Written by Wilson Júnior
Edited by Vanessa Guedes
Translated by Marina Ferreira
Copyedited by Luiza Cantoni
The sight of the Big House was almost too much. Dora took her hand to her chest, fearing this pain would be her final. It wasn’t. Her heart, albeit older now, was strong. Many people would say she had a stone in its place. But the stone pumped the memory of her son’s fingers clutching to her body.
She paused at the first step of the porch. At the top of the stairs was Sinhá Girl. Dora recognized her by her eyes. They were cunning in her infancy, malicious now, the eyes of a grown woman. They were sad, resentful even.
“Sinhá Girl, do you remember me? I’m Doralice. I worked in your home as a young woman, you were a little one.”
The woman didn’t even go through the trouble of masking her disdain.
“Do not call me that, I’m the matron of this home. No, I don’t remember. Make your way out, the blacks are busy with the Christmas festivities preparations. They don’t have time to waste on small talk.”
The conversation gathered folks around them. In the crowd, Dora only recognized one face among the living. Francisco was the right hand of Baron Justa but, by the clothes he wore now, he had returned to the blacks’ place, head down and slouched shoulders.
The woman was already turning her back. Dora persisted.
“My apologies for the intrusion, ma’am. Your father told me, the day I left this house, that it would always have its doors open for me, whenever I wanted to come back. I seek work and I figured, on Christmas eve, your home would need all the help it could get.” – It was a half-truth. The words of the Baron were spoken as mockery at the time, but were said nonetheless, and now this is what mattered to these people.
All maliciousness left Sinhá's eyes, giving space to her anger. Dora saw the woman attempt to maintain her composure, but the mention of her father’s promise clearly bothered her.
“Do you have it in writing? Any documents that prove this?”
“I don’t, Ms. Lucélia. Francisco and some others were standing by your father when he spoke of it.” Dora pointed to the man, who now cut through the crowd.
The woman looked at him. Dora knew to expect a negative answer, but the man gave her a wide smile and said:
“He did, yes. Welcome back, Dora.”
The fury in Sinhá Lucélia, earlier aimed at Doralice, now turned to Francisco, who made himself smaller. Dora didn’t know what had happened in this place over the last few years, but she knew there was no love between the two of them. She silently thanked him for being her sole ally, even though he was among her enemies in the past.
“Listen, ma’am, I don’t mean to bother on a festivity day. If you search through your memories you will recall I’m a great baker. My cakes were famous around here.”
The words put a smile on the woman’s mouth. Perhaps her palate had better memory than her eyes.
“Little Dora, how could I have forgotten you? Come on up. I apologize for my manners and the house is pure chaos. Go straight to the kitchen, please, the girls will show you around everything, but I’m sure you know the place by heart.”
Dora would’ve been shocked at her drastic turn, if it wasn’t for the memories of her anctics as a child. She was mean to animals, plants, and people, no distinction, and yet cried as the victim if anyone dared to accuse her of anything. White tears, the slaves would say.
She entered the Big House through the front door. Maybe it was Lucélia’s hurry, or something had shifted in the place, but little did it matter. At the first step into the living room, she saw a ghost. Baron [Justa] was sitting on the rocking chair, looking at an empty corner of the room. She thanked the gods for Ms. Lucélia having left her behind, because facing the sight of the man, she could not hold back her tears. She walked towards the pale and skeletal vision of fellow.
“I couldn’t find our son. So I came back.”
She didn’t receive an answer beyond a sliver of drool falling down the side of his slack mouth. This ghost was made of muscle and bones, different from the others that loitered this place. Dora saw the shadows, marks, and wounds, adding weight to the old man’s soul, returning in death what he took in life. They gave her only grateful looks. They knew.
The house, in fact, was in uproar, being decorated. The kitchen looked like a battle ground, with young women preparing a variety of dishes. Among them, only one old woman. Bastiana limped towards Dora and gave her a tight hug.
“Finally, a real cook. You have no idea what I have to go through with these air-heads.”
The young women laughed and played tossing flour at one another. The play was interrupted in an instant as Sinhá Lucélia entered. She explained, once more, the importance of tonight’s dinner and its guests. And, next time she entered the kitchen to see another mess, they’d all be sent to the pillory and then to the plantations.
“Bastiana, make sure Dora has everything she needs. I want a nice cake, like the ones she used to make for the parties at home.” She turned to Dora: “I hope you haven’t lost your touch, because I’ll be announcing this dessert to my guests with the same pomp my dad had in the past.”
Although she smiled, Dora recognized the threat, a kind of wisdom acquired only by those deprived of their liberties.
“Not at all, ma’am. I’m better than ever”
And she did not lie. She worked throughout her travels, doing all sorts of things, many of which she wasn’t proud of. She searched for her boy all over the province, and all over the ones surrounding it. She used all her resources and strength. But nothing. It was as if her son had never even existed.
She was happy, nonetheless. Now, back at the old house, she was able to do one of the few things she ever loved in her life besides being a mother: baking.
Francisco entered the kitchen. On his face, the suspicion he wore throughout most of his foreman life returned.
“You came back just to cook, Dora?”
“I came back because I needed to. But I’m not arguing with you.”
Francisco covered his face. The same hands that ripped out the child from her lap, even though the orders came from someone else’s mouth. Had he not obeyed, he would’ve ended up on the pillory like any other black man and another one would have come to take her son.
“Let the woman work, Francisco. She will do what she wants to do” said Bastiana.
She would make the best cake of her entire life. She would do it for her little one, who never had a chance to listen to the story of his mother and her people. She would make it for them, for the ones who filled the entryways and windowsills. They observed the baker’s work and whispered, “make it for me,” “make it for my mommy,” “make it for you, sister,” whispering only to Doralice’s ears. Five generations of bakers guiding her hands. Guiding every measurement, every whisking, every pinch. Dora gave her body to their will. Their will became her movements and then it became dough. The only delivery without pain. The whole world disappeared around her. It was just them and Dora. And as they measured every ingredient, she heard their groans, and as she counted every folding of the dough, she heard their supplication, and as she molded the tiny flowers and prepped the fillings, she heard the crack of the whip. They were echoes from the past.
She worked as a sculptor on her masterpiece. She’d dedicate the remaining years of her life, if she could, to baking this cake. All the living watched her. There was admiration, almost reverence, in their eyes.
At the end, she sat in a corner of the kitchen and rested facing her work of art. And there she stayed, admiring it. She didn’t hear it when Sinhá entered to praise her work. Or even when, little by little, the kitchen was emptied of all the dishes for dinner. She didn’t hear the music or the laughter, she didn’t hear it when Sinhá Lucélia announced the cake as something one could never find even in the best patisseries of Paris. She was now in their world, the world of the ones who accompanied her pain, who kept her from danger, who made themselves present when there was no one else around. There, in the ample kitchen, they covered every corner of the floor and smiled. Was her son among them?
Doralice only noticed her surroundings when the first chokes came from the dining room. It was a muffled sound, lost among jokes and drunken remarks.
By the time the screams began, it was already too late. The black folk ran to aid the dying. And then, they ran away. And only then, Dora allowed herself a smile. She wiped the flour off of her hands, saluted Bastiana and Francisco, and without a hurry, walked out of the Big House through the back door. The ghosts did not follow her.
Wilson Júnior
Wilson Júnior has an undergraduate degree in History and a graduate degree in Creative Writing. Founder of Escambau writing group, and editor at Escambanáutica magazine. He lives in Fortaleza, Brazil. Splitting his routine into writing, teaching writing, being a Media Coordinator and working on Escambau projects, there is little time left to live.
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