and the stable. The groundskeeper is hacking away at weeds in the distance. Macaws circle the low-lying clouds on the horizon. There’s nothing of note.

Leandro’s eyes may be looking out, but his gaze is turned inward.

“I’m invisible,” he mutters, then takes another sip of his drink.

“I don’t understand.”

He doesn’t look at me and I wonder if he even heard me. If he’s even speaking to me at all.

It’s the hour of waning sunlight just before dusk, the hazy twilight when the sky is a dull gray-blue. And while I can still see what’s beyond the window, I can also see a faint reflection on the glass. Leandro’s own reflection is barely visible, but it’s there.

Leandro is staring ahead, but I’m not at all sure what he’s seeing in the screen of his mind. There’s a schism between us that’s been there since the accident. There’s a line between his brows, a poignant look in his eyes. It’s like sometimes I talk and he doesn’t hear me. His reflection in the window is an unblinking figure in the shape of a man. Unlike the real Leandro, his reflection seems to be looking at me.

“It’s my fault,” he says to the window.

“What is?”

“Everything.”

There’s so much pain in his eyes now. What is he talking about? What terrible thing happened here to make him feel this way?

“Who are you talking to?” I say.

He doesn’t look at me.

I am certain of one thing now: Whoever he is thinking about, it’s someone from his past. Maybe it is the foul woman. The presence I’ve felt in this fazenda all along. I saw her in the room, I smelled her in the sheets. The lavender-rose perfume. The jewels. The singing bird box. There is so much left of her in this house. She’s in the walls, in the windows, in the air, in the mold, in the shadows. I can almost see her in Leandro’s glassy eyes now.

Is she who he’s seeing in the window?

The chaise longue in the senzala. The cold, dark, damp, dungeon-like senzala. It’s his fault, he says. What did he do?

“Leandro…” I start, edging closer to him. “Did a woman use to live here with you?”

He looks at me, finally. There is a light in his eyes, a flash of presence, as though he’s seeing me. As though I’m finally speaking a language he can understand.