As soon as he saw her, the boy motioned for her to come over.
When she got close, the girl noticed that Didi’s eyes were swollen and he was holding back tears.
“What happened?” she asked.
“A little while ago … it was a terrible thing. When I went to the canoes to order fish for dinner tomorrow, as Dona Catarina asked …”
“I know, I heard her tell you.”
“When I arrived, there was a bullock cart on the beach, and some slaves were unloading sacks of sugar. They were filling a boat to carry the load to the ship anchored in the cove.
“But their foreman was angry. He was screaming and threatening them with punishment — I don’t know why. They were all very frightened.”
Manuela imagined the scene. That kind of situation was very common. She understood perfectly how much it would disturb Didi.
He continued, “An old man couldn’t handle the weight he was carrying on his back and fell. A younger slave ran to help him and took a blow from the foreman. I felt terrible. And since there was a pitcher in the quitungo, I asked the fisherman to borrow it and quickly went to the fountain to fetch some water for them. But it got worse. When I tried to give them a drink, the foreman pushed me, tipped over the pitcher and beat them some more. It was my fault …”
The girl tried to console him.
“Don’t think like that, Didi. It wasn’t your fault. It was just wickedness. They were already being beaten.”
“Yes, it was my fault. If I hadn’t got involved, they wouldn’t have been beaten again.”
“Don’t blame yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong, only what God commands — give drink to the thirsty. Wasn’t that what Father Vicente was saying in mass on Sunday?”
Manuela couldn’t find the words to comfort him. The boy sobbed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.
“But that’s not all,” he added. “It’s that I was really dumb.”
“How?”
“It’s that I recognized one of the slaves, the younger one who was defending the older man. From a distance I thought it was him, and as I got closer I was sure. I should have been smarter. Instead of making this mess, I should have found a way to quietly get close enough to talk, to find out where they’re living, which mill they’re at. But I was stupid, stupid, stupid! Now I’ve ruined everything.”
He burst into tears again. Manuela waited for him to calm down. She looked around, afraid that someone would see them and wonder what was going on. She wanted to help her friend and did not know how.
Suddenly, Didi raised his head, looked at her and said, “It was my father, Manuela. He was there, right next to me. And now he’s been taken away — I don’t know where.”
Determined, the girl promised, “Leave it to me. I’ll find out.”
15
—
Discoveries
Every day after lunch Manuela walked to the beach to try to get information. She went when the fishing boats were coming in, thinking it a good pretext for being there if the bullock cart were to arrive from the mill where Didi’s father was a slave. She told everyone that she was feeling the heat and did not like taking a siesta as the others did. She said she preferred to enjoy the afternoon breeze, sitting under a tree facing the sea.
With time, she got to know all the fishermen. She made friends with some of them and was even offered a few small fish from time to time. They were delicious fried up.
One day, one of the fishermen started to tell the girl and his helper why he preferred to brave the waves than to farm the land.
“I’ve been on the water since I was a child. I come from a family of sailors. My grandfather and father were both men of the sea. That’s how I came here. I was put on a ship as a cabin boy when I was very young.”
“But you’re not afraid? It’s so dangerous,” said the girl.
“There are dangers everywhere. I’m used to the hazards at sea. And I like to feel free, with the vastness of the world in front of me.”
That was something Manuela understood.
“You’ve made a good choice.”
She thought a bit. She watched two slaves who were digging a ditch just ahead, under the strong sun, and added, “For those who can choose … not everyone can.”
The fisherman stopped gathering and folding his net to put it up to dry. He looked at her searchingly.
“You must be careful what you say and do, girl. You have a good heart, but you can’t solve the world’s problems. Things are as they are, and often there is nothing you can do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, I know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re always wanting to chat with that black boy who was helping the slaves on the beach here the other day.”
She pretended she didn’t understand.
“What black boy? What slaves?”
“That Didi, who tried to give water to the Matoso plantation slaves when they were here with the load of sugar.”
“Didi is Dona Catarina’s slave and works at home, so it’s natural for me to talk to him. But I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t know the Matoso mill.”
“Well, you should know the landowner’s reputation, so you’ll be careful. He’s rich from a lot of sugar and a lot of slaves. He lives about five leagues west of town, near the dense forests. And his foreman is the most vicious in these parts. From what we know, he has even killed some slaves. Tell your friend Didi not to get in his way. It could be very dangerous.”
The girl’s heart was pounding. Was it excitement from having heard the information she wanted or fear for her friend? Not to mention the certainty that Didi’s father was in a terrible situation in such a foreman’s hands. Whatever it was, a shiver went through her body.
“These are dangers much worse than the sea,” the fisherman said, bringing his advice to an end.
Another shiver coursed through Manu. The fisherman noticed.
“You’re getting goosebumps. The south wind is strong today. Better get going before you catch a cold.”
She followed his advice. She couldn’t wait to tell Didi the news, as soon as they had a chance to be alone.
But when the opportunity arose, it was short-lived. The boy was bringing in wood for the stove, going in and out of the kitchen, which was full of people. Then Dona Catarina went to fetch something from the living room, and the two women slaves left for the chicken coop. Manuela took the chance to ask Didi something that suddenly seemed very urgent, because she knew that Bento would finally be taking the candlesticks to Amarante the next day.
“Why do you always say that your name is Didi, not Didi?”
“Because I am Didi. It’s my name. It’s the name my father and my mother gave me when I was born.”
“Odjidi?” She said it slowly, emphasizing the accent on the second syllable.
“That’s right,” he confirmed. “You finally got it right.”
She breathed deeply and asked another question.
“And your mother has some scars on her face?”
“Yes, she does — three short, thin lines, one beside the other on her left cheek. Why do you ask?”
They could hear Dona Catarina’s footsteps in the hallway.
“It’s something I’ve been thinking about. I’ll tell you later,” the girl said.
And, almost skipping toward the door, she asked Dona Catarina, “Can I go to Quim Carapina’s shop? I want to say goodbye to my brother. He’s leaving early tomorrow morning for Amarante.”
“Of course you can, young one. And tell him that I hope he has a good trip.”
And so the next day, on his journey to Amarante, Bento was carrying more than passersby might guess. He was pulling a mule loaded down with a pair of heavy carved wooden candlesticks — this everyone cou
ld see. But he was carrying much more. Maybe it was just a hunch, an unfounded idea, the dream of a girl. He remembered Manuela’s excitement when she talked to him the day before. Maybe she was right. Maybe Rosa really was Didi’s — actually Odjidi’s — sister. Maybe the ritual scars engraved on Chica’s face so many years ago in Africa were now a kind of map, indicating a path for the exchange of family news. Maybe one day they would be reunited. Who knew what else might happen to them following these discoveries?
Bento needed to be careful not to raise false hopes in Rosa and Chica. But he knew very well that he was carrying a cargo more precious than candlesticks, however invisible and weightless it might have been. He carried a faint hope.
16
—
News
The candlesticks that Bento made for the Amarante chapel were very well received and praised by all. Senhora Barbara was delighted with them and got excited thinking about other pieces and asked about the wished-for canopy bed. Don Vasco was so enthused he planned a party to take place a few months later, on the feast day of St. Gonçalo, the patron saint of the mill to whom the chapel was dedicated.
The young carpenter was received with admiration beyond the simple but heartfelt hospitality that ordinarily welcomed visitors. When everyone gathered on the porch after supper at the end of that first day, Bento was treated like a trusted family friend. He talked a lot with everyone in the household and recounted the news of Amparo.
But later he found time to take a stroll. He walked by the mill under the moonlight and went to the small fire in front of the slaves’ quarters where the slaves talked just before going to bed.
There, too, he was welcomed. Everyone had noticed his special fondness for Rosa Chica and the respect with which he always addressed her mother. They also felt that the young carpenter was interested in them — their stories and their destiny. So nobody was surprised that night when he asked one of the young slaves how he had been captured.
The boy told the story of how he and two friends had been attacked late at night when they were returning from a market a long way from their village. Bento repeated the question to Chica and Rosa. They said that they had been captured with other women and children in their village by a group of armed men, and then were taken in a long canoe down the river.
“But where were the men of the village?” he wanted to know.
“They had gone hunting,” Rosa explained.
“Even my Odjidi,” Chica sighed. “It was the first time he went out to hunt with the men on the savanna. I never saw my dear boy again, and now he’s becoming a man.”
“But some people saw him,” Rosa added. “A neighbor said she saw my father and Odjidi from a distance when we were in the canoe and they were brought tied up in another boat. And I know they came on the same ship as we did, because many people told us they’d seen them. But we never saw them ourselves.”
The stories were confirmed. Manuela had told her brother the same story of how Didi was captured. And he and his father had also been transported in the same ship. Most of all, the names were very similar — almost identical. Didi must be Chica’s son and Rosa’s brother. Bento checked one more detail. He asked the name of their village. It was the same. And he learned that Chica’s husband was named Guezo.
These were two new pieces of information that he would take back to Amparo, just to make sure. They would nourish the flame of hope.
For now, he wouldn’t say anything to the two women. It could all be a coincidence. In fact, Bento had no idea if this was the usual way of capturing slaves in African villages, or if these names were as common as José or Maria in Portugal, or if many women’s faces were decorated with the same kind of scars as Chica’s when they married or had children. He knew little about those lands and those people and could not get all the information he needed. He would talk about it with Manuela and Didi. But he hoped to return to Amarante soon, bringing Rosa news of her brother.
Bento was thinking about all this as he walked back to Amparo. From a hill, he looked down on the houses of the village and the emerald waters of the little creek. He was happy. He was bringing good news and a large furniture order that would certainly oblige Quim Carapina to send him back to the mill. He gave the mule a friendly pat on the neck, saying, “I shall return often, and soon!”
When he arrived in the village, he saw Manuela running toward him. He dismounted and held the animal’s halter, thinking that maybe his sister wanted to climb up and join him for the final part of the journey.
But before he could say anything, the girl hugged him and then, hanging from his neck, said in his ear, “We have great news! I’ll tell you later.”
Quim came along to find out how the candlesticks had been received and to make sure that the payment had been made, so the siblings’ conversation was cut short. It was only at dusk that the two were able to be alone. They sat on the sand in front of the rippling tide watching the full moon rise.
“Yesterday, just after you left, someone came here from the Matoso mill,” Manuela said. “They came to get salted fish and whale oil.”
“Did Didi’s father come?”
“No, not this time. And I don’t think he’ll be coming anymore.”
Bento’s heart sank. Had he died? Or been sold? Just now, when it was possible to tell Rosa and Chica that there was news of him?
“What happened?” he asked worriedly.
“He was punished. He was put in stocks and lashed until he was half-fainting and sick. But it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. He acted sicker than he was and just pretended that he was dying.”
“How do you know?”
“That’s what the old man said. The old man who was carrying the load and fell down the day that Didi tried to give water to the slaves. He brought a message from Bartholomew.”
“Slow down, I’m getting lost. Who’s this Bartholomew?”
“It’s Didi’s father. The old man said that he recognized his son that day, but didn’t let on. He’s a smart man — he knew how to wait for the right moment. And so he pretended to be almost dying there in Matoso, after the lashing. When the guards were distracted, he escaped. It looks as if he had a plan all ready to go. He walked into the water or went downstream on a raft hidden someplace. The dogs lost his trail in the river. But before he left, he asked the old man to tell his son what had happened. He said that he was escaping to a quilombo. He didn’t say which one or where it was. But he promised that they would meet. Didi believes the story and is very excited. I’ve been dying to tell you what happened.”
It was big news, for sure. More than what Bento had to report.
“Well, I thought I had something important to tell you. I found out how Rosa and her mother were captured, and more about her brother, and it’s exactly the same as what Didi told you. And I also learned the name of the village they come from. I was sure that I’d established a family connection between them. But now I’m not so sure …”
“Why?”
“You tell me his father’s name is Bartholomew. But Rosa’s father is named Kezo or Guezo or something like that.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. We need to check with Didi. Did you forget that the slaveowners give their slaves Christian names? As I recall, the old man used a surname to speak of Didi’s father. I thought it was Guezo. But it could be the other one you said. Who knows?”
17
—
Caiubi’s Wisdom
The next few days were intense. Bento and Manuela took every opportunity to talk to each other and exchange ideas with Didi.
They were soon connecting one thing with another and discovering the links in all the information they’d gathered. They were sure that Rosa and Chica were Didi’s family, and he was thrilled to know where they were. Amarante was not far away. Sooner or later it would be possible to create an opportunity for them to meet. And until that d
ay came, Bento could take and bring back news from time to time. Don Vasco was not known to mistreat his slaves like other owners, or like the foreman at the Matoso mill. Amid the horrors of captivity, at least that was a relief. For Manuela it carried a glimmer of hope.
The days turned into weeks.
Bento couldn’t start making the furniture for Senhora Barbara and Don Vasco, because Quim Carapina had told the priests he would work on their job. So the boy had to start on a different carving than he intended — the church altar in Amparo. It was a difficult and delicate craft, digging out the hard wood, trying to bring to light the shapes sheltered inside the fallen trees. First he made a rough attempt that he then smoothed over and sanded, bringing out tiny details.
This work took all his time, but gave the young craftsman a great deal of satisfaction. He remembered how, since he was a child, he had liked to work on small chips of wood with the pocket knife his father had given him. It was the only object he still had that was a concrete reminder of the family and the house where he grew up, on the other side of the vast blue-green ocean. But he wasn’t using it now. He had new tools, more varied and more appropriate to the size of the work he was doing.
And how he loved what he was doing. The angels were multiplying, the bunches of grapes and the interlaced stalks of wheat creating beauty that no one suspected might be hidden inside a tree trunk brought from the dense thickets of the forest.
Bento was astonished by the discovery of the sculptor inside him. He spent hours dedicated to his craft — his art — following designs that he imagined first, then passed carefully onto paper and, little by little, created in relief on wood panels. He enjoyed mixing memories of Portugal with what he saw around him. When the priests asked him to evoke the sacrament of the bread and wine in his work, he brought them to the altar in an original way. Amid the thin stalks representing the wheat that they didn’t have in Brazil, he sowed corncobs with their fat kernels. Nestled among the grapes that reminded him of the vineyards across the sea, he carved tropical berries, cashews and pineapples. And underneath the crowning garlands of roses and banana flowers, he set warblers and hummingbirds, with bear cubs and monkeys peeking out below.
Until the Day Arrives Page 8