Wono took my hands and we did a little dance together.
When the English Consul arrived, I was in the sewing room, trying on my new dress. It was the fanciest garment I had worn since Mijn Heer’s death.
The dining room was ablaze with the light of a hundred candles and oil lamps.
On the brilliant white table cloth, the silver and plate and glassware glittered and gleamed. Around the walls stood sixteen barefooted slaves, one behind each chair, the men in smart livery and the women, including me, in full petticoats. Two crioulos in a corner played fiddle and guitar.
The Senhor led in the beautiful young wife of a neighboring senhor de engenho. She wore a dress of green damask and silk which took my breath away. Slaves stepped forward to pull their chairs.
I turned to look at the next couple and suddenly felt faint. The Senhora was clutching the arm of none other than ... Kwame can you guess?
Zacharias
Sometimes my mother treats me as if I were still a child.
I don’t have to guess. I have listened to Senhora Miranda tell her daughter, Senhorita Elizabeth, about this dinner party, not once but many times. Elizabeth always complains that she has heard the story before and doesn’t need to hear it again.
“It’s so boring,” she says.
But I would never speak to my mother as Elizabeth speaks to hers, so I humor her.
“Let me think,” I say. “Was it by any chance Senhor Williams? I mean my Senhor Williams as you call him, the nephew not the uncle.”
“How clever of you,” she says. “It was indeed Gavin Williams, the nephew of the captain of The Love of Liberty.”
Ama’s Story
Could it really be him? I wondered. He was deep in conversation with the Senhora, Portuguese conversation. Ignoring the slave whose duty it was, he pulled back the Senhora’s chair at the foot of the table. Then Williams took his own seat, next to the beauty in green who sat in the place of honor on the Senhor’s right.
Miranda came in last, on the arm of Father Isaac. She was wearing a modest white organdie dress which I had helped to make. The priest led her to her seat on her father’s left, where he could keep an eye on her. This was the first time she had been permitted to attend an adult function. I could sense just how nervous she was as I drew her chair for her.
Father Isaac rose and said grace. When the guests had added their amens, we stepped forward to serve them, one of us for each guest. I poured red wine into Miranda’s glass. As I did so, Williams noticed me. He might have been struck first by my missing eye. Then he took another look and at once, he knew me. He sat back in his chair and stared. I put down the bottle and retired to my position behind my young mistress. I raised my head, returning his stare, but giving no indication that I recognized him as anything other than just another visiting white man.
“Just a sip, now,” the Senhor admonished his daughter.
“Senhor Gavin, this is my daughter, the apple of my eye.”
“Of course, Senhor, the good Father introduced us. Senhorita Miranda, if I am not mistaken? A young woman, if you will permit me to say so, Senhor, of remarkable beauty.”
Miranda blushed and the Senhor smiled.
A silent signal sent me to the kitchen. When I returned with a tureen of steaming turtle soup, Williams was deep in conversation with his host.
“Senhor,” he asked, “how long has this engenho been in your family?”
“Twenty-five years,” replied the old man. “It used to belong to the Jesuits. When they were sent packing in 1759, the government sold it by auction. Mine was the best offer.”
One course followed another: first fish from the bay, grilled over charcoal; next, a seafood stew with okra and palm oil; then chicken cooked in blood.
I was astonished at the amount they were able to consume.
Two of our men brought in a spit-roast suckling pig on a great platter. The guests applauded. The men carried it round the table for all to see and then took it aside to carve it.
The food these sixteen are eating in one sitting, even the leftovers on their plates, would last us all a week, I thought.
In between my trips to the kitchen, I caught snatches of conversation. The Senhor was flattered by Williams’s questions and held forth at great length on the problems of the sugar trade; on the extortion practiced by priests of the Santa Casa da Misericórdia, the only money-lenders in Bahia; and on the corruption of government officials in Salvador.
“Every one loveth gifts, and followeth after rewards,” Father Isaac said, beginning to slur his words.
Williams penciled a note in the small book he kept by his side.
The Senhor paused to do justice to the chicken.
“This fowl is delicious,” said Williams. “Senhora, please accept my compliments on your magnificent cuisine.”
The Senhora blushed and bowed her head in acknowledgement. Miranda blushed in sympathy.
It struck me that none of the women had said a word.
Zacharias
Senhora Miranda’s version revolves around Senhor Gavin. She says he couldn’t keep his eyes off her right through that meal. She told that story once when he was present, and he just smiled. My mother’s version doesn’t contradict Senhora Miranda’s, and yet the picture it brings to my mind is quite different. One event, two reporters: whose story is the more reliable? Human memory is fallible. If I were to question the accuracy of my mother’s account, would she be offended? I wonder.
When I return to Salvador, I’ll ask Senhor Gavin to tell me his version of how my mother lost the sight of her eye.
Ama’s story
The Senhor sat on his veranda. He had overslept and missed morning prayers again.
A full week had passed since the dinner party. The Brazilian guests had stayed just long enough to attend a late Mass.
Only the Englishman lingered on at the Engenho, riding the Senhor’s stallions down to the cane fields; studying the work in the mill; inspecting our senzalas and allotments. And always asking questions and making notes in his little book.
