* * *
November 1838
It had been over a month filled with tense politeness since my mother came to visit. Heavy rains rhythmically pattered against the windows. Manoel slipped into the apartment after a long day in the shop. His clothes were soaked, and water slid from his hair onto our floor, creating little puddles around his feet. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of mildewed old sweat that followed him. Manoel kissed my cheek before quietly sitting at the table. “I received a large order today.”
“From who?”
“The Silvas.” He refused to meet my eyes.
“Aren’t they friends of yours?”
He shrugged. “What does it matter? An order is an order.”
“Are you giving them a lower price?”
“I can’t charge any less than I do already.” He pushed his food around his plate: stewed fish and rice again. “Do you think we could—”
“No.” I didn’t even let him finish the question.
“It’s been three months.” He looked up at me. His eyes searched my features for a hopeful sign.
“I have a headache.”
His grip tightened on his fork. “You’ve had a headache for three months.”
I shrugged. “It’s a constant ailment.”
He dropped his fork. “I’m going out.”
I watched as he stomped out of the room.
Two weeks later I was walking home from the market when I heard someone mention my husband. I paused, unseen by Senhor and Senhora Silva. “You can’t keep giving Manoel money.”
“I know.” Senhor Silva turned from his wife’s scorn.
“It is not your responsibility to take care of him.”
“I said I know.” Senhor Silva let out a loud puff of air. “We have been friends since we were children. I can’t stand by and watch him become destitute.”
“If he goes destitute it is his choice.”
“Manoel has a wife he needs to take care of. Wouldn’t you want someone to step in and help us if we were in that situation?”
I watched from behind a pillar as Senhora Silva kissed the palm of his hand. “You will never let us be in that position.” Such a simple act, that kiss, but it filled me with immense jealousy. I wanted someone whose palm I could kiss in the middle of a busy street. Someone I could give little affections to, not caring who saw. Someone I could trust. I wanted a partner. My basket handle creaked under my tightening grip.
A few days later Manoel sat at our table, stinking of stale ocean and the pungent sour smell of iron and mud that comes from gutting fish. He wiped a dirty hand over his tired face as he watched me finish making supper. I dropped the plate of pan-fried fish and rice in front of him.
“Why do we have to eat this slop again? I know we have no money, but we don’t have to eat the same food every day.” He knocked the plate off the table with a swipe of his arm. “Pick that up and make me something else.”
“No.”
Manoel quickly stood up, throwing his chair back. “You will obey me! I am your husband and it is your duty to do what I say. I am tired of you defying me. Because of you I am an embarrassment! Now pick that up and make me something else.”
“You can eat it off the floor for all I care. I am not your slave!” He reached his hand back to hit me. I stared at him without flinching. “Go ahead.”
He lowered his hand without taking his eyes off me. “Why do you hate me so much? Why can’t you be a good wife?”
“Because you picked the wrong woman. You are weak and pathetic.” My eyes narrowed, taking in his hangdog expression. “Look at you…You make me sick.” I spit.
He stormed out of our house without saying a word. He was going to find comfort at the bottom of a bottle. I looked around me at my meager home, which I hated, living with a man I hated even more. This wasn’t the life I wanted to live. It was time I made a change, even if it ruined me. I packed a bag and left the apartment, never to look back.
Five
February 1839
The disputes of the rich are the burden of the poor. The magistrates of Rio Grande do Sul, the state south of Santa Catarina, decided to break away from Brazil, led by General Bento Gonçalves. A former friend of Dom Pedro I, the great Portuguese king who had liberated us from colonial rule, Gonçalves considered himself a proud monarchist. He had stood by Dom Pedro’s side when he declared, “I am staying!” in the face of the colonialist nobility that wanted to keep Brazil from moving forward. Gonçalves had escorted the Queen Regent Leopoldina to the historic meeting on that sunny September day in 1822, where she signed the declaration of independence keeping us from becoming a colony again.
However, after the deaths of his friends, he had been pushed aside. The young prince, Dom Pedro II, fell under the influence of men who did not have the interests of southern Brazil at heart—one of those interests being the sale of jerky. The gauchos became angry because their jerky, which was sold only in Rio Grande do Sul, was being taxed out of the market. Meanwhile, imports from Argentina and Uruguay were not only able to avoid the tax, but being sold at a discount to the population. The gauchos rose up in defiance and Gonçalves, a native of Rio Grande do Sul, felt it was his duty to lead the rebellion.
The anger of Rio Grande do Sul spread into Santa Catarina, infecting everyone with its hunger for rebellion. Laguna buzzed with news of the riot in São Joaquim. Gauchos there had stormed the village center and burned down the constable’s building, with him inside. People argued in the streets. Those who were loyal to the king thought the rioters were rogue gauchos from Rio Grande do Sul. Others, who didn’t like the Imperial government’s influence, found the events inspiring. If São Joaquim could rebel against Brazil, so could Laguna.
I was living in the small home of my godfather with my mother and sister. Maria, the glorious wife of the ship caulker, had been sent home by her husband in disgrace. After four years of marriage she had not produced a child. By law, he was able to set her aside for another, younger bride who might be able to give him children.
Our godfather was often out. A house full of three bickering women was more than enough for a man who intended to be a bachelor his whole life. His small one-story house was three hundred yards from the harbor, but my mother liked to tell the other women, “We are on the right side of Laguna, west of the cathedral. We all know the east side is for the poor.” But really, there was not that much difference, especially since we were across the street from the cathedral.
At eighteen years old, I found my time at the washing well a welcome respite from my crowded home. There I could listen to the gossip while I took my time laundering our clothes. One morning while it was still cool I made my way down to the well. The rainy season was fading away and the bright sun poured over the city, giving it a pleasant warmth. As I was washing, I heard a soft sniffle behind me. I turned to find Manoel standing there. Dark red veins spiderwebbed the whites of his eyes. He sniffled, wrinkling his nose.
“Hello, wife.”
“Manoel.” I bundled the shirt that I was holding into a ball in front of me. “Why are you here?”
Manoel smiled. “I just came to see you. It’s been a while; you look well.”