Sea Loves Me

by Mia Couto

  Seated at his reserved table, Ascolino, relishing his own company, recalled Goa, Damão, and Diu and spouted adverbs. Notwithstanding, however.

  —Please to bring me another helping of visky.

  Meneses didn’t even seem to see Ascolino. He poured out the orders while the sky gradually lost its light. Time slipped by between one glass and another. Ascolino drank with the confidence of a viceroy of the Indies. A finer quality Ascolino than the other Ascolino—the Indo-Portuguese superimposing himself on the Mozambican by means of alcohol. Only one anxiety remained, which had not been drowned by whisky: Epifânia. At this stage, his wife must be turning in her sleep, tossed between insults and exhaustion. Ascolino looked at the time; he didn’t want to stop for the night on the journey home. Guessing his fears, a Portuguese said:

  —Don’t hurry yourself, Fernandes. Don’t hurry. Your lady’s going to get angry with you anyway.

  Ascolino decided to ignore deadlines, to show he was a man and daring in his delay. If he was downtrodden in life, he excelled in the art of discourse.

  —Epifâne, she is already being aware of everything. Curry, chacuti, sarapatel,1 all the good food there is, everything she has been cooking for us to eat upon our arrival. Epifâne, most sacred spouse.

  At another table, a group of soldiers awaited their chance. At this point they decided to issue their challenge:

  —Goa’s gone. Indian motherfuckers; scum of the earth.

  But Ascolino, to their astonishment, did not show offence. On the contrary, he joined his assailants.

  —Yes sir, Indian motherfuckers indeed. Perforce, however, I am an Indo-Portuguese, defender of the Lusitanian fatherland against its enemies.

  The soldiers eyed each other suspiciously. But Ascolino took the affirmation of his Portuguese loyalty a step further. He climbed onto his chair and, swaying this way and that, held forth upon his heroic dreams. A crusade, yes, a crusade to reconquer the name of Goa for Portuguese usage. At its head, commanding the battalions, he, Ascolino Fernandes do Perpétuo Socorro. Behind him, soldiers and missionaries, ships loaded with arms, Bibles, and some little bottles of visky.

  —This bloke’s taking the piss out of us, concluded one of the soldiers, the biggest one. He got up and walked over to Ascolino, getting the scent of his humours:

  —Crusades, what crusades? The only cross you carry is the cross your skinny little caneco’s2 legs make.

  It was not intentional, perhaps it was because he lost his balance, but Ascolino spilled a few drops of whisky on the other man’s uniform. A fist flew through the air, tore through the orator’s words, and Ascolino collapsed on the ground. The others seized the aggressor, dragged him away, and threw him out of the bar. Ascolino lay there on his back, in surrogate death, one arm raised and holding his glass. Meneses came to his assistance:

  —Senhor Ascolino, are you all right?

  —I have been fallen flat.

  —But how did it happen?

  —Abruptly.

  They put the Goan back on his feet. He straightened his creases, and peered into the bottom of his glass. He looked round at the crowd and declared the crusade postponed.

  In front of the bar, the Goan prepared his retreat:

  —Vashcooo, lessgo!

  While waiting for his chauffeur, he fumbled for his pocket watch, creature of habit that he was. Only this time he found the chain but no watch. Ascolino consulted his non-existent watch and remarked on the lateness of the hour.

  —Quickly, Vashcooo.

  He arranged the cushion on the bicycle frame before seating himself. The cushion was in place, it was just that Ascolino missed. He fell, tried again, and returned to the ground.

  —Vashcooo, switch on the light, switch off this darkness.

  The servant aligned the dynamo with the wheel and gave the pedal a healthy kick. Ascolino was on his hands and knees looking for his own body.

  —Did my hat run away?

  Vasco Joãoquinho was also reeling. He picked up the hat and climbed on the bike. Then they both got ready, hindering each other in the process. Meneses enjoyed the spectacle from his window:

  —That caneco’s stoned out of his mind. Full of whisky and punches.

  Vasco pushed aside pieces of darkness and other obstacles as they set off home. He pedalled along, ringing his bell, cring, cring. No longer could ravens be heard or herons seen. Night had levelled colours, erased differences. As they went on, the effects of the Scottish brew began to be felt even more strongly by the Goan, who abandoned his good behaviour once and for all.

