‘And the other name on the tile?’

‘That’s much more faded and my friend is running further tests. Although he has made out the first three letters.’

‘And are they the first three letters of my possible great-grandfather, Gustavo Aires Cabral?’ I queried.

‘No, they aren’t. Here, he’s written down for you what he’s deciphered so far.’ Floriano passed me another sheet of paper from the plastic wallet.

I studied them. ‘L a u . . . ?’ I looked at him askance.

‘Give Stephano another twenty-four hours and I’m sure he’ll have deciphered the rest of the name. He’s the best, I promise. Want another one?’ he asked me, indicating my caipirinha.

‘No thanks. I think I’ll have a glass of white wine instead.’

After Floriano had ordered further drinks for both of us, he stared at me intently.

‘What is it?’ I asked him.

‘I have something else to show you, Maia. And if it isn’t ultimate proof that you are indeed related to the Aires Cabrals, I don’t know what is. Are you ready for this?’

‘It’s nothing awful, is it?’ I asked him apprehensively.

‘No. I think it’s something very beautiful. Here.’ Another piece of paper was passed across to me. This time, the entirety of it taken up with a grainy photograph of a woman’s face.

‘Who is she?’

‘Izabela Aires Cabral, whose first name is on the back of your tile, and who may well be your great-grandmother. Surely, Maia,’ he encouraged, ‘you must see the resemblance?’

I stared at the woman’s features. And yes, even I could see my own face mirrored there. ‘Perhaps,’ I shrugged.

‘Maia, it’s uncanny,’ Floriano stated categorically. ‘And I can tell you that there’s a lot more where that came from. There’s an entire archive of Izabela’s photographs from old newspapers, which I accessed on microfiche in the Biblioteca Nacional do Brasil. She was thought at the time to be one of the most beautiful women in Brazil. She married Gustavo Aires Cabral at the cathedral here in Rio in January 1929. It was the society wedding of the year.’

‘Of course, it could simply be coincidence,’ I said, feeling uncomfortable at Floriano’s implicit comparison between me and the society beauty of her day. ‘But . . .’

‘Yes?’ he said, eager for me to continue.

‘When I was at A Casa das Orquídeas, I noticed a sculpture sitting in the corner of the terrace. It stuck out because it was so unusual and not the kind of thing you’d normally expect to find in a garden. It was of a woman sitting on a chair. And looking at this photograph, I’m sure it was the same woman. And yes, at the time I remember thinking that she looked familiar.’

‘Because she looks like you!’ he said, as the waitress took the drinks from her tray and placed them on the table. ‘Well, I feel that we’ve already made some progress.’

‘And I’m very grateful, Floriano, but I still don’t think the old woman I met yesterday wishes to tell me anything, or would ever acknowledge me. Why should she? Wouldn’t you behave the same in the circumstances?’ I challenged him.