Page 56 of An Immaculate Deception

I do not visit Mother that night.

The next day I lock myself in my study and I pray with the rosary. I forbid myself from thinking about her. When I try to read a book, my mind is assaulted by memories of her spreading her legs for the camera two nights earlier. I look out the window to distract myself and spot her outside, chatting with the washerwoman, who comes weekly. I imagine her telling the washerwoman about me, laughing. Then she picks guavas from the tree, and sucks on the fruit languidly while sitting in its shade. That night I do not find her in the servants’ quarters nor in Mother’s room, and I think by some miracle, I am saved. With her gone I have a chance to think clearly, a treasured reprieve from Satan’s influence. But then I go into my room and find her naked in the bathtub, rubbing milky cream on her legs and beckoning me to join her—which I do.

I do not visit Mother for the second night in a row.

On the third day I lock myself in my office again. I fantasize about running away from the house. Imagine myself packing a suitcase, mounting the horse, and riding off into the fields. But that is where my fantasy dies, for where would I go? I do not have other relatives to take me in, or even close friends I could confide in about the situation.

Get rid of her, Mother says.

I fantasize about whipping myself like a medieval monk. There would be such relief in inflicting pain on my own flesh, in the self-chastisement, yet I am too cowardly to do such a thing. Still I dream about living in an isolated monastery where I could have peace.

I am frightened to leave my study. All day I’ve heard fragments of Joaquina’s shrill voice bossing the other servants around, her contemptuous laughter, her humming that dreadful tune, no longer pretending to sweep or dust. I am shocked to walk into empty rooms and smell lavender rose. I am afraid to walk into a new corner of the house, afraid to bump into her, ready to pounce. I am the servant and she is the master, and every night she proves that to me.

It cannot go on like this.

My whole body is shaking as I go down to the senzala. I freeze before the door, seized by a terrible paralysis and a burning in my chest. I hear Mother’s voice: Now you have the devil in your skin as well.

I spin around, gripped by an unbearable thirst. Joaquina corners me on the veranda and throws her arms around my neck. As her mouth presses into mine I close my eyes and see maggots writhing out of Mother’s decomposing mouth, mice gnawing at her fingertips. I tell Joaquina we need to end this. She laughs in my face.

The next day I stop hearing Mother’s voice inside my head.

I know it is because of Satan’s influence. I have the devil in me; I am separated from God and cannot hear what is right and good.

I look down at the letter I have been writing and hardly recognize my own handwriting. How long have I been writing this letter? Minutes? Hours? Days? The ink bleeds on the warm surface, smudging where my hand meets paper. I hardly even recall writing it. I know only that a terrible fever took hold of me as I worked, and although the account is incoherent, these are the truest words I’ve ever penned.

I have confessed everything.

I wrote about Joaquina and our shameful sins for pages, then I finally confessed the worst part: my neglect of Mother. She has been alone in that dark dungeon without medical assistance or food or water for several days. Whenever I try going in, I am seized by a paralyzing dread. I cannot face her while I have the devil in my skin.

Doctor Amado would not understand. He would ask all sorts of questions about why I neglected Mother and also why she has been down in the senzala. I have no neighbor, friend, relative, or acquaintance who would understand.

Except one.

The clock ticks on the wall. My stomach roils and churns. I ring for Maria das Dores.

A moment later, there’s a soft knock at the door. “Senhor Neves, you called me?”

“Come in.”

Maria das Dores regards me warily, hands twisting the edge of her apron. She eyes the tall pile of empty glasses and the bottle of cognac on my desk, and pity comes into her eyes. She knows me for the sick creature that I am.

I hand Maria das Dores the sealed envelope. I do not know how it ended up being so many pages. I should have reread what I wrote, but I cannot.

“Have the houseboy deliver it straightaway.”

34

What kind of a man cannot even fire his own servants? Mother says.

I stir awake. I fell asleep at my desk. A noise comes from above like the thump of footsteps. For a moment I’m dazed, unsure how long I’ve been asleep. I haven’t left my office in a long time. The window shows dark skies; night has fallen. At this hour, everyone should be gone except Joaquina. The footsteps upstairs must be her.

I rise, resigned to my fate, but also excited by it.

The house is dim, shadows hang in every corner. A faint glow emanates from the drawing room as I head to the staircase. Putting out the candles and lamps is Joaquina’s job, but she stopped attending to her duties when we started our affair. I veer toward the drawing room to put out the lights, then pause when I hear a different sound. A faint moaning.

I am confused—I thought I heard footsteps upstairs, but the moaning comes from the drawing room.

I step through the corridor into the drawing room. She lies on the sofa dressed only in shadows. She turns her head to look at me, eyes blurry black diamonds, wisps of hair falling over her face, hand lost between her legs.