Sea Loves Me

by Mia Couto

  Once upon a time it was necessary to resort to the skills of the old medicine man to dig out that nest and retrieve its acid deposits. Maybe Mabata-bata had trodden on some malign vestige of the ndlati. But who would believe it? Not his uncle. He would want to see the dead ox, at least be shown some proof of the accident. He had already seen thunderstruck cattle: they became burnt-out carcasses, a pattern of ashes reminiscent of a body. Fire chews slowly, it doesn’t swallow in one go, which is what had happened here.

  He looked about him: the rest of the cattle had scattered into the bush in fright. Fear slid from the little cowherd’s eyes.

  —Don’t come back without an ox, Azarias. That’s all I say: you’d better not come back.

  His uncle’s threat blustered in his ears. That anxiety consumed the air he breathed. What could he do? Thoughts rushed at him like shadows but found no way out of the problem. There was only one solution: to run away, to travel the roads where he knew nothing more. To flee is to die from a place and, with his torn trousers, an old bag over his shoulder, what would he leave behind to regret? Mistreatment, running after cattle. Other people’s children were allowed to go to school. Not he, for he was nobody’s son. Work tore him early from his bed and returned him to sleep when there was no longer any trace of childhood left in him. He only played with animals: swimming the river clinging to the tail of Mabatabata, making bets when the stronger animals fought each other. At home, his uncle told his fortune:

  —This one, judging by the way he lives mixed up with livestock, will surely marry a cow.

  And everyone laughed, without a care for his tiny soul, his mistreated dreams. This was why he looked back at the fields he was going to leave behind without any regrets. He considered the contents of his bag: a catapult, some djambalau fruit, a rusty penknife. So little cannot inspire any remorse. He set off in the direction of the river. He felt he was not running away: he was merely starting out along his road. When he arrived at the river he crossed the frontier of water. On the other bank, he stopped without even knowing what he was waiting for.

  As evening fell, Grandmother Carolina was waiting for Raul at the door of the house. When he arrived, she let fly with her anxieties:

  —So late, and Azarias hasn’t come back with the cattle.

  —What? That brat is going to get a good hiding when he gets back.

  —Couldn’t it be that something has happened, Raul? I’m scared, these bandits …

  —Some fun and games have happened, that’s what.

  They sat on the mat and had dinner. They talked about the matter of the bride price, the wedding preparations. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Raul got up, casting Grandmother Carolina a questioning glance. He opened the door: they were soldiers, three of them.

  —Good evening, do you want something?

  —Good evening. We’ve come to inform you of an incident: a mine exploded this afternoon. An ox trod on it. Now, that ox belonged here.

  Another soldier added:

  —We want to know where its minder is.

  —The minder’s the one we’re waiting for, Raul answered. And he shouted:

  —These bloody bandits!

  —When he arrives, we want to talk to him, to find out how it was that it happened. Nobody should go out towards the mountain. The bandits have been laying mines over there.

  They left. Raul remained, hovering round his questions.

  Where’s that son of a bitch Azarias gone? And was the rest of the herd scattered out there goodness knows where?

  —Grandmother: I can’t stay here like this. I’ve got to go and see where that good-for-nothing has got to. He’s probably let the herd scatter. I must round up the cattle while it’s still early.

  —You can’t, Raul. Look at what the soldiers said. It’s dangerous.

  But he disregarded her and went off into the night. Does the bush have a suburb? It does: it was where Azarias had taken the animals. Raul, tearing himself on the thorns, could not deny the boy’s skill. Nobody could match him in his knowledge of the land. He calculated that the little cowherd would have chosen to take refuge in the valley.

  He reached the river and climbed the big rocks. At the top of his voice, he issued his command:

  —Azarias, come back, Azarias!

  Only the river answered, disentombing its gushing voice. Nothingness all around. But he sensed his nephew’s hidden presence.

  —Show yourself, don’t be scared. I shan’t hit you, I promise.

