Adriana tapped through the subtle resistance of the harpsichord keys with well practiced ease. Avô Guilherme had purchased the classical instrument especially for this performance, to celebrate her twelfth birthday. It had red swirls in the wood and black keys with ivory sharps, which Avô Guilherme had told her was a sign of its age. Adriana loved the sound the plucked strings made. Mostly she loved Mozart.
As she progressed from the early works of the Köchel-Verzeichnis catalog to the more mature Harpsichord Concerto No. 3 KV 107 i. Allegro in Eb Major, she grew more confident. With every trill, chord, and arpeggio, Adriana captivated the da Silva clan. But the only opinions she really cared about were those of her parents, Cesaria da Silva and Carlinhos Olegario.
For reasons Adriana could not comprehend, her mother stubbornly refused to use the Olegario name. It caused more than just confusion for Adriana, it struck at the core of her identity. At school, she was an Olegario. Among the pure-blooded Portuguese clan, she was a da Silva. Only when she played Mozart was she free to exist as herself.
Adriana’s fingers flew from one end of the keyboard to the other, pouring out emotion, and racing to the finish—once, twice, and done. Her relatives leapt to their feet and applauded. Adriana stood and curtsied. Avô Guilherme joined her center stage.
He held up his hands, quieted the audience, and motioned for them to sit.
“This is a proud moment for the da Silva family. Not only are we celebrating our precious Adriana’s twelfth birthday, but she has been invited to study with Jorge Ortiz Pereira in São Paulo.”
Avô Guilherme paused while everyone cheered then waved his hands for silence.
“She will, of course, be escorted by her mother, who, as all of you know, was a talented pianist in her own right. Come up here, Cesaria, this is as much your accomplishment as it is Adriana’s. You too, Jurema.”
Adriana stared at the toes of her shiny black shoes as her mother and grandparents embraced, feeling suddenly forgotten and out of place. This often happened with music—playing made her happy, stopping made her confused.
Avô Guilherme held out his arms. “Obrigado, meu familía. Jurema and I feel deeply gratified that we are able to assist our granddaughter along the path our daughter was never at liberty to pursue.”
Adriana cringed. Avô Guilherme sounded angry as he delivered the happy news. Why was that? And why was Avó Jurema wiping tears from Mamãe’s face? And why were the da Silvas talking amongst themselves and glancing at Papai? And why was Papai leaving the room?
None of this made any sense to Adriana, and all of it made her extremely uncomfortable. When she found an opportunity to escape, she wormed her way through hugs and well-meaning kisses, and searched for her father.
She found him on the patio beside her mother. How strikingly different they were—like the white and black keys from Avô Guilherme’s harpsichord and just as discordant when played together.
“That’s bullshit, Cesaria. You had no right to keep this from me.”
“Keep your voice down. Not everyone in my family knows you’re favela trash, and I would like to keep it that way.”
“Favela trash? You mean stupid enough to do an honest day’s work?”
“You don’t know the meaning of honest. Your whole existence is a lie. Did you really think that you could put on my father’s clothes, live in my father’s house, play at my father’s business, and still be your own man? I don’t know what’s more pathetic, the fact that you’re a puppet or that you actually believe you’re alive.”
Adriana froze. She had known Mamãe was unhappy but not that she could be so cruel.
Papai looked devastated. He touched Mamãe’s smooth hands with his rough fingers and gazed into her blue eyes. “We’ll go to São Paulo together. Start over, without your father. I’ll take care of us. I’ll take care of you. What do you say, Cesaria? I don’t want to be a puppet anymore.”
Mamãe stared at him until the anger in her face melted into something bland and cold. “You don’t understand anything, do you?” She removed her hands from his. “You were my adolescent rebellion, the poor boy from the favelas I could throw in Papai’s face. If you hadn’t gotten me pregnant, I would have tired of you before the year was out.”
“You want to get rid of me? Fine. You want me out of your elitist family? Fine. But Adriana comes with me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m her papai. I decide what’s best for her.”
“And where will you take her? To your family in the favelas to live in one of those stilt shacks over the swamp? How will you pay for her food, her clothes, her school, her piano? Who do you think will hire you after the da Silvas turn their backs?”
Mamãe spit her words like maracujá seeds she didn’t want to swallow. Papai stood there as they pelted him with hate.
Adriana balled her delicate hands into trembling fists. Her mother hated her father? How had she not known this? Even at twelve she should have seen the signs. And what was this about the favelas? Did Papai really come from the slums? How was that even possible? Avô Guilherme had always told her only thieves and murderers lived in the mangrove swamps. How could Papai have come from such a place?
And then Adriana thought of Avó Serafina, and it all seemed possible.
Papai brushed the front of his shirt as if cleaning himself from Mamãe’s words. “Guilherme doesn’t own the world. I can make my own way.”
“Really? With or without your evil bitch of a mother?”
Adriana gasped. Could Avó Serafina hear the words floating in the night? Adriana never dared to say an unkind word about her grandmother, even when snuggled beneath the covers of her own bed. Her mother did not seem to share those fears. She didn’t seem to fear anything at all.
Mamãe raised her chin and glared down her perfectly straight nose with a gaze so cold it made Adriana shiver.
“Don’t be stupid, Carlinhos. You embedded a seed. So what? Adriana is a da Silva. She will never be your daughter. She never was.”