I came out with the breakfast tray. On the steps, Alexandré, Miranda’s mulatto half-brother, whittled away at a piece of soft wood. He peeped at the Senhor, but knew better than to attempt to talk to him so early in the day.
“Senhor,” I said, “I beseech your blessing in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”
The Senhor grunted what might have been a blessing but might just as well have been a curse. He was always cool toward me. He had never had an African as a house slave before. I had heard him say that he preferred mulattos, or at least crioulos. We Africans were not to be trusted—we were too proud and rebellious. He asked his wife why she had brought this one, that is, me, into the casa grande; and why she had done so without consulting him beforehand. He complained that his authority was being undermined. Everyone seemed to be taking advantage of his advancing years.
I stole a sidelong glance at the Senhor as I put down the tray. He was usually in a bad temper at this time of the morning, particularly when he had drunk too much the night before. His face was unshaven. Strands of white hair lay untidily across his red pate. I wondered whether he was upset that Williams had defeated him at chess the previous day. I had noticed that Father Isaac took great pains never to beat the Senhor.
“Will there be anything more, Senhor?” I asked.
I took his grunt to mean “no” and retired to the back of the veranda, out of his sight but ready to react to his slightest gesture or command, as I had been taught. But I was tired. They had kept me up late several nights running. I let my back slide slowly down the wall until I was sitting on the stone floor. I hugged my knees to my chest and dozed.
“A very good morning to you, Senhor,” I heard Williams say. “May I join you?”
I wondered whether I should get up to pour
coffee for him, but he was already helping himself.
“Thank you for the chess last night. I really did enjoy it.”
I laughed inwardly at the Englishman’s attempts to draw a reply out of the Senhor. I stretched forward so that I could see them.
“Senhor. There is an important matter which I should like to discuss with you. Could we talk now or would another time be more convenient?”
The Senhor shifted his weight in his chair and took a deep breath.
“Speak, Senhor Gavin. There is no time like the present.”
There was an awkward pause. Williams was folding and refolding his handkerchief.
At last he summoned up his courage.
Looking straight ahead, he said quietly, “It is about your daughter, Senhorita Miranda.”
I peeped out again. The Senhor was cutting himself a cigar. It was unusual for him to smoke so early in the morning.
One of the overseers trotted up on a horse.
“Later, later,” the Senhor dismissed the man.
Then he saw his bastard son sitting on the steps.
“Alexandré,” he said. “Shove off!”
“What about Miranda?” he asked when the boy had gone.
“It’s no use beating about the bush,” Williams replied. “She won my heart the moment I first set eyes on her. I want to ask your permission ...”
He looked up. The Senhor was staring into the distance.
“Your permission ... Senhor, I hope I haven’t offended you.”
“Have you spoken to her about this?”
“No, no, we have hardly exchanged half a dozen words all the time I have been your guest. And those were mere pleasantries, hardly even a conversation. Senhor, I hope I haven’t stepped out of line in speaking to you as I have. I know that ...”
“Senhor Gavin, you are a Protestant.”
“Oh, that would not present a problem. I could become a Catholic if that were your wish.”
“You are an Englishman.”
“Welsh, actually,” Williams replied. “There is nothing I can do about that, I’m afraid.”
“You would take my only daughter away from me.”
“Not while you live, sir. Not while you or the Senhora is alive. That I promise. That I swear.”
They went on talking—questions, answers, promises.
My one eye was wide open and my ears, too. I wanted to get away and tell someone the news, tell Miranda, tell anyone. But how could I escape without them noticing me? Williams, at least, would know that I had heard and understood. As for the Senhor, he thought that slaves’ ears had no function beyond the receipt of commands.
“Senhor Gavin, I will speak to my wife. I make no promises, no commitments. You should on no account discuss this matter with my daughter unless and until you have my consent to do so. Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
“We will talk again presently. And tonight, I will avenge my defeat on the board.”
CHAPTER TEN
Ama’s story
When I reached the Senhora’s quarters, I found Alexandré swinging Miranda round and round at arm’s length so that all the furniture was in danger of being toppled over.
Dearly beloved Miranda, Alexandré’s elder sister, his half-sister, the apple of their father’s eye.
“Senhora Williams, Senhora Williams, Senhora Williams. Say a mass for Saint Gonçalo for finding you a husband,” he teased her.
Miranda screamed in mock fear, blissfully ignorant of what he was talking about.
“Alexandré, stop that this minute,” I told him.
He let go of Miranda. She stumbled around drunkenly until the dizziness wore off. Then she collapsed in a heap on the floor.
“Alexandré,” I reprimanded him, “you have been eavesdropping again.”
“Eavesdropping? Me? Ama, I thought you were my friend. Why do you make false accusations which will get me into trouble? Eavesdropping on whom?”
“Why were you calling Senhorita Miranda Senhora Williams?”
“Oh, that!” he replied.
“Yes, that! You were eavesdropping on the Senhor’s conversation with Senhor Gavin, weren’t you?”
Alexandré pouted and said nothing.
“What is this all about, Ama?” Miranda asked.
“Senhorita Miranda, can you keep a secret?”
