by Mia Couto
—Half of me is dead. I was only visited by half a death.
He had only lost his life in one eye, one side of his face defaced. This eye was like a kind of dead fish in the aquarium of his visage. But the sergeant was so lethargic, so lacking in energy, that people couldn’t work out whether all of him was made of glass or it was just his eye. He spoke with the impulse of only half his mouth. He avoided conversation, so painful was it to listen to him. He never shook anyone by the hand in order not to feel his own emptiness. He stopped going out, obsessed with visiting the antechamber of his own tomb in the darkness of his home. Correia had lost interest in life: to be or not to be was neither here nor there to him. Women walked past without any reaction from him whatsoever. All he could do was to repeat the litany: half of me is dead.
Now, alone and retired, wounded in war and incapacitated in peace, Antunes Correia-Correia took stock of his recollections. And the energy of his memory was a source of admiration. Even shorn of his other hemisphere, not a moment escaped him in his hunt for the past. It’s either one thing or the other: either my life was immense or it all took refuge in the right-hand side of my head. For his memories to come to the surface, he would tilt his head to one side.
—Like this, they can slide straight out of my heart, he said.
Felizminha was the sergeant’s Black maid. She had worked for him ever since he had arrived at the military quarters. Amid the steam of the kitchen, Felizminha would busy her eyes. She was always late in wiping her tears away, by which time a teardrop had fallen into the saucepan. It was as sure as night follows day: a tear was invariably one of the food’s ingredients. So much so that the cook didn’t even use seasoning or salt. The sergeant would taste his food and ask himself how she had managed to produce such refined flavours.
—The food’s seasoned with sadness.
That was Felizminha’s inevitable answer. The maid would sigh:
—Oh, if only I were someone else, someone. She was sparing with her merriment, as there was so little of it.
—I want to save up my contentment so as to spend it later, when I’m a bit older.
She lived shrouded in shadow, smoke, and vapours. She was so steamed up on the inside that she couldn’t even make out what was happening in her soul. Her hand felt its way along the kitchen dresser. Her little space was dark, containing as it did irregular patches of penumbra. A kitchen is where the whole house is made.
One night, the boss stepped into the kitchen, shuffling heavily. He came face to face with the darkness.
—Don’t you want more light in this goddamn kitchen?
—No, I like it like this.
The sergeant looked at her. The tubby Felizminha stirred the soup, tasted a spoonful, adjusted the salt in her tears. Fate didn’t hold any more for her: merely this encounter between two half-lives. Correia-Correia knew how much he owed this woman who served him. Straight after the accident, no one understood the slurred thickness of his speech. A mother’s attention was needed to lend support to that dishevelled white, that remnant of a person. The sergeant would blabber and whimper some sounds and she understood what he wanted. Little by little, the utterings of the Portuguese improved and became more like those of a person. Now, he looked at her as if he were still convalescing. The rustling of her capulana mollified old nightmares, her voice calmed the frightful incandescence emerging from the mouth of fire. It is a miracle one can find fellow feeling in times of frenzy and war.
—You’re thin, are you tightening your flesh?
—Thin?
That would be a fine thing! What about a tortoise? Has anyone ever seen a thin one? Its eyes alone make it fat, bulging with goodness. The tubby Felizminha groaned so much when she bent down it was as if the ground were further away than her feet.
—Tell me one thing, Felizminha: why all this weeping every day?
—I only cry so as to give my dishes more flavour.
—I’ve got good reason to be sad, but you …
—Where I come from, I just remember the coconut trees; the rustling of their leaves makes you think you’re right down next to the sea. That’s all, boss.
The tubby Black woman spoke as she twisted the lid of her rusty old snuff tin. Her boss put his hand in his pocket and took out a new box. But she declined his offer.
—I like old things, things that are rotting away.
—But you’re always so sad, old girl. Do you want more money?
—Money, boss, is like a blade … it cuts both ways. When we count out the notes, our soul is torn open. What do people pay for with money? Life isn’t just charging us for paper, but for our very selves. When a note leaves our hand, we’ve already said goodbye to life. You, sir, find solace in your memories. My sadness helps me to rest.
Then the fat cook surprised her boss. She came straight out with it:
—I’ve got an idea to help you salvage the rest of your time in this world.
—All I have is half a life, Felizminha.
—Life doesn’t have halves. It’s always one whole one …
Then she elaborated on her idea: the Portuguese should invite a lady, one of those women used as escorts. The sergeant still had a body to match his age. There were even whores, cheap ones, women who were completely disposable.
—But they are Black girls, and when it comes to Black girls …
—Get yourself a white one, there are also some of those you can buy. I’m telling you, boss. You came into this life thanks to a woman. Get yourself another woman to come back into life again.
Correia-Correia gave one of his half smiles as he thought about it for a minute.
One day, the soldier left the house and spent the whole afternoon out. He arrived home in high spirits and headed for the kitchen. There, he declared grandly:
—Felizminha, tonight, set another place at table.
Felizminha’s soul lit up. She took great care to tidy the living room, and placed a chair on the sergeant’s right so that she could get the best possible view of the guest. In the kitchen, she perfected the tear with which she was going to season the meal.
But then nobody came. The place at table remained empty. On that and all subsequent occasions. There was only one change to the scene she had prepared: the chair reserved for the unadventful guest switched from the right- to the left-hand side, that side on which the world didn’t exist for the sergeant.
Felizminha began to have her doubts: these women her boss was inviting, did they really and truly exist?
Until one night, the sergeant called the cook and asked her to sit down in the place reserved for his missing guests. Felizminha hesitated. Then, ever so slowly, she arranged herself on the chair.
—I’ve decided to leave.
Felizminha said nothing. She waited for whatever else needed to be said.
—And I want you to come with me.
—Me, boss? I’m not leaving my shadow.
—Come and see the world.
—But what would I do over there, in that country …
—No one will do you any harm, I promise.
From that point on, she began to prepare for the journey. Was she excited by the idea of seeing other places? Terrified at the idea of living in some unknown place, the place where whites live? The cook didn’t bare her soul either by word or facial expression. The sergeant tasted her food and found no change in it. Always the right amount of salt, ever the same subtle flavour. On the appointed day, the soldier barged his way into the kitchen.
—Come and pack your cases.
They left the house, Felizminha, her head bowed, for all the neighbours to see. Then, in front of the onlookers, the sergeant took her hand. Their fingers hardly fitted each other’s so plump were they, hiding themselves like shy toads.
—Let’s go, he said.
She looked up into the sky, fearing that she would soon be up there in some celestial airplane, crossing worlds and oceans. She climbed into the old car, but to her amazement, Correia didn’
t take the road to the airport. He drove down lanes, round bends and along sandy tracks. Then he stopped and asked:
—Where’s that place with all the coconut trees?
The Daughter of Solitude
In life, everything happens suddenly. The rest, that which emerges peacefully, is what has already occurred without our being aware. Some people let things happen without fear. These are the living. Others put things off. These latter are lucky if they come back to life in time before they die.
Girlie was the daughter of a Portuguese couple who ran a store, and was always a level-headed girl. In the dim light of the shop, she would serve Blacks as if they were the shadows of other, real live people. The young girl’s body was developing—the fruit was growing ripe and its pulp was sweet. Thirst was invented for imagining water. But in the vicinity of the shop, there were no resident white men, the only kind she would share her syrupy sweetness with.
The Pacheco family had been pioneers in the arid region of Shiperapera, where even the original Blacks were scarce. Why had they chosen such remote lands?
—Here, beyond those high mountains, not even God can keep an eye on me …
These were the words of the Portuguese designed to discourage questions. No one understood why Pacheco had penetrated so far into the desert dunes of Sofala, condemning his family to a life removed from folk of their own race. Dona Esmeralda, his wife, grew anxious as she watched her daughter grow. What man would she end up with, so far from human beings similar to herself? They gave her the name of Girlie in order to anchor her in time. But their daughter was following the path of the inevitable. In the immutable shadow of the shop counter, she would leaf through her well-thumbed photo comic. She dreamed of what lay in the comic strips …
—Don’t expect any comfort, girl: round here, all we’ve got is a bunch of Blacks.
The young girl sought solace shut away in her room, between the sheets along with her magazine. Her hands shed their inhibitions in another’s caresses. But this dousing of the flame brought her another, more acute torment. When, after sighs and perspiration, she lay back in her bed, a deep sadness descended upon her. It was as if a dead soul were being born within her. Similar sadness only befalls those mothers delivered of a stillbirth. Is it fair that we are able to visit such paradises and then be expelled from them? She found such farewells so hard to take that she started to avoid her own body. It was worthy of an exchange of fondles, receiving the saliva from someone else’s belly. But around there, there wasn’t anyone else for Miss Girlie.
—Do you think that daughter of ours is going to get mixed up with a Black man?
Her father snorted with laughter. There was a reason for his laugh: the Pacheco household was a nest of prejudice. They spoke of “the Black” in the singular. The others, those of another colour, were reduced to a word, uttered between the maxilla of fear and the mandible of scorn. Girlie fulfilled the teachings of her race. She would greet the customers without even looking up:
—What d’you want?
Massoco, their only employee, found the little boss lady’s disdainful ways funny. He was young like her and carried sacks and crates, and drove their cart from the shop to beyond the horizon.
Girlie’s fits of melancholia got worse. The pages of the magazine were falling apart from so much defoliation. On the day Girlie turned eighteen, she set herself on fire. She committed an act of self-immolation. But it wasn’t one of those normal fires of conspicuous combustion. She burned in invisible flames, and only she suffered such fervours. She burned long and slow. Her fever opened the door to her delirium.
Her mother came and fanned her to provide a little fresh air. Her father came and administered some advice followed straightaway by threats. Nothing worked. The only way to douse her fire was with a male body, bathed in a double portion of sweat and caresses. Her mother tried to dampen any illusion of expectation:
—My daughter, don’t allow your body to be born before your heart.
In her sickness, the girl stopped working behind the counter. She was replaced by the boy, Massoco, and the shop became a friendlier place. Girlie took to her room, emigrated from life, exiled from others. At the end of the day, Massoco presented himself, in solemn sadness. He even asked:
—May I go and see the little boss lady?
One day, a vet from the Ministry arrived at Shiperapera. She had come to inspect the cattle belonging to the natives. When the Pachecos heard the news, they decided to conceal their daughter’s condition. She was in such a changed state! Pacheco went out onto the road to wait for his compatriot. He took with him his best manners and some dried fish cakes. He accompanied the vet to the guest house built by the administration in times gone by. When they had gone to bed, the Pachecos exchanged snide remarks.
—Goddammit! That dame looks like a man!
And they laughed. Dona Esmeralda was happy that their visitor had so little womanliness about her. In case her husband got sidetracked. One night, Girlie suffered a particularly severe attack. In despair, the Pachecos decided to summon the vet. Pacheco himself rushed to the guest house and begged the vet to come. On the way, he explained his daughter’s condition.
Upon arriving at the store, they made for the troubled girl’s quarters, maintaining a professional silence. In her fever, the girl took the vet for a man. She threw her arms around her, kissing her ardently on the lips. In their embarrassment, her parents rushed to separate them. The vet regained her composure, brushing imaginary hairs away from her cheek. Girlie, with a dreamy smile, now seemed to have fallen asleep.
Pacheco accompanied the visitor back to her lodgings once more. They walked the whole way without exchanging a word. As they said good night, the vet broke her silence and put forward her plan:
—I’ll play the man’s role. I’ll disguise myself.
Pacheco didn’t know what to say. The vet explained: the shopkeeper would lend her some old clothes and she would appear, in disguise, like a boyfriend fallen from the heavens. The Portuguese nodded vacantly and hurried home to tell his wife about the strange plan. Dona Esmeralda pursed her lips doubtfully. But so be it! It was for the good of their little girl. Then she crossed herself.
On the following nights, the vet would appear in her disguise. She would go up to Girlie’s room and linger there. Downstairs, Dona Esmeralda would sit weeping silently. Pacheco would drink listlessly. After a few hours, the vet would come down, tidying a non-existent lock of hair from her face.
For whatever reason, the truth is that Girlie began to perk up. Some days later, the vet withdrew, a cloud on the road where even the dust was sparse. The following morning, Girlie came down to the shop, carrying her old magazine. She took her seat behind the counter and asked the shadow on the other side:
—What d’you want?
Massoco laughed, shaking his head. And life resumed, like a ball of wool looking for its end. Until one day, Dona Esmeralda shook her husband awake.
—Our daughter’s pregnant, Manuel!
Insults, improprieties rained down. Windowpanes shattered, such was Pacheco’s fury:
—I’ll kill that bastard of a doctor!
His wife implored him: surely now this was reason enough for a visit to town. Her husband should break his promise and cross the mountains back into the world. At night, the couple set off on their journey, leaving their daughter a whole list of instructions on how to look after herself and other precautionary measures. Then they disappeared into the darkness.
From the window, Girlie peeped out at the moonlit cloud of dust on the road. Then she went up to her room, and opened her old magazine. Overcome by sleepiness, she settled down under the bunched sheets on her mattress. Before falling asleep, she squeezed the black hand that stood out against the white of the bed linen.
The Widower
A shudder shows us how alike are a fever and cold. And it’s with a shudder that I recall the Goan, Jesuzinho da Graça, born but unraised in Goa, still in Portuguese times. He
came with his family to Mozambique, still in mid-boyhood. Just as happened to other Goans, he was branded a caneco.1 As for him, he termed himself Indo-Portuguese. A practising son of Lusitania, he worked as head of funeral services at the town hall up until Independence. His was a gloomy office: life spared itself the trouble of paying it a visit. Was the Goan the antechamberlain of Death? He only allowed himself one moment of light-heartedness. As he left the office, the functionary would turn to his colleagues and invariably repeat the words:
—Ram-ram!
—All this ram-rammery’ll kill him, his colleagues commented. And they shook their heads in disapproval: the caneco can’t make up his mind what he wants to say. Jesuzinho Graça laughed at their incomprehension. “Ram-ram” was goodbye in Konkani, the language of his Indian ancestors.
He lived in this constant state of self-effacement, as discreet as a creeper’s embrace. For him, merely existing was an act of overbearing unseemliness. The caneco moistened his finger in time and turned the pages methodically and noiselessly. The nail on his little finger had grown so long that his finger was now a mere accessory.
—The nail? That’s for turning the papers, was his answer.
That nail was the mouse of our present-day computers. The said appendage was a cause for conjugal irritation. His wife would warn him:
—With that claw, don’t even think of giving me a cuddle!
Jesuzinho da Graça resisted all these protests:
—If it weren’t for its nail, a lizard would die!
In all other things, he was as plain and brown as a fiscal stamp. Stolidly unsociable and solidly unemotional, too shy even to say excuse me, Jesuzinho witnessed the turbulence of history with a shrunken heart. Independence hove into view, the nation’s flag was hoisted to the joy of many and to the caneco’s fears. Terrified, he sat in the workers’ rallies where they proclaimed the operation to “dismantle the State.” He asked himself—does justice lie in the hands of the unjust? Unruffled and aloof, Jesuzinho attended to his demotion, his change of office. Yet his serenity was only superficial. Inside, he was alarmed by the sudden statements, understatements and overstatements issued by the Revolution.