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Under the starry sky, the celestial bodies did little to calm the maid's restless thoughts. Her rare moments of free time were now consumed by thoughts of the woman who filled her already brief existence.
Stars shone distant and happy, intruding upon Zilda's equally intrusive yet permissive thoughts, tiny diamonds of extraterrestrial life, so beautiful, so white to the naked eye, so cold, so distant, so impersonal.
Just like Vitoria.
And yet, Zilda couldn't help but admire them both. From her long but lonely life, the woman she worked for had become no more than a stranger since the birth of her most secret, most sinful feelings.
Just as no man should love another man, Zilda loved Vitoria, not merely as a fellow human being, but as something more. Though her subordinates dared to say they were equals, she saw Vitoria as a reflection in a cracked and dirty mirror on the kitchen's dirt floor, where she would remain in her small slice of eternity. She was no longer the girl she once was, with thick black hair, arched eyebrows, and a gaze as sharp as her tongue. She had become the shadow of a woman who once dreamed of the future.
And that future lay before her under the dim light of candles and steel lanterns strategically scattered throughout the suite, doing little to illuminate the dark tunnel of doom she found herself in. To complete her inner misery, thunder and gales battered the windows, threatening to shatter the glass and flood the house. Zilda could only pray that the storm would take pity on her poor spine and not send her manners to hell, for surely her countess would blame her for the phenomenon, suggesting that she was somehow the daughter and executor of pagan gods responsible for soaking her expensive european quilts.
With all the self-knowledge that only years alongside the countess could sadly provide, she would accept another dozen insults about her competence, her appearance, her personality, and drown her tears in her worn pillow, wondering where she had gone wrong again.
Not wanting to dwell on the uncertain future, she focused on her task, delicately storing the freshly washed items, as dark as her heart, as dark as the sky outside. Without thinking, she brought to her face the dress Vitória wore most often, a piece with severe cuts that maintained its elegance. It was so distinctly Vitória that the subtle perfume beneath the clean fabric's scent brought fresh tears to Zilda's throat, which she quickly swallowed despite the bitter taste. It was neither the place nor time for such feelings. She alone knew how the woman, despite her many layers of clothing and heavy shoes, could make her presence invisible until something inspired her shrewd spirit to bare her daggers at an unsuspecting victim.
With great difficulty, she closed the countess's wardrobe, larger than her own bedroom, and stood before the nearest window, which normally offered a beautiful view of the front garden. But in the darkness and unfriendly weather, she could only see her faint, blurred reflection in the glass. Red, unfocused eyes. Not even her poor eyesight could hide that she could no longer pretend so well. The mere mention of that woman's name was enough to shake her.
A faint rustling made Zilda's broken heart skip a beat, and she cursed softly. She no longer had the luxury of such frights, yet she couldn't control herself. Trying to ignore the discomfort in her chest, she attempted to push aside her sinful thoughts, considering ending her night with the excuse of back pain. She had reached an age where she could finally enjoy some privileges earned through blood, sweat, and endless tears, though she couldn't guess their origin, only their cause.
And that cause had a name, a surname, and a title of nobility by bloodline.
From her pocket, she retrieved two small yellowed pieces of paper from a book the servants would never dare to read, and dropped them. They were torn where they had come loose, with excuses of natural wear, but the damage was just enough to suggest human intervention. Perhaps one of the servants could read, but fear of inevitable punishment had led them to abandon their stolen prize at the library entrance.
Squinting, after a day of keeping it hidden like a secret waiting to be revealed, she read the verses.
ODE SAPHICA - A SAUDADE
Oh, que tristeza me concentra a vida;
Me embargo no sangue de gyrar nas veias;
Fraco palpita o coração no peito;
Pavido chóro.
Meus frios membros de um suor se regam.
Inda mais frio do que o mesmo gêlo;
E sob o peso do meu corpo exangue
Curvo os jôelhos.
Lânguidos olhos para o chão se voltam,
Dos véos cobertos da vista que os privam;
Amargo pranto me humedece o rosto
Já descorado.
O brando somno dos meus lares já foi-se;
Vigília eterna meus sentidos cançam;
Negras imagens, pensamentos tristes
D’alma se apossam.
Já não me encanta ver surgir a aurora,
Ouvir as aves gorgear nos bosques.
Triste e sozinho no meu tosco alvergue
Vivo enterradoa.
As tenras flôres, que eu regava outr’ora
Com tanto mimo, e que prazer me davam
Ora emmurchecem sem os meus cuidados,
Perdem a gala.
Que horrenda noite!… que pavor me cerca!
Por toda parte mil phantasmas se erguem
Do espesso fumo, sem cessar vibrando
Olho de brasas.
Naquelle valle de cyprestes negros
Zunem os ventos com furor não visto…
Daquella rocha, murmurando, o rio
Se precipíta.
Lá sôa o canto doa tristonhoa moxoa!
Sinistro agouro anunciar pretende…
Sim, eu já tremo, e me arrepio todoa.
Morte! Chegaste.
Mas ah! Eu sonho? Que delírio é este?
Como esquecido do passado vivo!
E tanto póde da saudade o golpe
N’um termo peito?
Oh triste origem de crueis pezares!
Mãe da saudade, rigorosa ausência;
Amor nos une com doces laços,
Tu nos separas!
Assim distante da gentil ███████
Dos teus rigores eu supporto o peso.
Oh dura sorte de uma fiel amante!
Oh desventura!
Zilda frowned. The text, already so familiar to her, had been redacted in specific places. The gender of the author, Viscount of Araguaia, one of Vitória's favorite writers, had been changed from male to female throughout several passages.