  He promised lies. He wasn’t going to hit him: he was going to thrash him to death, once he had finished rounding up the cattle. For the time being he decided to sit down, a statue of darkness. His eyes, now used to the half-light, disembarked on the other bank. Suddenly, he heard footsteps in the bush. He stood on his guard.

  —Azarias?

  It wasn’t him. Carolina’s voice reached Raul’s ears.

  —It’s me, Raul.

  Curse that old hag, what did she want? To interfere, that’s all. She might tread on a mine and blow herself up and, worse still, him too.

  —Go back home, Grandmother!

  —Azarias will refuse to hear you when you call. He’ll listen to me though.

  And she put her assuredness into effect by calling the cowherd. From behind the shadows, a silhouette appeared.

  —ls that you, Azarias? Come with me, let’s go home.

  —I don’t want to. I’m going to run away.

  Raul began to creep down the rock, catlike, ready to pounce and seize his nephew by the throat.

  —Where are you going to run away to, child?

  —I’ve nowhere to go, Grandmother.

  —That fellow’s going to come back even if I have to cudgel him back in little pieces, Raul’s guileful voice cut in quickly.

  —Be quiet, Raul. In your life you don’t know the meaning of wretchedness. And, turning to the cowherd:

  —Come, my child, I’ll look after you. It wasn’t your fault that the ox died. Come and help your uncle to herd the animals.

  —There’s no need. The cattle are here, alongside me.

  Raul stood up, unsure. His heart began to do a drum dance inside his chest.

  —What’s that? The cattle are there?

  —Yes, that’s right.

  The silence became twisted and tangled. Azarias’s uncle was not sure of his nephew’s truth.

  —Nephew, did you really do it? Did you round up the cattle?

  The grandmother smiled, thinking of how the quarrels of the two of them would now end. She promised him a reward and asked the boy to choose.

  —Your uncle is very pleased. Choose. He will respect your request.

  Raul thought it better to agree to everything at that moment. Later, he would correct the boy’s illusions, and his sense of duty as a cowherd would return.

  —Tell us your wish then.

  —Uncle, next year can I go to school?

  He had guessed this would be it. There was no way he would consent to this. By allowing him to go to school he would lose a minder for his oxen. But the occasion required bluff and he spoke with his back to his thoughts:

  —Yes, you can go.

  —Really, Uncle?

  —How many mouths do you think I have?

  —I can continue to help with the cattle. School is only in the afternoon.

  —That’s right. But we’ll talk about all that later. Come on out of there.

  The little cowherd emerged from the shadows and ran along the sand to where the river offered him passage. Suddenly, there was an explosion and a flash which seemed to turn night into noon. The little cowherd swallowed all that red, the shriek of crackling fire. Amid the flecks of night he saw the ndlati, bird of lightning, swoop down. He tried to shout: Who are you coming to get, ndlati?

  But he spoke not a word. It wasn’t the river that drowned his words: he was a fruit drained of sound, pain, and colour. Round about, everything began to close in, even the river sacrificed its water’s life, and
the world engulfed its floor in white smoke.

  —Are you going to land on Grandmother, poor thing, so kind? Or have you chosen my uncle, repentant after all and full of promises like the true father who died on me?

  And before the bird of fire could decide, Azarias ran and embraced it in the passage of its flame.

  ‌How Ascolino do Perpétuo Socorro Lost His Spouse

  Vivenda da Santíssima Palha was the name on the sign by the side of the road. A path of sand led to the farm, a place which no longer knew the meaning of sweat and toil. In the middle, half hidden by mango trees, the colonial farmhouse measured itself against time. There, in the afternoon shade, Ascolino Fernandes do Perpétuo Socorro would relax on the veranda. Inheritor of the estate, he ruminated over memories, unhurried and without obligations. He recalled Goa, his native land. He rejected the Mozambican in him: I am indeed an Indo-Portuguese, Catholic in my faith and in my customs.

