by Mia Couto
2
FIRST LETTER FROM LIEUTENANT AYRES DE ORNELAS
Standing with a triggerless weapon over one’s shoulder on the walls of a ruined fortress, with a customs house and a palace where slothful, poorly paid employees, arms folded, watch the trade being done by strangers that we ourselves cannot do; waiting every day for blacks to attack, and at every hour having to listen to the scorn and disdain with which those traveling in Africa speak of us, none of this, in all honesty, is worth it.
—OLIVEIRA MARTINS, “BRAZIL AND THE PORTUGUESE COLONIES,” 1880
Chicomo Garrison, July 9, 1895
Dear Sergeant Germano de Melo,
Do not be surprised, my dear sergeant: This letter is being penned by Lieutenant Ayres de Ornelas, thus fulfilling the duty, albeit without the same diligence, of replying to your frequent missives. I was told you had been gravely injured during an attack on the military post at Nkokolani. I have also been informed of your evacuation to the church at Sana Benene, from where I assume you will be transferred to the hospital run by the Swiss doctor Georges Liengme. You should be aware that this man Liengme, who is more of a doctor than a missionary, is someone we view with the utmost antipathy. This doctor, who will supposedly treat your wounds, has incited the natives to revolt and should have been expelled from Portuguese Africa long ago.
Do not forget, Sergeant: At Sana Benene you are in the hands of kaffirs who appear to be our friends. But you are a Portuguese soldier. You should have been evacuated to the garrison at Chicomo, where we have a doctor and an infirmary. Any other superior would have had you punished. I shall close my eyes, but only for the time being. You, Sergeant, will doubtless know which course of action you need to take once you are in possession of all your faculties. I have instructed the bearer of this letter to take the opposite route to the one you are following, that is, that he should travel downstream towards the mouth of the Inharrime. In this way, I am sure the message will be delivered to you in person and without delay.
More than anything, I wish to make you a promise in these brief lines: I am going to arrange for you, dear sergeant, to return to the fatherland with all possible haste! You deserve this favor—just as I deserve to achieve the highest ranks in the military hierarchy. I am destined for such positions and I have only been barred from my vocation for leadership by an unfortunate conspiracy. Others, such as Paiva Couceiro and Freire de Andrade, have been promoted on the pretext that they are veterans of Africa. As far as António Enes is concerned, I have no experience in waging this war. Portugal is suffering the humiliating effects of the Ultimatum, our government is in the midst of an ocean of political and financial scandals, and our people are crushed by the oppression of everyday existence. What does all this mean? It means that Portugal needs heroes. I cannot understand why someone who has demonstrated such talent in his short but intense military career is not being given such a chance.
As I told you, as soon as I am promoted, I shall make sure you are transferred to Portugal. However, I must give you the following warning: You will have to travel alone. That black woman whom you praise so much in your letters will have to stay in Mozambique. I have asked myself countless times what attributes you see in this kaffir woman, Sergeant. But that is beside the point, an outburst of no consequence. You can rest assured that we shall not abandon the woman: With the knowledge she has of our language, she may prove very useful to us. Once the campaigns of pacification are over, we shall give her shelter in our military post at Nkokolani. The girl will no doubt pine less for you there. For the building—half shop and half garrison—bears some resemblance to what we all are: hybrids, somewhere between ducks and peacocks. But the structure is also like those stone pillars that the navigators of old erected wherever they stepped ashore along the African coast: a proof of civilization on a continent where darkness ruled.
Finally, I wish to state how happy I am to exchange correspondence with you, my dear sergeant. This propitious encounter is the result of an irony of fate: Your letters were initially addressed to Counselor José d’Almeida. Now, our counselor friend has an intense dislike of letters and telegrams. From his full height of two meters, Almeida shrugs his shoulders, narrows his clear eyes, which contrast with his black beard, and proclaims: I won’t read a word! He justifies this attitude as follows: I am surprised by no one. From Lourenço Marques, all I get are reprimands; from the interior, all I get is botheration.
This was why I was charged with the responsibility of replying to letters addressed to him, including all correspondence with the Royal Commissioner, who, even now, believes it is Counselor Almeida who is replying to his solicitations. And this was how, quite by chance, I came into contact with your letters, so full of sensitive thoughts and observations that, forgive the bluntness of my comments, one could hardly credit that they had been written by a sergeant from the provinces. Little by little, I began to discern in you someone with whom I could share my unease at being so far from home and from my dear mother. Our correspondence is not a product of deceit. It is a predestined meeting of twin souls. And it was also how I became acquainted with the companions you encountered on your journey: your beloved Imani, whose soul is so Portuguese; the girl’s father, Katini Nsambe, a musician who is so loyal to our flag; Imani’s brother, so handicapped by nature but nevertheless devoted to the Portuguese presence; and finally, that strange Italian woman, Bianca Vanzini, so removed from Catholic moral values and customs, but who has provided our soldiers with such delectable services. All these people are now my companions in these arid African backlands.
It is true that profound differences separate us. I am twenty-nine and a convinced monarchist. You are some six years younger and were deported to Mozambique because of your republican beliefs. A curious divergence of opinion: In Africa, we occupy the same trench; in Portugal, we are behind opposing barricades. I confess, my dear sergeant: If the Republic triumphs, I shall resign from the army and leave Portugal. You were exiled by the monarchy. I shall be the monarchy in exile.
I have, however, learned that politics cannot be the instrument for building and destroying friendships. In my party’s ranks, there are people of whom I am deeply ashamed. And among my adversaries, there are folk who have enabled me to grow. The barriers between human beings are of another order. The truth is that we two, at the cost of great misunderstandings and petty untruths, have broken through these barriers. Our correspondence is a celebration of how these differences can be overcome. In a land crossed by great rivers, each letter is a dugout crossing distances. If I were a poet, I would put it like this: A word crosses a margin and becomes a mirage. Sadly, all these little reflections have a ring of pretentiousness about them and make me appear ridiculous.
* * *
P.S. I await you here at Chicomo as soon as possible. Do not waste any opportunity that may present itself to return to your natural path, your destiny. I sense it in the air that something conclusive is going to happen soon, and it would be good to have you here with me. You will certainly be in better company than with that perfidious Swiss.
3
ONE CHURCH UNDER ANOTHER CHURCH
Do not travel: for you will never return. Only those who were once happy return.
—A PROVERB FROM SANA BENENE
Rivers do not just traverse lands and soil. This river up which we were traveling crossed territories of fire, riven by hunger and blood. But our dugout managed to put a distance between us and all that: As we navigated through dense forests, the war seemed far-off and remote.
Eventually, we reached a backwater where the current was less strong. We had arrived at Sana Benene. Next to the shore there was an old church, the walls of which looked as if they were made of water in the noon light. Wading heavily through the water, Mwanatu pushed the craft toward a little wooden landing stage.
Along the riverbank there were rows of stakes, from the tops of which hung fishing nets. The boat finally came to a stop, its hull creaking as it rubbed against the r
otting planks of the landing stage. My father grinned: It wasn’t a noise, but the start of a tune. He caressed one of the planks where we moored, in that dreamy way he used to stroke the keys of his marimba.
Can you hear the boards groaning, Imani? It’s the tree calling for its offspring.
Leaning on his Italian friend, Sergeant Germano de Melo hurried to get out of the boat. He staggered about on dry land in a daze: The river had invaded his eyes. He gazed dispiritedly at the path leading to the cluster of dwellings. In the embrace of roots and trunks, the church seemed to have been born before the river itself.
Is the hospital here? the Portuguese asked in a faint voice.
We were still a long way from Georges Liengme’s hospital at Mandhlakazi. We would spend the night on church premises before setting off for our final destination at first light.
The weakened sergeant staggered up the footpath with Mwanatu supporting him from behind. Halfway up the slope lay the scattered remains of the church steps. Rain and time had dislodged the steps leading to the building. The slabs of paving seemed to be returning to the ground from which they had been torn.
At the entrance to the church, we clapped our hands to show our respect. We do not knock on doors as the whites do. The door is inside the home, the house begins when you cross the threshold of the front yard.
Father Rudolfo Fernandes soon emerged from the shadow. It was years since I had last seen him. I spent my entire childhood with him at the church in Makomani. It was with the priest that I learned to speak and write the language of the Portuguese. Let us say that it was through him that I learned to stop being a young black girl of the VaChopi people. Rudolfo Fernandes had aged; his beard was white and his hair long, disheveled and graying. He came over wiping his hands on his dirty, frayed cassock. When he realized who I was, he raised his eyes to the heavens and gave me a heartfelt embrace:
God be praised, Imani, my little Imani! Just look at you! What a beautiful woman you’ve turned into!
After we had entered the church, I introduced my traveling companions. The priest shook each one warmly by the hand, except for my brother Mwanatu, to whom he gave a welcoming hug. The sergeant was the last person to be greeted. Germano de Melo was a white man and a soldier. He was worthy of special treatment. Rudolfo stretched out his hand decisively, and only then noticed that his gesture could not be reciprocated. Germano waved his stumps clumsily and muttered:
I lost them, my hands I mean.
Outside, in the open air, his words would have been inaudible. But within the four walls of the church, the sergeant’s feeble voice gained the resonance of an echo: I lost them, my hands I mean. The priest contrived some brief consoling words:
Injured whites and blacks come here. This looks like a house of worship. But it’s a hospital.
The church smelled musty, its walls damp and sticky.
In the last flood, the water came up to there, the priest said, pointing to a mildew stain on a wooden beam. And he chuckled, as if detecting some disapproval in our silence:
I like it as it is, a church washed by the river.
The altar displayed religious figures, carved from aged wood. Crushing the flakes of paint shed by these statues in his fingers, the priest declared:
It never dies, wood is always alive.
And my father was in complete agreement. Mwanatu got all muddled when he crossed himself, his entangled fingers and hands all over his body. And he hailed God, addressing him as “Your Excellency.” Doves fluttered among the joists in the ceiling, their agile wings lashing the air like whips, when Rudolfo called in the direction of the side door:
Bibliana, come and see! Come and see who is here!
We heard heavy, plodding footsteps in the atrium: Whoever was coming wasn’t barefoot. Suddenly, the priest opened the doors and proclaimed enthusiastically:
This is my Bibliana! Come here, girl.
A tall, thin black woman appeared in silhouette against the light, wearing a red silk dress. A pair of military boots gave the figure an even more imposing air.
Bibliana works miracles, she’s the best healer there is. There isn’t an ailment she can’t treat.
The woman surveyed the sergeant and spoke in a mixture of Portuguese, Txitxope, and Txichangana. Her tone of voice was grave, almost masculine.
This man must come with me. He’s broken, his soul has sunk to his feet.
Germano must have understood something, because he staggered after her into the rear courtyard. I followed in order to support his steps and help with translation. Feeling left alone among the men, Bianca decided to join us.
Once outside, our strange hostess looked me up and down, and when she saw my feet, she shook her head and said:
Do you think you’re some white woman?
I didn’t react. Nor did Bibliana expect a reply. She mumbled between her teeth in Txitxope:
I knew a woman who wore shoes, whose feet caught fire.
After that, I ceased to exist for her as she busied herself with making the Portuguese sit down on a chair in the middle of the yard. Then her hands lingered for some time over Germano’s shoulders, while she sniffed his face and neck. She took deep breaths and spat repeatedly. Bianca was sickened and turned her back.
