by Mia Couto
The following day, when they sat down in the bar, someone still fired off a joke:
—Have you heard the latest one? But the man regretted it immediately: what he was offering was an expression of his unhappiness. Melancholy had settled over them like a tablecloth on a table. Sylvester Stallion still attempted another joke. But no one laughed. Folk were more interested in hearing some more chapters of the sad story.
And so they asked Louie Double-K: disclose more details, tear down veils, undarken destinies. And Louie fell over himself to comply: the drama unfolded before the tearful gaze of his listeners. It wasn’t long before they were all snivelling spittle by the spadeful.
And this went on night after night. One round of sadness followed by another. The regulars at the bar in Matakuane abandoned jokes and laughter and began to share lamentations, blubberings, and tears. And even Sylvester Stallion, the most macho and tight-lipped member of the tribe, ended up admitting:
—I would never have thought this, lads. But boy, is it good to cry!
To cry, but to cry in unison, the others added. And one even remembered to broach the idea of an association for weepers. They might even replace the female professional mourners at funeral wakes. But the others opposed this firmly. Among them there still remained, after all, a deep macho prejudice against tears in public, which were a womanish thing.
And so things developed so slowly that they hardly seemed to occur. But what did happen was that the one-time tellers of jokes changed the way they viewed the world. At the first sign of darkness falling, one of them would declare he was heading off back home.
—To give my folks a hand, he would admit, half-ashamed.
And another would decline the pressing offer of another drink:
—I don’t want my old lady to get angry, he would explain.
—He who drinks a little too much drinks much too much, they all counselled.
And even Sylvester, who was always the last one out, urged them to keep an eye on the time. They should all make for home, the former free spirit suggested.
—Yes, let’s go home. But not before shedding one last tear.
—Yes, let’s have one for the road.
And so another little story was told to add some lustre to their sadness. The idea that crying was for sissies was something none of them remembered anymore. In the vicinity of the bar, night grew mellow as it listened to the lads gently blubbing away.
The women even got fearful when they saw so much change: their menfolk were inexplicably displaying more tenderness and consideration. Moreover, there were kind words, flowers, displays of affection: all these things they began to receive. Was this all down to being bitten by a fly, some sudden, age-related change? And they were right not even to ask. It was so good, so improbable, that the best thing to do was to let sleeping dogs lie.
Nowadays, anyone who passes by the bar in Matakuane can see for themselves: crying is about opening your heart. When you wail, you complete two journeys: one from a tear towards the light and the other from the man towards a greater humanity. After all, doesn’t a person wail the moment he’s born? Isn’t crying the first expression of our voice?
And that’s Double-K’s verdict, expressed in other words: the world’s problems can be solved if we take possession of a greater part of our being. And a tear reminds us of this: more than anything else, are we not water?
The Grandmother, the City, and the Traffic Lights
When she was told I was going to the city, Grandma Ndzima voiced her worst fears:
—So whose house are you going to stay in?
—I’ll stay in a hotel, Grandma.
—A hotel? So whose house is that?
How was I to explain? Even so, I tried: no one’s, of course. A further doubt was aroused in the old woman: a house that was no one’s?
—Or rather, Grandma, it belongs to whoever pays, I blathered in order to put her mind at rest.
But I only made matters worse—a place for whoever pays? So what spirits watch over a house like that?
I had won a prize from the Ministry. I had been chosen as the best rural schoolteacher. And the prize was a visit to the city. When I announced the good news at home, my old grandmother wasn’t impressed by my pride. And she asked, frowning:
—So when you get there, who’s going to cook your food?
—A cook, Grandma.
—What’s this cook’s name?
I laughed under my breath. But for her, this was no laughing matter. Cooking is the most private and risky act. Food is invested with tenderness or hatred. Into the pot goes seasoning or poison. Who would guarantee the cleanliness of colander and pestle? How could I allow such an intimate task to be undertaken by an unknown hand? It didn’t bear thinking about, nor had such a thing ever been known to happen, to subject oneself to a cook whose face one didn’t know.
—Cooking isn’t a service, my dear grandson, she said. Cooking is a way of loving others.
I still tried to change the subject, distract her. But her questions piled up relentlessly.
—Do folk there draw water from the well?
—Really, Grandma! …
—I want to know if they all use the same well …
Wells, open fires, sleeping mats: there was a lot to explain. And I launched forth into a long, slow explanation that things were done differently there. But she wasn’t satisfied. Not having a family over there in the city was something she couldn’t comprehend. A person travels to be welcomed at the other end by our own folks’ hand, folk with a name and a history. Like a bow seeking its two ends. As things were, I was going to some unknown place where names lose their colour! For my grandmother, a foreign country begins where one no longer recognizes a kinsman.
—Are you going to lie in a bed made up by some unknown woman?
In the village, it was all very straightforward: Everyone slept naked, wrapped in a capulana or a blanket depending on the climate. But over there in the city, the sleeper falls asleep fully clothed. And that’s what my grandmother thought was too much. We’re not vulnerable when we’re naked. When we’re dressed we’re visited by witches and we remain exposed to their evil intentions. That was when she made her request. That I should take a village girl with me to look after my daily needs.
—Grandma, there isn’t a girl like that.
The next day, I went outside into the half-light of the cooking area, ready for a brief, hurried farewell, when I caught sight of her sitting in the middle of the yard. She looked as if she were enthroned, her seat the centre of the universe. She showed me some bits of paper.
—Here are the tickets.
—What tickets?
—I’m going with you, my dear grandson.
And so that’s what happened, huddled in the old bus. We swallowed dust while the loudspeakers spread the sound of raucous dance music. Grandma Ndzima, rotund, spread across the seat, nodded off to sleep. On her ample lap, she carried a basket of live chickens. Before we had left, I had even tried to dissuade her: we should at least limit ourselves to carrying fewer fowls.
—What do you mean, fewer? You yourself said there aren’t any chicken coops there.
When we entered the hotel, the management weren’t disposed to allow an avian invasion like ours. But Grandma spoke so loud and at such length that they made way for her. Once installed, Ndzima went down to the kitchen. She didn’t want me to go in with her. She took ages. She couldn’t just have been handing over the chickens. Then, at last, she emerged. She was smiling.
—Right, I’ve fixed everything with the cook …
—Fixed what, Grandma?
—He’s from our area, everything is all right. Now all we need to do is find out who is going to be making up your bed.
That happened later. When I got in from the Ministry, there was no sign of Grandma. She wasn’t in the room, or in the hotel. I rushed after her in a panic, along the streets. Then I caught sight of something that would occur every afternoon: Grandma Ndzi
ma among the beggars, on the corner by the traffic lights. I felt a tightening in my chest: our respected elder begging?! The traffic lights whiplashed my face.
—Come back home, Grandma!
—Home?!
—To the hotel. Come on.
Time dragged on. Eventually, the day came when we were to return to the village. I went to Grandma’s room to offer to help with her bags. My heart sank when I looked in: she was lying on the floor where she had always slept, her belongings spread around without any sign of preparation for packing.
—Haven’t you packed yet, Grandma?
—I’m staying here, Grandson.
I was dumbstruck, and began to smile idiotically.
—How are you going to stay?
—Don’t worry. I’ve learned my way around here.
—Are you going to stay here all alone?
—Back in the village, I’m even more alone.
She was so sure of what she said that all my arguments petered out. The car took its time leaving. When we passed the corner with the traffic lights, I didn’t have the courage to look back.
Summer passed, and the rains hadn’t given any sign of starting in the skies when I got a letter from Ndzima. I hurriedly tore open the envelope. Some crumpled old notes fell through my fingers onto the floor of the school. There was an accompanying letter that she had dictated to someone, in which she explained: Grandma was paying me for a ticket to go and visit her in the city. I felt my face slowly being lit up as I read the closing lines of the letter: … nowadays, grandson, I sleep next to the traffic light. Those little yellow and red lights make me feel good. When I close my eyes, it’s as if I can hear the open fire crackling away in our old backyard… .
A Fish for Eulália
There had been no rain for years. Not so much as a drip, a tear, the tiniest drop. People were puzzled by the harshness of such a long period of drought. This could only be for the most inexplicable of reasons. Nothing like this had ever happened before in Nkulumadzi.
Sinhorito was asked for his opinion. He was a smelly young ragamuffin incapable of solving any problem. Merely existing was an insuperable difficulty as far as he was concerned. It must be a joke their asking him to explain why the rains hadn’t come. But the fact was that they went to him to tell them the reason for this untimely weather. Sinhorito had never been consulted, not even in order to back up someone else’s opinion. Much less for him to give his own view. He remained self-absorbed, a few points of light flickering inside his head. He didn’t utter a single word.
—Be quiet, so that we can hear exactly what he’s going to say!
Laughter was put on hold as the crowd became tense. They needed release from their fate. A scapegoat. Sinhorito was known to have no knowledge whatsoever. His only specialty, according to what folk said, was this: he had portable eyes that could be removed and reinserted. He himself proclaimed it: whenever he felt like it, he would pluck out his eyeballs and hide them in the palms of his hands. Whenever some painful moment was approaching or something ugly was in the air, Sinhorito would take out his eyes. A black owl would enter the darkness of night, windows through which the world left and drained away from the body. No one had ever seen this. It’s what people said by way of a maybe. But then so what? No one is simply retarded: they must conceal other abilities in another dimension of their being. That’s what we must assume.
—Like that, without my sight, maybe I avoid the ugliness of this life.
But no one believed in such prodigiousness. Only Eulália, the woman from the post office, declared herself a believer. And she asked him as he sat in the square:
—Go on, take them out now.
And he, with his eyelids shut, showed his closed fists. They were there, his two eyes, as alive as fish out of water. The woman smiled and ordered him to put them back. That she deserved to be seen, even though she was fat and somewhat the worse for wear. Then the young fellow squealed, which was his way of laughing. And he loaded his eyes back into his face.
So it was this Sinhorito they were now consulting on the antediluvian state of affairs. They crowded around, all ready to belittle him. They were seeking no other glory or victory. Idiocy and mockery were enough for them. The lad concentrated his expression, his eyes casting around in the emptiness, searching for the germ of an idea. At last, he dared speak:
—Maybe …
—Maybe?
—Or who knows, maybe the sky is upside down?
There were the first signs of laughter. Nonsense was beginning to take shape, in accordance with their expectations. The smaller the village, the more it needs a madman. As if the rest would be saved from madness by this one madman. But lo and behold, at that precise moment, with the palm of his hand, he demanded they listen to his answer.
—Wait. Wait, the fellow’s still got more to say. Go on, finish, Doctor Sinhorito.
—It’s just that who knows …
—Who knows what?
—Who knows? Maybe the rain is falling on the other side of the sky.
There were loud bursts of laughter. And some of them repeated the nutcase’s absurd thought to one another. In the end, they dispersed. Only Eulália from the post office remained sitting motionless, next to the crackpot. Then she took his hand and begged him not to be sad. And by way of a first confession, she said:
—I believe in you. I’ve already felt some rain of the type you describe, rain from another sky …
And she kissed the lad’s forehead. Then she curled up by his feet. The good-mannered Sinhorito tried to help her up from the ground. But Eulália frustrated his attempts.
—Let me stay like this, in your shadow. I’ve never had anyone to protect me.
Sinhorito remained motionless, so absorbed in providing shade that he fell asleep, innocent and defenceless. And she slipped away as subtle as a puff of breeze.
Many shadows passed, many a dream flitted by. Only the drought didn’t end. Moreover, there was no longer any air, only waves of heat. Now, thirst competed with hunger. There was no greenery, no flesh, everything between the sun and the soil had been consumed. And the living grew weaker and weaker: the animals became devoid of vitamins, the plants shrivelled. Even Eulália fell ill. She was so skinny, you could count more bones in her than she really possessed. And she didn’t even have the strength to suffer. She was in dire need of sustenance.
When the boy discovered Eulália’s state, he became deadly serious and summoned together the whole village of Nkulumadzi. To a packed square, he declared:
—Gentlemen, I am going to become a fisherman! Who knows …
And he went on: people should no longer worry about whether there would be fish or not. Very soon, cooking pots would once again witness the arrival of this scaly creature, already cut up and filleted even before emerging from the waters.
—From the waters? Which ones?
There was more laughter. He might as well fish in his own sweat. For there was no river or lake left. Sinhorito pointed to the sky above his head.
—I’m going up there, up to the waters above.
He climbed into his boat and adjusted it vertically, its prow pointing towards the firmament. To the astonishment of all, Sinhorito started to row. The oars swished through the air and dipped into the emptiness. Mouths were agape in a multitude of exclamations of disbelief: the boat was moving upwards in an invisible current towards the clouds. The oars became more and more like wings. And the boat was turning into a bird. Until the clouds swallowed the vision in its entirety. At that point, someone shouted:
—Come and see. Look, Sinhorito is going up and up!
But he was almost out of sight by now, gradually drifting into nothingness. Then he vanished, a mere dot in infinity.
—Where is he?
He left and never came down again. They still waited for Sinhorito to drop helplessly to the ground, along with his boat. As nothing happened, the villagers returned one by one to their homes. Only Eulália remained, all by hers
elf. There, in the square, she started waiting for something to happen. The woman gazed up into the sky when the sun was shining and when the stars were twinkling. But Sinhorito didn’t come down. Neither he nor the rain he had set out to fetch. And much less any fish.
They came to get her. Her relatives came, the chief postmaster came. They pulled her, their strength against her will. Eulália resisted all their attempts. She pointed up into the sky in distress.
—He’ll come, he’ll come back …
She had vowed not to abandon him there, where he had rowed so long ago. But her eldest brother-in-law forbade her: Sinhorito was mad. The girl should forget the fellow had even existed in deeds or in dreams. Eulália seemed to comply. But deep inside, she preserved a secret wish: she would build a boat, just like Sinhorito’s. She surreptitiously collected together sticks and bits of plank.
—One day, who knows, one day … she repeated as she gathered material.
Then, all of a sudden, she was found out. Everything was set on fire in a fury. Wood was burnt as if some kernel of impurity were being eliminated.
In the meantime, Eulália regained her serenity. She seemed to have gotten over her delirium. Or had she gained some calm good sense? Only her large eyes scanned the clouds as she wandered through the fields. One day, however, she burst joyfully into the kitchen and announced:
—Two drops of rain fell from the sky.
They laughed. How was it that only two drops you could count on a chameleon’s toe had fallen? The woman insisted, shouted, tugged at them. Once they were all on the veranda, she pointed among the blades of elephant grass to Sinhorito’s two eyes. They had fallen from the sky like two fleshy fruits. And they were popping with wonder at all they had seen up there from where they had dropped.
The woman broke away from the arms that held her and ran to pick up what she had found. But as she was bending over, the skies opened in lightning flashes. And it rained thick and fast, a wild mesh of liquid hair draping itself over the lap of the universe. And shoals of fish tumbled out of the sky.