Sea Loves Me

by Mia Couto

  I’m a bigmouth, but it all stems from my doubts, my good sir. Questions leave my throat aching. For example: can someone go straight from their village to Heaven? Just like that, without having to pass through the capital or carry a travel permit, duly issued and stamped by the appropriate authorities?

  And then there’s this: I don’t speak English. Even in Portuguese, I can only scribble things without sticking to the lines. I can just imagine seeing the sign there, like in the films: welcome to Paradise! And I won’t be able to read anymore. They might well invite me to speak. It’s like giving a loudspeaker to a mute.

  My hope is that it’ll happen like in the dance at the Railwaymen’s Club. It happened so long ago that I need to journey beyond memory. It was the end-of-year dance. You know only too well, Father: the year isn’t like the sun, which is born for everyone. The year ends only for some and begins for fewer people every time.

  I knew they weren’t going to allow me in. But my love for the mulata, Margarida, was greater than the certainty of my exclusion. And so, all bashful, wearing borrowed clothes, I lined up outside. And I was the only non-white in the vicinity. To my astonishment, the doorman didn’t seem surprised. Placing his hand on my shoulder, he said:

  —Go on in, lad.

  He no doubt thought I was a barman. Who knows, maybe the doorman at the gates to Heaven will take me for someone else and let me in, thinking I’m going to work as one of the servants?

  For what’s happening, my most esteemed Father, is that I’m dying, leaking blood as my life wishes to let go of me. Do you see this dagger? It wasn’t this that I stabbed myself with. For a long time now, I’ve picked it up by the knife rather than the handle. I’ve held the blade so much that my hands can now cut by themselves. I’ve turned into an instrument for slashing. In fact, you know this defect of mine, sir, these fingers that don’t obey me, this hand that isn’t mine, as if it only allowed my already dead soul the power to act. If I’ve killed myself this time, it’s because of the sharpness of my fingers. Don’t be like that, don’t give up. Remember what I asked you, Father?

  —I want to be a saint, mister priest.

  And you laughed, sir. I couldn’t be a saint. And why? Because a saint, you said, is a good person.

  —And am I not good?

  —But a saint is a special person, more special than anyone else.

  —And I, Father, I am especially unique.

  I didn’t understand: a saint is someone who abdicates from Life. In my case, Father, Life has abdicated from me. Yes, I understand now: saints are sanctified by death. While I sanctified life, that’s what I did.

  Now, I’m reaching the end. A saint begins when he finishes. Yet I never began. But this isn’t the first time death has revealed itself in me. My heart died on that faraway night of the dance. I got into the dance at the Railwaymen’s Club, that’s true. But I remained barred from the mulata Margarida’s heart. The girl didn’t even regale me with a cold, absent look from afar. She was a white girl among white men. But then she dropped a glass, which shattered on the floor. And I, to assuage her embarrassment, bent down to pick up the pieces, gathering them together in my hand. That was when the security guard, summoned by her young champions, grabbed my arm and forced me to my feet. The man pulled my hands so hard and squeezed me with such vigour that the splinters of glass cut deep into me. That was when I slashed my flesh, nerves, and tendons. And the blood of a Black man flowed like an illness staining the white men’s immaculate domain.

  What caused me the most suffering, dear Father, wasn’t the blow. Nor was it even the vexation. It was Margarida watching me being ejected, without any kind of protest. I suffered so much because of her lack of interest that my soul imitated the glass: it fell, smashed to pieces. When they ejected me, I was no longer aware of myself, I had taken leave of myself for good.

  Now that I’ve got so little time left, all my heart hears is the music from that dance where the mulata Margarida awaits me, her arms stretched out in justification of my postponed life. I’m entering the dance hall and, forgive any lack of respect if I take issue with you, but I no longer have the strength to say anything else. Only to dismantle that certainty of yours: life does have a second version. If love, contrite at not loving, so wishes.