She recognized these verses, which the countess often whispered in the silence of early morning, sometimes through tears, sometimes with nostalgia. It was a secret she shared with her mistress, though the latter remained unaware. While the Viscount had written the original, the Countess had made it her own interpretation.
Something specific caught her attention: the original name had been struck through. Beside it, in an unmistakably familiar hand, another name appeared.
Vitoria.
Zilda swallowed hard. She held in her hands something far more significant than mere evidence of a crime, this was proof of longing, a feeling she knew so intimately it ached in her chest. And for her, whom everyone saw as merely Vitoria's extension, longing had become her deepest expression of love.
But who, after all these years of library absence, had discovered and removed precisely these time-worn pages?
Zilda gazed at the rose in the vase she had bought especially for her. Cold water condensed on the glass, dripping onto the table and leaving a trail. She watched a droplet form and slide down the stem until it vanished into the white surface of the corner table.
Campobello at that time of year carried a constant promise of rain, a cold breeze drifted through the half-open window, threatening a nighttime storm. The wind reminded her of childhood days spent running through endless vineyards, stealing grapes here and there to sweeten her afternoon adventures.
Though she was no longer young enough to run carefree through grapevines or shower in the rain, the taste of childhood in those grapes remained unchanged, a constant she could hold until the end of her days, which she felt approaching. She would savor her remaining time with someone special.
Someone from other lives, her intuition whispered.
Someone who had also run through those same vineyards in youth, traced their hands through the leaves in early adulthood, and settled among the old bricks in their twilight years. And there she was, beside her, quietly reading, head resting on her shoulder. A crease between her eyebrows brought a sincere smile to Zilda's face, this was how she knew Vitoria was lost in her reading. In her hands lay a book, moth-eaten and yellowed with age.
She said everything old has charm. It might not always deserve to be special, but age lends it something precious.
Zilda remembered how Vitória had spoken those words, gazing deep into her eyes, past flesh and into soul, beyond the time that bound them.
One day she understood, in a fleeting moment, when she glimpsed the silver thread connecting her to Vitoria. Quick as a blink it vanished, but she knew with certainty: they were souls who had known each other before, here to resolve conflicts she would never fully comprehend in this life.
Yet deep in her memory lived something nearly erased by time: a drawing she'd made upon first learning to hold a pencil. A girl with gray hair, who had made her cry to her mother because she lacked a pencil the right color. Without the gray, it wasn't Vitoria, her imaginary friend.
Vitoria. She had been part of her life even before their meeting, before her birth. They shared a connection her earthly mind couldn't grasp, a warm bond that drew out their best and worst. She smiled, remembering the years of quarrels that had led them to share a home.
She touched her bandaged finger, pricked by the thorn of their rose. Though the flower would wither, it symbolized their souls' eternal union, a bond that had healed past hurts and grievances. Now remained only the comfort of each other's company.
She felt Vitoria's weight shift as she sought a more comfortable reading position, soon growing weary of the last century's poetry.
"Tired of your book?" Zilda asked, half-smiling at her drowsy eyes.
Unhurried, Vitoria released a long, lazy yawn, stretching before settling against Zilda once more.
"I am tired. It has been a long day, and I'm no longer young enough for late-night reading", Vitoria murmured, her voice as weary as her expression.
Zilda smiled tenderly as she watched Vitoria fight sleep, heavy eyes closing despite herself. Gently, she took the book from her companion's hands and placed it beside the rose vase, unconcerned if it dampened. "A book without marks is a book without history", she thought, as Vitoria rested her head in her lap.
Vitoria nestled closer, releasing a contented sigh. Never in all her years, and they were many, would Zilda have imagined that this stern, self-possessed woman, once her brother's wife, would lie here nearly asleep in her lap. Fate had its peculiarities, she mused, lovingly stroking her gray hair.
Only her soft snoring broke the night's silence as she surrendered to sleep. Zilda continued caressing her hair, watching moonlight shimmer on the rose in its vase. In these moments of perfect peace, she knew with certainty: all their shared lives and stories had led them precisely where they belonged. In absolute peace.
"Love! Love! For heeding your counsel, this is the reward..." she whispered, echoing the book's Portuguese poet from a century past, feeling just as ancient herself. But at last, she was home.
"Love! Love! For heeding your counsel, this is our reward..." she whispered, echoing the words from the woman's book. A portuguese poet from a century ago, just as ancient as she felt herself. Yet here, at last, she was home. Her home was with Vitoria, her soul mate in the truest sense. Together they would grow, heal the wounds of their past, and move forward. Finally, they had taken this momentous step.
"Romantic love at our age, Zilda?" Vitoria asked with gentle irony, her eyes still closed.
"You and I both know what kind of love dwells here, honey", she replied, brushing a silver strand from Vitoria's face.
"Oh, how well I know", Vitória smiled, opening her eyes and tilting her head to look at Zilda with reddened eyes. "And how I have asked all these years for him to find me."
"And he did, Vitória."
"He did", Zilda said, smiling tenderly. "And I am grateful for that every day."
Vitória closed her eyes again, a serene smile gracing her lips. "And he will never leave your side again."
"That's a promise?"
"It's a promise."
Zilda laced her fingers through Vitoria's and kissed her head, sealing their shared fate.
Outside, the wind howled. The rose in its vase trembled delicately, its fragrance spreading through the room like a silent blessing. This same night that had once witnessed Zilda's longing for Vitória now beheld their mutual redemption.
A brittle, yellowed page slipped from the book, landing beside Zilda. She picked it up.
On the paper was a poem she knew intimately, The ode of sapphic longing, signed by Vitoria. She smiled. Her old heart no longer harbored any longing or agonizing chains. There remained only the freedom to love Vitoria as her equal.