Four
August 1835
August 21, 1835, was the day I married Manoel. Gray clouds blanketed the sky above the steeple. The gloomy afternoon mirrored my mood. The night before my wedding my mother slipped into my room and petted my hair. “Don’t be sad,” she said. “This marriage will be a good thing. You have the spirit of men’s longing in your eyes. And that is so dangerous for a girl. It scares me. Soon you will come to see that a marriage will tame you. Keep you safe.” She thought she was making me feel better, but my despair only grew.
I stood in front of a yellowed mirror while my mother fussed with my veil, waiting for the ceremony to begin. I wore a simple dress that had probably been fashionable when my mother was a girl. She’d purchased it from a newly widowed woman after being appalled by my plan to wear the same clothing I wore when cleaning houses. Just to be safe from any bad luck, my mother had the dress blessed by the priest.
“You look so much like your father,” she said, smoothing out a stray wrinkle in my dress. “Such a shame his looks did not translate well to a girl.”
She stopped and met my eyes in the mirror. “Try to be happy today, Anna. You will now be a woman. Your life is finally beginning.” How could it be beginning when I felt like I was dying inside?
Standing at the altar, I looked over my new husband as he said his vows to our priest. Manoel’s hair was slicked back with oil, and a thin trail of sweat rolled down his temple. He was even greasier than usual. How can that happen? I wondered. He was beaming, as if he had just won a hard-fought contest. I said the vows I had practiced like I was supposed to, not giving him the pleasure of a smile.
A middle-aged woman I vaguely recognized loudly whispered, “You would think she was at a funeral with that scowl.”
As we hurried out of the church my shoe slipped off. When I turned back to retrieve it, an old woman gripped it in her hands. “I am so sorry, this is a very bad sign.” She crossed herself. “You should get a blessing from the priest. Your marriage is doomed,” she whispered.
“I know,” I whispered back.
Dreading my wedding night, I kept passing goblets of wine to Manoel, hoping that he would become too drunk to perform his duties. However, when the time came, drink didn’t slow him. I held my breath as he climbed on top of me, feeling slightly smothered by his weight. Manoel fumbled with his member and then tried to kiss me, but I turned away, squeezing my eyes shut. For a moment, he hesitated, but then he started pounding like I was a shoe that needed repair.
Thankfully, it was over as soon as it began. He rolled off me, lying with his back to me. Meanwhile, I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. Please, God, I will do anything. Don’t let me be pregnant.
* * *
September 1838
For three years I dealt with Manoel. He worked making or repairing shoes; when business was slow, which it often was, he went out fishing. However, most of what he earned he drank away at the tavern. Somehow, we managed to pay our rent every month and were able to put a little bit of food on the table. I picked up work cleaning houses when I could, but it wasn’t enough. I had to regularly choose between food, new clothing, and other basic needs.
I daydreamed of being out with the gauchos, reveling in my memories of riding through the hills as I stirred a pot of fish stew. We had been eating a lot of fish lately, given that it was the only thing we could afford. The deep red sauce bubbled, releasing a pleasant aroma through our little home. My husband was late again, but I didn’t mind. I liked it better when I was alone. In those solitary hours I got to pretend I was my own person. I daydreamed about my time as a gaucho. As I stirred the stew, I tried to conjure the feeling of the air rushing past my face while I rode my horse. Unfortunately, Manoel stumbled through the door, bringing with him my miserable reality.
“Anna! Anna! Your prince has arrived!” he exclaimed with arms outstretched. He stumbled over his feet but caught himself on our table. “Where is my supper?” He looked around the room, dazed. “I demand that you have my supper ready when I come home, woman.”
I helped him to a chair. “And I demand a husband who isn’t a drunk. If only wishes were gold.” I dropped a bowl in front of him. “Did you drink all the money that you earned today?”
He reached into his pocket and slammed a dirty fist on the table. Coins spilled from his fingers, spinning and rolling all over the table before he focused on shoveling food into his mouth. Half of it tumbled down the front of his shirt. I turned away from him in disgust. I heard his chair scrape along the floor. “I fought for you and I won. You are my prize. My prized jewel,” he said, trying to reach out for me.
I pulled away, evading his grasp. “Well, it would appear that you were duped.”
“Why do you not love me like other wives? They dote upon their husbands.”
I rolled my eyes, knowing how this argument went. We had it every time he was drunk. He came home, complained about his life, and complained about me, culminating in a childlike meltdown. I sighed. “Because I never wanted to marry you.”
“You shouldn’t say such things to me. I am a good husband.”
“If you say so.” I walked into the bedroom, letting him follow me like a sick dog.
“Without me, you would be nothing.”
I nodded.
He sat on the bed. “Why don’t you make love to me? A good wife would perform her duties.”
I walked up to him as he slowly blinked his bleary eyes. Reaching out, I poked him in the middle of his forehead. With a heavy thud, he fell back onto his pillows, asleep. I finished putting him into bed and went back to the kitchen to finish eating my dinner alone.
Two days later my mother arrived at my door. She sat down at my kitchen table with a heavy sigh. “Your husband came to visit me yesterday.”
“Did he now?” I said, pulling my shawl tighter. A surprise visit from my mother required a gourd of strong mate. I went straight to the stove to begin brewing it as she went on.
“He tells me you are being a cruel wife again.”
“When have I ever been a kind wife?” I asked, looking out the window. The sky was darkening with the onset of the afternoon rains. Every day at precisely the same time, the sky would open up and a torrential downpour would wash over us. It also meant that my mother would be visiting for longer than I would prefer.
“Anna, you have to be good to your husband. You don’t want him to leave you, do you? Then you will have nothing.”
“Mother, I have nothing now.” I spread my arms out to show the expanse of my small kitchen with its tiny woodstove, wobbly table, and dingy cabinet that held what little food we had. I didn’t even have a parlor. Below us was a general store; above us, another apartment, even smaller than ours. “I did as you told me and married the man. What more do you want? I cannot love a man I do not respect.”
“Who said anything about love?” my mother said with a wave of her hand as I poured the mate. “A woman who marries for love is a fool.”
“Why did you marry Papai?” I asked, setting the mate in front of her.
“Because he was exciting. I was just a girl in São Paulo; I wanted adventure, a new life.” She sipped her drink. “Look at where it got me. If I had listened to my mother, my life wouldn’t have been so hard. Maybe my sons wouldn’t have died. A woman is nothing without her sons.” She stared into her tea, scrying for what I could only imagine were the ghosts of the brothers I had never met—the two boys born in between Maria and I, the one who came out with the umbilical cord wrapped firmly around his neck and the other, who gasped for air but was too weak to live through the night. “Listen to your mother. Be good to your husband. You don’t want to be a ruined woman.”