Sea Loves Me

by Mia Couto

  —But I’d like to have the first dance with my husband.

  —You know I never dance …

  As she stood there hesitating, he ordered her out on the floor, a command in the guise of tenderness.

  —Go, my Gloria, have fun!

  And she went—slowly, still startled. As she twirled around the floor, she never took her eyes off her man, sitting there at the table. She looked deep into his eyes and saw there an abandonment she couldn’t quite put her finger on, like the last of her old perfume. That’s when she understood: her husband was offering her to the world. The dance, that invitation, they were a farewell. Her chest confirmed this suspicion when she saw her husband stand up and prepare to leave. She cut the dance short and ran to Justino.

  —Where are you going, husband?

  —A friend called me, he’s outside. I’ll be right back.

  —I’ll go with you, Justino.

  —Outside is no place for a woman. Stay, dance with the boy. I’ll be back soon.

  Gloria didn’t return to the dance. Sitting at the table he’d reserved for them, she raised her husband’s glass to her lips and left her lipstick on it. She stood watching Justino disappear amid the smoke in the dance hall, bearing himself far away. Countless times she’d seen this retreat, her husband rendered faceless amid the steam of train engines. This time, however, she felt something in her chest, the arrhythmia of a hiccup. At the threshold of the doorway, Justino turned his head back for one more long look at his wife. In surprise, he saw an unprecedented tear glistening as it ran down her half-hidden face. Tears, after all, are water, and only water can wash away our sorrows. Justino felt something stumble in his chest, ash turning to ember in his heart. And the night came to an end, the door cut through that short-lived commotion. Gloria collected the tear from her cheek with the shoulder of her dress. To whom, within herself, was she saying her goodbyes?

  She left the dance and set out into the dark night. She looked for the old truck. She held out hope she would still find it there, in need of a push. But there was no sign of Justino. She walked home to the sound of chirping crickets. Halfway home, she took off her shoes so her feet could feel the sand’s warm caress. She gazed at the starlit sky. Stars are the eyes of those who died for love. They look down upon us from above, proof that only love can concede immortality.

  She arrived home too exhausted to feel tired. For a second, she thought she saw signs that Justino was there. But her husband, if he had been there, had taken his tracks with him. Gloria lost her appetite to go on living there, their home wounded her like a portrait of the departed. She dozed off on the front steps.

  She woke up early the next morning, in a daze between sleep and dream: she felt, inside herself, with only her soul’s senses to guide her, the scent of perfume. Where could it be coming from? Could it be coming from her old perfume bottle? No, it could only be from a new present, a gift of the passion she began to feel once again.

  —Justino?!

  Leaping to her feet, she ran inside the house. That’s when she stepped on the tiny bits of glass, scattered beneath her window. To this day, one can find the indelible tracks on the living-room floor from when Gloria shed the first drops of her bloody glee.

  ‌Rain

  I’ve been seated at the window watching the rain fall for three days now. How I’ve missed the soggy rin-a-tin-tin of each raindrop. The perfuming earth reminiscent of a woman on the eve of affection. How many years has it been since it last rained like this? Having lasted so long, the drought had slowly silenced our suffering. The heavens watched the earth’s progressive decline and saw their own death mirrored. We intirrigated ourselves: was it still possible to begin anew, was there still a place for joy?

  The rain is falling outside, melodic and divine. The ground, this indigenous indigent, soon blossoms with various beauties. I sit watching the street below as though looking through a window onto the entire country. As the pools of water swell and swell, Tristereza tidies up the room. For Aunt Tristereza, the rain isn’t a meteorological matter but a message from the spirits. The old woman adopts a wide smile: this time, for sure, I’ll slip on the suit she insists so much that I wear. Such a fine piece of clothing and here I am donning short sleeves and blue jeans. Tristereza shakes her head back and forth at my stubbornness: what justification could I have for such a dishevelled look, for not attending to proper appearances? She doesn’t understand.

  As she smooths out the sheets, she moves onto other topics of conversation. The elderly lady harbours no doubts: the rain is an answer to prayers, to ceremonies honouring our ancestors. In all Mozambique, the war is coming to a halt. Now the rain can fall once again. All these years, the gods reproached us with this drought. Deep underground, the dead—even those gone for some time—had begun drying up. Tristereza begins brushing off the coat I’ll never use and offers up her certitudes:

  —Our land was full of blood. Today, it’s being wiped clean, like these clothes here I’m washing. But not even now, you’ll pardon this plea, not even now you’ll give this suit of yours its turn?

  —But Aunt Tristereza: couldn’t it be all this rain is a bit too much?

  —Too much? No, the rain hasn’t forgotten how to fall, says the old woman. And she explains:

  —Water knows how many grains are to be found in the sand. For each grain, the water forms a drop. Just like the mother who knits a sweater for her missing child. Tristereza believes nature has its own ways of working, unfolding in simple ways just like hers. The rains were conferred on us at the right moment: the displaced who return to their homes will arrive to find the ground damp, just as the seedlings prefer it. Peace acts according to its own laws, free from the will of politicians.

  Yet inside me a certain distrust persists: Will this rain, my dear lady, not prove too long and too much? Is the calamitous drought not being followed by a punishing rain? Tristereza looks around at the drenched landscape and shows me other meteorological insights that my wisdom cannot reach. You can always recognize a printed cloth by its reverse side, she’s fond of telling me. God made us white and Black so that, on the backs of one and the other, He might decipher mankind. And pointing to the hefty clouds, she declares:

  —Up there, sir, there are fish and crabs. That’s right, animals that always follow the water.

  And she adds: Without fail, these critters rain down during a storm.

  — You don’t believe me, sir? They’ve even fallen right inside my house.

  —Okay, I say, pretending I believe her. What kinds of fish?

  Negative: such fish can’t be named. To do so, sacred words would be necessary and such words aren’t fit for our human voices. And again she casts her gaze towards the window. Outside, the rain continues. The heavens are giving back the sea it had sheltered with lazy azure migrations. But it looks as if the heavens intend, in so doing, to overrun the entire earth, joining its rivers, shoulder to shoulder. I come back to my question: Won’t the waters prove too much, falling with such malignant generosity? Tristereza’s voice repeats itself in a diluvial monotone. She murmurmuses:

  —You, sir, you’ll forgive my tongue, look like a creature in search of the forest.

  And she adds:

  —The rain is washing the sand clean. The dead will be pleased. It would be a show of respect your using this suit. To match this celebration of Mozambique …

  Tristereza holds her gaze on me, in doubt. Then, resigned, she hangs up the jacket, which seems to let out a sigh. My stubbornness dangles on a hanger. I glance towards the street; streaks of sorrow drip down the windows. What is it I’m always trying to escape? What reasons does the old woman have for accepting her confinement, all dressed for home? Perhaps for belonging more to the world, Tristereza doesn’t feel, as I do, the lure to leave. She thinks the time of suffering has passed, that our land is being rinsed of its past. I have my doubts. I need to observe the street. Windows: are they not the place where houses dream of being the outside world?

>   The old woman finishes her work, says goodbye as she closes the doors, lingering and languid. Sorrow has crept into her soul and I’m its cause. I notice the plants outside sprouting from the earth. The colour green speaks the language of all the others. The old lady has already begun to repeat her goodbyes and is leaving when I call to her:

  —Tristereza, grab my suit.

  She suddenly gleams with surprise. As she undresses the hanger, the rain begins to stop. Only a few remaining drops of water fall on my coat. Tristereza urges me:

  —Don’t brush them off, these little drops are good luck.

  And arm in arm, we both step out into the pools of water, carefree as children who see in the world the joy of a never-ending game.

