Until the Day Arrives

by Ana Maria Machado

  And the smells! The sea air was similar to that on the pier in Lisbon and, in a way, was the same smell that had accompanied them throughout the journey. But now it was accentuated with the smell of huge piles of fish, both salted and fresh. The remains of fruit on the ground were rotting in the heat. And, yes, it was very hot and very humid. Everyone was sweating in the sun, even though it was morning. It seemed as if the very air was laden with sweat. It improved a bit in the shade when a breeze was rustling the leaves, which she saw were different from those she knew, with a green as intense as she had ever seen.

  The fruits, too, were very different from those she was used to, except for lemons, oranges and a few others. She soon learned the names of cashews, guavas, pineapples, bananas and star fruit. But at the beginning, everything was new, and she was enjoying the novelty of this land.

  Manu was also surprised by the earth itself. It wasn’t just that the color was different — reddish, and distinct from the soil in their village or the clay her father worked with at the pottery. It seemed to move and have a life of its own. From time to time, the girl would shudder and lose her balance, as if the ground were swaying with the waves.

  “That’s the way it is,” Don Gaspar explained, laughing, when he realized that the startled girl was trying not to fall over. “In the first few hours after you step ashore, you have the impression that you’re still on the moving ship, and you try to right your body to fix it. But it soon passes. Tomorrow or the next day that feeling will disappear. Everyone goes through this after a long journey at sea.”

  The explanation was part of the captain’s final farewell. In a moment, he was turning away to meet the merchants for whom he was bringing goods and from whom he would pick up a load of sugar to take back to Lisbon.

  Manu was alone with Bento and the priest, who had introduced himself as Father Braz. The siblings each had their bundle of clothes.

  The priest stored the correspondence he’d received in a duffel bag strapped across his chest, then picked up a basket with the various orders for goods that the captain had brought. He noticed Bento’s curiosity.

  “This basket is different, isn’t it?” he said. “It was made by the Indians. They are very skilled and make a huge variety of woven baskets from the fibers and lianas that grow here.” Then, making his way around a large building, he added, “Don’t be afraid if you hear stories about wild heathens who are cannibals. Many are true, but you needn’t fear because the Indians you will find here are gentle and peaceful. Only in the interior, where the wild animals are, do you find the more aggressive ones. You won’t see them here in the village, in the school or in the mill.”

  Lianas? Heathens? Cannibals? Indians? Wild animals? Interior? Mill?

  Manu had no time to digest all this information, full of words that she didn’t know the exact meaning of. The three had just arrived at a large courtyard, or plaza. A very busy space came into view, opening onto a large covered arcade, with a roof supported by heavy columns.

  Some men with whips were walking back and forth, while others just stared, motionless and menacing. A well-dressed man in a hat carefully examined a half-naked young man, feeling his muscles, then moved on and pulled another’s lips apart to see his teeth. Farther on, a paunchy man with a moustache and a big hat was tracing his fingers along the scars on a large man’s face — aiming to decipher the meaning behind those tribal marks that told a story he was unable to imagine, much less understand or respect. A bald man walked around and touched a woman wearing a blouse and skirt of coarse cloth, apparently trying to assess the qualities of her body. Whites choosing black goods.

  But what made Manu speechless with amazement was what she saw in the corner of the courtyard — a group of people sitting on their heels, looking scared. They were all black people, and they were in chains, waiting their turn to be sold. They were surrounded by foremen with whips.

  It was all part of the slave market.

  Manu grabbed her brother’s arm and squeezed hard. Bento looked at her, wide-eyed, reliving the memory of his recent arrest. They were in the company of the priest, so they said nothing, but they didn’t need words. The exchange of glances between them showed what they both thought.

  Where are we? What kind of place is this?

  And Manu mentally corrected her first impression from a few moments before. She wasn’t going to like this place after all.

  10

  —

  Antonio Caiubi

  The first night they stayed at the Jesuit school with a few other guests. But they didn’t stay in the dormitory where the boys were sleeping — inside the white building with blue trim that dominated the flat hilltop next to a small river. They were taken to a guest house nearby.

  It was a long house with a straw roof, straw walls and a dirt floor. It had no windows, only a small door. It was very smoky inside, and there were no beds. Several woven fiber hammocks crisscrossed the room at different heights, and right in the middle, the darkness was broken by a small fire that provided light and warmth, and also served to ward off insects. Some boys and young men were staying there, and before they went to sleep, they talked in a strange language.

  Father Braz explained that Manu and Bento would stay there for a few days while they looked for work for Bento. The boy was willing to do any job. He had experience serving tables and helping in the kitchen at the inn in Lisbon, but there were no inns here. On the ship, Bento had done everything there was to do, even handling the toughest cleaning jobs. And before that, he told the priest, he had been a carpenter’s apprentice at a cabinetmaker’s workshop back in his village — at a time that was now so far away that it seemed to have been another life. He could work with wood or learn any other job.

  “I guarantee you won’t have trouble finding work here,” said the priest. “And you’ll be able to live where you work. We’ll take care of that.”

  As for Manu, she would stay at the school. The next day, the priests would make arrangements for her to be housed with the boys under the care of Father Vicente, in the building that stretched out alongside the church. They had daily classes there in language, religion, singing, music and various crafts. They learned to read, write and do math. The school also had several workshops — for pottery, wood, metal and leather.

  From the moment she heard about the pottery workshop, Manu stopped paying close attention to what the priest was saying. She remembered her father at work. She reached into her pocket where she kept the ceramic dove and squeezed her treasure tightly. She silently prayed to the Holy Spirit and Our Lady to take care of her and Bento in this new land. Would there be a potter’s wheel in this place? A kiln? She wanted to feel the clay between her fingers, ready to be shaped. It would be a sign that not everything good had been lost with the changes in her life.

  The next day she followed the boys when they arose early and went to church, where they all sang in a choir during mass. She couldn’t participate since she didn’t yet know the songs, so she took the opportunity to inspect her surroundings.

  It was a very small church, little more than a chapel with a bell tower. It was the simplest Manu had ever seen — just a long hall with bare walls, a plain altar, a large door at the front and a small one at the side. The small door opened onto a garden courtyard leading to the refectory, a few other rooms, the dormitory and the priests’ cells, all arranged around a cloister. But this she would find out later, when she went there with the others. Now, she saw only the simplicity of the church, with its thick whitewashed walls. She prayed a little distractedly, thanking God that she and Bento were there together, safe and sound, and asking for the divine protection to continue.

  Then she began to notice the people. The day before, she had met the other three priests, all very thin, their skin burned by the sun. Now she could observe the boys. They were dressed very simply in wide-legged pants and loose shirts made of coarse cloth. All of th
em were dark-skinned and dark-eyed. They had straight hair, cut very short. One of them couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  She recognized him. He’d been looking at her ever since she arrived yesterday. His name was Caiubi, but he had been christened Antonio and that was what they should call him, Father Vicente explained. Like the others, he was an Indian, an aboriginal person. He was learning Portuguese and already understood almost everything.

  But the boys all spoke another language among themselves — Avanheém, the common language. It was a language that Manu soon learned, too. It was essential to understand because different indigenous groups, who all had their own languages, used it to communicate with each other. It was a language that whites had to learn. The Jesuits had prepared grammar books and dictionaries for it. And since they had arrived, African slaves were gradually mastering this way of speaking, because they, too, spoke different languages from each other and adopted Avanheém as a common tongue.

  But here in the church and in the school, Manu saw no slaves. Maybe it was the only place where the horror that had struck her at the market the day before was not evident.

  Two rows back, in the middle of the choir, Caiubi still had his eyes fixed on her. Antonio, she remembered. She had to think of him as Antonio. It was his Christian name.

  The songs ended. As everyone sat down on the long, backless benches, their eyes met and Antonio smiled at her.

  The girl frowned. She didn’t know why, but his smile bothered her.

  After mass, they all went to the refectory. Just as well, because Manu was hungry. The table was set with food very different from what she was used to. There was no bread, but there was a cooked root that she had never seen. It was strange, but tasty, and had a funny name — cassava. And there was a kind of boring, dry little cake made with a coarse flour called tapioca. And fruit, always fruit. Even the fish soup that they’d had for dinner the night before had pieces of banana in it. Manu had eaten it heartily, with a big appetite after a day full of so many new things.

  She’d had a scare at the end of the day when it was time to bathe in the river, and all the boys took off their clothes and went into the water. She made a fool of herself by plunging in with her shirt on, pretending to be cold and getting out immediately, abandoning the refreshing water for the heat of the evening. She had managed, but she was worried. She didn’t know whether she could continue pretending she was a boy. She was sure it would be impossible to keep her secret for long.

  Everything was new and different, making the time pass quickly. Early-morning classes, choir rehearsal, refectory once again. This time there was fish, and boiled corn, something she’d never had before but found delicious.

  In the afternoon, workshops. Finally, it was time for pottery.

  From the moment she entered, Manu saw that it was a very simple workshop — little more than a kiln and a pile of clay. They made simple bricks and tiles, with no press or glazing of the clay. There were none of the painted, colored tiles her father used to make. The girl helped to knead the clay and put it in the molds. It was good to feel it taking shape between her fingers once again, even if she was just smoothing out the shape of a square.

  From time to time, she looked around. She didn’t see a potter’s wheel or anything to do with the making of even the simplest containers. But they must be somewhere. She had already seen a variety of pottery vases, pitchers, mugs, trays and bowls on the refectory table. Some of them even had funny names that she’d never heard before, such as moringa and cumbuca. They must be made somewhere in there, and she would be sure to find out where.

  During a break in her work, while some of the boys were taking filled molds to the kiln and Manu was waiting for a new mold, the girl’s fingers absently began to play with the leftover clay on the rustic table. The form of a bird started to take shape. Maybe one day she could make a companion for the ceramic dove that had traveled so far.

  Suddenly, she realized that Antonio Caiubi was beside her, smiling. She couldn’t be rude, so she smiled awkwardly. He made an unexpected gesture — he reached out and touched her face with the back of his hand. Then he said something she did not understand.

  “Not a curumim, no.”

  Curumim was another word from one of those strange languages that they spoke here. But she had heard it many times in a few hours. She deduced that it referred to all of them there, the boys at the Jesuit school. But she did not understand what the Indian boy meant when he repeated it, adding something.

  “Not curumim, no. Cunhã!”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You’re not a curumim. You’re a cunhã. You shouldn’t be here. You should tell the priests.”

  Manu was startled. She realized that curumim must mean boy and cunhã, girl. It could only be that. Her secret had been discovered. Caiubi was right — Antonio, that is. Soon everyone would know. And the priests needed to know from her — they must not feel fooled. She could not begin a new life lying to the people who were helping her and who had welcomed them so generously, no questions asked. But Don Gaspar had asked …

  “I made a promise,” she said to Antonio. “I have to keep it secret.”

  “Tell one of the priests. They’ll help. They know how to keep secrets.”

  Again, she realized that Antonio was right. She looked down shyly, uneasy at being caught in a lie when she wasn’t a liar. She wanted to tell the Indian boy everything, so he wouldn’t judge her badly. At the same time, she realized that she would be relieved if she didn’t have to pretend anymore. Manu was grateful to the curumim for pointing a way out of the situation.

  She raised her head and looked at her new friend.

  “You are right. Thanks for your good advice. I’ll do something about it right now.”

  She saw that Father Vicente was busy, surrounded by a group of boys to whom he was explaining something. She didn’t want to interrupt. She went in search of Father Braz.

  She found him next to the kitchen, carrying a bag of beans to the pantry. She called him aside, asked to have a private word with him and told him her whole story. She told it all at once, in a jumble, without stopping to breathe or choose words. It was like suddenly overturning a sack of grain and pouring everything to the ground at once — everything that she had kept inside. She explained that Don Gaspar had asked them not to reveal the secret while the ship was still anchored in the cove.

  “But then we can tell everyone,” she said. “We don’t want to lie. It was just to be safe.”

  The priest listened in silence to the succession of surprises. Plague, being orphaned, escape, fight, prison, hunger, the soup in the sacristy, the confusion in the market square, the protection of Don Diogo and Dona Ines, exile, the voyage. The episodes followed one after another, and he listened closely as the words of Manu relived them all.

  At the end, the religious man thought for a moment and said, “You were right to tell me. We’ll have to make some changes. You can’t keep living with the boys, bathing in the river or sleeping in the dormitory. I’ll see what I can do. But rest assured, we’ll keep your secret. Nothing will be made public until the ship and Don Gaspar sail back to Lisbon.”

  He smiled and patted her head.

  “You’re a brave girl. May the Virgin protect you.”

  “She never ceased to protect us, Father. And now she’s delivered us into your hands.”

  “Don’t worry. Now, go back to the workshop while I talk with the other priests. We’ll decide what to do.”

  A few hours later, he came to get her. He took her to a house in the village, where he left her in the care of a widow. He asked only that the woman welcome the girl, find her a skirt or dress to wear and not let her leave the house for a few days.

  That night, Manu slept on a grass mat spread on the floor of the living room. She was dressed as a girl for the first time since she had left her village, a peri
od of time that seemed like an eternity. And now she could be called Manuela once again.

  11

  —

  Rosa Chica

  Early the next morning, Father Braz went to the workshop of Quim Carapina where Bento had spent the night and was beginning to work as a carpenter’s helper. He told Bento that he knew the truth, that Manuela had told him everything the day before. He explained that he would not betray their secret. But he said the girl could not continue living in the school with the boys, so she had moved to the home of Dona Catarina.

  “She’s a good person, don’t worry. Your sister is in good hands. Dona Catarina is a childless widow who is bringing up two other girls. Now there will be three, with your sister. The other two are mixed race — half Indian and half white,” the priest explained. “There are many here. The settlers come from Portugal, but there are few white women.”

  “Yes, I’d noticed. Almost all of them have darker skin than ours. And some are quite beautiful.”

  The priest was taken aback. No sooner had the boy stepped ashore and barely settled — in only his second day at the carpentry shop — and he was already noticing the women? Another one who was going to be a problem in this land of heat of all kinds. He changed the subject.

  “And you, how are you? What are your first impressions?”

  “I’m happy, Father, very happy. I’m enjoying it here, and I know I’ll get to like it even more. I’m free as a bird. The best thing in the world is freedom. Without it life’s not worth living.”

  Just as Bento said this, two slaves passed by the door of the workshop. One was coming from the fountain with a pot full of water balanced on a cloth on his head. The other, coming from the beach, carried a pole over his shoulders from which hung two heavy baskets filled with fish. The sight dismayed Bento, but he didn’t let on.