  His dress was of the most formal kind, a suit of white linen, shoes of an identical whiteness, and hat of the selfsame colour. Ceremonious, correct, Ascolino embroidered his speech with the brocades of old Portugal which he admired so much. He decorated his repartee with adverbs for no reason or purpose. A long list of them introduced sentences which were spoken incorrectly and with a strong accent: Notwithstanding, however, nevertheless, perforce …

  In Munhava he had established his domains, more dreamed-of than firmly fixed. He alone discerned the glory of being Goan, while separating the breeze from the flies during the long afternoons.

  He bowed to his visitors, bestowing upon them long silences and green mangoes with salt. Dona Epifânia, his wife, was the one who served them, so thin that one was not even aware she was approaching. When the net doors flapped, one knew she was there. No one had ever witnessed any expression of love pass between them. Did they love each other? If so, they loved without their bodies. Ascolino suffered because of his wife’s constant seclusion. He consoled himself, but without conviction. Epifânia, he was wont to say, is a clam. If opened, it dies, exposed to the air and to the tides. When the others noted his wife’s absence, Ascolino would affirm:

  —Epifâne, most sacred spouse indeed. Notvitsanding, howevah, darty years of marriage.

  Five o’clock in the afternoon was a venerated hour, even more sacred than his wife. Whether or not there were visitors, the ritual was repeated. Vasco João Joãoquinho, faithful and devoted servant, would emerge from the shadow of the mango trees. He wore a khaki uniform which consisted of a tunic and neatly pressed trousers. He would approach, wheeling a bicycle. Ascolino Fernandes, with his eye for protocol, would salute both present and absent friends. The servant would hand him a little cushion which he would arrange on the bicycle frame. Ascolino Fernandes would climb on, taking great care not to dirty his trousers on the chain. With these preparations now complete, Vasco João Joãoquinho would mount the saddle, and with a vigorous shove begin the pageant. Their sally was made all the more difficult by the undulations in the sand. And the two of them, Ascolino and his bicycle chauffeur, would press on, bound for Meneses’s liquor store, dispensing greetings as they went. The movements of both were correct, only their vehicle did not uphold the bylaws. On they would press, obeying the degenerate will of Ascolino, pedalling against thirst and distance.

  On that afternoon the same scenery passed by with the same men inside it. Vasco chose the grassy parts of the track so the tires gripped better. Suddenly, the bicycle keeled over and both master and servant fell into the ditch. Ascolino lay motionless in the mud. Vasco picked up the bits and pieces, straightened the handlebars, and brushed down his master’s hat.

  Ascolino recomposed himself with some difficulty. He surveyed the damage and began to chide his servant:

  —What have you done, man? You have been spoiling our hat indeed. Who will pay for it perforce?

  —Sorry, boss. I was trying to steer the bicycle clear of that mud back there.

  —Are you not seeing, fellow? I am always telling you: do not brake so suddenly.

  And on they climbed again: Ascolino Perpétuo Socorro, his dignity restored, his hat battered, Vasco pedalling through the sunset. Overhead, the coconut palms lent sound to the breeze.

  —Try not to derail the velocipede again, Vasco, will you?

  Reeling through the sands, the servant pushed with all the strength of his legs. But the Goan’s thirst could not wait for the minutes to go by:

  —Proceed post-haste, Vasco. Pedal harder!

  They arrived at the Bar Viriato, Meneses’s store. The bicycle came to a halt by the cement-paved frontage. The master climbed off, brushing the dust off his clothes. He pulled out his pocket watch as he made his way towards his reserved table. Vasco did not enter the front part. Blacks, according to the custom of the time, were only admitted at the rear. In the back yard, watered-down wine was served. In the bar, in front, the quality was of a different order.

  Vasco João Joãoquinho took his time coming in. The others greeted his arrival and asked for stories about him and his boss Ascolino. Vasco always had a tale to tell, inventing amusing incidents. But he always lingered over the beginning while preparing the condiments of the adventure.

