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brazilian gothic

There was an extraordinary sense of peace when Ava stepped into the domain of the overgrown squalor she called home. It had been a few years since she had walked the streets of Rio de Janeiro, the sense of the familiar magical in its way as she opened the door and a flood of cool air billowed out into the thick warmth of the outdoors. Ava was overwhelmed by the flood of tiny sensations she had utterly forgotten or forced herself to not think about, memories of those weeks and months latched to the bottle beginning to resurface.

One glance to the right and she spied the garden growing wild against the screens and the sides of the cottage. The small rooms were cool as she stepped over the threshold, the overhead fans churning, the old window air conditioner grinding away with a sound which would become in time a great substitute for silence. Worn oriental rugs lay scattered, each room cleaned by the caretaker she paid a small fortune to keep an eye on things.

Moving toward the back studio, her dark eyes wandered over the private pieces of her photographic collection, old moments with the men she had loved. She had been unprepared to see their faces, the intimate way in which she had caught their smiles off guard, poses of their bodies in bed, on the beach, on a boat, in a restaurant. Before life had happened and taken them away from her. With a sigh, she stepped forward again, moving to the back garden to assess the overgrowth.

Stiff stems of purple althaea crept up the small back steps, blooms of morning glory climbed all the way to the thatched roof. Calla lilies lined the cracks in the stilts of the home, pink Rose of Montana vines swept around the windows. Nothing grew in England quite like it did in Brazil. Not even love, most likely.

Glancing up, there was no glare in the sky. No end, no beginning. Only the woven net of flowers, the white magnolia glowing in the gloom.