Sea Loves Me

by Mia Couto

  He was woken by his son, Respectivo. He looked around him, searching for the mulato’s body. Not a thing, there was no body.

  —Did you bury him, João?

  —No, Father. He ran away.

  —Ran away? How could he if I killed him?

  —He was only wounded, Father.

  A man of doubts, the guard shook his head. He had made sure of the other man’s death. Could it be the work of witchcraft?

  —He was certainly alive. I helped him down the mountain myself.

  Furious, the guard hit the little boy. How could he? Help a fellow who had abused the respect of Chiquinha, of himself, of the whole family?

  —It wasn’t him, Father.

  —It wasn’t? Then who gave your sister her pregnancy?

  —It was the boss, the white man.

  Constante didn’t even allow himself to listen. The mulato had taken a grip on those children’s heads, had become their only faith.

  —That son-of-a-bitch half-caste is from the secret police. I found a soldier’s pack there in the cave. Do you think it was ever his? He’s from the secret police, the PIDE, and he abused your sister and stole a guerrilla’s haversack.

  —It was the boss.

  —Look, João, don’t say that again.

  —It was, Father. I saw him.

  —Do you swear?

  The boy asserted himself, with tears of conviction. Bene scarcely breathed. The size of that truth was beyond his grasp. His feet hurt him more, the blood asleep on his wounds. By now, flies were buzzing around, tainting the prestige of that sacred liquid. With his fingers, he crumbled a lump of sand. The earth submitted to him, reduced to flour. Such obedience between his fingers gradually brought him back to the serene breathing of one who has come to his decision.

  —Don’t cry any more, son. Look what I took from the sack.

  And he held out the flag. João blinked, sluggish in his understanding. A flag, was it for a flag that the old man was rejoicing?

  —Wrap the flag with the greatest care inside the sack. Help your father, pick up the haversack and let’s go.

  João offered him his shoulders. The old man jumped up on them, as if a child. He joked:

  —We’ve swapped: I’m the son, you’re the father.

  And they both laughed. Secretly, the old man was astonished by the boy’s strength: he didn’t even pause to regain his breath.

  —All right, son: enough is enough. Uncouple your body, I want to climb down from you.

  They were near the house. They sat down in the shade of a large mango tree.

  João turned his tongue loose, announcing futures:

  —This conversation is dangerous, my son.

  But little João was gathering courage, repeating the mulato’s teachings. That land belonged to its sons alone, tired of bleeding wealth for foreigners.

  —Tavares …

  —Leave the boss out of this.

  —Father, you can’t forever be a guard, guarding this land and pretending it wasn’t stolen from us by the settlers.

  Father’s temper was beginning to rise. The kid should keep quiet, he was talking through other people’s mouths. The old man ordered them to get moving again. João tried to help his father, but he refused it:

  —I don’t need you. Otherwise you might get a bit too big for your boots.

  They limped down the path. Now Constante supported himself with a stick, mumbling a procession of complaints. At least a stick doesn’t have ideas or vanities. It carries me along, that’s all. As for men … Well, I prefer things, I have no axe to grind with them. By the stream, after cooling himself, he changed his tone:

  —Listen, João. I always have this doubt in me: now I’m a white man’s servant. What will become of me after?

  —After, there will be freedom, Father.

  —Nonsense, son. After, we’ll be servants to those soldiers. You don’t know about life, my boy. These gunfire folk, come the end of the war, they won’t be able to get used to doing anything else. Their hoe is a musket.

  The boy looked away, denying such circumstances.

  —So why were you waiting for the new flag, Father? Why did you devote yourself to dreaming of the other side, the Beyondwards?

  —It’s just a dream that I enjoy.

  Respectivo gave up arguing. All his adolescence was opposed to was that such a clear sun should be condemned to such a summary sunset.

  —Don’t deceive yourself, son: tomorrow will be the same day.

  They drew near the house and heard voices. They pricked up their ears: it was the white man who was shouting inside the hut. Constante, forgetting his limp, went in. The boss was embarrassed, and lost his bridle. But soon he calmed down, puffing out his shoulders, stretching his skin:

  —What’s that you’ve got on your feet? Your paws are covered in blood.

  The old guard didn’t answer. He shuffled up to the boss. Only then did he notice that he was taller: the white lacked heels. Taking his time, he lit his pipe. Tavares received the smoke of his affront:

  —Don’t you want to tell me how you did that? Well then, I’ll tell you what that is: a Black man’s trickery. But you can be sure, you’re not getting so much as a day off. I want to see you doing the rounds of the estate this very day.

  Impassive, Bene seemed not to hear. The boss came closer, as if to tell him a secret. There was big game in the neighbourhood, a terrorist. The administrator had alerted the farmers regarding a mulato, a dangerous, careless fugitive.

  —Keep those eyes of yours open, Bene. Fungula masso …

  —Don’t talk like that … Boss.

  —Did you hear that?! And pray why not, Your Excellency?

  —Because it’s not even your dialect.

  Tavares laughed, preferring scorn. He took his leave. Before closing the door, however, he turned to Chiquinha:

  —We’ll leave it at that then, do you hear?

  And he was gone. Not a single word coloured that space.

  Constante consulted the window, and received the silent messages of the landscape. It was as if the pipe were smoking him. After a long silence, the guard called his son.

  —You know where the mulato is. Go and tell him I want to speak to him, I need him here.

  —But the night’s so late. Chiquinha shivered.

  He caressed the girl’s hair, mindful of her concern.

  —You go with João. Give the mulato my message, then climb the mountain and wait for me among the stones.

  —Are we going beyondwards?

  Chiquinha opened her eyes wide with excitement. Her father smiled indulgently:

  —Go, accompany your brother. And cover my grandson with this blanket. Wait there fore me, I shall come.

  The children behaved obediently. They filled a basket with preliminary provisions.

  —You, João: leave the half-caste’s haversack with me.

  The two children left, hurrying through the long grass. They avoided the mists which, according to legend, make your legs shrink. An owl hooted, inculpating times to come. In the dark, the world lost its angles and edges. Chiquinha followed where her brother’s hand led her. Young Respectivo seemed to her, at that moment, to have been promoted in his years. He had already carried out his father’s order, taking the mestiço his message.

  They reached the rocks and sat down. Chiquinha hugged her baby with a mother’s composure. She spoke:

  —You two don’t like Tavares, I know. But in himself he’s a man of good heart.

  Respectivo did not understand. The white had stained her, heaped abuses on her. What else did he deserve if not the fetters of vengeance?

  —Be quiet, João. You don’t even know how it happened.

  Chiquinha got up, outlined in the moonlight. In her brother’s eyes, she appeared like the moon through a cloud. Chiquinha lowered her voice:

  —Tavares doesn’t even deserve punishment. It was I who provoked him.

  Her brother didn’t want to hear any more. She wa
nted to explain, he wouldn’t let her.

  The mountain awoke, startled at their double shouting. Chiquinha’s rage imposed itself:

  —I wanted to give him a father. Someone to get us out of this misery.

  That was when they heard the fearful crackle of flames. They looked down at the valley, it seemed like a fire suspended in mid-air, flying flames which did not need the earth in order to happen. Only later did they understand: the entire orchard was ablaze.

  Then, on the red-stained horizon, brother and sister saw a flag being raised over the administration block. Blossom of the plantation of fire, the cloth fled its own image. Thinking it was caused by the smoke, the children wiped their eyes. But the flag asserted itself, a star’s portent, showing that it is the sun’s destiny never to be beheld.

  ‌The Waters of Time

  and other stories

  Translated by Eric M. B. Becker

  These stories originally appeared in Rain and Other Stories (2019), published in Windsor, Ontario, Canada, as part of the Biblioasis International Translation Series.

  ‌The Waters of Time

  My grandfather, in those days, would take me down the river, tucked into the tiny canoe he called a concho. He would row, lazurely, barely scraping the oar across the current. The little boat bobbled, wave here, wave there, lonelier, it seemed, than a fallen, forgotten tree trunk.

