Page 47 of An Immaculate Deception

“Right about what?”

“You know,” I say, “I was not the one who had the lock installed on the door. It was Mother herself who did so, years ago.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“She believed the servants were stealing her jewels and other belongings while she was out.”

“Were they?”

I shrug. I never really thought that they were. She spoke often about the theft of the crown jewels some years back. The jewels were eventually found in the house of palace servants, hidden in cans of butter. If such valuable items could disappear from the royal palace of São Cristóvão, if thieves were bold enough to steal from the empress herself, then what would stop our servants from robbing us? I was only four at the time, but Mother repeated this story on a monthly basis, whenever she became convinced a chambermaid was stealing from her. She would accuse the maid directly, a terrible row would ensue, and the girl would walk about with swollen eyes and glistening cheeks for days after. The maids looked hurt but none ever spoke up, and neither did I. As for Mother, installing the lock greatly pleased her. You can never trust the servants, she would tell me. And she was right, I see now. Were it not for that spying chambermaid, I wouldn’t be having this unpleasant conversation with this officer right now.

“I do not know,” I answer.

“So you never told the chambermaid about your mother’s existence in the house,” he says. “One day she sees a woman inside, when the door remains locked throughout the day. Surely you can’t blame her for finding it suspicious.”

A long silence stretches. “Is there anything else I can help you with, officer?”

His dark eyes narrow. “There is something else the chambermaid mentioned that I can’t quite make sense of.”

“What’s that?”

“She said you were speaking to her. Why speak to an unconscious person?”

I shift in my seat. The silence bears down on my pores.

Finally, I say: “Perhaps she was mistaken. Why should I be speaking with her?”

A crease forms between his brows, then he rises to his feet, drawing a handkerchief from his vest pocket and pressing it to his temples. “Are you able to provide paperwork to verify this woman is your mother? Identity card, birth certificate, and such.”

“Of course.”

He takes out a pen and notepad from his vest pocket. “I shall also need the name and address of the physician to verify the medical condition is as you described.”

“That won’t be a problem, senhor.”

28

How dare you?

“It’s only temporary, Mother.”

Mother looks ghostly here in the senzala. I pull the blanket up to her shoulders. I set the book beside the oil lamp on the wooden table. All of which I brought down from her room. It took me a while to carry everything down here, not least carrying Mother herself. I even brought down her singing bird box to play the chirpy tune from time to time. She doesn’t need a sponge bath today, just the exercises, and then I’ll continue our reading from The Three Musketeers.

This is undignified. Hiding me in the slave quarters to fester along with the mice and spiders.

“I have no choice, Mother. I have no wish for further visits from the police, nor the spying eyes of servants.”

I can hear my own voice so much louder here than in her room.

The senzala was the slave quarters decades ago, back when this farmhouse was an operational sugar mill. Since then, it has been forgotten. Yesterday I spent the whole day cleaning it, mopped the floor and scrubbed the cobwebs and mice droppings. I brought down a chaise longue from upstairs for her to lie on, a comfortable antique one, and padded it with two large pillows.

But even with the oil lamps, it still feels dim here. Haunted. I can understand why Mother wouldn’t like it, but this is a necessary evil.

Darkness aside, the senzala is perfect, and I feel much better having Mother here than in her room upstairs. No one ever comes in here. It is only accessible from the exterior entrance, and does not connect directly to the interior of the house. Everything about it was built with the intention of keeping the goings-on here private. I can count on my fingers the number of times I’ve been in this room, despite living in this farmhouse my entire life.

I look down at her. Mother’s eyes are shut. Her lips are thin and rest in a slight frown, as if her life’s discontent is etched into her skin. Sometimes if I stare at her eyes, I can almost see them open. They stare back at me like two shiny moonstones. Then I blink and see her unmoving, slumbering face again. Mother fell ill with yellow fever several weeks ago. There was a brief recovery, but this was followed by a terrible relapse. Her condition deteriorated until she fell into this deep sleep.

I place my finger underneath her nostrils often, to feel the light air and reassure myself that she isn’t dead. Not fully dead nor alive nor asleep. But here in this senzala it feels as though we are both inside a coffin, a dark damp box, might as well be, and if something were to happen to us here, no one would ever notice. Not for a long time, at least. It would be the last place anyone would think to check.