by Mia Couto
Firipe pretended to be upset and advised the doubters to find another barber.
—Okay, there’s no need to get angry, we believe you. We accept your witness.
And even Baba Afonso gave in, prolonging the game:
—I expect that singer, Elvis Presley, was also here in Maquinino, having his hair cut …
But Firipe Beruberu did not work alone. Gaspar Vivito, a disabled lad, helped him with the clearing up. He swept the sand with care, so as not to spread dust. He shook out the cloth covers far away.
Firipe Beruberu always told him to take care with the hair clippings.
—Bury them deep, Vivito. I don’t want the n’uantché-cuta to play any tricks.
He was referring to a little bird that steals people’s hair to make its nest. Legend has it that once the owner’s head has been raided, not a single whisker will ever grow on it again. Firipe blamed any decrease in his clientele on Gaspar Vivito’s carelessness.
Yet he could not expect much from his assistant. For he’d gone completely awry: his rubbery legs danced a never-ending marrabenta.3 His tiny head tottered lamely on his shoulders. He slobbered over his words, slavered his vowels, and smeared his consonants with spittle. And he tripped and stumbled as he tried to shoo away the children who were collecting crabapples.
At the end of the afternoon, when there was only one customer left, Firipe told Vivito to tidy up. This was the hour when complaints were received. If Vivito could find no way of being like other folk, Firipe paid more attention to jokes than to barbering skills.
—Excuse me, Master Firipe. My cousin Salomão told me to come and complain at the way his hair was cut.
—How was it cut?
—There’s not a hair left, he’s been completely plucked. His head is bald, it even shines like a mirror.
—And wasn’t it he who asked for it like that?
—No. Now he’s ashamed to go out. That’s why he sent me to complain.
The barber took the complaint in good humour. He made his scissors click loudly as he spoke:
—Listen, my friend: tell him to leave it as it is. A bald man saves on combs. And then if I cut off too much, at least he didn’t have to pay.
He circled the chair this way and that, then stood back to admire his work of art.
—There you go, get off the chair, I’ve finished. But you’d better take a good look in the mirror, otherwise you might send your cousin to complain later.
The barber shook the towel, scattering hairs. Then the customer joined his protests to those of the plaintiff.
—But Master Firipe, you’ve cut off almost everything in front. Have you seen where my forehead reaches to?
—Ahh! I haven’t touched your forehead. Talk to your father, or your mother, if you want to complain about the shape of your head. It’s not my fault.
The malcontents joined forces, bemoaning their double baldness. It was an opportunity for the barber to philosophize on capillary misfortunes:
—Do you know what makes a person go bald? It’s using another man’s hat. That’s what makes a man lose his hair. I, for instance, I won’t even wear a shirt if I’m not sure where it’s come from. Much less trousers. Just think, my brother-in-law bought a pair of underpants second-hand …
—But Master Firipe, I can’t pay for this haircut.
—You don’t have to pay. And you, tell your cousin Salomão to pass this way tomorrow: I’ll give him back his dough. Money, money …
And that’s how it was: a dissatisfied customer earned the right not to pay. Beruberu only charged for satisfaction. Standing from morning to nightfall, weariness began to burden his legs.
—Hell, what a dog’s life! Ever since morning: snip-snip-snip. I’ve had enough! Living’s hard, Gaspar Vivito.
And the two of them would sit down. The barber in his chair, his assistant on the ground. It was Master Firipe’s sundown, a time to meditate on his sadness.
—Vivito, I’m worried you may not be burying the hair properly. It looks as if the n’uantché-cuta is losing me customers.
The boy replied with choked sounds, he spoke a language that was his alone.
—Shut up, Vivito. Go and see if we made much money.
Vivito shook the wooden box. From inside there was the jingle of some coins. Their faces lit up with a smile.
—How well they sing! This shop of mine is going to grow, mark my words. In fact, I’m even thinking of putting in a telephone here. Maybe later, I’ll close it to the public. What do you think, Vivito? If we only take bookings. Are you listening, Vivito?
The assistant was watching his boss, who had got up. Firipe walked round his chair, talking all the while, enjoying imagined futures. Then the barber looked at the handicapped boy and it was as if his dream had had its wings shattered and had plummeted into the dark sand.
—Vivito, you should be asking: but how will you close this place if it hasn’t got a wall? That’s what you should be saying, Gaspar Vivito. But it wasn’t an accusation. His voice lay prostrated on the ground. Then he went over to Vivito and let his hand ripple over the boy’s dangling head.
—I can see that hair of yours needs cutting. But your head won’t stand still, always moving this way and that, shaky-shake here, shaky-shake there.
With difficulty, Gaspar climbed up into the chair and put the cloth round his neck. Agitated, the boy pointed to the darkness round about.
—There’s still some time for a scissorful or two. Now see if you can sit still, so that we can hurry.
And so the two preened themselves under the great tree. All the shadows had died by that hour. Bats scratched the surface of the sky with their screeches. Yet it was at this very hour that Rosinha the market girl passed by, on her way home. She appeared out of the gloom and the barber stood hesitant, totally enveloped in an anxious look.
—Did you see that woman, Vivito? Pretty, too pretty even. She usually goes by here at this hour. I sometimes wonder whether I don’t linger here on purpose: dragging time until the moment she passes.
Only then did Master Firipe admit his sadness to himself, and another Firipe emerged. But he didn’t confide in anyone: as for the mute Vivito, could it be that he understood the barber’s sorrow?
—It’s true, Vivito, I’m tired of living alone. It’s a long time since my wife left me. The bitch ran off with another. But it’s this barber’s profession, too. A fellow’s tied here, can’t even go and take a look at what’s happening at home, control the situation. And that’s what happens.
By this time he was masking his rage. He diverted the human grief from himself and imposed it upon the creatures of the earth. He threw a stone up into the branches, trying to hit bats.
—Filthy animals! Can’t they see this is my barber’s shop? This place has got an owner; it’s the property of Master Firipe Beruberu.
And the two of them chased imaginary enemies. In the end they stumbled into each other, without a heart to be angry. Then, exhausted, they let out a chuckle, as if forgiving the world its insult.
It happened one day. The barber’s shop continued its sleepy service, and on that morning, just as on all the others, gentle banter flowed from one topic to another. Firipe was explaining the sign and its warning about the tax on sleeping:
—Only those who fall asleep in the chair have to pay. It often happens with that fat one, Baba Afonso. I start putting the towel round him and he starts snoozing straightaway. Now me, I don’t like that. I’m not anybody’s wife to have to put heads to sleep. This is a proper barber’s shop.
At that point two strangers appeared. Only one of them entered the shade. He was a mulato, nearly white in colour. Conversation died under the weight of fear. The mulato went up to the barber and ordered him to show his papers.
—Why my papers? Am I, Firipe Beruberu, disbelieved?
One of the customers came over to Firipe and whispered to him:
—Firipe, you’d better do as he says. This man’s from the PIDE.4
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br /> The barber bent over the wooden crate and took out his papers:
—Here are all my bits of plastic.
The man examined his identity card. Then he screwed it up and threw it on the ground.
—Hey, barber, there’s something missing.
—Something missing, what do you mean? I’ve given you all my papers.
—Where’s the photograph of the foreigner?
—The foreigner?
—Yes, the foreigner you sheltered here in your barber’s shop.
Firipe was puzzled at first, then he smiled. He had realized what the fuss was about and prepared to explain:
—But officer, this business of the foreigner is a story I made up, a joke …
The mulato pushed him, silencing him suddenly.
—A joke, let’s see about that. We know only too well there are subversives here from Tanzania, Zambia, wherever. Terrorists! It’s probably one of those you put up here.
—But put up how? I don’t put anyone up, I don’t get mixed up in politics.
The policeman inspected the place, unhearing. He stopped in front of the sign and read it clumsily under his breath.
—You don’t put anyone up? Then explain what this here means …
—That’s just because of some customers who fall asleep in the chair.
The policeman’s fury was already growing.
—Give me the photo.
The barber took the postcard from his pocket. The policeman interrupted his movement, snatching the photo with such force that he tore it.
—Did this one fall asleep in the chair too, did he?
—But he was never here, I swear. Christ’s honour. That’s a photo of a film star. Haven’t you ever seen him in films, the ones the Americans make?
—Americans, did you say? Okay, that’s it. He’s probably a friend of the other one, the one called Mondlane5 who came from America. So this one came from there too, did he?
—But this one didn’t come from anywhere. It’s all a lie, propaganda.
—Propaganda? Then you must be the one in charge of propaganda in the organization …
The policeman seized the barber by his overall and shook him until the buttons fell to the ground. Vivito tried to pick them up, but the mulato gave him a kick.
—Get back, you son of a bitch. We’ll arrest the lot of you before we finish here.
The mulato called the other policeman and whispered something in his ear. The other one walked back down the path and returned some minutes later, bringing with him old Jaimão.
—We’ve already interrogated this old man. He’s confirmed that you received the American in the photograph here.
Firipe, smiling feebly, almost had no strength left to explain.
—There, you see, officer? More confusion. It was me who paid Jaimão to testify to my lie. Jaimão is mixed up in it with me.
—That he is, to be sure.
—Hey, Jaimão, admit it: wasn’t it a trick we agreed on?
The old wretch turned this way and that inside his tattered coat, baffled.
—Yes. In truthfully I saw the man of which. In that chair he was.
The policeman pushed the old man and handcuffed him to the barber. He looked around with the eyes of a hungry vulture. He faced the small crowd which was silently witnessing the incident. He gave the chair a kick, smashed the mirror, tore up the poster. It was then that Vivito became involved and began shouting. The poor lad clutched the mulato’s arm but soon lost his balance and fell to his knees.
—And who’s this? What language does he speak? Is he a foreigner too?
—The boy’s my assistant.
—Assistant, is he? Then he’d better come along too. Okay, let’s go! You, the old man and this dancing monkey, get moving. Walk in front of me.
—But Vivito …
—Shut up, mister barber, the time for talking’s finished. You’ll see, in prison, you’ll have a special barber to cut your and your little friends’ hair.
And before the helpless gaze of the whole market, Firipe Beruberu, wearing his immaculate overall, scissors and comb in the left-hand pocket, trod the sandy path of Maquinino for the last time. Behind him, with his ancient dignity, came old Jaimão. Following him lurched Vivito with a drunkard’s step. Bringing up the rear of this cortège were the two policeman, proud of their catch. Then the humdrum haggling over prices ceased, and the market sank into the deepest gloom.
The following week, two guards arrived. They tore out the barber’s sign. But as they looked around, they were struck by surprise: nobody had touched anything. Instruments, towels, the radio and even the cash box were just as they had been left, waiting for the return of Firipe Beruberu, master of all the barbers in Maquinino.
Rosa Caramela
Our passions are kindled when the fuse to our heart is lit. Our most lasting love is rain, between the cloud’s flight and the prison of a puddle. We are, after all, hunters who spear ourselves. And the well-aimed throw always carries with it a trace of the thrower.
Little, if anything, was known about her. Ever since she was a little girl, folk had known her as the hunchback cripple. We called her Rosa Caramela. She was one of those people who are given another name. The one she had, her natural name, didn’t suit her. Re-baptized, she seemed to fit better into the world. Nor were we willing to accept other permutations. She was Rosa. Subtitle: Caramela. And we would laugh.
The hunchback was a mixture of all the races, her body crossed many a continent. Scarcely had she been delivered into life than her family withdrew. Ever since then, her dwelling was barely visible to the naked eye. It was a hovel made of haphazard stones, without measurement or care. Its wood had never been turned into planks: tree trunk, pure matter, was what remained. Lacking both bed and table, the hunchback didn’t attend to herself. Did she ever eat? Nobody ever saw her with any victuals.
Even her eyes were ill-fed, having that scrawny look that conveyed hope of being gazed upon one day and the self-contained weariness of one who had once dreamed.
She had a pretty face, in spite of it all. Detached from her body, she might even have kindled desires. But if you stood back and glimpsed all of her, then her prettiness was cancelled out. We used to see her wandering along the sidewalk, her steps so short that her feet scarcely crossed each other. She found her diversion in the public gardens: she would talk to the statues. Of all her illnesses this was the worst. Anything else she did involved secret and silent matters, no one paid any attention at all. But talking to statues, no, nobody could accept such a thing. For the spirit she invested in her conversations was enough to give you a fright. Was she trying to heal the scars of the stones? She consoled each statue with a mother’s inclination.
—There now, let me clean you. I’m going to take this dirt of theirs off you.
And she would wipe their limbs, frozen in stone, with a filthy cloth. Then she would go on her way, fleetingly visible when passing through the circle of light of a street lamp.
By day, we forgot she existed. But at night, the moonlight would remind us of her crooked outline. The moon seemed to stick to the hunchback, like a coin to a miser’s pocket. And she, in front of the statues, would sing in a hoarse, inhuman voice: she would entreat them to emerge from their stony abode. She dreamed wide awake.
On Sundays, she retired, and was nowhere to be seen. The old woman would disappear, jealous of those who filled the gardens, disturbing the peace of her territory.
Nor did anyone ever try to explain Rosa Caramela’s behaviour. The only reason that was ever given was the following: once upon a time Rosa had been left stranded at the entrance to the church, a bunch of flowers in her hand. Her fiancé, whoever that might have been, was late. He was so late that he never turned up. He had warned her: I don’t want any fuss. It’ll be just the two of us. Witnesses? God alone, if he’s not too busy. And Rosa pleaded:
—But what about my dream?
She had dreamed of a reception all her life.
A dream of glitter, a cortège, and guests. A moment that was to be hers alone, she a queen, pretty enough to inspire envious thoughts. A long white dress and the veil straightening her back. Outside, the hooting of a thousand cars. And now, there was her sweetheart depriving her of her fantasy. She brushed her tears aside with the back of her hand—what other use did it have? She complied. Let it be as he wanted.
The hour came, the hour went. He didn’t come, much less arrive. The bystanders wandered off, taking their snickering and mockery with them. She waited and waited. Nobody had ever waited so long as she. Only she, Rosa Caramela. She sat there with only the step to comfort her, a stone suffering the weight of her disenchantment with the world.
A story people tell. Does it contain the sap of truth? What seems likely is that there was no sweetheart. She had extracted it all from her imagination. She had invented herself a wife-to-be, Rosita beloved, Rosa wedded. But while nothing happened, the outcome still pained her greatly. She was crippled in her reason. In order to cure her ideas, they put her away. They took her to a hospital and abandoned her there. Rosa never got visitors, nor did she receive any medicine from any quarter. She adjusted to her own company, dispeopled. She became a sister to the stones, so often did she lean against them. Walls, floor, ceiling: only stone gave her any size. Rosa landed, with the flightiness of those in love, upon the cold floor tiles. Stone was her twin.
When she was discharged, the hunchback set off in search of her mineral soul. It was then that she fell in love with statues, solitary and sure of themselves. She dressed them with tenderness and respect. She brought them drink, came to their assistance on rainy days, or when it was cold. Her favourite statue was the one in the little garden in front of our house. It was a monument to some colonial figure whose name was no longer legible. Rosa whiled away many an hour contemplating that bust. An unrequited love: the statued man remained ever distant, never deigning to give the hunchback any attention.
From our veranda we could watch her, we, under the tin roof, in our wooden house. Above all, it was my father who would watch her. A silence would descend upon him. Was it the hunchback’s madness that caused our good sense to fly away? My uncle would joke, in order to save us from our state: