‘Yes, I have.’

‘Well, apparently the sufferer almost always has a high level of intelligence, and they also seem to show little sensitivity or empathy towards others. And that is the best way I can think of to describe your mother. Although Loen, Yara‘s mother, always told me that Cristina reminded her of my grandmother, Luiza, whom I barely remember. She died when I was two, you see, at the same time as my mother.’

‘Yes, Yara told me.’

‘So, whether it was genetic, or would these days be termed a syndrome – or perhaps a mixture of both – Cristina‘s personality made her almost impossible to deal with. And none of the many experts we consulted could offer any solutions.’ Beatriz shook her head sadly. ‘When she was sixteen, she began to stay out, frequenting some of the seedier bars in the city and falling into the wrong company. Which, as you can imagine in Rio – especially thirty-five years ago – could be extremely dangerous. On more than one occasion, she was brought home by the polícia, drunk and dishevelled. They threatened her with prosecution for underage drinking and that calmed her down for a while. But then we discovered that she was not attending school, and instead meeting her friends – many of whom lived up in the favelas – and spending her time there with them.’

Beatriz paused and stared out of the window at the distant mountains before turning her gaze back to me. ‘Eventually, the school had little choice but to expel her. She‘d been caught with a bottle of rum in her school bag and had plied the other girls with it. Subsequently, they‘d all arrived for afternoon lessons drunk. Her father and I employed a private tutor so that she could at least finish her examinations and we could keep a closer eye on her activities too. Sometimes, we even resorted to locking her in her room when she insisted she wanted to go out for the night, but the rages that ensued would be cataclysmic. And besides, she would always find a way to escape. She was completely out of control. My dear, could you possibly pass me the water from my bedside table? All this talking is making my mouth quite dry.’

‘Of course,’ I said, going to fetch the beaker and straw from the table and handing it to her. As she attempted to hold it, I saw her hands were shaking too much to do so, so I put the straw to her lips and held it there while she sucked.

‘Thank you,’ she said, as her green eyes looked up at me in distress. ‘Are you sure you can cope with hearing more, Maia?’

‘Yes,’ I said, putting the cup down and returning to my chair.