Ama

by Manu Herbstein

  “Just a sip, now,” the Senhor admonished his daughter.

  “Senhor Williams, this is my daughter, the apple of my eye.”

  Williams forced himself to pay attention to his host.

  “Of course, Senhor, the good Father introduced us just a few moments ago. Senhorita Miranda, if I am not mistaken? A young woman, if you will permit me to say so, Senhor, of remarkable beauty.”

  Miranda blushed and the Senhor smiled indulgently.

  A silent signal sent Ama to the kitchen. When she returned with a tureen of steaming turtle soup Williams was deep in conversation with his host.

  “Senhor,” he asked, “How long has this engenho been in your family?”

  “Twenty-five years,” replied the old man. “It used to belong to the Jesuits. When they were sent packing from Brazil, the government sold it by auction. Mine was the best offer. Fortunately the great families decided not to bid.”

  “The great families?”

  “Rocha Pitta, stand up if you please,” the Senhor called to the husband of the beauty who sat beside him. “Our guest wants to know who our great families are.”

  Amidst laughter, Senhor Rocha Pitta stood up and bowed to left and right.

  From his seat Williams returned Rocha Pitta’s bow.

  “Our great families, the Rocha Pittas amongst them, own the best estates and the largest, mainly on the shores of the bay.”

  One course followed another: first fish from the bay grilled over charcoal; next, caruru, a richly seasoned stew of seafood, okra and amaranths in palm oil; then frango ao molho pardo, chicken cooked in blood.

  Ama wondered at the amount they were able to consume.

  Two slaves brought in a spit-roast suckling pig on a great platter. There was general applause from the guests. The slaves carried it round the table for all to see and then took it aside to carve it.

  The food these sixteen are eating in one sitting, even the left-overs on their plates, would last us all a week, Ama thought.

  In between her trips to the kitchen, she caught snatches of conversation. The Senhor was flattered by Williams’ questions and held forth at great length on the problems of the sugar trade; on the extortion practised by priests of the Santa Casa da Misericórdia, which, in the absence of a banking system was the only source of capital in Bahia; and on the corruption of government officials in Salvador. From time to time he called on Rocha Pitta or Father Isaac for support.

  “Every one loveth gifts, and followeth after rewards,” contributed the young priest who was beginning to show the effects of the wine.

  Williams shook his head in sympathy and pencilled a note in the small book he kept by his side.

  Miranda, Ama saw, was excruciatingly embarrassed by her father’s harangue.

  The Senhor paused to do justice to his xin-xin.

  “This fowl is delicious.” said Williams, “Senhora, please accept my compliments on your magnificent cuisine.”

  The Senhora blushed and bowed her head in acknowledgement. Miranda, too, blushed in sympathy with her mother’s embarrassment. It struck Ama that none of the women had said a word.

  * * *

  The men took one end of the veranda to drink their rum and smoke their cigars and pipes.

  The ladies, at the other end, now talked freely over their sorbets..

  In the kitchen the slaves were tucking in, but Ama had been told to stay on to serve the men.

  “Senhor William,” the Senhor said when they had settled, “I will hide nothing from you. When my grandfather of blessed memory arrived in this country he owned little more than a uniform and a musket. But he was a Portuguese, mind you, pure Portuguese, without the slightest taint of what we call - you will forgive me, Father Isaac - the infected races.”

  “The infected races, Senhor?”

  “Moor, mulatto, Jew. Those are the infected races. The Marques de Pombal made a law twenty years ago. In order to preserve the purity of the race any Portuguese of pure white descent who is crazy or stupid enough to want to marry a woman of the infected races has first to obtain the consent of the King.”

  “I see. I heard a story in Salvador recently of a senhor de engenho in Inhambupe who freed one of his female Angolan slaves and married her.”

  “Manoel Dias Lima, the scoundrel, the madman.”

  He looked around to make sure that the ladies were out of earshot.

  “Senhor William, there are some matters which we do not discuss before the ladies. This is one of them.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “No matter. They heard nothing. I mention it only for future notice.”

  “You were telling me about your grandfather.”

  “Soon after he came to Bahia he fought in the campaign which destroyed the notorious quilombo of Palmares. He was decorated and rewarded for his role in that war. He married my grandmother whose blood was as pure as his own. My father, of blessed memory, was born to them. By dint of his own efforts my grandfather managed to send his son to Lisbon for his education. When my father returned to Bahia, my grandfather sent him with twenty slaves to search for diamonds at Tejuco. He was fortunate. The diamonds bought my family’s first engenho and paid for my own education in Portugal. I stayed there for four years during the reign of King Joào V.

  “Today, after three generations, my family has reached the level of the nobility. Even the old families, like that of Rocha Pitta here, accept us. We are people of quality, what I believe you English call gentlemen.”

  Ama, standing by the wall, dozed.

  “Girl, bring another bottle of rum,” the Senhor commanded.

  “Some are born into the nobility,” said Father Isaac. “Others enter it through merit and the nobility of their nature.”

  Ama removed the cork and topped up the men’s glasses.

  Are you all not drunk enough already? she wondered.

  “Thank you, Pamela,” said Williams in English as she poured for him.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked the Senhor.

  “Nothing, nothing. Just an English phrase which escaped my lips.”

  The Senhor looked at him quizzically, then shook his head.

  Josef appeared.

  “Go and eat,” he told Ama in Fanti. “I will take your place.”

  * * *

  The Senhor sat on his veranda. He had overslept and missed morning prayers again.

  A full week had passed since the dinner party. His Brazilian guests had stayed just long enough to attend a late Mass in the little chapel.

  Only the Englishman lingered on at the Engenho de Cima, riding the Senhor’s fine stallions down to the cane fields; studying the processes in the mill; inspecting the senzalas and the allotments. And always asking questions and making copious notes in his little book.

  Familiar sounds floated across from the mill. An overseer came galloping back from the cane fields. It was time for his breakfast. On the steps Alexandre whittled a piece of soft wood into the form of a horse. He was frustrated: just as he had seemed to be making some progress he had broken a fragile leg. Now he would have to start again from scratch. He peeped at the Senhor; but knew better than to attempt to talk to him at this time of the day.

  Ama came out with the breakfast tray.

  “Senhor,” she said in a dull monotone, “I beseech your blessing in the name of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.”

  The Senhor grunted what might have been a blessing but might just as well have been a curse. He was cool towards this new maid with the missing eye. He found it difficult to look her in the face. Vasconcellos called her “One-eye.” He wondered whether “Evil-eye” might not be more appropriate. Every time she made an appearance, he was reminded, uncomfortably, of the story of the senhora who had gouged out the eyes of her husband’s mulatto concubine and served them up to her victim’s master for his dinner.

  Apart from the unfortunate Narciza, he had never had an African as a house slave before. He preferred mulattos, or at least Crioulos. The Afr
icans were not to be trusted; they were too proud and rebellious. He would have to ask his wife why she had brought this one into the casa grande as a replacement for Narciza; and why she had done so without consulting him beforehand. His authority was being undermined. Everyone seemed to be taking advantage of his advancing years.

  Ama stole a sidelong glance at the Senhor as she put down the tray. He was usually in a bad temper at this time of the morning, particularly when he had drunk too much the night before. His face was unshaven. Strands of white hair lay untidily across his red pate. She wondered whether he was upset that Williams had defeated him at chess the previous day. She had noticed that Father Isaac took great pains never to beat the Senhor. Williams was the old man’s guest. It was insensitive and undiplomatic of him to humiliate his host like that.

  “Will there be anything more, Senhor?” she asked.

  She took his grunt to mean “no” and retired to the back of the veranda, out of his sight but ready to react to his slightest gesture or command, as she had been taught. But she was tired. They had kept her up late several nights running. She let her back slide slowly down the wall until she was sitting on the stone floor. She hugged her knees to her chest and dozed.

  “A very good morning to you, Senhor,” she heard Williams say. “May I join you?”

  Ama wondered whether she should get up to pour coffee for Williams but he was already helping himself.

  “Thank you for the chess last night. I really did enjoy it.”

  Ama laughed inwardly at the Englishman’s attempts to draw a reply out of the Senhor. She stretched forward so that she could see them.

  “Senhor. There is an important matter which I should like to discuss with you. Could we talk now or would another time be more convenient?”

  The Senhor adjusted his bulk in his chair and took a deep breath. No doubt more questions about the running of the engenho. The young man was too persistent. But then he was a guest and guests have certain rights which no senhor de engenho would deny.

  “Speak, Senhor William. There is no time like the present.”

  There was an awkward pause. The Senhor turned to look at Williams. He was folding and refolding his handkerchief with meticulous care.

  At last he summoned up his courage.

  Looking straight ahead, he said quietly, “It is about your daughter, Senhorita Miranda.”

  Ama peeped out again. The Senhor was cutting himself a cigar. It was unusual for him to smoke so early in the morning.

  One of the overseers trotted up on a horse.

  “Later, later,” the Senhor dismissed the man.

  Then he saw his bastard son sitting on the steps.

  “Alexandre,” he said. “Shove off!”

  “What about Miranda?” he asked when the boy had gone.

  “It is no use beating about the bush,” Williams replied. “She won my heart the moment I first set eyes on her. I want to ask your permission . . .”

  He looked up. The Senhor was staring into the distance.

  “Your permission . . . Senhor, I hope I haven’t offended you.”

  “Have you spoken to her about this?”

  “No, no, we have hardly exchanged half a dozen words all the time I have been your guest. And those were mere pleasantries; hardly even a conversation. Senhor, I hope I haven’t stepped out of line in speaking to you as I have. I know that customs . . .”

  “Senhor William, you are a Protestant.”

  “Oh, that would not present a problem. I could become a Catholic if that were your wish.”

  “You are an Englishman.”

  Williams had half expected this.

  “And proud to be one too,” he replied. “There is nothing I can do about that, I’m afraid.”

  “You would take my only daughter away from me.”

  “Not while you live, sir. Not while you or the Senhora is alive. That I promise. That I swear.”

  Ama’s single eye was wide open and her ears too. She wanted to get away and tell someone the news, tell Miranda, tell anyone. But how could she escape without them noticing her? Williams, at least, would know that she had heard and understood. As for the Senhor, he thought that slaves’ ears had no function beyond the receipt of commands.

  “What are your means?”

  “Well, sir, as you know, I am the Consul of His Majesty’s government in Salvador. For that service I receive no more than a modest stipend. But the post gives me a status in the city which, as a foreigner, I could not otherwise hope for. Your daughter would join me in gracing His Excellency’s table at least once or twice a year.”

  “Your means?”

  “Yes, I was coming to that. You will have heard me mention my uncle of the same name, Captain Williams. He left the sea some few years ago and has established himself in a successful business as a manufacturer of cotton cloth. I act as his agent in Salvador. That brings me a satisfactory income. I have also made some successful investments in the gold mines and indeed I deal in the precious metal myself, exporting it to England.”

  “Means, Senhor William. You have not answered my question. Means, wealth, property. You are telling me about trade. It is not a profession we think of highly in this country. What land do you own, what buildings, what other property? I would not want to give my daughter to a man who immediately afterwards would become my dependent. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir, I think I do. At present my means are modest. I do have a moderate income but I admit that at present it depends upon my continuing labour. However, I am my uncle’s only relative and I have some expectation of a very substantial inheritance in cash and property at some time in the future.”

  “How old is your uncle, Senhor William?”

  “He must be fifty sir.”

  “He has no wife, no issue at all?”

  “No, sir, not to my knowledge. I mean I believe he would have told me if he had married.”

  “You English are peculiar. A man of fifty and not yet married? Senhor William, what if he has indeed married during your absence from your country and has had children? And if he has forgotten to inform you that you are no longer a beneficiary of his will?”

  “It is possible, sir, but unlikely. The old man is fond of me. I cannot imagine him treating me in that manner.”

  “Senhor, I will speak to my wife. I make no promises, no commitments. You should on no account discuss this matter with my daughter unless and until you have my consent to do so. Do you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “We will talk again presently. And tonight I will avenge my defeat on the board.”

  * * *

  When Ama reached the Senhora’s quarters she found Alexandre swinging Miranda round and round at arm’s length so that all the furniture was in danger of being toppled over.

  Dearly beloved Miranda, his elder sister, his half sister, the apple of their father’s eye.

  “Senhora William, Senhora William, Senhora William. Say a mass for Saint Gonçalo for finding you a husband,” he teased her.

  Miranda screamed in mock fear, blissfully ignorant of what he was talking about.

  “Alexandre, stop that this minute.”

  Ama spoke with authority. Alexandre let go of Miranda. She stumbled around drunkenly until the dizziness wore off. Then she collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  “Alexandre,” Ama reprimanded him, “you have been eavesdropping again.”

  “Eavesdropping? Me? Ama, I thought you were my friend. Why do you make false accusations which will get me into trouble? Eavesdropping on whom?”

  “Why were you calling Senhorita Miranda Senhora Williams?”

  “Oh that!” he replied dismissively.

  “Yes, that! You were eavesdropping on the Senhor’s conversation with Senhor Williams, weren’t you?”

  Alexandre pouted and said nothing.

  “What is this all about, Ama?” Miranda asked.

  “Senhorita Miranda, can you keep a secret?”

  �
��Of course. Tell me, tell me. What is it all about?”

  “If you give me away, the Senhor will send me back to the cane fields.”

  “I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “This morning I took the Senhor’s breakfast tray to him on the veranda. Then I waited in case he needed anything. I was tired and I sat down next to the cabinet. Senhor Williams came out to join your father. He asked for permission to discuss something very important with him.”

  “This doesn’t sound very interesting. They are always talking business. Something about the engenho, no doubt. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Young lady you are too impatient. The important matter Senhor Williams wanted to discuss with your father was you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes you.”

  “What have I done now? I have hardly spoken to the visitor.”

  “Can’t you guess?” Alexandre chipped in.

  “Alexandre be quiet,” Ama scolded him. “This is serious. Now listen carefully, Senhorita, and brace yourself for a shock. Senhor Williams was asking your father for permission to court you.”

  “To court . . .?”

  Miranda’s eyes and mouth opened wide. Then she blushed deeply.

  “He wants to marry you.”

  A tear descended from each of Miranda’s eyes. Then she began to sob. Ama put her arm around her shoulder.

  “Don’t cry. It is nothing to cry about. He is a fine man. You should be flattered.”

  This only made things worse. Miranda bawled. She hugged Ama and sank her head into her breast. Ama did her best to comfort her.

  The door opened and the Senhora entered.

  “What’s going on in here? The Senhor is complaining about the noise. He has a headache.”

  Then she saw her daughter crying.

  “Miranda, my child, what is the matter? Why are you crying? Alexandre, have you been teasing her again?”