  —But where are you two going?

  That was my mother’s torment. The old man would smile. Teeth, in his case, were an indefinite article. Grandpa was one of those men who are silent in their knowing and converse without really saying a thing.

  —We’ll be back in no time, he would respond.

  Not even I knew what he was pursuing. It wasn’t fish. The net remained in place, cushioning the seat. It was a guarantee that when the unappointed hour arrived, the day already twilighting, he would grip my hand and pull me towards the bank. He held me like a blind man. All the same, it was he who guided me, one step ahead of me. I was astonished at his upright gauntness, all of him musclyboned. Grandfather was a man in full-fledged childhood, perpetually enraptured by the novelty of living.

  We would climb into the boat, our feet a stroke on the belly of a drum. The canoe pulleyed, drowned in dreams. Before leaving, the old man would lean over one of the sides and gather up a bit of water with a cupped hand. I imitated him.

  —Always with the water, never forget!

  That was his constant warning. Drawing water against the current could bring misfortune. The flowing spirits won’t be contradicted.

  Later, we’d travel as far as the large lake into which our tiny river emptied. That was the realm of forbidden creatures. All that showed itself there, after all, invented its existence. In that place, the boundary between water and earth disappeared. In the unquiet calm, atop the lily-rippled waters, we were the only ones who prevailed. Our tiny boat floated in place, dozing to the gentle lull. Grandfather, hushed, observed the distant banks. Everything around us bathed in cool breezes, shadows made of light itself, as if the morning were eternally drowned in dreams. We would sit there as if in prayer, so quiet as to appear perfect.

  Then my grandfather would suddenly stand in the concho. With the rocking, the boat nearly tossed us out. The old man, excited, would wave. He’d take out his red cloth and shake it decisively. Whom was he signalling? Maybe it was no one. At no point, not even for an instant, did I glimpse a soul from this or any other world. But my grandfather would continue to wave his cloth.

  —Don’t you see it, there on the bank? Behind the mist?

  I didn’t see it. But he would insist, unbuttoning his nerves.

  —It’s not there. It’s theeeere. Don’t you see the white cloth, dancing?

  All I saw was a heavy fog before us and the frightful beyond, where the horizon disappeared. My elder, later on, would lose sight of the mirage and withdraw, shrunken in his silence. And then we would return, travelling without the company of words.

  At home, my mother would greet us sourly. Soon she would forbid me from doing many things. She didn’t want us going to the lake, she feared the dangers that lurked there. First she would become angry with my grandfather, suspicious of his non-intentions. But afterwards, already softened by our arrival, she would test out a joke:

  —You could at least have spotted the namwetxo moha! Then at least we’d have the benefit of some good luck …

  The namwetxo moha was a spirit that emerged at night, made only of halves: one eye, one leg, one arm. We were children, and adventurous, and we’d go out looking for the moha. But we never found any such creature. My grandfather would belittle us. He’d say that, when still a youth, he’d come face to face with this certain half-fellow. An invention of his own mind, my mother would warn. But, being mere children, we had no desire to doubt him.

  One time, at the forbidden lake, Grandpa and I waited for the habitual emergence of the cloths. We were on the bank where the greens become reeds, enfluted. They say: the first man was born of these reeds. The first man? For me, there couldn’t be any man more ancient than my grandfather. It so happened that, on this occasion, I hungered to see the marshes. I wanted to climb the bank, set foot on unsolid ground.

  —Never! Never do that!

  He spoke in the gravest of tones. I had never seen my elder look so possessed. I apologized: I was getting off the boat, but only for a little while. Then he retorted:

  —In this place, there aren’t any little whiles. All time, from here on out, is eternity.

  I had a foot half out of the boat, seeking the boggy floor of the bank. I sought to steady myself. I looked for ground where I could put my foot down. It happened that I found no bottom—my leg kept falling, swallowed by the abyss. The old man rushed to my aid and pulled me back towards the boat. But the force sucking me downwards was greater than our effort. With the commotion, the boat overturned and we fell backwards into the water. And so we were stuck there, struggling in the lake, clinging to the sides of the canoe. Suddenly, my grandfather pulled his cloth from the boat and began to wave it above his head.

  —Go on, you greet him too!

  I looked towards the bank and saw no one. But I obeyed my grandpa, waving without conviction. Then something astonishing happened: all of a sudden, we stopped being pulled into the depths. The whirlpool that had seized us vanished in an immediate calm. We returned to the boat and sighed in shared relief. In silence, we split the work of the return voyage. As he tied up the boat, the old man told me:

  —Don’t say a word about what happened. Not even to no one, you hear?

  That night, he explained his reasons. My ears opened wide to decipher his hoarse voice. I couldn’t understand it all. He said, more or less: We have eyes that open to the inside, these we use to see our dreams. It so happens, my boy, that nearly all are blind, they no longer see those others who visit us. Others, you ask? Yes, those who wave to us from the other bank. And so we provoke their complete sadness. I take you there to the marshes so you might learn to see. I must not be the last to be visited by the cloths.

  —Understand me?

  I lied and said that I did. The following afternoon, my grandfather took me once more to the lake. Arriving at the edge of dusk, he sat there watching. But time passed with unusual sloth. My grandfather grew anxious, propped on the boat’s bow, the palm of his hand refining the view. On the other side there was less than no one. This time, my grandfather, too, saw nothing more than the misty solitude of the marshes. Suddenly, he interrupted the nothing:

  —Wait here!

  And he jumped to the bank as fear stole my breath. Was my grandfather stepping into the forbidden country? Yes. In the face of my shock, he kept walking with confident steps. The canoe wobbled in disequilibrium with my uneven weight. I witnessed the old man distancing himself with the discretion of a cloud. Until, enveloped in mist, he sank into dream, at the margin of the mirage. I stood there, in shock, trembling in the shivering cold. I recall seeing an enormous white heron
cut across the sky. It looked like an arrow piercing the flanks of the afternoon, making all the firmament bleed. It was then I beheld on the bank, from the other side of the world, the white cloth. For the first time, I saw the cloth as my grandfather had. Even as I doubted what I saw, there, right alongside the apparition, was my grandfather’s red cloth, still waving. I hesitated, disordered. Then, slowly, I removed my shirt and shook it in the air. I saw the red of his cloth becoming white, its colour fading. My eyes misted until the visions became dusk.

  As I rowed a long return, the old words of my old grandfather came to mind: Water and time are twin brothers, born of the same womb. I had just discovered in myself a river that would never die. It’s to that river I now return, guiding my son, teaching him to glimpse the white cloths on the other bank.

  ‌Novidade’s Flowers

  Novidade Castigo was the daughter of Veronica Manga and the miner Jonasse Nhamitando. She gained the nickname Castigo because, true to the moniker, she came into the world like a punishment. That much could be surmised shortly after her birth, from the blue that shone in her eyes. A Black girl, the daughter of Black parents: Where had this blue come from?

  Let’s begin with the girl: she was astonishingly beautiful, with a face to incur the envy of angels. Not even water was more pristine. Her one drawback, though: she was slow in the head, her thoughts never seemed to stay the night. She’d become that way—amiss—when one day, already a young woman, she suffered a fit of convulsions. That night, Veronica was sitting on the veranda when she felt insomnia’s spider-crawl across her chest.

  —Tonight I’m going to count stars, she predicted.

  The night was already biting its fingernails towards dawn when, in one corner of the house, the young girl awoke in spasms and convulsions, as though her flesh were trying to break free from her soul. Her mother, predicting the future from the shadows, sensed a muted warning: What had happened? Light as a fright, she ran to young Novidade’s bedside. In the houses of the poor all is well according to the degree of tidiness or disarray. Veronica Manga cut through the dark, dodged crates and cans, leaped over hoes and sacks, until she drew closer to her daughter and saw her arm, hoisted like a flag drooping at full-mast. Veronica didn’t call for Novidade’s father. It wasn’t worth interrupting his rest.