by Mia Couto
And time passed, the weeks piling up on top of each other. Justinho wasn’t getting any better. He spent more and more time listening to the lamentations of the two anguished men inside their dwelling.
Until, one night, he awoke with a fright. There were no longer the groans of the dying men, but a strange quiet gripped the place. He peered through the darkness and saw Acera wandering, her steps asking the silence to excuse them. Her husband didn’t move, as he wanted to decipher his wife’s mysterious movements. It was then that he saw Acera step onto a stool and attach a piece of string around the waists of the priest and the witch doctor. After this, she took them outside tied like a pair of balloons. In the garden, Acera wiped a tear from the priest’s face and kissed the witch doctor on the cheek. Then she let go of the string and the two inflatables soared into the air, penetrating the clouds and disappearing into the heavens and into Justinho Salomão’s astonished eyes.
That night, the inhabitants of the village watched the moon darken in what would be the very last, permanent eclipse.
The Indian with the Golden Crotch
Here comes Abdalah, the monhê1 from Muchatazina.
People knew it was him because of the tinkling coming from his underpants. It was said the fellow carried gold in his balls. Forgive me for using such a rude word. That’s what they say, but who knows for sure? Rumours travel at the speed of darkness. But let’s give the gossips what they want: let’s accept that the monhê had had his balls stuffed. Let’s suppose they weighed a good few carats. Do I believe it? No idea. My belief is like a bird. I only believe when the rain falls and drains away without leaving any trace.
So I agreed to follow up this story about Abdalah. I like to stick my nose in other people’s business. I enjoy hearing what’s said and not said. I was assigned the incident so that I could uncover its incidentals. How many lives does each deadly crime conceal?
Whenever there’s blood, folk give vent to invented versions. People fabricate any number of explanations. The monhê, knowing the Revolution was coming, had moved his wealth to his private parts. Where would he find a better bank? Another version: it was a case of witchcraft. Sarifa Daúdo was the main target for suspicion. It had been her, for sure. She was a strange woman, shut away between two walls, she was the origin of the Indian’s deformity.
I was advised to begin with Sarifa, with whom the fellow had begun his love life. Sarifa was his cousin, upon whom he had first cast a honeyed look. They say our first love is always for a cousin. I also got on well with mine, my kissing cousins cosseted me too.
I headed towards the girl’s house. She was still single, it was painful to see such beauty untried and untouched. I observed her sluggish movements as she poured me the tea that she had offered me as her guest. In some women, we are attracted by their shell, in others by the sea. Sarifa had forfeited her woman’s charm, lost her taste for a gesture. Now, she was neither sea nor shell.
Eventually, I got her round to talking about Abdalah. At this point, even her eyes lost their glow, black spirals twisting inside a sea snail’s shell. But the memory came back to her, expressed in a tiny, almost soundless voice. The romance had gone well. Love is like life: it starts before having begun. But what is good is in a hurry to end. The eternal shadow only lingers in the snail’s conical shell. Was the girl loud-mouthed, a strumpet with a trumpet? Not at all, she was able to keep her thoughts to herself. The knotty problem was Abdalah himself.
—But why, Sarifa? Why did his appetite become unwhetted?
She wiped away a tear with the palm of her hand. Did the Indian hit her? Thrash her? No, at least he didn’t behave like a man prone to violence. Does a man who bites not bark? Are you capable of burdening a woman with suffering, sir?
—Let me put the question in another way: have you ever loved a woman, sir, with true passion and sworn commitment?
I was unable to utter a word. I had gone there to ask the questions. When placed before the mirror of an interrogation, I felt like a lizard who thinks it’s the other creatures who are animals. As I got up to leave, she spoke at last.
—It was all because of the money.
I took a step back. But she didn’t say any more. She was washing the cups with astonishing torpor. Her hands caressed the glass out of which I had drunk. I felt as if she were touching my lips and I left, comforted by the illusion.
I headed home unwillingly. I paused here and there for no particular reason.