From a bag, Bibliana pulled out some women’s clothes and made the sergeant put them on. The Italian woman shook her head disapprovingly from afar. Even I found this behavior strange. Initially, I thought the intention might have been to dress the patient in light, loose-fitting clothes. It wasn’t. Bibliana had other motives, suggested by her announcement:
Men may rule over the land. But it is we women who rule over blood.
And, pointing to herself and to Germano, the soothsayer repeated:
We women.
The sergeant’s head was beginning to sway as he dozed off, and the healer ordered some boys to go down to the river and bring back the dugout in which we had been traveling.
That boat will be this man’s bed, she declared.
It was not long before Germano de Melo was carried into the church in the dugout, in what looked like a funeral procession. Borne on the boys’ shoulders, the boat swayed with all the solemnity of a coffin. Terrified, the Portuguese raised his head and must have been assailed by the same disquiet that was tormenting me, because he asked, almost drained of any strength:
Has my time come already?
They deposited the dugout on the altar stone. Once again, the healer summoned the young men and whispered urgent instructions. Hands nimbly rummaged through every nook and cranny of the building, and from the shadows they collected owls’ feathers. With these, the soothsayer lined the bottom of the boat.
Take me away from here, Bianca, Germano pleaded. I’m bleeding to death.
Tomorrow you’ll be going to Manjacaze, the white woman assured him.
However, nothing could placate the sergeant. With his elbows resting on the edges of the dugout and his eyes probing as if overcoming a darkness that was his alone, the Portuguese ranted:
This is how the blacks kill our horses: they cut off their ears and they bleed to death during the night.
He fell silent, exhausted. Then he lay back in the bottom of the boat and continued without pause:
That’s how they kill them, those poor horses. The next morning, thousands of flies penetrate their ears, advancing down their arteries, eating away their flesh from the inside, until the carcass is so light that it only takes one man to remove the animal.
The Italian woman stroked the sergeant’s tousled hair, smoothed the collar of his dress, and whispered to him:
Tomorrow, Germano, tomorrow we’ll be at the Swiss hospital.
Bibliana mimicked the white woman’s words mockingly:
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
Then she smiled scornfully and, raising her chin, bade me translate:
This white man will remain here until he’s got his strength back. Only then will he go on to Mandhlakazi. The very name of that p
lace is steeped in blood. That’s what Mandhlakazi means: the power of blood.
As soon as day breaks, we shall be on our way to Manjacaze, Bianca insisted. And, turning to me, she ordered: Explain this to that mad black woman.
Be careful, Dona Bianca, I implored. That woman understands Portuguese.
Bibliana pretended she had not heard. With her face turned to the heavens, she half closed her eyes and proclaimed:
This white man isn’t leaving here!
And her fingers stabbed the air like arrows quivering in the ground. In despair, Bianca raised her hands to her head and, without waiting for me to complete my translation, answered angrily:
So we leave him here without proper food or the minimum standard of hygiene?
I shall give him food, Bibliana replied. And we have the river that washes all wounds.
Tell this black woman, the Italian woman ordered me, that I don’t like her. Tell her I don’t trust a witch who goes around in a red gown. And also tell her that tomorrow we’ll see who’s in charge.
But the Italian was talking to a wall. Indifferent to the white woman’s fury, Bibliana bent over the sergeant to undo his bandages. Using all caution, to allow the blood to flow into a white basin. If one drop were to fall to the ground, it would be a sign of bad luck.
There is no such thing as someone’s blood. With every person who loses blood, we all bleed, the healer murmured.
As the basin became stained with red, it dawned on me how the smell of blood was sour, metallic. The sergeant lay with his eyes closed, while Bibliana added a handful of ash to an ointment made of sap and mafura oil. She rubbed this mixture into the soldier’s wounds.
When she had finished this treatment, the woman ripped her red gown in two places and swept around the wide space, still wearing her unwieldy boots. She kicked aside chairs and benches. When the whole space had been cleared, she went out into the yard and brought back some logs, which she deposited on the paving stones of the church. The Italian woman cried out in alarm: