by Mia Couto
—I wish to register this child.
And the clerk, his competence sluggish:
—Have you brought the respective individual with you?
—No, sir. I’ve only brought my son.
—That’s what I mean, your respective son.
Constante Bene thought another name was being added to the child. And that’s how the little boy, born from his mother’s death, came to be called by that name. In the course of time, he made his entrance into the world led by only one hand, in the unequal half of his orphan’s condition.
The guard gazed at the lofty parts of the world, the earth’s shoulders, as unwavering as the centuries. As he did so, he thought: the world is large, fuller than fullness itself. Man believes he’s huge, almost touching the heavens. But if he reaches places, it’s only because he’s living in a borrowed size, his height is a debt owed to altitude.
Why don’t folk live within their means, just as they are? Why do they thrust themselves forwards in the arrogance of conquest? Constante Bene feared the dangers of desire. That’s why he forbade his children to look beyond the mountain.
—Never, not ever.
The prohibition didn’t need repeating. Many a tale was told about the other side of the mountain. It was said whites had never set foot over there. Who knows, maybe the earth there still preserved its indigenous hue, the aroma of times past? And, what’s more, could it not be that such places were disposed to the exclusive pursuit of happiness?
That place: Bene called it Beyondwards. Many a time, during nightly fatigue, its secret calling encircled the hut. The guard allowed his dreams to wander, so much so that he could no longer trust himself to tell their story.
One morning, in the early hours, he took his courage in his own hands and set off in the direction of the heights. He scaled the rocks and reached the summit. He felt remorse, for he was disobeying his own command. He excused himself:
—Today is today.
Then he glanced in the direction of the forbidden side. A mist cushioned the moon, spread as pure as the light that envelops a woman’s nakedness. It was so misty that the earth was able to free rain from its duty. He let himself sit there for some time. Until an owl issued him its warning. Such beauty was like fire: from afar it couldn’t be seen, but once near, it burned. And he returned to the hut.
Now, on the seventeenth day of the rains, Bene sensed the afternoon sighing. The light was already weary in its climb when the leaves saw the sign. The old man’s pipe paused in mid-puff, the moment strayed.
That was when they saw the mulato. He was an arrival from afar, from the outer lands. He walked wrapped in his thoughts, under the teeming rain. He carried a haversack on his back. He passed the hut, unaware of the curiosity of its three occupants. João Respectivo went and peeped down the path. He saw the mulato scaling the heights, disappearing among the rocks further up.
What man was that, and where had he come from? Even without speaking, the three asked themselves. Love woes, guessed Chiquinha. A leopard hunter, João suspected.
—That man is not a person to be trusted, the father pronounced.
The youngsters defended the intruder, pleading his innocence. They needed someone to happen upon them, a fright in that feverless world. But Bene repeated:
—That man is a runaway. If he wasn’t a runaway, he’d stop here and receive our welcome.
Then he tendered his threat: it was up to him to find out this new arrival’s story. After all, that was his job. His children begged him; the mulato didn’t merit such immediate suspicion.
—Well, I don’t trust him at all. He’s a mulato. You don’t know the ways of such folk.
—But the man passed by, he didn’t even step inside our field.
The father reflected: in fact, young João was right. The stranger seemed to be making for the high ground, there where men write no tracks.
—You’re right, son. But he must stay away from here.
After the rains, the youngsters went out looking for the foreigner. They peered everywhere, among the stones on the mountaintop. They came across him on the topmost height, at the mouth of a cave. They watched what he did: the mulato had found himself a place to live. His hunger seemed to be for inhabiting the soil, deep among its lush green smells. He lived close to the ground, creeping around like an animal. Only a fire and a blanket eased his fatigue. João and Chiquinha watched from afar, lacking the courage to reveal themselves.
At home, their father chastised them for their snooping, saying,
—Don’t go there too often. I’ve always warned you: a fire is lit by blowing it.
But deep down, Constante enjoyed hearing news. He asked about the things they had seen. The children replied with loose words, pieces of a torn picture. Then their father insisted: they shouldn’t go there too much, he might be a dangerous madman. Above all, he was a mulato. And he explained himself: such a man is neither a yes nor a no. He’s a maybe. White, when it suits him. Black, when it’s to his advantage. And then again, how can one forget the shame they bear from their mother? Chiquinha broke in: surely they were not all like that. There must be as many good ones as there are bad.
—It’s you people who know nothing. Don’t go there, and that’s all there is to it.
For awhile, his children obeyed him. But the girl. More than just sometimes, she began to climb the heights once more, pretending to look for firewood. Her old father, noticing her delays, suspected disobedience. But he said nothing, awaiting whatever fate might bring.
One night, when the spirit lamp was all but out, Chiquinha was caught coming in. Her father:
—Where have you been?
—I was there, Father. I can’t deny it.
Constante Bene chewed over her offence, pondered her punishment. But that daughter of mine has already got her late mother’s body, he reflected. And he relented.
—You know, Chiquinha, it’s the bee itself that refuses its honey. Do you understand what I’m saying?
She nodded. There then followed a slow wait. Bene blew out the flame, ushering in the dark. Now invisible, the two saw each other more clearly. Then the father asked:
—Did he say anything?
—Yes, he did.
—At last? And what did this half-caste say?
Chiquinha sat there as if she had heard nothing. Her father paused on the brink of his curiosity. But the old man, out of respect due to him, couldn’t be kept waiting for an answer.
—Listen, daughter: didn’t you hear what I asked you?
—It’s that I can’t even remember what the man said.
Her father fell silent. He rocked his chair, helping himself to get up. He was closing the windows when, once again, he asked:
—Did you manage to find out whether there are other places out there in the world?
—It would seem that there are.
The old man hunched his shoulders in disbelief. He took a turn round the room, stumbling into noises. His daughter asked why he didn’t light the lamp.
—For me, night has already fallen.
Chiquinha adjusted her capulana round her shoulders. Then she sat down and remained still, as if existing were her sole function. They fell asleep. But they did so with their souls bared, which is an invitation to bad dreams. In his nightmare, the guard felt he was about to breathe his last. This is what he saw: the mulato was a soldier and was advancing through the orchard, in his guerrilla uniform. But what a fright: he was touching the oranges and they lit up in round balls of flame. The orange grove looked like a plantation of spirit lamps. Over the rustling of the leaves, singing could be heard:
Iripo, iripo
Ngondo iripo.1
Suddenly, lo and behold: Tavares. Furious, his musket in his hands. What was he firing at? At the ground, at the trees, at the mountain. The white man shouted at him:
—You there, Constante, what sort of a guard are you? Pick those oranges before everything burns.
Constante hesitated. But th
e gun barrel turned towards his chest caused his obedience to return. Tree by tree, he went reaping ardour until his fingers became ten flames. The old man woke up howling. His hands were burning. His daughter bathed his arms in copious waters. Relieved, he sat down in his chair and prepared his pipe.
—No, Father. Don’t play with fire again, let me light it.
—My daughter, I’m going to ask you to obey me one more time: never again climb the mountain.
Chiquinha promised, but with false conviction. For, ever since that day, her tardiness had continued. Her father said nothing: he alone suffered the pains of premonition.
One day, in expected surprise, Chiquinha presented herself, a picture of health, hands crossed on her belly.
—I’m with child, Father.
Constante Bene felt his soul fall at his feet. Chiquinha, still so much a daughter: how could she become a mother so soon? What justice was that, dear God, how could a little orphan girl be the mother of a child without due father? It was vital that the faceless progenitor should be found.
—Was it him?
—I swear, Father. It wasn’t.
—Then who is the owner of this pregnancy?
—I can’t say.
—Look, daughter: you’d better talk. Who mounted you?
—Father, leave me alone.
The girl sat down, the better to weep. Constante thought about beating her, tearing the truth out of her. But from Chiquinha’s body there emerged the growing memory of his late spouse and his arm fell limp, vanquished. The old man returned to his room, lit his pipe, and smoked the entire landscape through the window.
The months passed by in a wide detour. Chiquinha’s belly swelled, full and moon-shaped. In June she gave birth, helped by the old women of the neighbourhood. Constante wasn’t at home at the time. He had gone out to do the rounds of his field. When he returned to the hut, the midwives were already preparing the meal. At first he was aware of the smoke-borne smell. Then the cry of a baby. He smiled, remembering the saying: wherever you see smoke, you’ll find men; wherever babies cry, you’ll find women. Now the sayings were getting mixed up. He paused in the doorway, his heart leaping. A cry in that place! It could only be one thing! His urge was to know how Chiquinha was, he felt like rushing in. But there was a deal of pride hindering him from becoming a grandfather.
—That baby was born with too much presence, he confessed inside his voice.
He went in, attentive to every noise and shadow. The women fell silent, tense. More than the others, Chiquinha sat stock-still with the bundle of life in her arms.
The father settled himself in a far corner. João Respectivo was the first to utter a word:
—Father, have you seen the birth? A fat little boy child.
Chiquinha’s eyes yearned for her father’s reply. Her gesture was almost one of repentance at showing the child, but then she corrected herself. The women began to file out. Now there wasn’t much space left in the place.
Days went by, full of time, and still Constante could not accept his grandfatherly status. Many a time, the girl lingered by her father, in longing expectation of his blessing. Under her breath, she sang stealthy lullabies, the same ones she had learned from him. She sang more to lull her father than the child. But Constante avoided her, bedimming himself before his daughter’s looks.
One night, when everyone was asleep, a trembling light crossed the room. It halted by Chiquinha’s bed and stayed there, flickering like a beacon. Touched by the light, Chica awoke and saw her father, candle in hand. Constante excused himself:
—That child of yours was crying. I came to see.
Chiquinha smiled: he was lying. If the baby had cried, she would have heard it before anyone else. Later, João confirmed the truth: the old man crossed the darkness every night in order to peep at the cradle. Chica couldn’t contain herself. She hugged her little son in blissful happiness.
On the following morning, with the sun already high, the guard was having his breakfast. He was chewing last night’s leftovers, sucking his teeth with his tongue.
—Listen there, Chica: isn’t that son of yours ever so light?
—Babies are like that, Father. They only grow darker later. Don’t you remember João?
—That’s in the beginning, before their race gets to them. But this one here: so many days have passed, and it’s time he got his colour.
Chiquinha shrugged, at a loss. She peeled a sweet potato and blew on her scorching-hot fingers. At last, her son was a grandson. From now on, she wouldn’t be alone in securing the little boy’s life.
And so a new feeling was born in the hut. Even Bene seemed younger, warbling and weaving songs. Chiquinha rewarded her father with meals that lingered longer on his palate. Little João yielded himself to childhood fantasies, running along paths known only to the animals.
Constante did not require his presence, respecting his child’s ways. Previously, he used to play with the boss’s son. The children, on the curved pinnacle of their laughter, ignored the frontier of their races. Bene was pleased, seeing his little Respectivo receiving borrowed cares.
—At least he gets fed there.
Since the mulato’s arrival, however, the boy had turned to loftier whereabouts.
Once, concerned at his son’s lateness, Bene went out onto the mountain, in the direction of the wilderness which João had ventured into. Next to the well, he called his son. But it was Laura, the woodcutter’s wife, who came out of the bushes. She carried a can of water on her head, as if she felt no weight at all. In the lull of her shoulders, the odd drop of water was spilled, wetting her back, her arms, and her breasts.
—Constante, you’re a guard, you should look after your life.
—And why should that be, just because I’m a widower?
Bene thought Laura was trying to untie his widowerhood. He looked at the woman with many eyes, imagining her body beneath her capulana. He tried some sweet talk, but she diverted his words:
—Do you know they’re all talking about your daughter, and how she caught her child?
She repeated the gossip to him: she’d been seen, nobody could say by whom, up there on the high ground. And then the unmentionable: a man had forced her, had tumbled on top of her. Constante muttered curses, his voice grew cold:
—Was this man Black?
—No, they say he wasn’t.
—I know who the rogue is. In fact, I’ve always known.
Without taking his leave, he started back home. He didn’t go into the house. From a box in the yard he took a cutlass. He drew it along his fingers, its sharpness his thought.
Then, unhurried, he climbed the mountain. Up on the summit, he searched for the mulato. He found him, bent over the fire, giving new strength to its heat. Constante didn’t hide his intention, his arm hanging beside him, in full view.
—I’ve come to kill you.
The stranger showed no fear. Only his eyes, those of a cornered animal, sought an escape. With tightened throat:
—Was it your boss who sent you?
Constante ignored the question. For sure, the other wanted to distract him. He hesitated, unsure. Not an avenger by profession, he requested help for his hatred. He prayed within himself: my God, I don’t even know how to kill! Just for a second, I beseech You, give this hand of mine certainty.
—Why do you hate me so much?
Once again, the other was diverting him away from his intentions; the guard queried:
—Tell me: do you come from over there, from Beyondwards?
—From where?
—From over there, the other side of the mountain?
—Yes, I do.
—And has the new flag been raised there yet?
The intruder smiled, almost in slow pity. Flag? Was that what interested him, to know about a piece of cloth and its colours?
—You answer like that because you’re a mulato. And mulatos don’t have a flag.
The other laughed scornfully. That laugh, thought
Bene, was a sign from God. The cutlass glinted in the air and, hey presto, stabbed the stranger. Bellowing, he fell on top of him. He clung to him, a stubborn liana. The two danced around, trampling the fire. But Bene didn’t even feel his feet ablaze. Another blow and the intruder lay twisted on the ground, like a pangolin.
The guard crouched next to his victim and with his hands checked to see if he was dead. He felt the blood, sticky to his touch. It was as if viscous fingers were pointing their blame at him. He sat down on the ground, tired. Where did such exhaustion come from? From killing? No. That deep despondency came from his feet, scorched by the fire. Only now did he feel the sores.
He tried to get up: he failed. His steps could barely touch the ground. He stared at the lights down there in the valley. It was a trackless distance away, an impossible return.
He dragged himself over to the mulato’s haversack. He took out the water flask and drank. Then he emptied the bag: papers fell in the firelight. He picked up loose sheets, and slowly deciphered the letters. Beautiful dreams lay written there, promises of a more bounteous time. Schools, hospitals, houses: everything in abundance, enough for everybody. His pulse raced, mutinously. He shook the haversack again. It must be there, screwed up in a corner, he’d find it.
At that moment, like a silver wave, the flag fell out of the sack. It looked huge, greater than the universe, Bene was dazzled, he had never believed that he might one day have such a vision.
Meanwhile, he recalled the present pains: the flagpole at the administration block. There, his memory fell to its knees, the policeman’s truncheon, Don’t kick up dust, you shit, don’t soil the flag. And he, dragging his feet, carrying his children, without raising his step. The boss, on the sidewalk, feigned concern with other attentions. Can a man lose so much of his soul in such a way?
But now this new flag didn’t seem to be subject to any dust, as if it were made of the very earth. The colours of the cloth peopled his dream.