Sea Loves Me

by Mia Couto

  —They asked for a male, we’ll give them a male.

  What they needed to do now was to give the matter due priority. They didn’t want to disobey the tugas.‌1

  —But which man shall we send?

  The villagers wondered among themselves. Until one of the elders suggested:

  —I know, we’ll send Josinda.

  —Josinda? But she’s a female who’s given birth to kids and all that …

  Yes, she was a woman, but so unfeminine that at first sight she could pass as a man. She was a strange fish, all muscular and boorish. If she hadn’t had kids, you wouldn’t know she was a female.

  The elder who had made the suggestion pursued his idea. Josinda was just the ticket, the bee’s knees: she was half and half, both fish and fowl, prone to ambivolatility. And what’s more, she spoke the white man’s language.

  —We’ll send Josinda with another name, shave her hair, and dress her up as a man. To be on the safe side.

  A kid was sent rushing off to summon the almost manly woman. He found the girl meandering along the beach in search of her widowed prince.

  —Josinda, come quickly: you’re needed by the whites.

  —Wait a moment, let me go and put on some better clothes.

  —No, come just as you are, just like that.

  —But like this, wearing my father’s clothes, I look just like him.

  —That’s why. And by the way, you’ve got to say your name is Jezequiel.

  —Jezequiel? Why Jezequiel, such an ugly, man’s name.

  —The Portuguese really like that name.

  Josinda presented herself before the elders. They gave her much advice, all very secret, mouth-to-ear stuff. They recommended that she put on an act, be coarser in her ways. Then at last she was ready and walked down to the dinghy belonging to the Portuguese. She spoke to the sailor who had come to fetch what had been requested.

  —I love that shiny uniform you’re wearing, mister soldier.

  —I’m a lieutenant.

  —I’m sorry, I thought you were a soldier. My mistake, who doesn’t make a mistake? Only a bird on the wing never stumbles.

  And off they went, swallowed up by the night. The elders stayed awake all night, fearing the outcome of any news. In the early morning, the soldiers’ boat could be seen among the patches of mist.

  —So, how did it go?

  Josinda was standing erect in the boat, all wrapped up in clothes, only her eyes peering out. But those same eyes were full of tears: the woman was crying, something that had never been seen before. And so, weeping loudly, she disappeared into the darkness. The elders were shocked, and bade farewell to the Portuguese all the more respectfully.

  Later, a delegation turned up at Josinda’s door. They were burning with curiosity: what could have made the woman weep? They pressed her. But she stubbornly maintained her silence.

  The next night, they saw a boat with soldiers approaching. The locals huddled together in groups on the beach, apprehensive.

  —They’re coming to kill us all!

  But the Portuguese weren’t disposed to violence. They asked for Josinda.

  —Our captain needs that Jezequiel again.

  And so some youngsters were quickly sent to look for the desired woman. They reached her house, and explained the demand. But Josinda shook her head and refused.

  —Tell them you couldn’t find me.

  —But the Portuguese …

  —Leave me alone.

  Her tone of voice conveyed an assertive, unequivocal no. They insisted, threatened, begged. Nothing. The youngsters returned to the beach with an improvised lie. That ever since early morning no one had clapped eyes on the selfsame Jezequiel. The soldiers left behind them a promise: a reward for anyone who found her. And the boat set off, disconsolate, back to the ship, as if in mourning.

  The next morning, two boats came: the soldiers disembarked and spread out, searching houses and vegetation. Folk made themselves scarce, frightened. They found Josinda’s house but it was empty. There was no trace or even sign of her in the vicinity. By the end of the afternoon, they had finished their search and the soldiers returned to the great ship. They left behind one Portuguese, charged with finding information about the captain’s so-called lover. He started off with bravado. Saying that he would kill, set things on fire, rape. Then he took on a gentler air, offering promises.

  —I’ll give money to whoever wants it. I’ll give you all the money you want.

  —All?!

  —It’s just that you can’t imagine how much our captain is suffering. We’ve never seen him like this before.

  It was in the early hours of the morning when the Portuguese captain was seen coming ashore, crestfallen and dishevelled. He jumped into the water and waded onto dry land, yelling like a madman. He was calling for Jezequiel, wandering in circles, his eyes agog. Then he collapsed, his shoulders hunched, worn out. He remained like this, befuddled and as still as a stone, for minutes on end. Around him, the soldiers waited, not knowing what to do. A whole day went by, without any decision being reached. Until the commander of the soldiers issued his order: They were to return to the ship, weigh anchor and leave.

  —And what about our captain?

  —I’m staying.

  And indeed, he did stay. At first next to the sea. Later, he set off into the savannah looking for his lover of only one night. The last thing he did before abandoning the beach was to pick up a little stick and scratch away in the sand. No one there was able to decipher those drawings. But a Portuguese soldier who came back to the beach was astonished to see written in the sand the name: Josinda.

  ‌The Assault

  Not long ago, I was the victim of an armed assault. It was on a street corner, in one of those alleyways where darkness is kept under lock and key. I couldn’t even make out the shape of the assailant: all I could see, in a fleeting flash, was the weapon in his hand. I was already thinking beyond the normal limits of reflection: I’m done for! The pistol was next to my chest, showing me that death is a dog that obeys even before it’s whistled at.

  It was all muddle and panic, and I was preparing my accounts with life. Fear is a knife that cuts with its handle rather than with its blade. We brandish a knife, and the thicker the wrist, the more we cut ourselves.

  —Get back!

  I obeyed the command, stumbling until I bumped into the wall. My veins were frozen up, my heart turned to glass: I was in the antechamber of death, waiting for a single shot. I obeyed the assailant’s orders absolutely mechanically. And as dopey as the cuckoo in the clock. What was I to do? Counterattack? Risk everything and, without a second thought, toss my life away without a care?

  —Say something.

  —Anything?

  —Tell me about yourself. Who are you?

  I measured my words. The more I talked and the less I said, the better. The guttersnipe was out to strip me bare. The best tactic would be a cautious silence. We fear what we don’t understand. That much we all know. But in this case, my fear was even worse: I was scared because I understood. That is the function of terror: to transform what we cannot control into the irrational.

  —Start talking.

  —Talking?

  —Yes, tell me things. Then it’ll be me. It’ll be my turn.

  Then it would be his turn? But to do what? For sure, it would be to murder me in cold blood, with a shot at point-blank range. At that moment, as if from nowhere, there appeared a timid ray of light, almost nothing, more to foresee than to see. The fellow lowered his face and pressed his pistol against me menacingly.

  —Any funny business and I’ll …

  He didn’t carry out his threat. He was overcome by a cavernous cough. For a fraction of a second, he lowered his weapon while he got rid of his phlegm. For an instant he appeared defenceless, so vulnerable that it would have been bad-mannered of me to take advantage of the moment. I noticed that he was taking out a handkerchief and composing himself, almost unaware of my pres
ence.

  —Come on, let’s go over there.

  I took a few more steps back. Fear had given way to anxiety. Who could this scoundrel be? One of those people who turn to theft because of some greater weakness? Or someone who had been forced down this path by life? I should add that I was not concerned at that moment with the criminal’s possible antecedents. After all, the earth feeds on what is rotten.

  We walked towards the light. This was when I realized that my assailant was an old man. A mestiço of positively respectable appearance. But he was of the fourth age, his hair totally white. He didn’t look poor. Or if he was, he must have been one of those poor who are out of fashion, one of the ones from when the world was as old as we are. When I was a child, we took pity on the poor. They were part and parcel of that tiny place, destitute of everything, but without losing their humanity. Nowadays, my children are afraid of the poor. Poverty has grown into a monstrous place. We seek to keep the poor at arm’s length, within the borders of their own territory. But this fellow wasn’t one of those miserable wretches who had emerged from their inferno. That was when, now tired, I asked him:

  —What do you want of me?

  —I want to talk.

  —To talk?

  —Yes, just that, to talk. It’s because nowadays, at my age, no one wants to talk to me anymore.

  So this was what it was all about? Just a chat? Yes, that was the reason for the crime. The man had resorted to a firearm in order to steal instants, access a tiny fissure of attention. If no one showed him the courtesy of noticing him, he would acquire the right even if it had to be with the help of a pistol. What he couldn’t lose was the last residue of his humanity—namely the right to meet with others, eye to eye, his soul revealing itself in another face.

  So I sat down, without a care for time or expense. There in that dark alleyway, I told him about my life in all its complexion and untruths. In the end, he had almost fallen asleep over my stories, and I took my leave with one request: that the next time, he should dispense with his pistol. We would both willingly sit down together on a garden bench. To which, the old man immediately replied:

  —Don’t do that. Let me hold you up, sir. I enjoy it more like that.

  And so that’s what happened: ever since then I’ve been the victim of holdups, but without any fear whatsoever. Assaults without any somersaults. I’ve got used to it, and it’s like taking a dog that’s already died for a walk. In the end, what happens in crime is the same as what happens in love: we only know we’ve found the right person after we’ve met those who are right for others.

  ‌Bereavement

  The husband went to his wife, grieving, and burst out:

  —My wife has died.

  His wife quivered. She smiled in order to find light relief from his tasteless joke. But he, a tear seeping out of the corner of his eye, rammed the point home.

  —She has died.

  And he plodded off so as to give vent to his sadness. His wife, at a loss, thought her husband had flipped his lid once and for all. She went after him and touched him on the shoulder. Then she held back, realizing that her gesture was one of condolence.

  That afternoon, dressed all in black, he went to the newspaper offices in order to arrange for the appropriate death notice to be printed. From there, he went on to the undertaker’s. He returned home, woebegone. He collapsed onto the sofa, in front of his astonished wife.

  —I’ve seen to the formalities, everything will be taken care of tomorrow.

  —Can I go to the funeral?

  He didn’t even look at her, occupied as he was with his emptiness. He took his time in giving a negative answer, claiming that it would be better if she remained at home to look after the house. There might be visitors, and she should stay.

  —I’ll go on my own. I’ve never shared sadness. We only have a right to share happiness.

  And next morning, off he went, wizened, among the drops of rain. His wife stood on the veranda, watching her husband recede, as if she didn’t know this man with whom she had lived for more than thirty years. As the sun was going down, he returned, full of anguish. He was drained, his body hunched, his soul already migrating.

  —Life has never been so empty for me as it is now, such a burden.

  She let him be, out of respect for the depth of his solitude. The man looked at her, huddled in a corner, and asked:

  —Are you going to stay around here for a few more days?

  She stuttered an almost inaudible yes. He was treating her as if she were some distant relative, some unrecognized acquaintance from far away. And he showed her the bedroom where she could put some of her things.

  —You can bed down here.

  That night, by the light of the fire, he sat bent over like a question mark. He stayed there, his face hidden between his knees. He prayed, prayerless. She asked him whether he wanted some tea, who knows, it might help him forget a bit. She passed him a cup, along with the sweet aroma of the steam, which he breathed in before speaking.

  —The woman I lost, there’ll never be another …

  And he related how they had met, explained how he yearned for those early days in their romance. What he remembered was decked with embellishments, so embroidered with tenderness that she was moved to tears. Did her husband love her so much after all?

  The following evenings, she asked him to talk about that magnificent love, so that she could find strength in that other woman who, only he seemed unaware, was none other than herself. And so once again there was the unravelling of tender recollections. On one occasion, the man became so emotional that his words stuck in his throat. And not even a sob proved able to unblock the road to speech. So then she decided to put an end to the whole episode. She knelt in front of him:

  —Husband, I am your wife!

  The man looked at her in astonishment. He examined her face, his brow furrowed slowly, and he smiled and said:

  —I know who you are …

  —Well?

  —I don’t deserve this untruth, neighbour. It’s very kind of you to pretend, but I have to accept the truth of my bereavement.

  And he continued: he was learning to be a widower. His neighbour should leave him be in his loneliness, a man needs to reinvent the earth after the flood.

  —Even so, I want to thank you for trying to pass as her.

  The lady, impassive, remained silent. And for many nights, she listened to his yearning as it unravelled like a rosary in her ears. The man was boundless in his memories of affection, discoursing poetically until morning broke on this sweetheart whose equal he would never be able to find, as long as the world turned and the nights rolled by.

  And in this way, with endless recollections of love, he grew old and short of breath. Only she never grew old, ageless in both body and soul. Who knows? Perhaps because she had died before her own time was up.

  ‌Stop the Dance!

  To erase love, you need to love. Those were the words of my Uncle Albano, retired but not tired. I was very proud of that relative of mine: the lads in the street would sacrifice everything to go and have a good chinwag with Uncle Albano. The old man only had one subject of conversation: women. And always in the plural. At least, if Uncle Albano was to be believed.

  —A woman is a cloud: there’s no way of dropping anchor in one.

  And what he knew about women! He’d had hundreds of affairs, he’d lost count. My father smiled condescendingly:

  —Your uncle’s a recounter.

  But the lads were in no doubt at all. We were embarking on our lives as macho men, and in order to give our mission an epic meaning, we needed a hero, someone who could smother us with stories and adventures. And the deeds of our retiree were enticing to our heart and soul. Sometimes we pretended we didn’t believe him, but it was only to spice up his recollections. We were forcing him to spill out a few more memories.

  —Uncle Albano, were there really so many of them that you lost count?

  —Well, when it comes
to women, we lose count even when there’s only one.

  Questions jostled with each other. How was it that some of them went and others came? Albano became serious and responded without even pausing for reflection: The decision to start is made by the man, but it’s the woman who decides to finish things. And he put forward the moral of the story.

  —Never let yourself get attached to one. She’ll be like a liana seeking its soil.

  But that was at a time when there were no illnesses. People died because they did not give their bodies any pleasure.

  —It’s not like with you people nowadays.

  Uncle shook his head, incapable of accepting it.

  —My patron saint is life, that’s what it is, he always concluded.

  His guardian must have become distracted, for one morning, Uncle Albano died. He woke up lifeless, lying in his bed, dressed in his suit and tie. Well-dressed out of respect for his final transaction. A man of my age always goes to bed well-prepared, he would say. And that’s exactly what happened. At his funeral, his fans, the local lads, were present in weight of numbers and range of sadness. Behind our disappointment, however, we harboured hidden expectation. We were hoping that the dead man’s girlfriends would show up in their hundreds at the funeral mass. But there was no woman at all present at the ritual. Only when the graveyard soil began to be shovelled over the coffin did a lone, beautiful, leggy woman appear. She was wearing mourning clothes, and without more ado she reached up over her elegant slim lines and, rather than a flower, she tossed some screwed-up object into the grave.

  Everyone left except for this strange mulata, who remained there in prostration. At first, she seemed to be praying. But in fact, what she was doing was singing. She was singing, almost in an undertone,

  Cuando calienta el sol …

  I withdrew with my father. On our way home, my old man stopped next to the park. There was no longer a garden, nor were there any flower beds. All this had been destroyed. Even the little green lake where geese swam was reduced to a stinking puddle. A swan with a broken wing still lumbered around in the mud. Was the creature dreaming of escape to a more watery lake? We sat down and my old man set off on long, silent ruminations. I didn’t want the hand of sadness to summon him far away. That was why I asked him: