Sea Loves Me

by Mia Couto

  —Go in. Don’t forget to cross yourself.

  Dona Elisa would be sitting there, in all her vastness, in the middle of her backyard. She seemed to be in a trance, half-asleep, her eyes half-closed, like a crocodile in the shade. Her mouth was drooping, as if her jawbone had lost its solder. It was said that the lady was biding her time until the right moment. Her innards were fermenting, her soul hovering above her immense frame. We sat around her. The esteemed audience was requested to hush and remain silent out of consideration.

  So there we remained, respectfully waiting. We were waiting for her to unleash her powerful belch, the one that folk said came not from her but from the world’s intestines.

  —It’s gas from the very depths, was the guarantee.

  I had already witnessed the spectacle once before. It was unforgettable. It was an eruption emanating from magma, a volcano summoning together its contents, like a train emerging from the bowels of the planet itself. For one second, we were convinced the end had come, the apocalypse.

  On this occasion, I didn’t go alone. I took the foreigner with me to witness the phenomenon. I had felt it my duty, and was inhibited. Generosity is so easy in such cases: providing what others don’t even ask for. For the strange man had arrived in town full of credentials. He hadn’t come to study plants, grasses, or animals. He had come to study us, folk used to their customs and accustomed to their uses. He had heard of Dona Elisa and her powers. Moreover, educated gentleman that he was, he had brought with him all the equipment to capture moments such as these: a camera, a recorder.

  Once in the yard, after having crossed himself, the foreigner sat down like us, in the sand, pen and papers in his lap. Apprehensively, he asked me whether he might take a photo.

  —It might be better not to, I suggested.

  But what was the guy going to photograph? A belch? And I was even going to ask him not to press the button on the recorder when we were interrupted by the announcement of a sudden delay.

  —Mama Elisa is indisposed.

  Then I saw her pass by, supported by others. For a moment, she paused in the shade. She seemed to me to be peering at the visitor. I realized she was crying. Her relatives stood around her, shielding her from being seen. They sat the weighty lady down and fanned her thoroughly. Until a nephew came over and ordered the foreigner to take his shoes off. Barefoot, they crossed the yard, and I was told to translate the order.

  —Place your foot in the footprint.

  The man put his foot in the cavity in the stone. But his foot didn’t fit the print. He was told to put his shoes back on. Someone said:

  —Mama asks you to go near her.

  We went over, the foreigner and I. Eliza seemed dozy. Had she been drinking? She asked the visitor to lean over her. She looked at his face for a long moment and then mumbled sadly:

  —No, it’s not him.

  And there she remained, burdened by weight and years, until suddenly she sat up straight. Her triple chin quivered. Someone gave the alarm.

  —She’s going to belch.

  But instead of the expected and now announced belch, she emitted a tiny squeak of a voice, the chirping of a little bird. This hiss was her final display.

  A nephew gave us our money back on the way out. He excused her:

  —Those noises were never more than her heart in a state of collapse.

  In the end, Dona Elisa wasn’t a case for scientific study. Neither geologists nor humanologists would understand her. The only phenomenon she encapsulated was love, the passion that had long stolen away. And the footprint that, each Saturday, freed itself from the stony floor and trod upon Elisa’s heart. That was the only reason for the sonic boom: stone freeing itself from stone, the buried past returning to this side of life.

  ‌The Blessing

  It happened during Portuguese times. The couple were the Esteves, distinguished folk, functionaries of the first order. They lived in a state of never-ending concern: their little boy had been sickly since birth, devoid of vitamins, lacking both hydrates and carbons. His skinniness was more visible than his body: he had a protruding sternum. And stranger still: he was assailed by fits of convulsive sobbing. During these attacks, the boy’s breathing suffered, he seemed to be gasping for air, his chest escaping out of his mouth.