  ‌Felizbento’s Pipe

  Every tale loves to masquerade as the truth. But words are nothing more than smoke, too weightless to stick to the present reality. Every truth aspires to be a tale. Facts dream of becoming words, sweet fragrances running from the world. You’ll see in this case that it’s only in the fiction of our wonderment that the truth meets the tale. What I’m about to report here took place in a peaceful land, one where Sundays outnumber the days of the week.

  That land was still just beginning, newly born. The seeds there found a welcoming home, and green spread across the lush landscapes. Life was linked to time, the trees scaling great heights. One day, however, war landed, with its capacity for all manner of death. From then on, everything changed and life became much too mortal.

  The nation sent workers in a rush. The representatives in the capital always act quickly when they’re far from home. They told the living they must leave, converting them from home-towners to homeless. Security reasons. They called the residents one by one, in alphabetical disorder. It was Felizbento’s turn. The old man listened, as incredulous as a frog that gobbles a snake. He consisted of nothing more than a sigh. He carried on as he had before, winding his soul. The others were condensed, packed up and bundled, on the backs of trucks. But Felizbento stood firm. An official took charge of the situation, ordering him to get to it. To leave, just like the others.

  —Didn’t you hear the order? Now get to it.

  Felizbento applied a second coat of silence, rubbed one foot against the other, shining his shoeless feet. Or was he pointing at the earth, the only place he’d ever lived? He’d always silenced his suffering, armed with patience greater than his age. Finally, he pointed to the sprawling forest and said:

  —If I’m to leave here, I need to take all these trees with me.

  The nation’s servant ran out of patience and told Felizbento that, a week later, they’d return to take him away, even if they needed to use brute force. And then they left.

  The next day the man set to unearthing the trees, digging them up by the roots. He began with the sacred tree in his backyard. He dug in deep: there in the place he’d been hollowing out, total darkness had been set free. To continue his burrowing, he grabbed a Petromax lamp, the kind he’d got in Johannesburg. And day after day, he spent long hours at work.

  His wife, disappointed, pointed out the unsuitability of his actions. It wasn’t worth asking anything of Felizbento. The clothes of the dead no longer wrinkle. The obstinacy of old age doesn’t bend. The wife remained perched in the window like a stopped clock. In the black of night, the old woman saw only the movement of the Petromax, which looked as if no hand guided it.

  Her heart heavy, the woman sketched out a plan. She would offer herself, as in the times when their bodies believed they had no limits. She reached deep into one of the closets, where not even cockroaches dared to tread. She snatched the floral-stamp dress, some high heels. And she began her nocturnal wait, clothes and perfumes tantalizing. She remembered an old saying of Felizbento’s, from times past:

  —If you wish to make love, nighttime is the best.

  Those who’ve loved time and again know the heat of the night, this bed of beds. At night, creatures change in value. The day reveals the world’s defects: wrinkles, dust, lines—in the light, everything can be seen. At night, though we look more intensely, we see less. Each creature reveals itself only by the light it gives off. On this particular night, she emitted a soothing glow like that of the moon.

  Felizbento arrived home from his toils, glanced at his wife. He was like a beached whale, the water that’d carried him there suddenly gone. His wife drew closer, touching his arm. She looked every bit her own woman, this was her irrefusable beauty.

  —Stay with me tonight. Forget the trees, Felizbento.

  Dizzied, the old man still hesitated. The woman wrapped her body in his, her fingers creeping across his skin. Felizbento felt like water in a fish. What could that be? Did that soul belong to this world? That’s when, incidentally, she stepped on her husband’s bare foot with her high heels. Her shoe was like a needle on a balloon. The farmer recoiled, determined. Machete back in hand, he went out to meet the blackness once again.

  Then one day, Felizbento came back up to the surface and asked his wife to unpack his suit, get the proper clothes in order, to starch the fabrics. It had been more than thirty years since those clothes had been put to their use. His shoes no longer even fit. His feet had grown misshapen with barefootedness. In fact, there wasn’t a shoe to be found that fit him.

  He took the old shoes with him all the same, half-covering his feet, treading on his heels. He dragged them across the floor, lest his feet be separated from his footsteps. And off he went, as bent as a reed, in this youthfulness that’s only to be found in old age. He began to enter the land and, only once, he turned back. Not to say farewell, but to rummage through his pockets for something forgotten. His pipe! He went through his clothes. He took out his old pipe and spun it in his fingers, beneath the trembling light of the burning lamp. Then, in a gesture of dejection, he threw it away. As if discarding his entire life.

  There the pipe remained, remote and forgotten, half buried in the sand. It looked as if the earth gave it breath, smoking the useless utensil. Felizbento descended into the hole, disappearing.

  To this day, his wife crouches over the hole and calls after him. Not yelling, but calling sweetly, as if to someone in his sleep. She still wears the floral dress, high heels, and perfume with which, in the midst of her despair, she attempted to seduce him. After awhile, she draws back, snuffed out. Only her eyes, roundly insistent, resemble those of an insomniac owl. What dreams beckoned that woman into existence?

  Those who’ve returned to that place say that, beneath the sacred tree, there now grows a plant fervent with green, climbing an invisible arbour. And they give assurances that this little tree grew from nothing, sprouting from some old, forgotten pipe. And, at the sunset hour, when the shadows no longer try so hard, the tiny tree puffs out smoke just like a chimney. As far as his wife is concerned, there is no doubt: beneath Mozambique, Felizbento is smoking his old pipe in peace. As he waits for a capitalized and definitive Peace.

  ‌Jorojão’s Cradle of Memories

  My friend Jorge Pontivírgula, Jorojão to us, was telling me about the misunderstandings that plagued his life. Misfortunes that, to hear him tell it, had always come with a dose of presentiment. My friend revealed himself to be what he was: a pre-sentimentalist. But I’ll get to that. First, however, I’ll give a proper portrait of this Jorge’s entire soul.

  To sum up his life, Jorojão always had but a single desire: to stay out of trouble. But not even all his fears could stack up to him. His stature exceeded that of a giant. You would look to the clouds as you spoke to him. We used to joke: the man could only kiss sitting down! This Jorojão, in colonial times, circulated through politics like money in a beggar’s pockets: changing place often and never finding a home. The din of the city made him ill. To escape to the bush, he offered his services as a safari driver. It’s how he used to put distance between himself and the world’s bad breath. But that wasn’t enough, in the end. For one day he had to drive a delegation of the heads of the PIDE secret police into th
e forest to hunt. Savage men on a savage hunt: what could be worse? At the end of the day, one of the authoritarian policemen ordered him to clean their guns. Jorojão remembers beginning to tremble:

  —Guns?

  He didn’t dare speak the word again beyond that moment. But he acted as if it was no bother at all, and scrubbed, cleaned, and oiled the weapons. As he was doing the last bit of shining, a bullet burst forth at full speed from one of the aforementioned unmentionables. One of the PIDE fell hard as a coconut on a blustery afternoon.

  Thirty years having passed, Jorojão excuses himself: It was just a little bullet, it was nothing at all. The fella really hit the dirt then and there! Aaah, but I can’t believe he died from the shot. I think the fright must have given him a heart attack. Or maybe his head wasn’t screwed on right.

  He fills his cup again, downs the entire drink in a single gulp. Then, closing his eyes, he clicks his tongue, sharpens his joy anew. Sadness already beginning to creep in, rising to the surface of memory, he feels the need to soak his soul in beer. Rocking his chair back and forth, he explains: it’s this seesawing of his chair that transports him to bygone days. If not for the chair he would have already said farewell to all those memories.

  The chair must have been rocking quite a bit, because he was retreating once again into the past: after the shot was fired, he was imprisoned for ties to terrorism. A good bit of luck, as it turned out: it was already January 1974. It didn’t take long before the Fascist regime tumbled in April. That morning remains especially unforgettable for him. The masses stormed the prison, went straight to his cell, and carried him in their arms. It was only then that he took measure of his own stature: a giddiness overtook him. He was a hero, a defender of the people.