  —I’m a pale-assed little caneco, a first-class one if you please. And shouting with all his soul:

  —Long live Nehru!

  Some way further on, where the rice plantations end and the coconut palms begin, Ascolino exchanged his servant for his wife and began to call him Epifânia.

  —A woman doesn’t ride behind. Get up in front.

  Vasco obediently gave up his saddle seat. The Goan, excited, grabbed his servant round the waist.

  —Hey, boss, get away with you.

  But Ascolino pressed forwards with sugary insistence. He tried to kiss his servant, who avoided him vigorously. As insistence increased, respect diminished. Vasco now pushed his boss aside:

  —Leave me alone, I’m not your woman.

  And another stronger shove sent Ascolino to the ground. Silence among the coconut groves. Only the ravens watched the scuffle inquisitively. The Goan lay spread-eagled on the ground. He asked for a light to see whether the stain on his trousers was puddle water, or whether he’d pissed in his pants. Vasco laughed. Ascolino began to raise himself, reeling, his nose nearly scraping the ground. Then, when finally upright, he examined the surrounding grass:

  —Vashcooo, they’ve stolen the Vivenda da Santíssima Palha!

  —No, boss! We haven’t got there yet, there’s still some way to go.

  But Ascolino’s mind was made up, and he retorted:

  —Vashcooo, we’ve lost the house. Perforce, you are going to look for it.

  The servant lost his patience and began to pull him along by the armpits. On tow in this fashion, Ascolino saw the road back to front, retreating crablike. Confusing his coming with his going, he pleaded:

  —Vashcooo, don’t walk backwards. We are going back to Meneses’s store.

  And as if going on ahead, he shouted his order:

  —Meneses, give me visky, and another helping for Epifâne, most holy drink. And in a generous mood, he turned his head:

  —Order whatever you want, Vashcooo. And deduct it from your month’s pay. You can drink on this side, there’s no need for you to go to the back.

  Tired out with walking backwards, Vasco let go of him. Feeling himself horizontal, the Goan said his prayers and then took his leave:

  —Good night, Epifâne, most holy wife.

  But Vasco was no longer there. He went back to get the bicycle. Ascolino raised his head with difficulty and, seeing his servant loaded down, he hailed him:

  —That’s it, bring my blanket to cover me with. And cover Epifâne too.

  Vasco, in despair, attempted a final warning:

  —I don’t know, boss. If we don’t get back tonight, and sleep here, your lady’s going to kick up a big fuss.

  Ascolino agreed. The threat seemed to have had an effect. Propping himself on his elbows, the boss looked straight at his servant and said:

  —What’s wrong, Epifânia? Are you sleeping in khaki trousers now?

  And without further ado, he fell asleep. So heavy was his slumber that Vasco failed to budge him.

  Next morning, they were covered by a sheet of insects, leaves, and dew. Vasco was the first to arrive back in the world. He was surprised by the sound of a motor nearby. He looked around him, fighting the weight of his eyelids. It was then that he saw, in the near distance, the Vivenda da Santíssima Palha. Could it be that they had slept only a minute or two from home?

  In the front yard, all the furniture had been
piled up. There were men loading it all onto a truck. That, then, was the motor he had heard. Dona Epifânia was directing the operation like some supreme commander.

  The servant hesitated. He looked at his boss, still given over to sleep. Finally, he made up his mind. Vasco Joãoquinho followed the familiar sandy path up to the house. When he got there, he realized what his mistress intended to do. She wanted to leave, to terminate her association with Ascolino without warning or explanation.

  —Senhora, don’t go away, please.

  The mistress was startled. Then, recovering from her fright, she continued with her removal.

  —Senhora, we were late because of the beating the boss got back there in the bar.

  The servant’s words had no effect. His mistress continued to give out her orders. But Vasco Joãoquinho didn’t give up:

  —Senhora, it wasn’t just the business of the beating. We were late because of an accident on the road.

  —An accident?