  They contracted the Black woman, Marcelinda, to look after their only son. The mistress of the house, Dona Clementina, was overcome with motherly envy: the child would only calm down when he was sitting on Marcelinda’s lap. He would lie back in the immense rotundity of his nurse, and grow as quiet as a fetus. The Black woman would carry him around, as if she were dancing, and would call him:

  —Nwana wa mina!

  No one in the house understood the language. Maybe that was why her words left a bitter taste. They didn’t like the idea of Africa entering the intimacy of the home in such a way. As time passed, one certainty became apparent: the baby was jettisoning his biological mother. When he was ill, scared, or alarmed, only the maid was able to console the child. Disdain burrowed into his mother’s heart.

  —I don’t want her here. See about dismissing her.

  The father still tried to throw water on the flames. But Dona Clementina was unforgiving, she wanted to see the fat Black woman out of her life. Esteves knitted together his argument:

  —We should thank God that the boy gets on so well with her.

  But the mother’s anger was implacable. Dona Clementina’s nights were riven with nightmares. As she lay in bed, she would dream that her son was slipping away through a sudden crack, swallowed up by the damp gloom. She would rush off in a panic. There, in the dark background, she could hear Marcelinda’s voice, singing a gentle lullaby. And her son was smiling at the maid, unable to see his mother’s silhouette. The lady would wake up in a sweat, and creep down to her son’s bedroom in order to hug him to her breast.

  One evening, the Esteveses entertained some Portuguese guests. During the course of the evening, they compared their fantasies. The ladies assuaged Clementina’s fears:

  —It’s natural, Black women are experienced in rearing dozens of children.

  And another one added, ironically:

  —In Africa, they’re all each other’s children.

  Someone even asked:

  —How many does yours have?

  —Actually, we’ve never asked Marcelinda …

  —She’s probably got loads. They’re like that, I’ve never seen women have so many …

  And they laughed. Except for Esteves. That night, the Portuguese turned this way and that, unable to sleep. The following morning, the boss burst into the half-light of the kitchen and addressed the maid. He wanted to know about her children. Marcelinda hunched her shoulders bashfully, and smiled to herself.

  —Well, Marcelinda? Have you got so many that you lost count of them?

  —Yes, boss.

  —Seriously, you lost count?

  —Yes, boss, I lost count.

  The Esteveses felt sorry for her. They gave her old clothes, things that were no longer going to be of any use for their friends’ children. She accepted them with thanks. She wrapped them up very carefully, as if they were treasures that were going to be worn for the first time. Then, in silence, she withdrew, allowing herself to be swallowed up by each night’s darkness.

  One day, while she was dressing her son, Dona Clementina found a cotton thread tied round the little boy’s midriff. She summoned the maid and demanded to know where this had come from. Marcelinda stammered:

  —It’s a cure, lady …

  —A cure?

  —For the boy not to suffer so many coughs …

  They were her last words. When Esteves got home, the sentence had already been carried out. The boss lady had sacked the maid. The husband stood there, solemn and silent. Lacking the courage to say anything, he listened to his wife as she walked around the house, the offensive amulet dangling from her fingers:

  —I won’t have it, I won’t have it!

/>   Time passed, conclusively, while the boss lady became more and more desperate: the child wouldn’t stop crying. His mother couldn’t find a way of calming him down. She had no knowledge of how to ease his fevers, placate his weeping, control the boy’s screams. The Portuguese woman could no longer sleep, and was at the end of her tether. The boss man came to a decision:

  —I’m going to Marcelinda’s house this very day.

  In the middle of the night, he got up surreptitiously. He left the house without knowing where he was going. So where did that goddamned Black woman live? He was amazed someone should live in their house about whom they knew so little.

  He wandered down lanes and alleyways, wearing out his eyesight and his shoes. The Portuguese fellow was embarrassed to find himself in such humble surroundings. Only the firmness of his decision made him go on. He asked around, made sure he had understood, corrected himself. After many a fright, he reached Marcelinda’s little abode. He entered the yard and called out. In the darkness, he could hardly see the end of his nose. The Portuguese got a shock when he collided with Marcelinda’s huge frame. He immediately delivered his desperate request: for the maid to return. For God’s sake. Or, if she preferred, for the little boy’s sake. Without uttering a word, Marcelinda retreated into the dark beyond the doorway. At this point, the vague outline of a man appeared, so thin that his undershirt looked more like an overcoat on him:

  —What’s going on?

  Esteves explained the purpose of his visit, believing him to be the maid’s husband. Marcelinda took no notice of either of the men but merely packed her things into a bag.

  —Hey there! You can’t just do this. You turn up here, take her away, and off you go?!

  The Portuguese took some notes from his wallet. The man pocketed the cash as if he were putting it away in his soul rather than his clothes. Marcelinda squeezed herself into the boss’s car. They drove off in silence. The boss wasn’t sure whether the maid had been aware of what had happened as they left the house.

  —I paid an advance for your … to that man.

  —I didn’t ask for money.

  —What do you want then?

  —I just want my little boy.

  My little boy?! The boss explained, as diplomatically as he could, that Marcelinda should avoid that expression. It’s not important, but the lady doesn’t like it. And he smiled nervously. He had never asked for anything like that from someone of another race.

  Once in the hall, they advanced as stealthily as possible. Everyone was asleep. The boss pointed to the old room at the back of the house, and asked her not to make a noise in case the kid woke up. To no avail. Without their understanding quite how, the kid had heard them arrive. And without more ado, he rushed to hug the maid, unaware of the world around him. And there he remained, as if that were his first and only womb.

  The following morning, Esteves overslept. The previous night had left him exhausted. He woke up to his wife’s screams.

  —My son! Where’s my son?

  One thought came to his head immediately: the Black woman had fled with the boy! He got dressed hurriedly and set off for Marcelinda’s house. His wife, sobbing, sat in the passenger seat. They crossed the outskirts of town until they got to where he had been before. Dona Clementina remained in the car. Esteves went into the house but saw no sign of the maid. All he could see was the same man as the previous night.

  —Marcelinda? I haven’t seen her since yesterday.

  Esteves was insistent, pushing him for answers as to where she might be. Then, right there by the entrance, he saw the bags containing the children’s clothes they had given the maid. Unopened, just as they had arrived. So she hadn’t distributed the gifts to her children?

  —Children? What children?

  —Hers … her children.

  —Marcelinda can’t have children, she never had any.

  Esteves was dumbstruck. He hesitated, and began to retreat. He was leaving. But before he reached the door, he paused and asked:

  —What does nwana wa mina mean?

  —Hey! That’s our dialect. Are you learning it, sir?

  —No, I just want to know what the expression means.

  —It means: “my son.”

  The Portuguese settled back into his car. His wife was waiting for him, wiping her tears with her handkerchief. The skinny man appeared at the door and shouted:

  —Don’t say anything to Marcelinda.

  —That we were here?

  —No. Don’t say anything about her never having had children.

  Suddenly, Dona Clementina stopped crying. Esteves glanced at her, before starting the car. He wanted to know what to do, where he should look. The skinny man then suggested they should go to the medicine man, two blocks from there. Marcelinda might have taken the kid there to undergo a ceremony. Esteves accepted his suggestion. He drove gingerly, lost, with only his wife’s silence for company. He came across Marcelinda emerging into the street. The maid was carrying the sleeping child on her back. She seemed to be waiting for the boss, and she got into the vehicle without saying a word.

  —Shall we go?

  The sleeping kid was placed on the rear seat between the two women, the maid and the boss lady. The car moved forwards sluggishly. Dona Clementina’s hands produced the blessed thread, the same one that had been the reason for her sacking the maid. The Black woman looked alarmed, her eyes fearful.

  —Do you remember this thread, the one to do with your spells?

  But the boss lady didn’t seem angry. And she asked her:

  —Marcelinda, help me to put the thread around the boy.

  And in an act of symmetrical motherhood, together they tied the thread around the child.

  ‌A Last Look at Love

  While she dressed the dead man, her late husband, Dona Faulhinha preserved a single appropriate tear. It was always the same tear, the only one she had shed after Ananias Xavier had elected to pass on. If the tear did not merit any credibility, the death was no more trustworthy. The woman cast doubt upon Ananias, even after he had embarked on his final crossing. The man had invoked some strange illness. The truth of his motives now counted for little. What was certain is that suspicion now gnawed at her heart. In the half-light of the living room, Faulhinha received condolences. For the sake of her visitors, she exhibited her tear, the proof of her grief, glistening against the dark skin of her face.

  When she was left alone with the corpse, Faulhinha truly wept. Not out of pity for the dead man, but out of despair at not having been taken herself. Regret that God’s finger had not turned her page in the book of the living. What was there left for her to do now? To be the relic, the leftover of the non-existence that her life had been? During her marriage, she had never been happy. But at least she could feed on the hatred she felt for her husband, supreme womanizer and an expert in skulduggery.

  After crying, something seemed to burst into flower within her soul. She felt drained but not empty. For her inner being strayed off-track: she had an insatiable desire to die. She had always been a shadow woman, dwelling in the quiet outskirts of her existence. If she had never felt life’s pulse, how could she now have decided to put an end to herself? Surely she wouldn’t have the courage for such a gesture of finality.

  Faulhinha went to a corner of the bedroom and took the cage containing the late Ananias’s pet bird. The grey-headed parrot had always irritated her, and she regarded tending it as lying outside her domestic duties. But she had promised to look after the parrot out of respect, after her husband’s death. She placed the cage on the dining-room table, and gazed at it along with the clumsy creature inside. She noticed a sadness in the bird’s eyes. A mere passing impression, for a parrot is a deceitful creature, well-suited to that rascal Ananias. Then the woman suddenly stopped still as if the most primitive decision in her whole life had suddenly blossomed within her.

  At that point she fell to her knees, she who had never prostrated herself. She had problems with her bones and jo
ints. The day I kneel down, I’ll never get up from the ground, she was wont to say.

  Now, however, she bent down slowly and with difficulty, her knees on the bare stone floor. And she asked God to arrange for her death. Let him take her, Dona Faulhinha da Conceição Dengo. For she would not cause any trouble. The angels wouldn’t need to do overtime. She would die so modestly that no one would be aware she had left life. Death, that night, wouldn’t even cause her any pain. She would swallow her last breath of air, and slip away from life into nothingness. No suicide, no blow, no author of the deed. Like a door closing by itself, without so much as a puff of wind. Absently. It wouldn’t even be dying: there would be no verb to describe it.

  It’s worth hearing Faulhinha Dengo’s words. She who had always lived in silence, now, in her final moments, launched forth into the most carefully worded oratory. Her aim: to charm the heavenly Lord himself, He who, poor thing, must yearn so much for the beauty of the word. So listen to Faulhinha’s strange prayer, with the respect it deserves:

  —I’m asking God’s permission to leave life today. Yes, I commend myself, for certain and forsaken. Let me cross to the other shore, God, Sir. Because over there, I’ll be able to help Ananias get dressed, serve him his food, darn his clothes.

  All of a sudden, she was startled by a noise from the bedroom. A creaking of the bed, a cracking of joints, caused her to shiver. She took a sideways glance, for fear prohibited her from anything else. Her hands shot to her mouth to stop herself from screaming. There, on the bier, the corpse was adjusting itself in death by getting up and starting to talk:

  —Don’t talk like that to God, my little flower!

  Was it an order? No, it was a plea. For the first time, he was asking her something in a humble fashion.

  —Don’t do that, woman, don’t ask to go.