Sea Loves Me

by Mia Couto

  As soon as he had unloaded the first items of merchandise, he would give himself something to eat because hunger had been vying for his body for a long time now. Only afterwards would he see to the rest, making use of the old crates in the house.

  He thought about the work that remained to be done as he advanced through the water, which now came up to his waist. He felt lighthearted, as if anguish had drained his soul. A second voice addressed him, biting his last remaining senses. There is no whale, these waters are going to be your tomb, and punish you for the dream you nourished. But to die just like that for nothing? No, the creature was there, he could hear it breathing, that deep rumble was no longer the storm, but the whale calling for him. He was aware that he could hardly feel anything anymore, just the coldness of the water lapping at his chest. So it was all an invention, was it? Didn’t I tell you that you needed to have faith, more faith than doubt?

  The only inhabitant of the storm, Bento João Mussavele, waded on into the sea, and into his dream.

  When the storm had blown itself out, the blue waters of the lagoon subsided once again into the timeless tranquility of before. The sands took their proper place once more. In an old abandoned house remained Bento João Mussavele’s untidy heap of clothes, still warm from the heat of his final fever. Next to them was a satchel containing the relics of a dream. There were some who claimed that those clothes and that satchel were proof of the presence of an enemy who was responsible for receiving arms. And that these arms were probably transported by submarines which, in the tales passed on by word of mouth, had been transformed into the whales of Quissico.

  ‌The Tale of the Two Who Returned from the Dead

  It is a truth: the dead ought not to return, to cross the frontier of their world. They only come and disturb our sadness. We already know for sure: so and so has gone. We comfort widows, shed all our tears.

  On the other hand, there are those dead who, having died, persist in coming back. This is what happened in that village which the waters had wrenched from the earth. The floods carried the village away, pulled up by its roots. Not even the scar of the place remained. Many were rescued. Luís Fernando and Aníbal Mucavel vanished. They perished beneath the waters, swept along by the river’s furious current like a pair of fish. Their deaths had been taken for a certainty when, one afternoon, they turned up again.

  The living asked them many questions. Then, alarmed, they called the militia. Raimundo appeared, he who carried his rifle as if it were a hoe. He was trembling with fear, and he could find no other words than:

  —Show me your papers.

  —You’re mad, Raimundo. Put that gun down.

  The militiaman gathered courage when he heard the dead men speak. He ordered them back:

  —Go back to where you came from. It’s no use trying anything: you’ll be thrown out.

  The conversation was not getting them anywhere. Estevão, who was responsible for guard duties, arrived on the scene.

  Luís and Aníbal were allowed in so that they might explain themselves to the authorities.

  —You’re no longer on our list. Where are you going to live?

  The two apparitions were offended by the manner of their welcome.

  —We were swept away by the river. We ended up God knows where, and now you treat us like a couple of infiltrators?

  —Wait, we’ll have to speak to the director of social affairs. He is the only one who can deal with your case.

  Aníbal became even more dejected.

  —So we’ve become a case, have we? A person is not a divorce, a lawsuit. Nor was it that they had a problem: they just had their whole lives to sort out.

  The official arrived on the scene. He was a tubby man, his belly inquisitive, peeping out of his tunic. They were complimented with the respect due to the dead. The official explained the difficulties and the extra burden they represented, as two dead people who had returned without warning.

  —Look: they’ve sent us supplies. Clothes, blankets, sheets of zinc, a lot of things. But you two weren’t included in the estimate.

  Aníbal became agitated when he heard they had been excluded:

  —What do you mean not included? Do you strike people off just like that?

  —But you have died. I don’t even know how you came to be here.

  —What do you mean died? Don’t you believe we are alive?

  —Maybe, I’m not sure anymore. But this business of being alive and not alive had best be discussed with the other comrades.

  So they went to the village hall. They explained their story but failed to prove their truth. A man dragged along like a fish only seeks air, he’s not interested in anything else.

  After some consultation the official concluded rapidly:

  —It doesn’t matter whether you are completely dead or not. If you’re alive, it’s worse still. It would have been better to take advantage of the water to die.

  The other, the one with the tunic that played tug-of-war with its own buttons, added:

  —We can’t go along to the administrative cadres of the district and tell them a couple of ghosts have turned up. They’ll tell us we’ve got ourselves mixed up in obscurantism. We could even be punished.

  —That’s true, agreed the other. We did a political orientation course. You are souls, you’re not the material reality that I and all the others with us in the new village are.

  The fat one added emphatically:

  —To feed you, we’d have to ask for an increase in our quota. How would we justify that? By telling them we’d got two souls to feed?

  And there the conversation ended.

  Luís and Aníbal left the village hall, confused and baffled. Outside, a crowd had gathered to watch them. The two apparitions decided to look for Samuel, the teacher.

  Samuel welcomed them to his house. He explained why they had not been included in the ration quotas.

  —The officials here aren’t like the ones in other villages. They divert supplies. First they distribute them to their own families. Sometimes, they even say there isn’t enough to go round, when in fact their houses are brimming full.

  —Why don’t you denounce them?

  Samuel shrugged. He blew into the embers to give the fire new strength. Red petals of flame spread the scent of light through the little room.

  —Listen, I’ll tell you a secret. Someone did complain to their superiors. They say that this week a commission is coming to investigate the truth of such allegations. You should take the opportunity to explain your case to the commission.

  Samuel offered them a roof and food until the commission of inquiry arrived.

  Aníbal sat his thoughts down at the rear of the house. He gazed long and hard at his feet and muttered, as if he were talking to them:

  —My God, how unfair we are to our body. What part of it do we take most for granted? The feet, poor things, which drag themselves along to hold us up. It’s they that bear both sadness and happiness. But as they are far from the eyes, we ignore our feet, as if they didn’t belong to us. Just because we are above, we tread on our feet. That’s how injustice begins in this world. Now in this case, those feet are myself and Luís, scorned, plunged into the silt of the river.

  There was less light than a shadow when Luís came over and asked him what he was muttering about. Aníbal told him about how he had discovered his feet.

  —You’d do better to think of how we are going to show these folk that we are real people.

  —Do you know something? In the old days, the forest used to scare me, so empty of people. I thought I could only live with others around me. Now, it’s the other way round. I want to go back to where the animals are. I miss not being anybody.

  —Do be quiet now. This is becoming like a conversation between spirits.

  The two stopped talking, fearful of their rickety condition. They began to fidget with things, to scrape their feet on the ground, as if trying to prove the substance of their bodies. Luís asked:

>   —Can it be true? Might it not be that we really are dead? Maybe they’re right. Or perhaps we are being born again.

  —Who knows, brother? It could be any of these things. But what is not right is that you should be blamed, forgotten, struck off the list, rejected.

  It was the voice of Samuel, the teacher. He came over with some mangoes, which he gave to the two candidates for life.

  They peeled the fruit, while the teacher continued to speak:

  —It’s not fair they should forget that, whether you’re alive or dead, you still belong to our village. After all, when we had to defend it against the bandits, didn’t you take up arms?

  —That’s true. I even got this scar from an enemy bullet. Here, look.

  Aníbal got to his feet in order to show the others proof of his suffering, a deep groove that death had carved in his back.

  —Everyone knows that you deserve to be counted among the living. It’s fear alone that causes them to keep quiet, to accept lies.

  Standing there like that, Aníbal clenched his fist as if to squeeze out his anger. Drops of the sweet-sad juice of the mango fell to the ground.

  —Samuel, you know about life. Don’t you think it would be better if we left, if we chose another place to live?

  —No, Aníbal. You must stay. You are bound to win in the end, I’m sure. After all, a man who leaves because he is beaten, no longer lives. He will find nowhere else to begin again.

  —And you, Samuel, are you one of those who doesn’t believe we are alive?

  —Be quiet, Luís. Let Samuel here advise us.

  —These people who bedevil you are bound to fall. It is they who do not belong here, not you. Stay, my friends. Help us in our plight. We too are not being considered: we are alive but it is as if we had less life, it’s as if we were only halves. We don’t want that.

  Luís got up and peeped out into the darkness. He walked round in a circle, returning to the centre, and, coming near to the teacher, said:

  —Samuel, aren’t you scared?

  —Scared? But these people must fall. Wasn’t this why we fought, to get rid of such scum?

  —I’m not talking about that, replied Luís.

  —Aren’t you scared that they will catch us here with you?

  —With you? But do you really exist? Surely I can’t be with people who don’t exist.

  They laughed, got up, and left through the two doors of the house. Aníbal, before taking his leave, said:

  —Hey, Samuel! Long Live the Revolution!

  Three days later, the commission arrived. It was accompanied by a journalist who had become interested in the story of Luís and Aníbal. He had promised to investigate the affair. If the matter could not be resolved, he would expose the activities of the village officials in his newspaper.

  The commission met for two days. Then the villagers were summoned to a general assembly. The room was packed out with people who had come to hear the verdict. The chairman of the commission announced its solemn conclusions:

  —We have closely examined the situation of the two individuals who arrived in the village, and have reached the following formal decision, namely that comrades Luís Fernando and Aníbal Mucavel should be deemed members of the existing population.

  Applause. The meeting seemed more relieved than happy.

  The speaker continued:

  —But the two apparitions would be well advised not to leave the village, or life, or anywhere else again. We have shown clemency this time, but will not tolerate this behaviour next time.

  The meeting now applauded with real conviction.

  Next day, Luís Fernando and Aníbal Mucavel began to see to the question of the documents that would prove they were alive.

  ‌Patanhoca, the Lovesick Snake Catcher

  Patanhoca it was who killed the Chinawoman Mississe, owner of the store in Muchatazina. Now as to the reason why he killed her, I can’t tell you that. People talk a lot, each one according to their whim. When I asked, they gave me an answer. So I’m going to tell you the story. Or rather, pieces of the story. Torn pieces like our lives. We can join the bits but never complete the picture.

  Some say it was nobody who killed her. She died just like that, from inside her body, on account of her blood. Others got as far as to see the wounds through which the poison entered the dead woman.

  I don’t want to present the truth, for I never knew it. If I invent, then it’s life that’s to blame. After all, the truth is no more than the mulata daughter of a dishonest question.

  I’ll start with Mississe.

  1. The widow of distances

  Mississe was a widow, a Chinese one, a woman of secrets and mysteries. Her shop was situated at the point where the roads end and all that is left are the unpaved tracks of the poor. There was no set time for opening and closing: her mood dictated this. It was she who decided what time of day it was.

  Happiness stepped out of her life and forgot to return.

  Sadness was a closed padlock on Mississe. They even said it was Chinese bewitchment and that her far-off homeland, travelling in clouds of vapour, was tormenting her soul.

  Nobody knew how she had come there, how she had abandoned her people. And China, as everyone knows, is a distance away. The journey is such slowness that a man has time to change colour. Her neighbours and customers wondered to themselves about her dead husband. And at night, whom did Mississe share the cold with? Who was it who snuffed out her darkness?

  When she had arrived in Muchatazina, she was still young. Pretty, say those who knew her then. The Portuguese came to visit her beauty on the sly. They failed to enter her favour, remained substitutes of nobody. The widow wrapped herself in a cloak of sourness, becoming ever more widowed. The Portuguese, rich ones even, would come out of there with heads bowed. They would pause in the garden, taking advantage of the shade of the many cashew trees. To distract their frustration they would tear the fruit from the branches. The cashew is the blood of the sun suspended, its fiery sweetness the juice we drink. Then they would walk away, venting their threats.

  On Saturdays the widow would indulge herself in bazookas, large bottles of beer, first one, then another, and then more and more. She would finish when the beer had wetted all her blood. The store gave off brightness, the generator chugging away to push out that light. Fumes and mysteries would seep from the window, the Chinawoman’s incense drugging the moons. It was at such times that the pain of this woman could be heard. Screams echoed in the corridors, her voice spiralled down a dark well. One night they distinguished words in her wailing:

  —My children! Give me back my children, murderer.

  So there were children after all? How could that be if no one knew of them? The neighbours listened in astonishment to her lament. The widow groaned, screamed, howled. They tried to go to her assistance, to wipe away her furies, but no one could get near. Shadow was ever-present. Death was the only garden round her house, enclosing her widow’s despair.

  2. Patanhoca, the snake mechanic

  Patanhoca was a sad figure, robbed of life’s good fortune. Something had torn his lips away, leaving his mouth with no above and no below. His teeth never unclenched. His mouth, because of the way it never blinked, was like a hyena’s envy. Can a living creature keep his whole soul behind his teeth? Certainly this was Patanhoca’s punishment. It was said he was the Devil who had come to Muchatazina. This was a lie. Who knows what the Devil’s face looks like? Is it ugly? On the contrary, the Devil is as beautiful as can be, so as to deceive us into choosing backwards. A man like that is not tempted by women: he loves snakes, crawling animals, and things which don’t demand beauty. The snake catcher had taught himself to be a bachelor.

  Morning, evening, and other times too, Patanhoca would shut himself away with his snakes. A snake mechanic, he would scrape the rust off their scales and nurture their poisons. His was the art of those who have lost the skill of living, the Devil’s lore. It wasn’t even worth looking for the truth behind
his life’s condition. Did Patanhoca really know the secret of snakes? The answer has no document or testimony. But the doubters, if in fact there were any, were never heard.

  When the evenings began to disperse the daylight, that was when he would go out, when darkness cradled the oil lamp. The paths were already pitch-black but Patanhoca would set his steps in the direction of the store.

  When he arrived at his destination he put out the lamp and began the task of spreading his sorcery. His perch was there in her yard, he, an owl drawn towards the lights of Mississe.

  What was Patanhoca’s motive for always spending the night there? Were his lingerings just distraction? There was a reason, and that was love.

  Shame manacled the snake catcher’s passions. Looking was the only reward reaped from the shadows and the silences. To reveal the heart without showing the body, to dispense help and kindnesses: that is what João Patanhoca had decided to do in the secrecy of his life. Isn’t a widow more alone than anyone else? Where is the arm to defend her?

  That arm was Patanhoca. His powers kept thieves away from the store. Every night, so they say, he would set his snakes free around the house. So many of these snakes were there that the sand was poisoned under the blanket of night. You didn’t need to be bitten. It was enough for somebody to step into the yard. In the morning, no one could enter or leave before the snake owner’s prayers had given the go-ahead. His words swept the yard clean and abolished the frontier. All this, all this guard work, Patanhoca did without asking for anything in return. He would rivet his eyes on the widow, but they were no longer eyes. They were the servants of Chinese whimsies.

  3. First night: the invitation

  Then one night the widow opened the door. Was she naked? Or was it a play of light which eliminated her clothes? She waved to him. Patanhoca stayed where he was without revealing himself. Then she beckoned him. Her voice was a mother’s: