by Mia Couto
—But miss, in all honesty …
—In all honesty, in all honesty. Listen up, learn something. There’s no reason to be ashamed. First, do the following: gather up not that most recent and justified reason for sadness. It’s not healthy to cry out each heartache one at a time. Each time we cry, we need to cry over every heartache from every life we’ve ever lived. We have to summon old wounds, bundle together every disappointment we’ve ever had. As if we were constructing a dike to stop the flow of water. Here, see what I mean? Let me rest my hand on your chest. Come on. Unbutton your shirt, mister attorney, sir. Yes, right here. This is where all the rivers and their tributaries are going to swell until there’s a flood. Suddenly, you’re going to see, mister attorney, sir: everything bursts and the waters gush forth. Crying is a moment of torrid passion: when we finish, we’re tired, like our bodies after making love.
The well-behaved lawman had already lain down lower than the sunset. His tie, unhoisted, danced in his client’s hand. Inexplicably, one of his client’s shoes rested atop the computer. The woman saw to the jurist’s horizontality.
—Tell me, mister attorney, sir: would you like to cry with me now? Now, there’s no reason to be afraid. And there’s another, second commandment in the sobbing arts. You should never cry alone. It’s very bad, it’s harmful to your sadness. Crying alone invites evil spirits. If you want to shed a tear then cry together with someone else, two souls in tune.
She pulled his face towards her half-bared breasts. She herself unbuttoned her shirt even further. She felt the attorney’s damp lips on her breast. But more than that, she felt his tears, abundant waters flowing forth. His tears were so large that they tingled as they ran down her body, tickling her. The two of them proceeded to follow the law that demanded that each body be a cup: turn it over and it spills across the floor. The two of them, were their lives to end at that moment, could be said to be not in an immoral but an immortal position.
And that’s the scene upon which, to her great shock, the attorney’s secretary opened his office door. The jurist and his client, in each other’s arms, the two of them spilling tears everywhere. Why they were gushing tears as though a dam had broken, the secretary didn’t understand. What astounded her most was seeing the way the doctor kissed: his eyes shut, closed tighter than the door the secretary shut to separate herself from that shocking scene.
The Deaf Father
I write like God: to the point but without straight lines. Let whoever reads my words disentangle them. Only death is straightforward. Everything else has two degrees of doubt. Like me, a product of mixed lineage. My father, a Portuguese, light hair and light eyes. My mother was Black, black as coal. And so I was born with little shading in my skin but deep hues in my soul.
I speak of God with respect but without faith. As a boy, I never entered a church, not even to be baptized. That’s my father’s fault. Praying, he used to say, only serves to wear out pant legs. His skepticism told him that the church was an unhealthy place:
—You barely walk inside, take two steps, and you’re supposed to fall on your knees?
At school, the priest’s pointer singled me out: this must be the rain child. He never shows up at catechism and no doctrine has ever sunk in. He advised the other children to keep their distance:
—Bad apples should be plucked from the bunch.
They followed his advice and steered clear of me. Today I know that it wasn’t out of obedience to the priest. I was alone on account of my colour. Like the word of God blotted by the rain. Yes, the teacher was right: I was a rain child.
And it’s in the rain that I now look back upon my life. Each and every time, I begin with the blast that rattled my childhood. The bomb came wrapped in a book of postcards, and exploded as though tearing open the world. No blood was shed, save for mine. Scalding threads reeled down my neck. I wiped my face in search of the source. I discovered only with great effort: the blood had burst forth from my body, through my ears.
With all the commotion, no one bothered to notice me. There were cries, flames, my brothers. Days later, I complained about the buzzing: only then did they notice I’d stopped hearing. My ears were put to rest.
My mother blamed my old man. He’d been playing with fire, on account of addiction to kindness. We fled that town as if it were cursed, far beyond the world I’d known. My father feared more violence was yet to break out, wars born of the politics of those times.