  Epifânia, suddenly uncertain, began to think. She asked for proof of his truth. Vasco showed her the twisted hat. She looked at the stains and bit her lip. She chose her words carefully before asking:

  —Was he killed?

  —Killed? No, Senhora. He’s just lying in the road.

  —Is he hurt?

  —No, not at all. He’s just sleepy. Can I go and get him?

  Words to be regretted, for once Epifânia had heard them she renewed her determination to leave and the furniture began to be loaded again.

  Vasco retraced his steps along the road. Slowly, he returned to the place where he had left his boss asleep. When he got there, Ascolino was already stretching himself. Unable to take the light, he rubbed his eyes, unaware of the noise of the approaching truck. He sat up and his aching body shrank. The truck’s horn startled him, and in one leap he landed in the ditch. The load passed slowly by, as if opposed to its journey. There before Ascolino’s untutored eyes, his life was ebbing away, unrecorded and unnoticed. When the dust settled, Vasco could be seen standing glumly on one side of the road. On the other, Ascolino was climbing out of the ditch. As he looked, the truck continued further into the distance. Then, brushing the creases in his coat, he asked:

  —What’s happening, Vasco? Are some neighbours moving from Munhava?

  —They’re not neighbours, boss. It’s the lady, Dona Epifânia herself, who is going away.

  —Epifâne?

  —Yes. And she’s taking everything with her.

  Ascolino looked askance, repeating:

  —Epifâne.

  He stood there churning over his thoughts, kicking at clumps of grass, untidying the scenery. The servant couldn’t bring himself to look up. Then, suddenly, Ascolino spoke decisively:

  —Bring the bicycle, Vasco. We are going to pursue that truck. Quickly.

  —But boss, the truck’s a long way ahead by now.

  —Quiet, you know-nothing. Load the velocipede, speedily.

  So the servant prepared the seats. On the frame, and without a cushion, sat the boss, while the servant sat on the saddle. And they began to cycle off down the road.

  The groove made by the tires gradually unwove itself in the morning air. No longer could the noise of the truck be heard through the surrounding rice fields. Ascolino the viceroy led his impossible crusade to try and regain his lost spouse.

  —Pedal, pedal quickly. Perforce we must arrive early. When five o’clock strikes we must go back to Meneses’s store.

  ‌So You Haven’t Flown Yet, Carlota Gentina?

  1. Your Honour, let me begin

  I are sad. No, I’m not mistaken. What I’m saying is correct. Or perhaps: we am sad? Because inside me, I’m not alone. I’m many. And they all fight over my one and only life. We go along reaping our deaths. But we only have one birth. That’s where the problem lies. That’s why, when I tell my story, I mix myself up, a mulato not of races but of existences.

  They say I killed my wife. In real life, I killed one who didn’t exist. She was a bird. I let her go when I saw that she didn’t have a voice, that she was dying without so much as a complaint. What dumb creature was it that came out of her through the fissure of her body?

  Very well, Your Honour, you, a doctor of the laws, have asked me to write down my story, and that’s what I’m going to do, a little bit every day. What I’m going to tell you, you’re going to use to defend me in court. But you don’t even know me. Does my suffering interest you, sir? It doesn’t matter to me either. Here I am talking away about this and that, but I don’t want anything, I don’t want to get out any more than I want to stay. These six years that I’ve been locked up in this cell have been enough for me to unlearn my life. Now, sir, I just want to be dying. To die is for such a long time, living is too short. I’ll stay in between. On my way to death. Do you think that’s funny? I’ll explain: the dying are allowed to do what they want. No one laughs at them. They anticipate respect for the dead, they are pre-deceased. When the dying insult us, we forgive them for sure. If they shit in their sheets or spit on their dinner plate, we clean up after them, no questions asked. Please, Your Honour, help me. Fix it so that I can be dying, sub-dead.

  After all, here I am in this prison because I decided to become a prisoner. That’s the plain truth, no one pointed the finger at me. Sick of myself, I informed against me. I gave myself up. Maybe on account of being tired of waiting for a time that never came. I can wait but never get anything. When the future arrives it won’t find me. When all is said and done, where am I? Isn’t this time the place of my life?

  I’m going to leave my thoughts to themselves, and get straight to the story. I’ll begin with my brother-in-law Bartolomeu. The night he came looking for me, that was when disaster began to strike.

  2. Wings on the ground, embers in the sky

  Light was getting thin. Only a glassful of sky was left. In my brother-in-law Bartolomeu’s house, they were preparing for the end of the day. He glanced round the hut: his wife bustled about, causing the last shadows from the oil lamp to flicker. Then his wife went to bed, but Bartolomeu was restless. Sleep wouldn’t come quickly to him. Outside an owl began to hoot calamities. His wife didn’t hear the bird warning of death, she was already in the arms of sleep. Bartolomeu said to himself: I’m going to make tea: maybe that’ll help me to sleep.

  The fire was still burning. He took a stick of wood and blew on it. He shook the crumbs of flame from his eyes and in the confusion dropped the lighted stick on his wife’s back. The cry she let out no one had ever heard the likes of before. It wasn’t the sound a person would make, it was the howl of an animal. A hyena’s voice for sure. Bartolomeu jumped with fright: What am I married to then? A nóii? Those women who turn into animals at night and go around doing witches’ work?

  His wife dragged her burning pain across the floor in front of his distress. Like an animal. What a luckless life, thought Bartolomeu. And he fled from home. He hurried across the village to tell me what had happened. He arrived at my house, and the dogs were very excited. He came in without knocking, without so much as an “excuse me.” He told me his story just as I am writing it down. At first, I didn’t believe him. Perhaps Bartolomeu had mixed up his recollections when drunk. I smelled the breath of his complaint. It didn’t smell of drink. It was true then. Bartolomeu repeated the story two, three, four times. I listened to it and thought to myself: And what if my wife is the same? What if she’s a nóii too?

  When Bartolomeu had left, the idea seized hold of my thoughts. And supposing I, without knowing it, were living with an animal-woman? If I had made love to her, then I had traded my human’s mouth with an animal snout. How could I excuse such a trade? Were animals ever supposed to rest on a sleeping mat? Animals live and grow strong out in the corrals, beyond the wire. If that bitch had deceived me, I had become an animal myself. There was only one way to find out whether Carlota Gentina, my wife, was a nóii or not. It was to surprise her with some suffering, some deep pain. I looked around and sa
w a pot full of boiling water. I picked it up and poured the scalding liquid over her body. I waited for the scream but it didn’t come. It didn’t come at all. She just lay there crying silently, without making a noise. She was a curled-up piece of silence there on the mat. All the following day she did not move. Poor Carlota was just a name lying on the ground. A name without a person: just a long, slow sleep inside a body. I shook her by the shoulders:

  —Carlota, why don’t you move? If you’re in agony, why don’t you scream?

  But death is a war of deceptions. Victories are just defeats which have been put off. As long as life has a purpose to it, it will build a person. That’s what Carlota was in need of: the lie of a purpose. I played the fool to make her laugh. I hopped round the mat like a locust. I clanked cooking pots against each other and spilled the noise over myself. Nothing. Her eyes remained glued to the far distance, gazing at the blind side of darkness. Only I laughed, wrapped up in my saucepans. I got up, breathless with laughter, and went outside to give vent to my mad guffaws. I laughed until I was tired. Then gradually I was overcome by sad thoughts, ancient pangs of conscience.

  I went back inside and thought she would probably like to see the light of day and stretch her legs. I took her outside. She was so light that her blood could have been no more than red dust. I sat Carlota down facing the setting sun. I let the fresh air soak her body. There, sitting in the backyard, my wife Carlota Gentina died. I didn’t notice her death immediately. I only knew it when I saw the tear which had stopped still in her eyes. That tear was already death’s water.

  I stood looking at the woman stretched out in that body of hers. I looked at the feet, torn like the surface of the earth. They had walked so many paths that they had become like brothers to the sand. The feet of the dead are big, they grow on after death. While I measured Carlota’s death I began to have my doubts: What illness was it that caused neither swelling nor cries of pain? Can hot water just stop someone’s age just like that? This was the conclusion I drew from my thoughts: Carlota Gentina was a bird, of the type that lose their voice in a headwind.