The Head of the Saint

by Socorro Acioli

  Through the early hours Samuel awoke several times, sure that he’d heard the voice of his grandmother, who still hadn’t appeared since Manoel’s return. Each time he looked, he found no one in the house. He looked in the living room, in the kitchen, in all the bedrooms.

  Almost all. The fifth time he woke, he investigated the house yet again and noticed that on the left-hand side there was a locked door. At first he thought it must be a cupboard for storing bits and pieces, but then he felt a need to open it. He had to force the door, but once it was open he found a bedroom containing a large double bed covered in a black crocheted bedspread with a tulle mosquito net over the top.

  As he came as close as he could, he saw the mummified body of an elderly woman, in the dress Niceia had been wearing every time she had met him. This woman—it was Niceia herself—had been dead for many years. Her sparse white hair was spread over her skull, which was covered in dry, skinlike strips of dried beef. Her hands, clasped together, held a Mother of God rosary that hypnotized Samuel: amid the blue beads, he could see the one green bead from the rosary that had belonged to Mariinha.

  Faced with the dead body of his grandmother, he wept at the misfortune of his crooked fate. It was true that life hadn’t given him very many chances to dream, but he did stubbornly insist on it. He had wanted to leave Juazeiro and carry on to the sea. He’d wanted to see that massive expanse of water and swim out against the waves. He’d always thought of Candeia as a quick stop on the way to his final destination.

  A few hours from now he would be leaving, and he might be able to make it to the beach the same day. He had money. Francisco could visit him in Fortaleza, bring him news of his father. Or Francisco could come and live with him, if Candeia really was destroyed by the sale of the tiny town’s land.

  “I knew the girl.”

  It was Niceia’s voice.

  “Looked just like her father, even when she was little. I don’t know how she managed to stay alive.”

  “Where is she?”

  “That I don’t know. I never saw her again.”

  “You’re lying. You knew about my father.”

  Niceia raised herself up from the bed, walked past Samuel and out toward Manoel’s room and, with her back still turned, said: “You should go soon, the rain’s coming.”

  “But the sky is clear.”

  “That young man is here already. May God keep you.”

  Niceia was right. It was nearly four o’clock and Aécio was at his post, sitting in his car with the engine running, waiting to take Samuel away from Candeia. There was only time for Samuel to pick up a candle and a box of matches before walking out of that house, getting into the car and leaving.

  “I need to stop in Canindé before I leave.”

  “Why?”

  “I promised my mother I’d light a candle at the feet of St. Francis. Her soul is not yet at peace. I made a promise.”

  “I’ll only take you because I’m afraid of spirits, with all due respect to your late mother. But it’s a dangerous thing to do.”

  “I know.”

  “So put on your disguise. On the backseat there’s a coat, a wig, a hat and mustache. And in the coat pocket Madeinusa left you a notebook with everyone’s phone numbers: mine, hers, the doctor’s, the radio station’s. She asked you to call every couple of days for news of Rosário. We’ll find the girl, the poor thing, I believe that. Adriano is going from house to house making enquiries. You never heard anything else?”

  “Never.”

  “What scares me is that Helenice might have done something really foolish.”

  “Me too.”

  They only had to go two streets before they hit the tarmac and were on their way out of Candeia, so there was no time for nostalgic thoughts, for saying goodbye to everyone or going to the head one last time. Samuel wasn’t just going on some journey, he was running away.

  The car drove past Dona Rosa’s house. The two chairs stood outside, in the same place as on the first day, empty. Perhaps the owners had upheld the tradition of dying in their beds inside the house. The cat was alive, on top of the wall. It looked up at the noise of the car but went back to sleep.

  “What was it like, finding your father?” Aécio broke the silence.

  “Strange. I thought the saint was talking to me.”

  “All those years in that body and nobody knew a thing. How awful.”

  “He had some little hiding places in there, underground. He had his dogs, he had his mother. He was protected, waiting for death.”

