Page 52 of An Immaculate Deception

“Joaquina,” I say slowly. “Remember what I said about how I don’t want you to look directly at the camera? And your expression is not right. Keep your face neutral.”

“I’ve seen portraits, people often do look directly at the camera.”

“That’s enough for today.” I start shutting down the camera. “Why don’t you go prepare me a bath?”

I feel her staring at me as I fiddle with the camera. I wonder if she’ll protest this, too. Maybe she’ll say she won’t prepare me a bath until she sees the photos. Maybe she’ll say she’s off duty, not currently working as a housemaid, and I should prepare my own bath. Irritation starts rising within me—why must she be so difficult?

She gets up stiffly. “Of course, Senhor Neves.”

Senhor Neves, now? She stomps away.

It takes Joaquina a long while to prepare my bath. I read today’s Jornal do Recife front to back, then register the distant whistle of the kettle on the stove. Finally I hear footsteps as she carries the bucket of water up to my room, where the tub is.

Then—silence.

I head upstairs. As I reach the door of my room, I don’t hear a single sound. That in itself is strange. Evidently, she is in there—where else would she be? I heard her carrying the water up some time ago.

“Joaquina,” I call from outside the door. Then I knock softly. “Are you done?”

There is no response and a strange feeling comes over me. An image manifests in my head of Joaquina soaking in the tub, naked, having prepared a bath for herself.

“Joaquina? Are you done preparing the bath?”

No response.

It is my room. I don’t need her permission to enter. I turn the handle and open the door.

Joaquina stands by the bedside table, still as a statue, and does not react when I come in. She is looking down at something in her hands.

“What’s the matter—”

I realize it then. She’s poring through a small stack of grayscale images, transfixed.

Joaquina found her photographs.

31

“Well?” I lean against the doorframe. “What do you think?”

It’s almost as if she does not hear me. She looks like she’s trying to solve a math puzzle in her head. Like she just tasted a new food she never tried before and doesn’t quite like. She frowns as she flips through the photographs, head tilted inquisitively.

“I don’t like them,” she declares.

“No?”

“I don’t know…” She hesitates, as though searching for the right sentiment. “Something feels wrong.”

“The photographs are somewhat abstract, but that doesn’t mean they’re not beautiful.”

“Wait.” She’s flipping through them faster. “It’s my face.” She looks up at me.

I say nothing. She returns her attention to the photographs, squinting, searching. “My face isn’t showing in any of them. It’s always cast in shadows or turned away.”

“As I said, they are abstract. It’s artistic. It’s about capturing the perfection of a moment—”

“Why have me be the model?” Her tone borders on hysteria all of a sudden, and I freeze. “Why not use a mannequin? Why bother with me at all?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.