Then suddenly I came face to face with a bird of paradise. The florist got my attention by waving the flower’s orange crest in front of me. Should I buy it? Why, and for whom? But, inexplicably, without knowing why, I paid the money. I felt ridiculous, holding the flower aimlessly in my hand. When I got home, the flower looked even more out of place. Never before had I stuck a flower in a vase.
I sat down with a beer and allowed myself to voice my thoughts: I needed a woman. I needed a birth-giving event, a flash of inspiration. I lacked a place to wait, free of time, free of myself. Shoulder should be a feminine word. Because that alone is what that woman’s buttress deserved.
The next morning, I returned to Sarifa’s house; whether moved by a desire to see her again or out of professional obligation, I don’t know. The woman didn’t raise her head: with her eyes on the ground, she told me about Abdalah. The man only made love after he had spread a wad of banknotes under the sheets. Sometimes they were meticais, other times they were rand. He would only get aroused when he had first fulfilled this ritual. He would lie there on his back, his hands caressing the sheet, his eyes taking the measure of infinity. Sarifa was left with the feeling that she didn’t exist. With currency devaluation, his ardour varied. Sometimes, he took time to work up his manly vigour.
However, one night, he couldn’t. He began to get irritated. He lifted up the sheets and inspected the notes. It was then that he began to get really suspicious: the notes were counterfeit. Someone had taken the genuine ones and spread fakes in their place.
—Was it you, Sarifa?
At first, his cousin didn’t understand. Then a furious fist darkened her vision and ignited her understanding in a flash: there was some suspicion about the money. He beat her, and beat her again. Sarifa was knocked flat. She was bleeding profusely. It was Uncle Banzé, a man given to hot tempers, who picked her up from the floor. He patched up his niece, tended her wounds and ran to apprehend the Indian.
—You went too far, my boy. Are you mixing love with dollar signs? He jabbed his finger into his ribs and threatened him:
—Well, I’m going to follow you in your dreams and see what comes out of them!
This was his challenge: Uncle Banzé would visit the Indian’s dreams over the next ten nights. If they contained more money than woman in them, then a curse would fall on Abdalah.
—From Abdalah, I’ll turn you into Abdilly-dally!
It didn’t take ten nights. On the seventh, the Indian already felt a weight in his groin. The fellow never visited Sarifa again, and he never loved another woman. And now that he no longer has access to romance, all he dreams about are women. Gold got into his goolies and the woman exited his daydreams. A dream’s punishment is the one that hurts most. Ask Abdalah, the Indian with the golden crotch.
The Marine House
What man feels for a bird is envy.
Longing is what a fish feels for a cloud.
Those were the words of Tiane Kumadzi, the old man who lived isolated from people, far from the village, and out of his mind. I would follow him as he distributed his footsteps along the sand of the beach. My parents prohibited me from going on those wanderings.
—That fellow’s wrong in the head. You’re forbidden.
He was an unsuitable individual. And they added: That fellow is gathering the timber of a huge disaster. For what is the future, if we don’t even have a word in our mother tongue for what is to come? The future, my son, is a country we cannot visit.
But I couldn’t resist following in Kum
adzi’s damp footsteps when, in the early morning, he would look for signs of the world beyond. It happened in the half-light when the sun threw our shadows over the waves.
The old vagabond would teeter and totter like this, backwards and forwards, bent double as he muttered incomprehensible prayers. I was amused by that mumbo-jumbo of his, his head hunched below his shoulders, rummaging around among the seaweed, shells, and tree trunks brought by the ocean from distant storms.
I followed him silently, dying to find out where his search would take us. I preferred his company, as if Tiane were my childhood companion, more of a child than I.
—How old am I? I’m the same as you.
And then he would say: a child is a man who allows himself to fly. Sometimes he told me to run, to go beyond the endless beach. And that I should return breathless.
—Take advantage of tiredness, son. There’s wisdom in tiredness.
Tiredness is a way of the body teaching the head. That’s what Tiane said. That there were senses that only tiredness could arouse. Sleep and fatigue: they were hands that could open windows onto the world. It was through his tiredness that he managed to find what no one else dared find on the beach. On one occasion, I broke my silence and threw a question at him:
—But what are we looking for, Granddad Tiane?
—This.
And he tossed me a piece of wood. It was a stick like I’d never seen before: the edges were worn down, so that the roundness of the wood and the roughness of the bark were indistinguishable. I was struck: in what land did trees like that grow, so smooth to the touch of one’s finger?
—But what is this, Granddad?
—Find me more of these and I’ll let you peep inside my house.
I did nothing else for the next few days. While there was still a patch of daylight, I would tire my eyes out, rummaging through strange objects. I followed his advice: I exhausted myself out among the dunes, seeking the wisdom of fatigue.
At the end of the day, my feet were growing scales from spending so long in the water. My arms happily bore the weight of so many little pieces of wood. Old Kumadzi collected them all together in his garden, there where, in other people’s houses, timber was piled up for firewood. At night, the old man devoted his time to making sense of that untidy heap. He examined each stick closely. By fitting them carefully together, each protrusion into a cavity, he gradually built a boat of some size.
The fishermen were astonished—a boat? That thing looked more like a house. And they gathered around, pricking the old man’s peace and quiet with the blade of their curiosity:
—Who taught you to make something that doesn’t exist?
Kumadzi shrugged. He didn’t know, but the medicine man already had an inkling. That was a house that travelled on water, the work of a man-fish, a people no one had ever seen before. And the medicine man began to list the most frightful premonitions: times of ash and fire were coming.
—It would be better if such times never came, it would be better if they never arrived.
And he added his verdict: they needed to kill off the foreigners’ journey as quickly as possible. He issued his order right there: on that very night, they would set fire to the alien construction. I was the only one to lend my support to the old man in his solitude. A heavy silence ensued until Tiane Kumadzi asked me to help him push the boat into the water. We were unable to nudge it even a centimetre. The boat was more fixed than a tree. Kumadzi breathlessly burst out:
—Hey kid! Get into the boat!
I pointed at myself in horror. Me? The old man nodded: I should be the one to sail it, to go out onto the sea so as to go and meet the folk who were coming. And he concluded:
—That way, there’ll be no one to boast that it was he who …
I excused myself. I turned around and walked back through the darkness. I realized that the villagers were right in their advice: the old man was suffering the punishment of trying so hard to visit the future. I returned home but was met by a strange clamour. My father was at the head of an angry mob. Seeing me arrive, he ordered me:
—Go back where you came from!
And I was propelled forwards by their ranting and raving. They headed for Tiane Kumadzi’s place. My old man pushed me forwards this way, that way and no way. I didn’t even have time to gather my thoughts. By this time the boat was burning, swallowed up by a thousand torches, flames summoning yet more flames.
From one moment to the next, thick flecks of soot fluttered giddily. I watched the smoke rising and forming strange figures, monsters capable of swallowing entire worlds. I closed my eyes, but couldn’t escape these visions. Then I heard someone saying to my father:
—Careful, brother, this smoke is full of poison!
Whether or not it was the poison, folk were thrown into drunken confusion. First, they started whooping, jumping, and dancing. Then, gradually, a party atmosphere prevailed and merriment intensified over the course of the night. Until their bodies lay spread-eagled on the ground.
Next morning, old Tiane shook me awake. The first thing I saw was the boat. That same boat that had been on fire but a few hours before. But there it was, fully intact. There were a few scorch marks, but nothing more. The old man anticipated my question:
—It didn’t get as far as burning, the wood was wet.
In his hands, he held a chunk of half-burnt wood. He crumbled the ashes and mixed them with the sand. Then he added:
—This boat was full of sea!
He searched through the few ashes as if looking for something he had already seen. He was asking himself nervously:
—Where is it, where is it?
Finally, he bent over and picked up a wooden cup. He raised it. I walked over to take a closer look. It wasn’t just a useful object. It was adorned with a beautiful design. Tiane pointed to the cup and declared:
—See? The ocean wants to bring people together.
He offered me the cup and asked me to drink.
—Drink what? I asked. I peered into it and saw that it contained some drops.
—It’s dew, Tiane explained, to allay my fears. I raised the cup to my lips but was unable to drink. I mumbled an excuse:
—I’ll keep it, so as to drink along with the others …
I hid the cup under the old marula tree. Then we went down to the sea to look for signs of the men-fish. The old man lingered in the water. By now, night had fallen and he refused to come out. He told me he would never again return to dry land. He remained there soaking up the sea. Did he want to become like the boat with its saturated wood? By the time he set off on his journey, he would have turned into salty timber. Already he had turned into a marine house, waiting for those destined to come.
Rungo Alberto at Fantasy’s Whim
I’m going to tell you a true story about my bosom pal, Rungo Alberto, lost on a dark night on the island of Inhaca. He was born next to the sea, in a place where land and water share their border. He would say: “my native water.” Rungo never fuelled himself with any illusions: everything is sand without a castle. What he wanted was for Peace to come. He had his doubts about this. After all, the only way a war ends is if it never began. He had good reason. For he was a refugee from war. He was skinny: he paid no attention to his salient sternum. His hair was white, but because of his uncertain age.
This is what he would call me: Mio Conto, Mira Cuito, Miraconcho. Was he un-naming me? No, it was a mere inclination of his heart. Deep friendship made him invent all those names. One would not be enough on its own. I laughed: I had been in need of such an irregular identity for quite some time. I had long needed a certificate of indistinction. But I also trusted my friend’s many visions. There were so many Rungos. But which of them was the real one? Well, the one I assumed to be Rungo Alberto announced one morning:
—I’m going to build a boat!
I had my doubts. Rungo Alberto was a very impulsive person, but he seemed to be biting off more than he could chew. As he wasn’t a marine engin
eer and had no skills as a carpenter, where would he get the appropriate qualifications? Rungo turned his back, humming his own special song. Once again, he asked:
—Don’t you know this song? It’s an anthem that’s nearly national.
The next morning, the man got down to work. He installed his workshop in a forest clearing, near the biological research station. He would go off there every day before the sun even rose. The blow of his hammer could be heard, causing the birds to cease their chirping. From morning to night Rungo Alberto would carve up the huge tree trunks. Had he turned himself into a jack of all joiners? In the improvised shipbuilder’s workshop, one could see endless tree trunks on their way from being timber to becoming planks.
I wanted to take a peek, but he wasn’t having it. No one was allowed to see his handiwork. That way, it would be protected from envy and wizardry. He was building his boat just as the sea made its coral, by turning its lacy spray into stone. The islanders would pass by and make fun of Rungo’s declaration. Was that semi-urban man really adventurous enough to become a mariner?
Early one morning, Rungo rattled my window. With a pulsating heart, he led me down the secret paths that led to his workshop:
—Feast your eyes, brother.
He was pointing to a huge craft. I was astonished. That was a real boat, from bow to stern. It was over ten metres, and beautifully painted: blue, white, brown. Its mast, rose haughtily into the forest canopy. Rungo Alberto, discreet and circumspect, looked questioningly into my eyes. I couldn’t refrain from expressing a doubt.
—Tell me, my dear Rungo: how are you going to get the boat down to the sea?
He had anticipated everything.
—The students, he replied, smiling.
—The students?
—Yes, your students can give the boat a shove. Please speak to them.
There wasn’t a student who didn’t want to join in. They rallied together their energy and their merriment. Four hours later, the boat was launched into the waters of the Indian Ocean. Rungo opened a bottle of Portuguese wine, poured a few drops on the boat, and some more onto the sea. Only then was the bottle passed around. Once blessed, the boat seemed better able to deal with the beating of the waves. When it comes to baptism, is it not the child who blesses the world?