“Run, Rosário! Run, see your mummy!”
As the girl ran, barefoot, Helenice pointed the revolver at her, but lowered her arms when she saw the little childish walk that looked so like her daughter’s. The girls were identical. The same body, the same height, the same age. Daughters of the same father, the dead wretch who had destroyed her life.
She wanted to take Rosário up in her arms and carry her back home. She remembered her husband and became so confused that she no longer knew whether the shot had been real.
Rosário ran, ran up the road, calling for her mother. Helenice, meanwhile, ran back home. She asked God to look after the little girl. She didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to remember the disappointment that her existence represented. “Look after the unfortunate wretch, oh Lord.”
She prayed till she got home. Fernando really was dead on the bed, his eyes open, a bullet in his chest and the wedding ring tight on his finger. It wasn’t a hallucination. She had to act quickly.
—
What was left of the town of Candeia awoke to the weeping and wailing of Helenice, who was on her way to the church, calling for Father Zacarias.
“Fernando has had a heart attack!”
That was the official announcement of his death. When the first people reached her house, the dead man was already nicely laid out in the coffin, in a jacket, his hair done and smelling of cologne.
Helenice asked for the burial to take place quickly, and it happened at two o’clock that same afternoon. They said the woman had gone crazy at her husband’s sudden death. Any strange behavior was treated as madness.
Two days after the funeral, Helenice opened the restaurant early and was surprised by the appearance of Rosário, sitting in the doorway. The girl smiled and hugged her, babbling something in Cape Verdean Creole.
Helenice never understood how the girl had managed to find her way back home, how she was still alive, how she hadn’t been run over, or kidnapped, or eaten by the dogs. Maybe it was African witchcraft.
“Who is stronger than God?! Who is stronger than God?!” she shouted, distressed, taking little Rosário by the arm, determined to rid herself of the child again before Madeinusa woke up.
It was Wednesday when Madeinusa asked Adriano to take her urgently to Francisco’s parents’ house. She needed to talk to Samuel. She walked into Chico the Gravedigger’s house without asking permission, interrupting their conversation.
“Is it true you hear a voice singing at five o’clock every morning?”
Samuel was in a daze.
“Since the day I arrived in the head, at five in the morning and five in the afternoon. Do you know the girl?” His eyes were alight with hope.
“What does she sing?” Madeinusa was nervous.
“Different songs each time. I’ve counted five of them.”
“Five?” She became even more anxious. “What are the words? What do they say?”
“I don’t really understand. It sounds like another language, but sometimes I can catch a few words.”
“What words?”
“Farewell. Heart. Sea. Home.”
“The mornas!” Madeinusa was crying. “Oh God!”
“What?”
“Rosário’s mornas. I’m sure of it.”
“Who’s Rosário?” asked Samuel.
“My sister, on my father’s side. She’s African, her mother used to sing mornas, they’re songs from there, from Cape Verde. Rosário used to do the same. Every day, at five in the morning and five in the afternoon, ever since she was little.”
“And how do those songs end up in the saint’s head?” asked Francisco.
“The mornas are a prayer to her mother,” said Madeinusa.
“And do you know where she lives?” asked Francisco.
“No, she disappeared when my father died. The only other thing I want in life is to find Rosário. My mother said some relatives came to fetch her the day my father died, but I don’t believe her. I’ve been dreaming about her and my father all these years, and that was how I knew she was my sister.”
“How come?” asked Samuel.
“My father spoke to me in my dream. It was only when I was older that I understood that Mother hated Rosário because she was the child of my father’s betrayal with another woman. I’ve been trying for years, done everything I could, but haven’t been able to find a single clue. My mother can’t know anything about this, right?”
“She knows already,” said Francisco. “She heard it on the radio when Aécio announced Samuel was looking for the Singing Voice. She came to ask me what he knew about ‘that singing girl.’ ”
“And what did you say?”
“That he didn’t know anything. But if it made Helenice so angry, we were certainly going to find out about her.”
“You didn’t even tell me about that conversation,” Samuel complained.
“I’ve only just remembered; I didn’t think it was important. The old woman hates music—I thought that was why she was so mad.”
“She hates Rosário. I suspected terrible things; I thought Rosário was dead. Even mentioning Rosário’s name was forbidden in our house.” Madeinusa was silent for a moment. Then she asked: “And in the head, there’s no way you can talk back to her, Samuel?”
“I can only listen.”
“Maybe if Aécio keeps mentioning it on the radio she’ll show up,” said Francisco.
“It’s our only chance. We don’t even know where she lives, but if I can hear her in the head, she can’t be too far away.”
“I’ll do anything I can to find her,” said Madeinusa.
When Madeinusa left, the others resumed their conversation at the point they’d stopped: the great misfortune. Only someone who had lived through the year of Candeia’s misfortune knew the real name of Meticuloso, the man who had ruined the townspeople’s lives. Chico the Gravedigger had known him very well; they’d played together on the square as boys. They had lost touch when Manoel’s work had started to take him out on the road to other towns.
When he returned to Candeia to work on constructing St. Anthony, Manoel had sought out his childhood friend to drink cachaça and lime and talk about life. His life was Mariinha. He had talked about her gentle hands, her innocence, the child she was expecting. He said how happy she was at his success with the building of the saint. The money he was making was more than enough to go and fetch Mariinha and their son. They could live with his mother for a bit while he built a house for them. This was before the engineer had gone away and the mistake had put an end to his life.
“Is he buried here?” asked Samuel.
“No. They say he hanged himself and was buried right there, in your grandmother Niceia’s house. Nobody else has ever been inside. Practically the whole family fled. Those who remained went mad.”
“You must leave here, child,” Gerusa interrupted him, pleading. “If you’ve come to find your father, you know now that he’s no longer with us.”
“My friend Manoel was a good man, you can be sure of that. That head caused his misfortune and it’s responsible for yours, too, I can see that now. Leave now before you end up dead like your father.”
“But we’re making money, the people are happy, there are weddings every day—where’s the harm in that?” objected Francisco.
“That money is cursed. If that’s where it’s coming from, I’d rather go hungry.”
Gerusa’s words put a stop to Francisco’s insistence.
Samuel couldn’t think. It was already late, and the only thing he wanted at that point was to spend his last night in the head of the saint, listen to the Singing Voice by way of a farewell and then leave, forever. But it was dangerous to go back to the head, and Francisco was worried for his friend.
“Wait. It’s risky, but I’ve got a plan that might help you,” said Francisco to Samuel.
Francisco went ahead and unlocked the cemetery gate. There were still crowds of people there. They were crying, and at first Francis
co and Samuel couldn’t understand what the commotion was about.
“They said there’s a truck of explosives on its way to Candeia,” said one of the men. “Helenice went to Fortaleza to talk to Osório and he gave an order for the saint’s head to be blown up.”
There were about four hundred people in the crowd, with more arriving every minute, following the rumors of the planned explosion of St. Anthony’s head.
The head was Samuel’s misfortune, but even so he wanted to spend his last night there. This might be his last chance to hear the Singing Voice and the mornas, to fish for any clue as to where she might be. All he wanted to do was spend the night in the head.
—
Before five in the morning, the trucks of explosives arrived in Candeia. There were TV crews with them to film the spectacle, the end of the sacrilege against St. Anthony.
Helenice was with Osório, and she looked triumphant. Samuel was found by two of Osório’s henchmen and taken to the old police station, which was reopened specially. He was thrown into a corner of a cell that was dark and filthy from years without use.
It was Osório who made the rules in Candeia, and they were brutal. Samuel knew that the henchmen had received explicit orders not to let anyone in. No visitors, not so much as a glass of water. The boy accused of being an imposter in Candeia, of disturbing public order, would remain in the cell until the explosives had been set up. Then he would be given a few hours to leave the town, to return only on pain of death. Osório would come back to live in Candeia to sort everything out, and all the people who had raided the abandoned houses would be kicked out. After the head, those old houses would also be demolished.
Osório had been determined in his plan. For years he had waited for the final inhabitants to quit Candeia. There were few remaining, very few. Helenice had already agreed to sell her house. Chico the Gravedigger’s peace-loving family could be moved elsewhere, doubtless without too much resistance. The few older people still there would die soon. It was just a matter of time.
The plan was to sell the land of Candeia to a company that would build a factory there, but Osório couldn’t do this until all the houses were in his name.
Samuel’s gift had given new life to the town, a town that when completely dead could have made the ex-mayor’s fortune. Helenice had always known about the plan, always supported it, for she wanted to leave that place. The offer on her house would be enough for her to go. Her past would be buried beneath a factory forever.
In prison, Samuel was getting more and more anxious with every passing minute. He had no idea what was happening. He heard cries on the road, people calling his name. Francisco’s voice was the most desperate. Madeinusa, Adriano, all of them were there, outside. Osório and the engineers charged with carrying out the explosion were meeting in Helenice’s house. Father Zacarias had tried to intercede, but in vain. He had not even been allowed to enter the prison. Samuel, however, after so many hours of hunger and solitude, could hardly believe his eyes when he saw his grandmother Niceia on the other side of the bars, looking in at her grandson with tender devotion.
“You’re as strong as I am. You cannot deny that you are my grandson.”
Samuel was hungry, thirsty, uneasy and could find no trace of strength in his condition. His feelings for the crazy old woman were confused. He was scared, he was angry, but it still mattered to him that she remained the only living link to his past. He smiled a little, trying to acknowledge her presence.
“How did you get in here?”
“You must fulfill the promises you made to your mother.”
She annoyed him when she ignored his questions.
“I’ve done that already.”
“Not everything.”
“What’s missing?” Samuel asked, though he did remember—he would never forget his mother’s last words. He was only asking to test the old woman.
“The candles. You only lit the one for Father Cicero. There’s still the one for St. Anthony, and another for St. Francis.”
“I’ve carried out the most important request.”
“You have. You came here to Candeia.”
“I came just to suffer.”
“You are brave. You bore it all. You were a real man.”
“And I’m going to leave just the way I arrived: pushed out as if I were a filthy rat.”
“That’s not true.”
“You don’t know anything. I went hungry for sixteen days, I got sick, I had no one to give me shelter, and I got myself involved with this madness around the saint.”
“Are you angry with the saint?”
“Very! I’ve always been angry with the saints and I’m even angrier now. They’re only good for deceiving stupid people into parting with their money.”
“Your mother thought differently.”
“She was too good. She lived and died never seeing any malice in the world. Poor and wretched and buried in a hammock.”
Samuel wept. He hated crying, but he cried in front of his grandmother, that decrepit old woman who, yet again, was unable to help.
“She asked you to light a candle for St. Anthony. You have to do so before you leave.”
“I don’t want anything to do with any saint now.”
“Mariinha said she wanted the candles lit at the saints’ feet. You’ll have to climb the hill to light the one to St. Anthony.”
“I’m locked up, so that will be easy,” said Samuel with a note of sarcasm.
“You’ll be released in a few hours.”
“If I climb that hill, I’ll get bitten again, and I’ll get locked up again.”
“The dogs are mine. They won’t bite you. And you won’t be locked up again if you say you’re leaving. Go up, light your candle and say a prayer to the saint.”
Samuel laughed contemptuously.
“Pray? Me? Lady, you really are crazy.”
“Praying is saying what you feel.”
“I feel hatred.”
“Then that’s what you should say. Shout it good and loud; don’t leave out a thing when you’re talking to the saint.”
“I may have your blood, but I’m not as crazy as you yet. I’m not going to do that.”
Niceia was upset and moved closer to the bars.
“You can’t leave here without lighting the candle your mother asked you for.”
In those last words her voice took on a serious tone, and she looked Samuel in the eye: this was an order. And Mariinha’s requests were the only laws in force in Samuel’s life. Apart from them, there was nothing left.
“They’re going to release you tomorrow morning. They want to know what route you’re going to take. Tell them you’re going that way, you’re going over the hill and on through Inhamuns. There will undoubtedly be people following you. Everyone already knows you’re going to be thrown out of town, that’s the only thing they’re talking about on the radio now.”
“And whose side are the people on?”
“On the side of St. Anthony’s messenger. When you leave, there will be crowds outside the police station. Your friend Francisco hasn’t stopped fighting for you. But nobody has any power without the law on their side.”
“Are they going to blow up the head?”
“It’s all set. They’re going to wait for you to leave.”
“I don’t want to see it.”
“I don’t think you should, either.”
Samuel looked at Niceia with the numbness of a goodbye. She moved away, about to leave. He knew it was too late to ask about his father.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll light my mother’s candle because she asked me to. I don’t know what will become of my life after I’ve crossed that hill. So, goodbye, then.”
“Don’t forget to pray. I’m asking that of you. Mariinha would ask you, if she were here. Farewell, Samuel, I hope you will be very happy.”
It was the first time Samuel had seen Osório. Up to that point he had only met his henchmen and heard of his reput
ation as a crook. The mayor came into the police station accompanied by Helenice and Father Zacarias. One of the henchmen opened the door to Samuel’s cell and ordered him to remain seated. He needn’t have bothered: Samuel barely had the strength to open his eyes. Helenice started firing off insults straightaway: “I don’t know where the hell you’ve come from, but you’re headed back there now. Nothing worthwhile can ever come from bad people. Just when we thought we were free of the misfortune, Meticuloso’s son shows up to bring it back all over again.”
Samuel said nothing. He wanted to speak, but Father Zacarias put his index finger to his lips, gesturing for Samuel to keep to himself whatever he had been thinking of saying.
“My child, I’ve been talking to Helenice and Osório and asked them to give you a chance. The head is going to be blown up at five o’clock tomorrow afternoon, and they want you to be out by then.”
“And never come back,” said the woman with loathing. “The blood of the Vale family is tainted with the Devil’s ink.”
Osório was also glaring at Samuel, hatred in his eyes. The priest asked him something quietly; the mayor said yes grudgingly. Zacarias went over to the door and returned with Dr. Adriano, to examine Samuel, and Madeinusa, who had brought him milk, coconut water and a chicken broth.
While Dr. Adriano checked Samuel’s pressure and heart rate, Madeinusa fed him, holding the straw of the glass of milk close to his mouth. He looked down at his belly. It was not clinging to his ribs.
“She’s another one who inherited bad blood from her father,” said Helenice, receiving a look of contempt from her own daughter.
This time it was Adriano who asked everyone to keep calm.
Samuel quickly recovered, and got up to leave and keep to the plan. There were indeed a lot of people outside the police station. The faithful, his friends, TV broadcasters, reporters, a sea of people dressed in brown.
An emotional Francisco ran forward to hug his friend. He recalled the day he’d seen him for the first time. By now the whole town knew of Osório’s orders; the explosives were in place, and no one was allowed to get close to the head of the saint anymore.
The Head of the Saint Page 10