Ever since, I’ve lost my reasons to enjoy life. The other children would play blind man’s bluff. But what role could I play? Only the deaf man. In the beginning, I still could make out the shadows of sounds, the edges of sound-scratches. As I grew older, however, things became worse and, after some time, even the walls could hear better than I did. Recognizing my disability took some time. I was like a cripple convinced it’s the world that’s off-kilter.
—Ah, so it’s not you who’s deaf? It’s the entire world that’s mute then?
No one could convince me otherwise. Only the silence. I can’t even describe this hollow abyss, this labyrinth of nothing. On I went, filling up with anguish, lone and lonely. And then one day, I’d come undone, at wit’s end.
—Dad: bring me a girl.
I asked nearly voiceless. My father tried to toy around, but seeing the depth of my sadness, he took me by the hand.
—Do you want to get married?
I had read his lips, but acted as if I hadn’t understood. He lowered his eyes, embarrassed. Did the girl I longed for exist?
—I only want someone to listen to, Dad.
I’d touched the man to his core. My father called local officials, appealed to tribal leaders, promised certain monies in return. For days, the search covered side roads and far-flung villages. Even today, I don’t understand what guided their search, without so much as an image of this girl I longed for. Later, tired of looking, the scouts returned.
—We found all sorts of girls. But this girl, the one he’s looking for, we couldn’t even catch a glimpse.
Until one day they brought a girl of rare beauty to our house. She was, however, mute. My father turned her away, mindful of my request. Greater even than the desire to feel another’s caress was my desire to hear another voice. They were about to turn the girl away when I appeared. I called to her and, in fear, she drew closer. I confessed my desire. My father tried to interrupt the entire time, aware of the girl’s unimaginable voice but lacking the heart to reveal her disability. I took the visitor by the hands and asked her:
—I only want you to tell me: where can I listen to the eagle’s cry?
The young girl whispered a secret. In reality, today I know that not a single audible word came from her mouth. But at the time, I basked in the illusion of her voice. My father looked on, caught by surprise, as my expression changed. I unbudded, deblossoming. Is it a miracle that in this world there aren’t more miracles?
The girl was sent to the back room, where she was to spend the night. My heart was in such turmoil that no rest visited me. The next morning, my mother called me and, with gestures, explained herself.
—The girl—we sent her away.
—Away?
—She’s very dark, she’s Blacker than black. Look at you: a mixed boy, nearly white. We can’t set our family back.
My father tried to calm things down: the girl’s throat was maimed, she couldn’t so much as grunt a vowel. But I’d already settled on a different fate. What did I do? I feigned I was a priest. I needed nothing more than to swipe a frock and cross. Then I hid in the forest, put the town far behind me, and reached the last bend in the horizon.
There was no place—on any map—more remote. The town was called NoWhere. I dedicated myself to rebuilding a tiny parish that already existed. In any event, there’d been another priest there before me, a man of generosity, who’d filled his pews with multitudes. An extra coincidence: like me, he too had been deaf. The result being that the people there believed deafness to be a prerequisite for
the office of country priest. Now, thinking back on what I did, even I must admit: the Devil must be equipped with a terrible memory. There are so many things he can’t remember.
In passing myself off as a man of the cloth, I’d discovered a way to live off the kindness of others. They looked after me, furnished the necessities. The poor folks—I made up prayers they found difficult to recite. Because with each recitation, I changed the words. Yet not even this caused the bewildered believers to waver in their convictions. Who knows, maybe it was my dedication to everything that, before, I’d never known. Nursing? I did that. Teaching? I gave it a try. Offering advice? I gave that a shot, too. In the end, in everything I did, I embodied kindness. Who knows if, as a result of having performed all these jobs, I filled the pews. On infallible Sundays, people poured in from the countryside to confess their sins. They themselves were serious. Only I stole the sacred stage. I’d sit in the confessional, dark as a turtle’s belly. One by one, the faithful knelt outside the confessional and, at the top of their lungs, confessed their sins. In so doing, they knew what was in each other’s hearts. That’s how my predecessor had done things, and so it continued with me.
Yesterday, it rained so hard that the surrounding huts shook, threatening to collapse. The people came, seeking refuge in the church. At no other Mass had I ever seen so many. And then, from among the drenched villagers, I spotted a young woman, the very same girl my father had sent for to console me. Time had etched her face, her body. Each stroke to beauty’s benefit. She concentrated on me with those same eyes that had turned me to a fool on my childhood porch. Then she went off in search of the heat of the fireplace. I thought I saw her talking to the others, coming to some agreement, exchanging words. I called the sexton over and gave him orders:
—That woman over there. Go and see if she can speak.
My assistant understood nothing at first. Off he went, getting closer and closer to her. He made a sign confirming that yes indeed, the woman plainly spoke. I was struck, a match lit in a volcano. My entire life came before me, in broken pieces, as if a bomb were shattering my memory. I climbed the altar, signalled for the dozens there assembled to quiet down. I know how to spot silence, I can read its arrival. I detect it in people’s eyes. I knew, at that moment: only the rain could be heard, tim-tim-ba-tinning on the roof of the tiny church. Then I told them what I’m committing to paper now, the tenor of my dishonesty, my fake vestures, my apocryphal prayers. I confessed aloud, as they had done before me. I removed my frock, said my goodbyes, and left, making my way past unbelieving eyes.
Outside, as I’d surmised, the rain came down. My head spun, I hadn’t realized how hard it was raining. Did the heavens threaten a flood? I took a few drunkard’s steps, seeking the ground beneath the pools of water. Is it the blind man who never falters? A hand grabbed hold of me and turned me around. It was a young woman, that young woman. When she spoke, I lost my bearings completely. Will you believe me, now knowing of my treachery? Who do I swear to if I’ve lost even my ties to God? In other words, go ahead and doubt. But I heard her voice, indeed, I heard her without reading her lips. I listened to the woman’s gentle voice, her words wrapping me in my own alarm.
—Stay—please stay … dear Father!
Square of the Gods
To Che Amur, whose version of these events served as the basis for this story.
1926: That was the year that marked the occasion. That’s the year the personal story unfolded of the merchant Mohamed Pangi Patel, a powerful man who disbursed life and wealth on the Island of Mozambique. Accordingly, the years passed and Mohamed Pangi gave thanks to God for the beauty of the world and its marvels.
The Ismaelite grew rich off his own name, full of good cheer. His contentment only grew the day his only son came to tell him he’d decided to marry.
—You know something, son? Life is a sweet perfume.
Preparations for a wedding began. Such a celebration would never again be seen in such localities. Musicians came from Zanzibar, guests from Mombasa, peoples from Ibo and Angoche. The celebration lasted some thirty days. On every one of these days, the town square was covered with endless tables, boasting many a full spread. Day and night, foods of every variety and number could be found. The entire island turned up to help themselves by the belchful. In those days, not one of the poor felt the pang of hunger. And not a single family set foot in the kitchen: breakfast, lunch, and dinner passed the day in the town square. While the many mouths opened wide to make way for such delights, Pangi stretched out over a bench, wise to the warm weather. His only occupation was to perspire as he basked in the joy of watching so many jaws at work.
—But Father, isn’t this a bit much?
Pangi’s son began to worry about the mounting expenses. But Pangi responded with caution:
—Better not a single bird in hand. Better to see great flocks spread their wings over the land. The heavens, after all, only came to be after the first bird’s flight. And he smiled:
—Don’t forget, son: life is a sweet perfume.
And the old man began to explain:
—We all carry this fragrance in our natural and congenital bodies. The fragrance, at first, bursts forth in all directions, strong, contagious. If anyone were to have smelled the world’s first moment, they would have detected only their own perfume. But later, this fragrance thins. And then, in order to still sense it, people have to give their nostrils a workout: a headache for the nose. And that’s how, from that point forward, with the smallest reminder of a shudder, even the surface of memories begins to evaporate …
—Father: how will we pay for all this?
The question was an appropriate one. It wasn’t long before the creditors arrived and Pangi’s houses were foreclosed upon. Later, the goods from his stores were sold at public auction. Pangi’s endless properties grew ever more scarce. Once a rich man, he was demoted to a de-minted man, suit pockets full of sand. All of this, though, took place out of sight. No one beyond the dispossessed Pangi knew of this settling of accounts. Silent as a dagger, the Ismaelite went on sitting on his bench, in a state of pure fascination, as he gazed upon the endless celebration.
Tired of calling attention to the situation, the groom resolved to leave the island. That night, he gave his aging father an ultimatum: either the festivities came to an end or he’d turn his back on his old man forever. The old man smiled, astonishful, firmer than the firmament. He pointed to nothing at all, singled out among the square-dwellers a nothing-nobody. And then he spoke:
—Listen to this song. I like this song so much it hurts me each time I listen to it.
With gale-force rage, Pangi’s son burst away with a mind to luggage, ships, and one-way trips. His bride held back, seated on the selfsame bench as Pangi. The young woman soaked in charm, eyes fixed on her father-in-law. She adjusted her wedding garments and stepped closer to the patriarch in the sunset of his life. She took hold of his hand and opened her big eyes wide:
—Father: would you dance this song with me?
The old man stood up without a word and allowed the bride to lead him to the middle of the square. There, the two danced together, on a floor of a thousand tiny lights, silver insects stirring up the dark. As he twirled round and round, the old man took in the scent of the jacarandas. Jealousy is what he felt, for the eternity of the trees’ perfume.
—Tell me, my girl: do I still have my perfume?
She smiled without responding. Instead, she took him by the arm and brought him back to the dance. As they rocked back and forth, Mohamed Pangi whispered an apology. Didn’t she know? All of this wasn’t for them, the naive newlyweds, and their benefit. In the end, the quantity had been expended to celebrate other happenings. All through these days, the island put poverty behind it, not a single mother stood measuring her child’s cries, the men drank not to forget but to taste the sweet sap of the waters of time.
—God must have loved to see a world like this. I’m offering this square up to Him, do
you understand me?
And he took leave of the bride with a kiss on her forehead.
—You have the scent of fruitfulness, my girl—only the earth’s aroma is as sweet.
—Tomorrow, in the wee hours, early in the morning, the festivities come to an end. Tell my son.
—Father, why don’t you make your way home?
What home? The square was his home now. He would live in the very square he’d offered to the gods. The bride shook her handkerchief—farewell—through the air.
The next morning, dawn broke on the town square without any celebration. The banquet tables had disappeared, the band had left, dance shoes and dust surrendered to repose. All that remained was absence in disarray, mere memory of cheer and melodies. Alone on a park bench, Mohamed Pangi Patel remained motionless in an unexpected pose, with a strange smile. Was it God who smiled through his lips? Had his life been written off, a sort of last lien against his debts?
The bride was the first to reach his side. She knelt down next to the body and plucked from his hair the many distracted petals that had fallen from the towering trees. But later, as they carried his body, she went back to gathering handfuls of the fragrant petals and returning them to her father-in-law. Mohamed Pangi Patel departed the square and its jacarandas dusted with eternal life.
Sea Loves Me
and other stories
Translated by David Brookshaw
The following stories have not been published previously in English.
The Tearful Cook’s Journey
Antunes Correia-Correia was a sergeant in the colonial army in a time of war. If the name was doubly diffuse, the man was singly diffused into two separate halves. He had stepped on treacherous ground and shot up high into the air, to those places where one leaves one’s soul and brings back eternity. Correia neither left nor brought anything back, incompetent even when it came to dying. The mine that had exploded was for him alone. But he, fat as he was, so well endowed with girth, would have required two explosions.