  —Well now, Vasco? What happened last night with your boss?

  Vasco considered his words, and chuckled as he thought ahead about the tale he was going to tell.

  —You won’t believe this one about my boss …

  —Come on, man! Tell us it.

  And he related the incredible incident of the previous night. Ascolino Fernandes, in the furthest depths of the middle of the night, had started his singsong with the “Fado of the Little Swallows.” Vasco Joãoquinho imitated him, glass in hand:

  When a little swallow died

  All the little girls cried …

  Ascolino sang the whole night through. The little swallows kept dying and his fury kept growing. Until he began to trumpet threats through the open window:

  —Now I’m going to throw the fan out.

  And down came the fan with a crash, hurled from the first floor. It smashed into smithereens on the ground, its pieces flying across the yard. Then another warning:

  —Now for the dishes.

  And down into the garden fell pieces of crockery. Gleaming splinters of glass exploded into a thousand moons in the yard of the farmhouse. Ascolino sang ever louder:

  When a little swallow died …

  There was no sign of Epifânia. Maybe she was shut away in her room. Or perhaps she was crying in the way that only she knew how. The saddest sadness is that which is not heard.

  —I’m talking seriously, my friends, because I know all about sadness. Our race cries with its body. They don’t. They’re locked inside their tribulations.

  —Listen here, Vasco, don’t get off the subject. Go on with the story about your boss.

  Bits of furniture came travelling through the window. Vasco came over and begged:

  —Please, boss, stop all this.

  —Get out of the way, Vasco.

  —Oh, boss, don’t go on, don’t wreck the whole house.

  —Whose house is it? ls it yours?

  —But boss, have you seen all the junk down here?

  —Get out of the way! Hurry! Now I am throwing the fridge machine.

  Terrified, Vasco left the yard. Taking a short step and then a longer one to avoid the broken glass, the servant went and hid in the shadows. There, sheltered by the darkness, he waited for the crash. Nothing. The refrigerator wasn’t coming.

  —Boss?

  —What is it that you are wanting? Nevertheless are you still annoying me?

  Then he began to sing fados again. He bellowed his song, the whole of Munhava was littered with little swallows. He interrupted his artistry and turned towards the inside of the house to insult Epifânia:

  —You don’t care about me. It’s just prayers from morning to night. This isn’t a house for mortals. It’s not a farmhouse! It’s a church. The Cathedral of Santíssima Pal
ha. Notwithstanding, I tell you what I am going to do: I am going to throw out all the furniture for praying, your crucifix, and the altar. Everything out, out of here!

  Then it was the turn of silence. Vasco Joãoquinho asked himself: is this an interval or the end of the show? Just as he thought it was all over, he heard the noise of a chair being dragged over to the window. It was then that the figure of the Goan appeared fully, from his knees to his head. His skinny hands tidied his unkempt appearance while he announced solemnly:

  —The furniture has all gone. Now it is my turn.

  And before Vasco could say anything, Ascolino Fernandes do Perpétuo Socorro threw himself down from the window. Ascolino’s skinniness did not help his speed. He was more like a curtain than a body. When he landed, he didn’t get so much as a grunt from the ground. Just a sigh, a little cloud of dust. Vasco, alarmed, ran over to help. He searched for signs of blood, of injury to the body. There were none.

  —Boss, did you damage anything?

  —What anything? Help me out of the ground.

  He lifted his boss. When he had reached his full height, Ascolino surveyed the damage around him. Then he walked away through the darkness quietly humming his fado.

  Everyone at the rear of the Bar Viriato laughed at the story. This time, however, Vasco Joãoquinho arranged his silence with an expression of sadness on his face.

  —Hey, Vasco, you always bring us such good stories, man.

  —I didn’t invent it. All of what I told you happened. But don’t laugh so loud, he might be listening from over the other side.

  But nothing could be heard from the other side. Ascolino was hard at work on the whisky. Separated by only a wall, the other side was still a long way away.