Sea Loves Me

by Mia Couto

  —Come down in the name of the law!

  The politician behind him whispered suggestions. The masses, the electorate, wanted a swift resolution.

  —Keep giving orders. Keep it up, but do so with firmness! the politician encouraged him.

  The spokesman obeyed, his voice become more strident.

  —Your behaviour, dear citizen, is truly undemocratic.

  It was against human rights, muttered the politician. It was against the image of stability the nation needed, the speaker even added. International donors would be shocked at such a non-state of affairs. But Joey didn’t move an inch. He smiled roguishly.

  Okay, so now let me get to the point. I won’t go on so as not to prolong the deception. For everything that I’ve told you, Joey’s flight and the crowd down below, it was all a dream. Let’s breathe a sigh of relief. Reality is more lowly, made of heavier stuff, its feet planted firmly on the ground.

  But next day, I couldn’t be sure of my peace of mind. And I went to the place to satisfy myself that I had been dreaming. I found the city going about its daily routine. Up above was the sky, empty of flying humans. Only the blue as it should be, and the odd cloud. And the birds flying through the air. And the square, anchored to the earth, inhumanly human. All devoid of novelty and with few dreams to offer.

  All of a sudden, I saw the girl. The same girl from the dream. Her, nothing more, nothing less. And what’s more, she was still looking up at the sky. I went over to her and she, without turning her gaze from the firmament, muttered:

  —I can’t see him anymore. What about you?

  —What about me?

  —Can you see Joey?

  I lied that I could. In the end, he was worth more as a bird. Even a pretend one. We should let Joey fly, for he had nowhere to fall. In this world, there’s nowhere for birds like that to land. Wherever he is, there’s another sky.

  ‌The Basket

  For the umpteenth time, I get ready to visit my husband in hospital. I hurriedly wash my face, comb my hair with my fingers, and tidy the same dress I always wear. It’s been a long time since I’ve paused in front of the mirror. I know that if I look at myself, I won’t recognize the eyes gazing back at me. I’ve visited the hospital so many times that I’ve even fallen ill myself. It wasn’t from heart disease, for when it comes to a heart, I no longer have one. Nor was it from anything wrong in my head, for my powers of thought dimmed long ago. I live in a bottomless river, and at night I get out of bed and wander off outside my own body. As if, in the end, my husband were still sleeping beside me and I, as always, go to the other bedroom in the middle of the night. We didn’t have separate beds but partitioned sleep.

  Today will be like any other day: I’ll sit next to his bed and talk to him, but he won’t listen to me. The difference won’t be there. He never did listen to me. The difference will be in the lunch box that will slumber, unattended, on his bedside table. Before, he used to devour the food I prepared for him. Food was the one area where I didn’t feel rejected.

  I look around me: the table is no longer laid and waiting for him, unfailing and appetizing. Before, I had no set time. Now, I’ve lost all notion of time. Any moment now is for me to peck at something, hunched at a corner of the table, without a tablecloth or cutlery. It’s not in the shadows that I live. It’s behind the sun, where darkness fell long ago. The only route I follow is down the street to the hospital. I live for only one hour of the day: visiting time. My only occupation is to take my sick husband the daily basket containing his gifts.

  They gave my husband a blood transfusion. As for me, what I’d like is a life transfusion, laughter entering my veins to the point of swallowing me up, a snake of blood leading me to madness.

  Ever since last month, I’ve avoided speaking. I prefer silence, which suits my soul better. But the absence of conversation has created another bond between us. Silence has opened another line of communication between me and the dying man. At least now I’m no longer corrected. I’m no longer pushed around, told to shut up, to stop laughing.

  I’ve even thought of exchanging talk for writing. Instead of this monologue, I’d write him letters. In that way, there’d be less suffering. Through letters, my man would gain some distance. More than distance: absence. On paper, I’d allow myself to say everything I’d never dared to before.

  And I renew my promise: yes, I’d write him a letter made up merely of unbridled laughter, a revealing cleavage, made of all the things he never allowed me. And in this letter I would pluck up courage and announce: You, husband, prevented me from living when you were alive. You’re not going to make me waste more of my life by turning this into a slow, endless farewell.

  I return to reality, arrange the daily ration of food in the fateful basket, in this pretense that he will welcome me with an open smile and a healthy appetite. I’m on my way out on my daily routine as a visitor when, as I walk down the hall, I notice that the cloth covering the mirror has fallen off. Without wanting to, I notice my reflection. I take a couple of steps back and contemplate myself as I have never done before. And I discover the curve of my body, my bust still high. I touch my face, kiss my fingers, as if I were some other woman, some timeless, sudden lover of myself. The basket falls from my hand, as if it has come alive.

  A hidden force draws me towards the closet. From it, I take the black dress my husband gave me twenty years ago. I walk over to the mirror and cover myself, swaying in some unmoving dance. My words are released, clear and succinct.

  —I only have one wish: that I should become a widow as soon as possible!

  My request surprises me, as if it were uttered by someone else. Could I express such a terrible desire? And once again, my voice affirms itself loud and clear:

  —The sooner you die, husband, the sooner I can wear this black dress for the first time.

  The mirror reflects back my timeless woman’s vanity, born long before me and which I was never able to put on display. Never before had I been beautiful. But now I can confirm: mourning suits my dark eyes well. And suddenly, I notice something: I haven’t even grown old. To grow old is to accept the flow of time, a way of being mistress of one’s own body. And I have never loved enough. Like a stone, which waits for nothing and isn’t awaited, I remain ageless.

  And I rehearse my giddiness, demeanour, and tears. At the funeral, this is how I shall weep, my chin raised so as to slow the tear, my nose held high so as not to sniff. Like this, husband, I shall be the centre of attention, and not you. Your life erased me. Your death will cause me to be born. I hope you die, yes I do, and the sooner the better.

  I drape the dress over the table in the living room, shut the door and set off in the direction of the hospital. I hesitate momentarily over the basket. I have never seen it before like this, so vulnerable. My triumph is to turn my back on this useless utensil. For the first time, there is sky over my house. On the edge of the sidewalk, I smell the scent of frangipanis. Only now do I realize I have never smelled my man. Not even my nose has ever loved. Today, I discover the street in all its femininity. For the first time, the street is my sister.

  At the entrance to the infirmary, the same nurse as always is waiting for me. There is a shadow over his face.

  —Your husband died. It happened last night.

  I was so prepared, this had occurred so often that I didn’t even need support. But after waiting for so long, I just wanted it to happen. All the more so after discovering in the mirror the light that had become entombed within me during my entire life.

  I leave the hospital, waiting to be taken over by this new woman who has been announcing her arrival. However, instead of relief, I am struck by a thunderbolt that takes the ground from under my feet. Instead of the raised chin and the studied walk, I burst into tears. I return home, with faltering steps, in a solitary procession down this death-dealing street. Over my home the sky extends, more alive than I am.

  In the living room, I return the mirror to its previous state by t
hrowing a sheet over it, and then set about cutting the black dress into shreds. Tomorrow, I must remember not to prepare the basket for his visit.

  ‌The Deferred Grandfather

  Our sister Glória gave birth, and this was a reason for a family celebration. Everyone rejoiced except for our old man, Zedmundo Constantino Constante, who refused to go to the hospital to see the child. All alone in her hospital room, Glória sobbed and snivelled. All through the day, her eyes patrolled the door to her room. Our father’s presence would be a much hoped-for blessing with regard to her newly born baby.

  —He must come, he must come.

  He didn’t come. We had to bring the infant child back to our house for Grandfather to give him the once-over. But it was as if he were looking at nothing. There was no one there in the cradle. Glória burst into tears again. For her, it was like suffering the pains of a posthumous abortion. She begged her mother, Dona Amadalena. She should speak to her father and ask him not to inflict further punishment on her. Speak wasn’t quite the right word: her mother was dumb, her voice had forgotten to be born.

