It was April 5, 1890, at lunchtime. The children played at the far end of the garden. Eponina read the fashion magazine La Moda Elegante: “One embroiders this strip on dark copper corduroy,” or rather, “a myrtle green business suit for a young woman,” or rather, “lockstitch, herringbone stitch, knotted stitch, backstitch.” The children shouted at the far end of the garden. Eponina kept on reading, “The leaves are made with tuna-colored silk,” or rather, “the lattice-work is pink or blue,” or rather, “the large flower is flesh-colored,” or rather, “the apricot-colored veins and stems.” Ana wasn’t there yet to serve lunch; the whole family, made up of aunts, husbands, plenty of cousins, went looking for her in every corner of the house. The only part left to explore was the attic. Eponina left the newspaper on the table, not knowing what an apricot was: “the apricot-colored veins and stems.” She went upstairs to the attic and pushed the door until a piece of furniture that was blocking entry fell. A flurry of bats circled the broken ceiling. Amid a pile of broken-down chairs and old washbasins Ana, her belt loosened as if she were an escapee, was sitting on the trunk; her always spotless apron was now stained with blood. Eponina took her hand and lifted her up. Ana, pointing at the trunk, responded to the silence: “I’ve killed him.”

Eponina opened the trunk and saw her dead son, the one who most aspired to climb onto her lap—now he was asleep on the breast of one of her old dresses, seeking her heart.

The family, speechless with horror on the threshold, started screaming and shouting for the police. They had heard everything, seen everything, but those who hadn’t fainted were seized with loathing and horror.

Eponina gave Ana a long, surprisingly tender embrace. Eponina’s lips moved slowly with boiling rage: “Four-year-old boy dressed in flesh-colored cotton satin. Cape covered with folds shaped like waves trimmed with white lace. The veins and stems are colored a golden brown, myrtle green or crimson.”

Landscape with Trapezes

Charlotte looked down at her breasts. She wore a heavy wool dress embroidered with flowers, the sleeves roughly attached. It made her whole body feel constrained, as if pulled in different directions, similar to being trapped in those wooden elevators stopped between floors. Breakfast was ready on the table—she always had breakfast in hotel rooms when she was dressed and ready to go in the morning. At that naked hour when the city’s voice was quiet, she would open the door to the next room, where Pliny slept. Pliny would hobble in on his twisted legs, greeting the morning as if he carried water buckets or fruit baskets that weighed down each of his extremely tired arms. His eyes were sad with malice and mimicry. Charlotte sat him on her bare lap and gave him lumps of sugar every morning. Sometimes she wondered if it weren’t really thanks to him that she had a place in the circus company, or if it was her own doing, her acrobatic feats. Shouts of admiration followed her on every trip—on ships, train platforms, even from train windows she would hear astonished voices shouting: “Oh, look at the girl with the monkey!”