He used the tap to wet his hands, his face, his hair; tried to remove the black mud that was cemented under his big, hard nails. He examined himself in the mirror of an old motorbike and saw how atrocious he looked. This wasn’t how he wanted to show up at the house, to talk to Niceia. But this wasn’t how he had imagined his own life—and yet here he was, transformed into the son of the Devil, in this town where no one knew him.
It was on his journey from Juazeiro to Candeia that the Devil first appeared to Samuel. He had appeared as his father. The only father he had ever known, for he had had no father at all before that. It had been a night like any other, and he was asleep in the middle of the forest close to Inhamuns. He dreamed that Mariinha, who was dressed as a bride, was smiling at someone, and that she walked over to a man and that man was a monster, the Devil. The Devil looked like Samuel, in a way, while being simultaneously monstrous. It was the only image Samuel had of his father: the picture of a Ferocious Beast.
Samuel remembered this as he felt the water running low out of the tap, losing strength to just a thread. Even the water seemed to be dying.
The owner of the house—and of the tap—was walking slowly up the pavement. She was arm in arm with a decrepit old man, who stared hard as though he could no longer move his eyes. He was like the smoke left at the end of a bonfire. On the pavement, two chairs were comfortably covered with faded floral-pattern cushions. First the woman settled the old man in a chair, talked to him, smiled, showed him this and that, as though unaware of his frailness. She called a yellow cat by name, Jerimum, and he responded by jumping onto the man’s lap. Perhaps it was an old habit—cats are given to routine—but the old man didn’t seem to notice his presence. Were they friends once? Samuel wondered. Could it be that the cat was also an ancient thing close to death?
Samuel stood watching it all from the pavement, until the old woman spotted him when she was already settled in her chair. Even his dreadful appearance was not enough to frighten her, and her kindness matched exactly the description Mariinha had given of his grandmother, Niceia—a good-hearted woman. As she sat holding hands with the unresponsive old man, she smiled and said hello to Samuel. Without knowing exactly what he was saying—being smiled at had confused him more than being driven off with a broom—Samuel took the piece of paper from his pocket and asked whether she was Niceia. No, her name was Rosa. Then he asked where the Rua da Matriz was.
“It’s that one. It goes right by the Matriz church.”
They were right next to the road. She was still smiling.
“And the house of Niceia Rocha Vale?”
The old man mumbled something, a distressing noise—guttural, almost desperate.
“He wants water,” she translated for Samuel.
Still holding the old man’s hand, she stood up and called to someone over the wall. No one came. She went into the house to fetch some water, helped the old man drink, calmed him down and helped him to his feet, steadying his legs and supporting his frail body—then the two of them went in, the woman giving a quick goodbye wave without looking at Samuel or answering his question. Samuel was sure that the old man had been trying to reply.
He hadn’t been in Candeia an hour and Samuel was already on the Rua da Matriz, following the old lady’s directions. It was all too quick. He’d thought it would take him longer before he—well, before he was face to face with his grandmother and his father. What would he say? He didn’t think about it, but he remembered Mariinha’s voice, word for word, asking him to go and find them.
If he could do it, he would kill his father. He had never killed before, and he had no weapon and no idea how big the man was. But he was motivated by the years of history, by the last fortnight especially: Mariinha’s face, her quiet little voice, her four requests. He took a deep breath and off he went.
It didn’t take Samuel long to find the house. It was the biggest on the street, close to the church. Everything was still dead. Before calling out from the gate for someone, he looked around. The doors and windows on the street were bricked up. Weeds grew up over the tiles, coming out through the gaps, roots breaking through the floor of the pavements and verandas, overwhelming the stone. The houses were built around the square. On many of them it was still possible to read words written in old, peeling paint. “St. Anthony Barber,” “St. Anthony’s,” “St Anthony Hostel,” “St. Anthony Restaurant.” Faded traces of a past he didn’t understand. Why was everything so abandoned, so desperate?
Once again his feet were overtaken by a sudden burst of courage. It was the Ferocious Beast, he believed that. His father, the Devil. The life he had led over the past few days had made it seem more possible to believe in evil. He took the piece of paper out of his pocket—he had to read them one more time, those eight words and the number that were already embedded in his memory, and do what had to be done here. Then he could leave.
He clapped his hands and leaned against the iron gate, which was chained and padlocked. There was a garden in front, overgrown by the forest. Overgrown by the forest and overrun by the cats. Eight or nine of them, with more and more appearing. It was a big house, with a porch and a rusty rocking chair. There was a grille in front of the wooden door, and it only took two claps for the inner door to open and an indescribable woman to come out.
“Are you Dona Niceia?”
“And you’re Samuel.”
It was not a question. It was not a smile. It was not a welcome.
“Do you know me?”
“No. Nor do you know yourself. But I know who you are.”
She looked crazy, and her words sounded crazy, too.
“Are you hungry?” asked the old woman.
“Very.”
“I can tell by looking at you.”
“…”
“Have you come from Juazeiro?”
“Yes.”
“And you haven’t brought me anything?”
“No.”
“Your mother told you to.”
“She did, but I didn’t bring it.”
“How did you get here?”
“I walked.”
“The whole way?”
“Yes.”
“How many days?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“Sixteen days.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“And Manoel?”
“Which Manoel?”
“Your son.”
“Oh yes—my Manoel…” A cloud of tears drifted across her face, and she looked down, showing her scalp through her thin white hair.
“Does he live here in town?”
“This is no longer a town.”
“Where does he live?”
“That’s one of God’s mysteries. He has many.”
“Did he move away from here a long time ago?”
There was no answer. She looked at Samuel.
“So he lives here?”
“There’s no point trying to get in.” She held the door with both hands. Her expression had changed—she was angry now.
“Is he alive?”
“You said you were hungry?”
“Very.”
The change of subject worked.
“And dirty. You need a bath.”
Samuel was sure she was going to invite him in, and then, perhaps later or the next day, he could ask for details about what had happened to Manoel, his father. If he was already dead, it would save Samuel his trouble. Perhaps he would stay there awhile—the idea of a house to sleep in was just what he needed after sixteen days of sleeping rough like a dog in the road. If she had spotted that he was in need of a bath, the invitation would soon follow, he thought. But it didn’t. He looked up at the house. Something told him that Manoel lived there and was hiding, maybe sensing that his son hadn’t come to ask him for his blessing.
Niceia spoke again: “It’s already dark, and it’ll be raining soon. Leave here now, and follow this road. Go past the Matriz church and the ce
metery, go into the forest itself, straight ahead. Don’t turn off anywhere. When you spot a guava tree, take the path off to the right. There’s a covered spot there where you can rest. Run now, and get some sleep. There’s a big storm coming.”
She slammed the old wooden door and disappeared. There was no trace of any sound coming from inside. This whole time, Samuel had been pressed up against the iron gate, the woman with disheveled hair on the other side. This wasn’t how Mariinha had described old Niceia. This wasn’t how he had imagined meeting his grandmother.
Had she summoned the rain, called it to come? Just moments earlier, the sky had been clear, with no sign that the clouds were about to shed their tears. Now all the clouds in the sky cried at once.
The first person in Samuel’s family to know the date of her own death was his great-great-grandmother Mafalda. She put in her earrings, put on perfume and lipstick, put on her Sunday clothes at bedtime and went to say goodbye to her daughter.
“Look, Toinha, this is my last day. My mother said she and Aunt Amália are coming to fetch me. The livestock belongs to you and your brother, divided up. If you sell it, divide it up; if you kill it, divide it up. The house is yours, as your brother’s already got his own. And what’s here is yours. Table, chair, bed, water filter, jug—everything.”
Her daughter was in the kitchen picking through the beans and laughed without even looking up, because that was senile old woman’s talk. Mafalda was healthy and showed no sign of death.
Again Mafalda informed her that she would be going and not coming back. Which is what she did. She never awoke again, dead and cold. In her Sunday dress, earrings and lipstick. Her daughter cried twice for her mother’s death: once for losing her and once for not having taken the opportunity to say goodbye. She had so much to say, and the words that were not said to the dead woman would burn in her mouth forever.
That was how it happened with all the women in the family, and with Mariinha it was no different. They all knew the exact number of days that would make up the collection of hours that we call life. They knew it from early on and kept it to themselves, but announced it in time to make requests of their families and make arrangements. Mariinha called Samuel to her and told him that Thursday would be her last day.
They lived in a shabby little house on the slopes of Horto Hill, on the path that led to the white statue of Father Cicero. But she wasn’t from around there. She had come to Juazeiro when she found herself alone with a child in her arms. Since the boy was going to be raised with no father, he might as well at least be the godson of Padim—Father Cicero—blessed by him day and night. Mariinha fell into the graces of Glória—Glória the blessed—who took care of her like a daughter. She soon learned how to weave straw and sell hats to the pilgrims. And that was how she lived and raised her son for fifteen years. Samuel’s father had left Tauá when Mariinha was pregnant. His mother had told him to return to Candeia for some important work. She didn’t give any details, and it was expensive to telephone. He was going to earn some money, Manoel told Mariinha, then he would come back for her and Samuel and they would live together in a house with a veranda, the best in Candeia.
Mariinha always knew it would be a boy. She was wise, it was as simple as that; she didn’t need to take exams to prove it. She chose what she thought was the most beautiful name in the world, something she’d learned at Mass. Manoel liked it, and talked to her stomach, calling his son by his name and promising to come back. It would only be for six months or so, he said. “I’ll be back soon, Mariinha.” Never. He never came back. In the first month he sent a carrier with money and a letter with his mother’s address. It was just when Mariinha’s belly had started to show. Mariinha left Tauá and went to Juazeiro. She had only a father and an older sister, who didn’t want a fallen woman in their house. She left messages with everyone in town to say where she was going. So that he could find them. But there was nothing, no news from Manoel ever again.
Mariinha waited her whole life, every day. Samuel waited beside her, until he was six years old and his school friends told him his mother was a tramp. A single mother and a prostitute were the same thing. The shadow of his father was the boy’s unhappiness for years.
“I’m going on Thursday, Samuel. My mother has said she’s coming to fetch me.”
It wasn’t an announcement of a short trip. To Mariinha, going meant going away forever. Samuel didn’t really believe in these stories of deaths foretold to the women of his family. He had never known any of them; he had only heard about these announcements but never seen them fulfilled. If it was true, he would have no one left in this world. His mother had little life in her eyes now, little flesh on her bones. She said she had four things to ask him before going, and Samuel sensed that they would not be easy things to hear.
“I want you to light three candles for my soul. The first in the sanctuary of my own Father Cicero, the second at the statue of St. Francis of Canindé, on whatever day you’re able to get there, no need to hurry. And the third is to St. Anthony, because he is my mother’s patron saint. All three at their feet, my child, right by their feet, that’s important to me. But my greater wish is that you go to Candeia to seek out your grandmother and your father.” She took an old piece of paper out of a cloth bag. The eight words and the number. “Her name, your grandmother’s, is Niceia. She ought to know where your father is. Go without hate. Dona Niceia is a good woman, and you have no one else in the world now. She came to see me once, she came to meet you. If she never came back, it’s because she couldn’t. I want you to take my Mother of God rosary to her.”
Samuel tried, but he couldn’t hide his hatred. He could see no reason for seeking out those people who had never taken the least interest in his existence. The man must have another family now and surely wouldn’t even remember him.
“I know you want nothing to do with this, but it’s the last thing I’m asking of you. My soul will never be at peace if you don’t do it. Look for him; God will help you. Will you go, Samuel? Will you go to look for your father?”
Samuel said yes to the four requests: the candle for Father Cicero, another candle for St. Francis, one more for St. Anthony, and the search for his grandmother and father.
And it happened just as she had said it would. She slowly died, a bit of life escaping from her each day. On Thursday night, Mariinha no longer moved her eyes. She turned cold, bit by bit, and then she was dead, no coming back.
There were lots of people to bear the tattered old hammock holding the thin body of the good woman, Mariinha from Horto, known to everyone in Juazeiro do Norte. So many years spent making hats, patiently weaving. Anyone who wanted to know how to do it learned from her. Any hat bought in Horto had Mariinha’s goodness deep in the weft of woven yellow straw. The mourners, all of them, cried from genuine grief. Not even they, professional mourners who saw the deceased daily, could get used to her death.
Samuel packed the old leather suitcase that same day and set off on Saturday. The same suitcase that Mariinha had carried from Tauá to Juazeiro. He left the few things in the house to his good neighbors, women who cried for the death of his mother and the departure of her son, so embittered, so sad.
He left for Candeia. Not out of obedience, but because there had been no time to say he wouldn’t go. Mariinha had died believing it.
—
Night fell and he followed Niceia’s instructions, because it did indeed start raining and there was nothing to be done but seek some shelter. He couldn’t tell whether his grandmother’s so-called goodness was his mother’s innocent lie or one of Mariinha’s mistakes from being unable to see badness anywhere. The old woman hadn’t even opened the door for him. No glass of water, plate of food, place to sleep…nothing.
He went on into the forest, picking up his pace because of the rain. He spotted the dry guava tree. Five thin wild dogs came running down the little hill right in front of him, barking. The smallest, a white dog with a star-shaped black marking on its forehea
d, attacked his shin, sinking its teeth in mercilessly. Samuel cried out to nobody as the dogs continued barking loudly. Then a distant whistling sound made the animals prick up their ears and they shot off, up the same path on which they’d come, to somewhere that was too dark to see. Were it not for the bleeding bite on his leg, Samuel would have thought them ghost dogs.
Struggling to walk, blood streaming from his leg, he found the entrance to a foul, dark cave. The old woman had spoken of a covered nook to sleep in, and this had to be it. It was raining even more heavily now, and there was no trace of light left. Samuel crawled into the filthy grotto and sat down with his leg sticking out, to wash the blood from the bite, which was burning. The rainwater had soaked his bread, and all he had now was a white slime for his dinner. He could hear the faint, sharp, hysterical shrieks of the rats as they ran out. Overwhelmed with tiredness he fell asleep, despite the rats, the pain, and the hunger. Good or bad, it was his first night-long sleep in many days.
It was exactly five in the morning when Samuel began to wake, tormented and confused. He could hear women’s voices, several of them, all talking at once. Talking, talking, talking. It was like a prayer, an argument, a conversation, all at once. Perhaps it was a nightmare. They sounded like Mariinha’s mourner friends, praying the rosary when people died. He sat up, startled, but the voices didn’t stop. Louder, stronger, and—yes—it was prayer. Samuel ran out of the damned grotto without remembering that his leg was injured, that he was weak, hungry and tired, and within a few feet he’d fallen to the ground. There were no women praying outside at all; there was no one nearby, not even last night’s dogs. Outside there was only forest, a fine rain and silence: no voices to be heard.
The Head of the Saint Page 2