  The little boy said his first words and, straightaway, our father Zedmundo dismissed him:

  —Baah!

  He was contradicting everyone else’s joy. Sister Glória was now shorn of any glory at all. She sighed impatiently. Such an audible sigh that the old man felt obliged to explain:

  —Learning to talk is easy. With all due respect to your mother. She’s not dumb. It’s just that her voice has gone to sleep.

  Our mother—the aforementioned Grandma Amadalena—shook her head. The man always shaded the cloud greyer than necessary. But Zedmundo, when it came to talking, had his reasons: we poor folk shouldn’t open our mouth to speak, but to better bite our lip.

  —And that’s why I’ll say it again: talking is easy. The hard bit is knowing how to keep quiet.

  And he repeated the never-ending and incomplete memory, an episode we already knew by heart. But we listened out of respect and duty. Once, the Portuguese boss asked for his opinion in front of all the other labourers.

  —You there, fellow, what do you think?

  He thought of replying: a Black man doesn’t think, boss. But he chose to keep quiet.

  —You’re not speaking? You’ve got to speak, my old son of a bitch.

  Funny thing, that: a whole system built on not allowing the people to speak, and there he was warning him not to keep quiet. And this gave him such a sense of power that he gagged himself completely. Insults followed. Then there were blows. After that, he was put in prison. There he was among all those prisoners in jail because they’d talked too much: he was the only one paying a price for not opening his mouth.

  —I was so quiet that I was like your mother, Dona Amadalena, with all due respect …

  My old man finished his story and only my mother exhaled audibly to signal her saturation. Dona Amadalena had always spoken in sighs. But in tones so precise that her sighs had turned into a language. Amadalena sighed straight with crooked silences.

  The days passed more swiftly than memories. More speedily than our sister Glória’s tears. The grandson’s first birthday came around. On that day, he took his first steps. There was applause, laughter, glasses were raised. Everyone put on a show of jubilation except for Zedmundo, who kept himself to himself:

  —I don’t want him crawling around, he’ll end up breaking something. Take him away, take him away …

  My father was unable to finish his remonstrance. Amadalena interrupted him by waving her arms around in addition to her lullaby sighs. Her husband was taken by surprise.

  —What’s this, woman? Has the ant now got a guitar?

  His wife pulled him towards the bedroom. There in their own intimate, enclosed space, old Zedmundo explained himself. He had always said it: he didn’t want grandchildren. He didn’t want his children unloading their progeny on him.

  —I don’t want any of that here. I’m not a grandfather, I’m me, Zedmundo Constante.

  Now, all he wanted was to enjoy the well-earned right to grow old. Folk die when they still have so much life!

  —You don’t understand, woman, grandchildren were invented so as to yet again deprive us of the privilege of being ourselves.

  And he went on to explain:

  —To start with, we weren’t ourselves because we were someone’s children. Then, we delayed being ourselves because we were parents. Now, they want to eliminate us so that we can be grandparents.

  Grandmother threatened him; she was fed up, tired. This time, given the urgency of the matter, Amadalena resorted to scribbling on a piece of paper. In fat round letters, she decreed: either her husband softened his stance or it was all over between them. He was to leave, find somewhere else. Or she herself would leave. Old Zedmundo Constante replied serenely:

  —Amadalena, your name fits so snugly in my heart. But I’m not going to change. If I’ve got only a short time left, I’m going to take full advantage of it.

  He didn’t leave, nor did she. It was Glória who left. She and her husband migrated to the city. And along with them, the little boy who was our mother’s solace. She became even more devoid of speech, there in her silent corner.

  After only a few weeks, we received news—their son-in-law had died in the capital. Our sister, our Glória, had been driven insane by her grief. She was interned, devalued as a woman, disqualified as a mother. And the little boy, even more of a grandson now, was arriving on the first bus.

  The child walked in and my father walked out. As he was leaving, half-hidden in the darkness, he said:

  —You’re right in all you didn’t say, Amadalena, but I can’t take it anymore.

  Where was it our father went? We even offered to go and look for him. But our mother told us not to. Old Zedmundo had never taken any particular route or had any lasting destination. The man was more unreliable than a ceiling. He returned a few days later, telling us he’d been attacked by some ugly wild animal, who knows, maybe a hyena, or perhaps some supernatural creature? He turned up at the front door and just stood there. There, inside that frame made only of light, the truth was merely confirmed: a door was made for a man to leave and a woman to narrow the time of her waiting. My old man had grown thin, while the fattest tears glistened in his eyes. Amadalena got a fright: Zedmundo was weeping for the first time ever. Had her husband really lost his self-assurance, had his soul been filleted of all its bones?

  So then she became all gentle and motherly. She went to her husband and hugged him to her breast. And she sensed that it wasn’t just a case of a tear being shed. Her man burst out crying. Seeing him like that, all snivelling and shrunken, my mother realized that the old man, her old man, just wanted to be the sole object of her attention.

  Leading him by the hand, my mother made him come in and showed him his sleeping grandson. For the first time, my father contemplated the child as if he had just been born. Or as if both of them had just been born. With his clumsy hands, old Zedmundo picked the boy up and gave him a long slow kiss. And he lingered like that as if savouring his smell. My mother corrected his excesses and put the child back in the warmth of his bed. Then my father curled up on the faded sofa and my mother placed herself behind him as if she were rocking him in her arms until he fell asleep.

  The following morning, when it was still early, I found the two of them still sleeping: my old man on the sofa, and next to him his deferred grandson. My mother had already gone out. All she had left was a scribbled note. I couldn’t resist taking a peep at it. It was a message to my father, which went as follows: My dear Zedmundo: have a good rest. And look after that little boy while I go to town.

  Between scribbles, corrections, and scrawls, the note was better guessed than read. It said that my father still had time to be a son. The fault was hers, for she had become forgetful: after all, my father had never been anyone’s son. That was why he didn’t know how to be a grandfather. But now he could once again become her son, without any fear.
<
br />   Be my son, Zedmundo, let me be your mother. And you’ll see that grandson of ours will make us be ourselves, less alone, better grandparents.

  I folded the note and left it on the table. I waited on the veranda for my mother to arrive. I knew that she had gone to fetch my sister, Glória. Before, I had sworn to tell my sister this story. But now, I recall my father’s advice about learning to keep quiet. And I decide that I shall never, but never, tell this story to anyone. I’ll leave it for my mother, who is dumb, to tell it.

  ‌On that Special Night

  Twenty-fifth, Christmas. Quissimusse, as they call it here. Mariazinha waits at the door for the annual visit of Sidónio Vidas, her occasional spouse. Here he is now, a conspicuous apparition, God bless him and his vainglorious vehicle. Never before had he arrived with such fanfare. He does so with the same effect as rain upon dried-up watercourses: by causing a flood after a long absence.

  Mariazinha looks like a widow, standing with her two children in the doorway. She contemplates the bulky Sidónio, who resembles gelatin being pried away from the bottom of a glass cup. Mariazinha whispers awkwardly to her kids:

  —You know what to do: when I give the secret sign, make yourselves scarce!

  Her children peep at their mother out of the corner of their eye, scarcely recognizing her: a perfumed dress, her coiffure styled at the hairdresser’s, her nails manicured. And they once again fear that this may be less of an encounter and more of a disencounter. It had been like that from the start: a night without a wedding, the husband a shooting star, and an oath of loyalty without a viable time limit.

  The kids already knew: their father worked far away in a very foreign land, so distant that he could only visit his family on the night of the twenty-fifth. Every year, their father would turn up, always in a new car. He would bleep his magic remote control and, from the trunk, a whole array of presents would emerge, like a line of sledges, a chain of joyful excitement.