  “You don’t want to stay with him?”

  “No, he has people with him. I’ve done what I needed to do.”

  Samuel seemed to be finding the conversation uncomfortable, and Aécio decided to turn on the car radio, tuning in to his own station. The daily Roberto Carlos Special was starting. It was a taped recording, always the same sequence of Roberto Carlos songs, but the station had never received a single complaint about the show that played the classics of the man they called the King.

  “Do you like the King’s music?”

  “I do. My mother used to love him.”

  They listened to the first song in silence, soaking in the lyrics that talked of a strange power, until the chorus, when Aécio joined in at the top of his voice, making Samuel laugh.

  “What? It’s Roberto Carlos’s best song, kid!”

  “You’re the one I’m laughing at, idiot. And it’s not Roberto Carlos’s song either, this one; he just sings it.”

  “Course it is!”

  “No, the words were written by Caetano Veloso. Someone gave my mother the record, and she used to take it over to play on our neighbor Radiola’s gramophone when I was little. I read the record sleeve, it said it right there: Caetano Veloso. He’s completely different from Roberto Carlos. I’ve seen him on TV.”

  “But it’s the King who sings it, that’s the important thing.”

  “Either way, I never really understood it.”

  “What?”

  “This business about a strange power. Do you know what that is?”

  “What what is? The strange power?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I know? Well, I do, but I just can’t explain it.”

  “That’s no help.”

  “It’s like something you know when you see it. The strange power appears and—bam!—you feel it. When it’s taken hold of us we do what we have to do whatever the cost, and wild horses won’t hold us back. I think it comes from God.”

  “That’s what my mother thought, too. I asked her.”

  “And have you ever felt it, that strange power, about anything?”

  “Yes, I’ve felt it a lot.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “At first it used to come from my mother. After she died, it stopped. But sometimes inside the head I used to feel it, too.”

  “Because of the saint?”

  “No, because of Rosário’s voice.”

  A few Roberto Carlos songs later, they reached Canindé. Aécio’s plan had been to give Samuel the money from Francisco and then drive him somewhere, but Samuel said he’d stay here.

  “Be really careful, man. Osório is saying you’ve got money with you that you stole from the poor. They’re going to try and get you.”

  “Yes, but I’m not going to be taking the money. You can give it back.”

  “And how are you going to live?”

  “As I have done before. Broke, wretched, hopeless. I’ll hitch a lift today—I know how to take care of myself. I want to see the sea.”

  “Just be careful, then. Call me if you need anything. If you end up staying in Canindé, let me know.”

  Samuel hugged his friend, hurrying their goodbye. Then he turned his back and started to walk up the steps that led to St. Francis. There was nobody around, no danger. The problem was, Mariinha wanted the candle lit at the saint’s feet, and there was a reflecting pool around St. Francis. Samuel would have to cross it without soaking the ma
tches, the candle and the notebook of phone numbers.

  “It’s shallow, you can walk across. But it stinks.”

  A ten-year-old boy was sitting on the floor, watching Samuel.

  “If it gets wet I’ve got another candle I can sell you.”

  “I’ve not got any money, kid—scram.”

  “I’ll scram when I want to.”

  Samuel ignored him. He took off his coat, his shirt and shoes. He piled them up tidily on the floor with his notebook. He put the candles and matches in his hat and walked into the water with his hands above his head. He crossed the water without any trouble and was soon at the feet of the saint.

  “Right then, Mother. I’ve lit your third candle. I’ve kept my promise. I went to Candeia, found my grandmother dead, found my father and now I’m leaving. Your blessing, Mother. From now on, it’s all down to me.”

  —

  From that height Samuel could catch a glimpse of the CE-020 bus. He was planning to walk down and try to get a ride on it to Fortaleza. Returning through the reflecting pool was a little easier with his hat on his head, but there was a problem: the boy had stolen his clothes. He was standing there, in the distance, holding it all in his hands and laughing at Samuel. The biggest problem was the notebook of telephone numbers—his only link to his friends in Candeia, his only hope of getting news of Rosário, if she was still alive.

  The boy ran down a small gully on the saint’s left-hand side, and Samuel went after him, barefoot and soaked. The mustache, hat and wig fell by the wayside. This little brat was quick—soon he’d darted into a road of houses, one after another, before stopping and looking back, waiting for Samuel.

  “There’s no money there, kid, it’s just old clothes and paper,” said Samuel, panting.

  “I know. I’m not after money.”

  “Take whatever you want, then, just leave the notebook on the ground. I’ll go away, I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I don’t want any of it. Only, my grandfather wants to talk to you.”

  “Who’s your grandfather?”

  “My mum’s dad.”

  “Where is he?”

  “On the Rua das Graças. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  —

  The two of them walked a bit farther, up to a house with a door and window opening onto the street. Samuel followed the boy inside and saw a woman he recognized but had no idea where from.

  “Did you bring him?” asked a man’s voice.

  “He’s here, in the living room, completely covered in mud,” the boy called out.

  The man came in to talk to Samuel. He, too, looked familiar.

  “Remember me?”

  “I do, but I don’t know where from.”

  “Must be because of my clothes.”

  He smiled at Samuel. Only gradually did Samuel come to recognize in that kindly-looking man the pilgrim who had helped him on the road before he arrived in Candeia.

  “Do you want a change of clothes? Yours are filthy.”

  “No need.”

  “Chica, bring the boy a change of clothes.”

  —

  Theirs was a small house, and very humble. The wall facing the door was covered in pictures of saints. Side by side were Father Cicero, St. Anthony and St. Francis, the holy trinity of Samuel’s recent days.

  The woman brought him clothes. It was the same woman who had been on the road the day he’d met that man. She was friendly now.

  “You helped my sister get married, young man. Thank you for that.”

  “You’re welcome. How did you know?”

  —

  She excused herself, but before leaving the living room she looked at her husband, as though that were a code for something that was about to happen. She hurried back with a plate of cuscuz, then brought milk and a cup of coffee. With her feet she pushed a tall stool toward Samuel, put down the food and quickly went out into the yard.

  “Look, mister…”

  “Francisco José.”

  “Well, Mr. Francisco José, I appreciate your kindness, but I don’t understand anything. What is it you want from me?”

  “I’m a friend, and I’ve got something to tell you. Something you need to know before you leave. It’s about Rosário.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “I’m Madeinusa’s uncle, Helenice’s brother. But she doesn’t consider me her brother because I’m her father’s son with the housemaid. She’s forgotten I exist, and that’s what rescues the whole story.”

  “How so?”

  “When Fernando came back from Cape Verde with Rosário, he told me the truth, a secret from Helenice. I knew she might try something with the girl.”

  “And did she?”

  “She did. And I was the one who brought her back home when she was abandoned on the road. Everyone thought St. Francis had performed a miracle.”

  Samuel was frightened by the man’s tone, which grew ever more emotional.

  “Then Helenice locked the girl up in a house, but I never stopped having dreams where Fernando told me to go and rescue her. So I went. I found Rosário and got her out of that terrible place. Helenice doesn’t know, she never found out. Nor did Madeinusa. Rosário is terrified of being killed like her father. We all are.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “In the little house out the back.”

  Samuel was completely stunned, wanting to hear more, wanting to run out to the backyard.

  “This whole time? She’s never been out?”

  “Only to go to school. But she did go to Candeia once, in disguise.”

  “When?”

  “To Madeinusa’s wedding. She saw you there, but we left very quickly.”

  “And she’s really here? Just out the back?”

  “She is. She knows you’re looking for her. She heard it on the radio. Aécio said you’d be at the foot of the saint; that’s why I sent the kid to fetch you. Sorry about him stealing your clothes; that wasn’t part of the plan.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “That’s why I sent him to bring you here.”

  —

  Between Francisco José’s home and the little house out the back there was a small yard. Samuel heard the morna, the same song he used to hear inside the head of the saint. Rosário sensed his presence and came out of the house shyly. She sat down on a crooked wooden bench outside her little room. Samuel sat beside her and waited for her to finish her song before saying his first words: “Thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “For your songs. I heard them every day.”

  “I didn’t know that until recently. But I dreamed about you.”

  “About me?”

  “I did. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve dreamed about things that were going to happen. My mother’s death, my father’s, the man dressed in a St. Francis tunic coming to save me. All that I saw first in my dreams.”

  “Are you sure it was me?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And what was it like, your dream?”

  “Strange. And brief. You were there, on your knees, lighting three candles. And there was a voice that took me a while to understand.”

  “A man’s voice or a woman’s?”

  “A man’s.”

  “What was he saying?”

  “ ‘Courage,’ ‘forgiveness,’ ‘love,’ one word for each candle. ‘Courage,’ ‘forgiveness,’ ‘love.’ Do you understand it?”

  He took the girl’s hand in his and felt that strange power. Mariinha’s candles, the course that led to Rosário. He wanted to take her to see the sea, to listen to her mornas forever, and for the first time things were beginning to make sense. He thought about the head of the saint, about Manoel’s misfortune.

  “Yes, I think I understand.”

  “Tell me, then: what does the dream mean?”

  “You are my miracle, Rosário. That’s what it means.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My original ideas
for this novel were written in 2006 for the “How to Tell a Story” screenwriting workshop led by Gabriel García Márquez at the Escuela de Cine y TV at San Antonio de los Baños, in Cuba, between the second and fifth of December.

  The praise, enthusiasm and encouragement I received from García Márquez around this project were fundamental to its completion, and so I begin my thanks with him. More than that: this book is for him. I am also grateful to EICTV, to María Julia and to Alquimia, for the chance to be part of the final group to participate in this prestigious workshop.

  Many thanks to Paulo Linhares, Bete Jaguaribe and Orlando Senna and to the Ministry of Culture’s Programme for Cultural Dissemination and Exchange. To my highly experienced and talented coursemates: Ana Maria Parra (Colombia), Juan Pablo Bustamante (Colombia), Ernesto Villalobos (Costa Rica), Lien Lau (Cuba), Karina Narpier (Dominican Republic), Joaquín Guerrero Casasola (Mexico), Christian Ayala Alonso (Spain), Rocío Santillana (Peru) and our teacher, Fernando León de Aranoa.

  I would also like to thank my friends Luciana Cruz, Mariana Cordiviolla, Janaína Marques, Marcus Moura, Rita Célia Faheina, Manoella Monteiro, Samuel Macedo, Fátima Souza, Sheila Jacob, Silvia Jacob, Lira Neto, Lula Buarque de Hollanda, Letícia Monte, Lilian Contreira, Regina Ribeiro, Fernanda Coutinho, Luciana Gifoni, Frei Betto, Natália Guerellus and Joana Medrado, the teachers Robert McKee and Guillermo Arriaga, Ary Leite, Thelma Leite, Cintia Figueiredo, Tiago Coutinho, Luciana Limaverde, Nícia Barroso, João Daniel Almeida, Paloma Jorge Amado, Cecília Amado, Ana Márcia Diógenes, Rosângela Primo, the Alencar family, the Acioli family, Sarah Odedina and Isabel Lopes Coelho.

  I am grateful to professors Lívia Reis (my supervisor), Eurídice Figueiredo and Victor Hugo, who assessed this work for the qualifying exam for the Doctorate in Literary Studies at Universidade Federal Fluminense, shining the necessary light on it to develop the novel and bring it to the next stage.

  To Dauna Vale, who took me to visit the real head of the saint, in Caridade.

  To Neda Blythman and João Marcelo Melo, for their welcome in Cape Verde.