“Of course. Tell me, tell me. What is it all about?”
“If you give me away, the Senhor will send me back to the cane fields.”
“I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“This morning I took the Senhor’s breakfast tray to him on the veranda. Then I waited in case he needed anything. I was tired and I sat down next to the cabinet. Senhor Williams came out to join your father. He asked for permission to discuss something very important with him.”
“This doesn’t sound interesting. They are always talking business. Something about the Engenho, no doubt. Why are you telling me this?”
“Young lady, you are too impatient. The important matter Senhor Williams wanted to discuss with your father was … you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“What have I done now? I have hardly spoken to the visitor.”
“Can’t you guess?” Alexandré chipped in.
“Alexandré, be quiet,” I scolded him. “This is serious. Now listen carefully, Senhorita, and brace yourself for a shock. Senhor Williams was asking your father for permission to court you.”
“To court ...?”
Miranda’s eyes and mouth opened wide. Then she blushed deeply.
“He wants to marry you.”
A tear descended from each of Miranda’s eyes. Then she began to sob. I put my arm around her shoulder.
“Don’t cry. It is nothing to cry about. He is a fine man. You should be flattered.”
That only made things worse. Miranda bawled. She hugged me and sank her head into my breast. I did my best to comfort her.
The door opened and the Senhora entered.
“What’s going on in here? The Senhor is complaining about the noise. He has a headache.”
Then she saw her daughter crying.
“Miranda, my child, what is the matter? Why are you crying? Alexandré, have you been teasing her again?”
Miranda looked up, speechless, and shook her head. I moved aside. The Senhora took her daughter’s hands.
“There now. Surely it can’t be bad enough to make you cry like that?”
Miranda burst into tears again.
“Ama, what is it? Do you know?”
I was silent.
You should have kept your big mouth shut, you stupid slave, I thought. Now you are in real trouble.
Miranda looked up and wiped her face with her hand. Her mother helped her with a handkerchief.
“Tell her,” Miranda ordered me.
“Senhorita, you promised.”
“Tell her. I promise you on my honor that my father will not send you back to the cane fields.”
“Well?” asked the Senhora, losing patience.
There was nothing for it; I had to tell her.
“Senhora, Senhor Williams, the Englishman ...”
“Yes? What about him? Speak, girl, or I’ll have you given a good beating.”
“He has asked the Senhor for permission to pay court to Senhorita Miranda.”
Zacharias
“My Mother,” I say, “that is your story. You are the only one who saw and heard it all, the conversation between Senhor Gavin and the old Senhor, Alexandré’s mischief, and Senhora Miranda’s reaction when she heard your secret.”
“Kwame, you are right. And because of that, in my own foolish way, I have always felt some sort of ownership of their courtship and m
arriage.”
I wonder what Senhor Gavin and Senhora Miranda would think if they knew what my mother was telling me. I’m quite sure Senhorita Elizabeth would be furious. I don’t understand why that girl resents me so much. Could it be because, like her parents, I am happily married, while she hasn’t been able to find a man good enough to be her husband?
Ama’s story
The Senhor gave his consent to Williams’s courtship of Miranda.
For practical reasons, he sent her and her mother to stay in the town house in Salvador. Miranda begged her father to join them, but the Senhor was wedded to the Engenho and too lazy to make a move.
I had become Miranda’s favorite companion. She wanted to take me to Salvador as her personal maid. I was thrilled at the prospect. But the Senhor vetoed the plan. There was no way he would permit himself to be made a laughing stock in the city, he said. Employing a one-eyed maid to serve his daughter! Williams was a good match for his daughter and he did not intend to allow the Englishman to slip through his fingers. So Miranda gave in and I stayed behind.
Miranda had more success in persuading her father that Alexandré should go with them. The Senhor decided that it was time to send the boy to the seminary in Salvador to prepare him to take holy orders.
Weeks passed. Josef brought regular news. Williams had been received into the Catholic Church. He dined regularly with the Senhora and her daughter. He showered Miranda with exquisite gifts. He escorted them to Mass every Sunday. He took them out driving in his coach.
It was still too early for him to make a formal proposal, but the Senhora had sufficient confidence in his honorable intentions to start assembling her daughter’s trousseau. Orders were sent to Lisbon.
Then the Engenho do Meio, the one down the road, was sold. The new owner came to call on the Senhor. He brought in many new slaves. Josef’s friend Fifi was made a senior driver by virtue of his local knowledge. Josef rejoiced for him and his family. They had been living in abject poverty. Now things might be a little better.
Williams returned to the Engenho de Cima to make a formal proposal of marriage to the Senhor. A day in June was fixed for the wedding. The Senhor’s two elder sons arrived at the Engenho, together with their wives and children, and began to make preparations. The house was too small to accommodate all the guests who were expected. The neighboring senhores de engenho would help, but tents would also be required, and a grand marquee for the reception. The sons arranged to borrow carriages and ox-carts and boats. They auditioned the slaves who could play musical instruments and sought out others in the neighborhood. The Senhor decided to shut down the mill for a month at the end of the safra. His sons needed the extra labor.
Brave Music of a Distant Drum Page 9