By Ada Jones
On her twentieth birthday Fernanda Pessoa was offered a red winged car, and a book on ornithology. Osvaldo Moreira, the master of puppets, orchestrated a ball of Brobdingnagian proportions on the day his niece was coming of age. Maids were giggling and whirling on the accordion and trumpet concords of Algarve musicians. Wine poured into crystals, and gents were gazing at non-loquacious Fernanda through their monoculars. Fernanda was no girl to enjoy the merrymaking. She was all dressed in black muslin and gray feathers erring like a wraith underneath the umbrella foliage of her uncle’s Constantinople acacias. Meanwhile in a far off land dressed in a white gown in a snowy town Bella Rosenfeld was baking lemon biscuits for Marc Chagall. She was all tears. And so was Fernanda.
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