  ‌Beggar Friday Playing in the World Cup

  I agree with you, doctor: I’m the one inventing my illnesses. But what can I do, old and lonely as I am? Being ill is the only way I have of proving I’m alive. That’s why I visit the hospital time after time, exhibiting my fevers. It’s only on such occasions that I get attended to, doctor. Badly attended, almost always. But waiting in that endless queue, I have the illusion of being close to the world. The patients are my family, the hospital the roof over my head, and you, sir, are my father, the father of all my fathers.

  This time, it’s different though. For I, Friday by name, present myself with a genuine, serious complaint. I have come here all de-clavicled on account of a blow that nearly unshouldered me. It happened while I was watching a World Cup game. For some time now, I have been taking a look at the window display in the Dubai Shopping Centre, on the corner of Avenida Direita. It’s a store selling televisions, and they leave the ones in the window turned on to encourage passing shoppers to make a purchase. I sit on the sidewalk, I’ve got my own spot there. Next to me sit all those beggars who invade the city every Friday looking for alms from the Muslims. Remember? That’s how I got my name, Friday. Think about this: I, who’ve always been such a weakling, got my weekday name.

  There, on that sidewalk, I watch the soccer and gain the illusion of having a family. The sidewalk is a corridor in the infirmary. All us beggars lined up get ourselves a roof. A roof that covers us on this and other continents.

  There’s only one proviso in all this, doctor. It’s just that I get a really ulcerous feeling whenever my eyes find themselves travelling to South Korea. What makes me envious aren’t all those young men, all those feinting soccer players full of vigour. What I envy, doctor, is when the player falls to the ground and rolls over and over, making a big show of complaining. His pain causes everything to come to a standstill. A world full of real pain stops in the face of a soccer player’s false pain. My troubles are so many and so real, and no referee makes everything stop so that I can be attended to, rolling around as I am inside me, laid low as I have been by others. If life were a soccer field, how many penalties would I have been awarded against my fate?

  I know I’m stealing your time, doctor. I’ll come straight to the matter of my shoulder. This is what happened: the owner of the shop ordered the sidewalk to be cleared. He didn’t want beggars and tramps there. It scared away customers and he wasn’t for spending screen time on poor folks’ eyes. I refused to leave, doctor. Does the sidewalk belong to anyone? For me to leave, he had to call the police. They came and beat me up, and as I lay on the ground they kicked me as if they were beating their own poverty rather than me. I declared that I’d be back today to watch the game. That’s because the Africans are playing and they need me among the spectators. They won’t win if Friday isn’t there. The owner of the shop told me that if I persisted, there would be a festival of fisticuffs. All I’m asking, doctor, is that you should intercede on our behalf. The sidewalk spectators of the Avenida Direita. The proprietor of the Dubai Shopping Centre won’t say anything if the request comes from you, doctor.

  So you can see that I came to the hospital not because of some cunning ploy, but because of genuine adversity. You look at me suspiciously, doctor, while you inspect my bruises. Now, concerned, he’s placing me under the eye of an x-ray machine. I’m quite taken aback by such deference. Up until now, I’ve only ever had my photograph taken by the police. If I’d known, I would have got ready, doctor, polished my ivories and combed out my fleas.

  But when they show me the photo, I’m overcome by shame at seeing the wretched, crude intimacy of my bones revealed. I almost shout: hide it, doctor, don’t show me like this, for everyo
ne to see. Not least because a momentary suspicion flashes through my mind: those innards aren’t mine. I don’t want to raise your hackles, doctor! But those things aren’t just one or two bones: they’re a whole pile of bones. I can’t be so stuffed full of skeleton. That photograph would make a hyena’s mouth water. I don’t want to offend you, doctor, but please set fire to that film. And let me be, it’s not worth wrapping me up in bandages and rubbing ointments into me. I’ll just be on my way as quick as I can. Don’t forget to phone the owner of the shop, doctor. Please don’t forget. That’s why I came. It was the request, not the wound.

  And off I go to where the roads open out. I reach the television store and sit down among the beggars. Just imagine: they’d kept my place out of respect for me. I’m moved by all this. The doctor must have phoned after all, must have remembered my humble request. There are still good people in this world! My eyes gleam not because I’m watching the game, but because of the people looking in at the window display. Who said television doesn’t give us our daily dose of magic?

  What I saw in a soothing glimpse was the following, no more, no less: I and the Friday beggars are in the World Cup, we’re a team kitted out in the most fabulous colours. And the doctor is our coach. At that precise moment, we are playing. I’m on the left wing and am controlling the ball, which is a way of dominating the world. Behind me, the crowd roars in approval. Suddenly, an opposing defender clatters into me. Dangerous play, thousands of voices proclaim. Yes, a yellow card, the doctor yells. But the defender continues his aggression, and the crowd protests even louder. That’s right, ref, a red card! Spot-on! Let’s have justice in the game that we don’t get in Life!

  But is the red from the card or is it my own blood? There’s no doubt about it: I need help, I’m not putting it on, I’m really injured. They should stop the game, expel the aggressor from the field. But to my surprise, the referee himself starts attacking me as well. At that moment, it’s as if I’ve suddenly awoken, as if I’ve emerged from the television onto the sidewalk. I can still see the policeman’s truncheon come crashing down on my head. Then the lights of the stadium go out.

  ‌The Owner of the Man’s Dog

  I’m going to tell you how I was betrayed not by my beloved, but by my dog. Left just like that without a word, without any consolation. There should be a hotel for the owners of dogs who’ve been abandoned by their animals. With networks of friends and solidarity groups and well-meaning ladies, allaying their conscience at charity sales. It’s not a question of writing a conclusive work on canine ingratitude. Merely a word of warning to other loyal, dedicated pet owners.

  I’m an ordinary member of the human race, with no proven pedigree, and if I have a place in any newspaper, it’ll be in the unclassified advertisements. My dog, on the other hand, is of the purest race, a category proven on his birth certificate. The creature is thoroughly thoroughbred, full of ancestry. A retriever, son of a retriever, grandson of a great-grandson. In an unadulterated ancestral line, like the kings of genealogical descent. The clumsiest thing about him is the name he was baptized with. It’s such a human name, I almost feel humiliated by it: Boniface. Is that a name for an animal? I’ll get to the point and then lose it again.

  Every day, late afternoon, I would take him for a walk. That is: he would drag me along on his leash. Boniface would choose what paths to take, where to stop, what speed to go at. And there were times when, so as not to cause inconvenience, I would bend down to scoop up his stinking poop. Did I show such a degree of deference to my own children? And on top of all these privileges, people would only ever talk about him:

  —Fine specimen, splendid animal, they would say.

  When they noticed me, it was by accident or as an afterthought. Me, humble little me, at the other end of the leash. I was the one being led, a mere member of the human race, without any proof of pedigree. My dog, my lord and owner, was above mere mortal animals. He didn’t sniff: he merely inhaled the sophisticated odours on the trees. He didn’t pee: he merely relieved himself with dignity, in the neatest of streaks. And if he soiled the street, he wasn’t the filthy one: shame was directed at me and me alone.

  My temper got worse the more of these injustices I had to face, to the point that I began growling whenever I put Boniface on his leash. This sense of vexation must have expressed itself in my face, for on one occasion I was asked:

  —Bite?

  I replied that they could relax and approach the animal, because he didn’t bite.

  —I was asking about you, not the dog.

  That was the first warning. I was assailed by a sudden fear: one day, I might be forced to wear a muzzle. And to carry a vaccination certificate with me.

  I started to avoid going out with the animal. Only when the city was deserted and when the noises of the nocturnal animals had died down did I dare take Boniface for a walk. And it was on one of these occasions that he, obeying his canine nature, assaulted a cat with a couple of bites. This produced a kerfuffle and accusations of responsibility. People asked me nervously:

  —Is there a vaccination certificate?

  —Who for? Me? I asked, by now at my wit’s end.

  There were no further retorts or altercations. Being the owner of a cat has great advantages: the person comes rapidly to the conclusion that he is the owner of a virtual animal, or that it exists only at certain times. But I was beset by an endless doubt: did they suspect that I was the one who had done the biting? I was doomed, unavailing of human rights. How could they suspect that, between me and Boniface, I was the one responsible for doing the biting? I’m only too aware that the human mouth contains so-called canine teeth. And on Boniface’s snout there dwelt a smile of the purest innocence.

  In order to put an end to the matter with the cat, I had to shoulder all the blame and claims for damages. As for Boniface, he remained in blissful disregard, ready for other assaults on innocent, civic-minded cats. That was the last straw. A dog is man’s best friend? Well I, for my part, decided to run away from home, leave everything behind me, neighbours, friends, the losses and gains of a whole life. And I didn’t come out of it too badly, such was my relief at not having to remain domiciliary and domesticated. I happily took up residence in a primitive hiding place, an empty shed in a public garden. I enjoyed a genuine dog’s life. People would leave me a few leftovers. Sometimes, if I was lucky, a few doggy bags! Did I yearn for my own existence as a person? I no longer wanted to think about it. A man who barks doesn’t bite, I barked, and the caravan passed by.

  Until one afternoon my dog, none other than Boniface, emerged on the grassy horizon. He was dragging himself through the park, as gloomy as an autumn day. When he saw me, his tail almost detached itself from his body, so violent was its wagging. He bounded towards me and, jumping up, started to lick me. He seemed so happy that for a few moments my heart dithered and my eyes filled. Then I noticed he was carrying a lead in his mouth. He waved it around, suggesting that I put it on him so that we could once again walk the roads full of interesting smells.

  —Oh, how clever! those present remarked, moved.

  —I was the one who taught him to do that, I boasted proudly.

  —We were talking about you, my friend.

  That really was the last straw, the one that broke the camel’s back. I didn’t need to utter a word, that’s what I should have added. But I didn’t speak, nor did I bark. And it’s in silence that I allow my pitiful fate to take its course. Just one last question: Is there a competition, by any chance, for fully-trained men? Don’t give me an answer. The one who wants to know is Boniface, my old owner and master. That’s what I always read in his eyes every time he passes, tall and haughty, through the park where I swap fleas with other members of the canine family, my colleagues in misfortune.

  ‌The Tearful Males

  They met up for reasons of merriment. In the bar at Matakuane, the men would swap funny stories, manufacturing laughter. Their only motivation: they were celebrating life. Their
spouses didn’t tolerate such nonsense. After all, the womenfolk, they don’t need a ritual to celebrate life. They are a celebration of life. Or life in celebration? For them, this masculine complicity was a tribal thing. Some atavistic wistfulness.

  But the men didn’t care. Whether it was atavistic or tribal, they kept the custom going. Any time one of them came to the bar, he would exclaim as he came through the door:

  —Have you heard the latest one?

  And no sooner had the stories been produced than they were consumed. Until one night when Louie Double-K, the leading light of such encounters, brought a gloomy piece of news. The moon was very much on the wane and there in the bar, for the very first time, the glasses remained full the whole night. For Louie gradually developed his story in a solemn tone of voice. Before reaching the crux of the narrative, perhaps some unambiguous death, Double-K burst out sobbing. And his friends, glass in hand, round the table:

  —Hey, Double-K, what’s the matter?

  Even the silent, muscle-bound docker, Sylvester Stallion, tried to encourage the sorrower:

  —Straighten yourself up, man, at the verticals!

  But the weeper hadn’t finished. And his whimpering grew into a professional mourner’s wail. Amid his sobs, he released the threads of his baleful narrative. No one could understand a single word any longer, for his words came out all wrapped in snot. Someone in the room produced a handkerchief and it was passed from hand to hand collecting residues. It was too late: the flames of sadness had devoured Double-K’s heart.

  They gave up consoling him. Mollified, the friends gradually succumbed to their prolapsed spirit, induced by nothing more than the weight of slime in their soul. It must have been their sadness. And a dissembling tear even trickled down the bar owner’s bearded face.