Loyal Even When She's Dead

Fiel Até Depois da Morte

(Loyal Even When She’s Dead)

The Man with Two Wives (One of Them Dead)

In Pelourinho, where the cobblestones remember more than they tell, Fabio Costa buttoned the last pearl on his crisp white linen shirt and adjusted his silk cravat in the mirror. He gave himself a sly wink—not out of vanity, but habit. At fifty, he still had the melancholy charm of a mid-career, Marcello Mastroianni. The kind that made widows lean forward in church pews and young women make unsolicited offers for a home cooked Moqueca seafood stew.

He turned to find Beatriz already waiting by the door, rosary beads coiled like a bracelet around her wrist. She wore dove gray from head to toe, her glossy black hair pinned neatly, not a strand daring rebellion.

“You’ve chosen the white gladiolas again,” she said, nodding toward the bouquet on the credenza.

“She always loved them,” Fabio replied, taking the flowers in hand.

Beatriz’s gaze softened just enough to suggest empathy. “Give her my prayers. And don’t linger—there’s feijoada on the stove, and Padre Braga is stopping by this afternoon.”

Fabio kissed her cheek—brief, polite, practiced. He then descended the stone steps into the Bahian sun, where Capoeira drums from the Igreja de São Francisco’s courtyard echoed off the pastel walls. As he wound through the alleys, past blue-azuelo tiled courtyards, the weight of his pilgrimage settled over him. Like incense, its fragrance carried the scent of his ardor, the gravity of remembrance, the inconvenient persistence of desire.

At the British Cemetery gate, the air shifted. A sudden breeze lifted the brim of his Panama hat as if granting silent permission.

Sofia da Silva’s mausoleum stood near the back, shaded by a jacaranda tree whose purple blossoms had fallen like confetti. Her tomb bore an elegance that mirrored the woman herself: sensual, without vulgarity, rebellious with grace. Fabio knelt, placed the gladiolas in the brass vase, and whispered, “Bom dia, minha Sofia.”

And there it was—resting against the base of the stone, right where it always appeared. An ivory envelope, thick and perfumed, with his name penned in that unmistakable calligraphy …Fabio.

He hesitated, swallowing hard. Then, ritual overtaking reason, he opened the envelope and unfolded the note inside.

“Meu querido,

The days are long without you, and the nights longer still. Come where the candles are lit and the air still tastes like our kisses. I miss you... in all the ways you remember.

Your eternal flame,

Sofia”

He tucked the letter into his breast pocket, took a deep breath, and pushed open the mausoleum door. Candles flickered along the ledge—and the scent of old perfume thickened the shadows.

And then, with the slow, deliberate grace of memory made flesh, she was there. Sofia. Radiant as ever, hair cascading over her bare shoulders, her smile as inviting as sin on a Sunday.

“You took your time,” she whispered.

Fabio tried to speak, but her hand was already at his collar, undoing what Beatriz’s iron had so carefully pressed. And as the mausoleum door closed softly behind them, the living surrendered once more to the dead.

Saints and Starch

Beatriz stood at the kitchen counter, arranging wedges of orange on a porcelain platter with surgical precision. Her rosary now dangled from her waistband like a sabre of sanctity.

“You’re late,” she said, without turning. “Did you recite the prayers I gave you?”

“I said most of them,” Fabio replied.

Beatriz turned to face him. “You’ve got flower pollen on your shirt. And your collar—was it muggy in the mausoleum today?”

Fabio blinked. “Yes. The crypt’s ventilation has never been ideal.”

Beatriz stared at him for a moment longer, her brow furrowed in a way that seemed part prayer, part investigation. Then she smiled—one of those small, measured smiles she reserved for funerals and fish mongers.

“You should change before lunch,” she said. “And perhaps take a cool shower.”

“Of course,” Fabio murmured, escaping toward the bedroom.

He dressed in clean linen and returned to the dining room where Beatriz was already seated, napkin in lap, a crystal tumbler of guava juice at her side. She bowed her head as he took his place.

“In the name of the Father,” she began.

Fabio joined her in the sign of the cross, mouthing the words while stealing a glance at her décolletage—modest, but undeniably present.

Fabio smiled with a pang of guilt curling behind his molars. If love were a ledger, he was badly overdrawn.

“I’m just … grateful,” Fabio said, reaching for his guava juice. “Grateful for life, and memory, and—lunch.”

She softened, brushing his hand lightly with her fingers. “You’re a good man, Fabio. Sofia was lucky. I am, too.”

Summer Solstice and the Morning After

On dia de Solstício de verão, Bahia seemed to hold its breath. The intense morning sun reflected off windows. Bougainvillea bowed their heads along the wrought-iron balconies. The scent of maracujá mingled in the air like memory and longing.

At the Costa home, Beatriz rose earlier than usual. She made coffee, ironed a long-sleeved raincoat, and disappeared into the bedroom with a large tote bag and a sense of mission that no angel would dare interrupt.

Inside the bag:

An auburn wig, cascading in unruly waves.

One crimson cocktail dress, vintage, clingy, cut scandalously high on the thigh.

A pair of black heels with just enough click to announce regret.

And a small bottle of Sofia’s favorite perfume, borrowed from her sister.

Beatriz prayed a rosary, and then, slowly, put on the wig.

Fabio, oblivious, departed with his gladiolas, and his conscience already loosening its buttons. He hummed as he walked through Pelourinho until he reached the cemetery. As always, the envelope waited. Perfumed. Ivory. Waiting.

He smiled despite himself. “Meu amor,” he whispered, tucking it away unread. “No need for words today.”

Inside the mausoleum, the candles were already lit.

He stepped in.

And froze.

There she was—Sofia. Or so he thought. Her auburn hair fell over her bare shoulders. Her lips were red as hibiscus, and her dress … meu Deus, that dress.

“Sofia,” he whispered, breathless. “You’ve never looked more alive.”

Beatriz, swallowing nerves and desire in equal measure, turned and purred in a voice just husky enough, “You came, meu querido.”

Before he could think twice, Fabio crossed the space between them and embraced her with the hunger of a man starving for memory. And then—

A gust of wind. A swirl of violet petals.

The real Sofia appeared.

Floating just inches from the floor, barefoot and radiant in a sheer white nightgown that had never once survived a full night of sleep.

“What in the name of São Antonio is THIS?” she shrieked.

Fabio flinched, mid-kiss. “Sofia?!”

Beatriz pulled back. “Fabio? Who are you talking to?”

Sofia narrowed her eyes. “You brought HER? Into OUR mausoleum? In MY perfume?!”

Beatriz, adjusting her wig and tugging her dress down, looked at him with alarm. “Who is here, Fabio? Are you unwell? Is someone watching us?”

Fabio pointed into the corner of the crypt. “She’s here! Sofia! She’s standing next to your shoes!”

Beatriz followed his finger. Nothing.

“I knew it,” she whispered. “The grief has curdled your brain.”

Fabio raised both palms. “Please. No more tricks. Sofia, I love you. But you’re dead. Beatriz, I love you, but you’re... surprisingly creative.”

Sofia folded her arms. “Typical. Blame the woman and the ghost.”

Beatriz moved toward the door. “I’m going home,” she said. “To pray. For both your souls.”

The next morning, Fabio rose late. His coffee was already cooling on the table. Beatriz sat quietly across from him in her usual linen and pearls.

At his place was a single note, folded neatly beside the butter dish.

He opened it.

“Your dead wife sends her regrets.”

Beatriz did not look up.

And Fabio, caught between past and present, heaven and hearth, simply reached for his cafezinho—and said nothing.