Brave Music of a Distant Drum

by Manu Herbstein

  Miranda got up and went to the window. She stood there a long time, looking out toward the horses in the paddock. When she spoke, it was in such a low voice that I had to strain to hear her.

  “Senhor Gavin’s uncle in London sent him a new book recently. Senhor Gavin says he can’t put it down, but that I would find it boring, so he just tells me what it says. He is so clever, Senhor Gavin. Sometimes I wish I were a man.”

  She came back and sat on the floor, legs crossed, in front of me, looking up at me.

  “The author, Dr. Adam Smith, says that slavery is stupid and that it is also wicked. He says it spoils the soil. He says it costs us more to keep you all as slaves than it would if we gave you your freedom and paid you a wage, like we do with the overseers and the Tupi. He says the real reason that we keep slaves is not that it makes us rich, but that it makes us feel powerful, especially our men. Senhor Gavin says that the more he thinks about it, the more he sees the truth in Dr. Smith’s arguments.”

  I saw that Miranda was crying. I said nothing but took a handkerchief and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  “Ama,” she said, “if one day the Engenho de Cima becomes mine, I will set every slave here free. And you will be the first.”

  “Hush,” I replied. “You must not speak of your parents’ death like that. I believe you; from the bottom of my heart, I believe you. But please don’t tell the Senhor the way you feel; nor the Senhora. Let it be a secret between us, just the two of us.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Zacharias

  “Now Kwame,” my mother says to me, “the time has come for you to enter this story. You are a father; and fathers should know something about childbirth. So I am going to tell you about your own birth.”

  That is not something I want to hear. When our daughter Carlota was born, I found something else to occupy me, far away from Iphigenia. I left everything to the midwives. I don’t agree with my mother. Childbirth is the business of women. But she is my mother and I must listen to her and put her story down on paper.

  In her account of my birth, she does not mention that I was born out of wedlock. It might have been the old Senhor’s fault for refusing to allow my parents to marry in church, but the truth is that they lived in sin throughout their life together. That doesn’t seem to concern her. It does concern me.

  There is something else which troubles me as much.

  “My Mother,” I ask her, “is it really true that even before I was born, Senhora Miranda promised to give you your freedom?”

  “Yes, it is true,” she says.

  I don’t tell her that Senhora Miranda has made the same promise to me.

  “Why hasn’t she kept her promise?” I ask.

  “That is a question you must direct to Senhora Miranda.”

  Ama’s story

  Miranda’s child arrived first.

  Together, she and I had prepared one of the guest rooms for the delivery. When her waters broke, we sent down to the senzalas for the midwives. The women surrounded her bed, kept her arms and legs moving, and urged her to “push, push, Senhora.” Benedito’s wife offered her a crucifix to kiss, put a rosary on her belly, and prayed to Santa Miranda to watch over her namesake. The old Senhora, Miranda’s mother, walked up and down, giving orders to which the women paid no attention; for once, it was they who were in charge. I sat by her side throughout; it was I who announced to Miranda that her baby was a girl; I who held the child while the cord was cut and smeared with oil and pepper; and I who took it upon myself to give the infant her first bath.

  Miranda insisted that when my turn came, a week later, I should give birth on the same bed in the same room. The scene was much the same, except for the absence of the Senhora, who was not well, and the reversal of our roles. But whereas Miranda’s labor had been short, mine was long and painful. The child, as you know, was a boy. Miranda bathed you but by the time she brought you to show to me, so she told me later, I had fallen into an exhausted sleep.

  When I woke, it was evening and the candles had been lit. Miranda sat on an upright chair by my side, holding you. You were asleep. Senhor Gavin sat in an armchair nearby.

  Tomba stood at the end of the bed. I watched him shift his weight from one bare foot to the other. Senhor Williams had never recognized my João as the Tomba who had been my co-conspirator on board ship, but Tomba was always nervous in his presence, fearing that revelation of the past might result in his being sold to a distant engenho. He was uncomfortable in the presence of all whites, but Williams more so than others. Miranda, too, had failed to win his confidence, though not from want of trying. Tomba had his reservations about my friendly relationship with my mistress, and had tried to persuade me to have my child in our cabin rather than in the casa grande; but I had persuaded him, with some difficulty, that it would be in the baby’s best interest to accept Miranda’s kindness.

  Now Miranda lifted you up.

  “João, take him and show him to Ama,” she commanded.

  Tomba did what he was told. We smiled at one another as Miranda brought a candle closer so that I could inspect you.

  “Here, João, won’t you sit down?” Miranda said, pulling a chair forward for him, but he preferred to remain standing.

  I saw Senhor Gavin incline his head in a signal to his wife that they should leave us alone together. Miranda rose and then hesitated.

  “Wait,” she said. “There is one thing I must discuss with Ama before we go. Senhor Gavin has to return to Salvador soon. We have decided to have our baby baptized in the chapel on Sunday, a week from tomorrow. We are going to call her Elizabeth. If you will agree, I ... we, would like you to have your baby baptized on the same day. We can discuss it later, but I thought you might like to talk about what name you intend to give him while João is here.”

  She leant down to kiss me on the forehead.

  “I’ll come back and bring you some soup after João has left,” she said.

  It was Miranda’s suggestion that you be baptized with the name of Zacharias, the father of John the Baptist.

  “My brother is going to be Elizabeth’s godfather and I have persuaded Senhor Gavin to be godfather to Zacharias, unless you have someone else in mind, that is.”

  “Senhora Miranda, are you sure there will be no objection?” I asked. “Zacharias and Elizabeth were husband and wife, you know.”

  “And that means your Zacharias is going to marry my Elizabeth? What rubbish, Ama. Sometimes I think you are just too sensitive.”

  By the Sunday of the baptism, we had already given you a name. The day before, the seventh day after your birth, I rose very early, an hour before the work bell was due to sound. Josef went from cabin to cabin in the dark, rousing our friends. When they had assembled at the usual place, he poured libation, praying briefly in Fante and then switching to Portuguese so that all could understand.

  “Spirits of our forefathers, we greet you. I am Josef from Anomabu. With me are all the Africans of the Engenho de Cima. Spirits of our forefathers, we bring you this drink and beg you to accept it. We have risen early this morning to welcome a new arrival in our midst.”

  “Who is the mother of this child?” he asked.

  “I, Ama.”

  “And the father?”

  “I, Tomba.”

  “Ancestors of Ama and of Tomba, bear witness, we beg you, to the arrival of their first child. It is a boy. Watch over him, guard him, make him strong and wise, honest and compassionate.”

  “Tomba, what name do you give to this child?”

  “I call him Kwame for the spirit of the day on which he was born; and I call him Zumbi in honor of the great King of Palmares.”

  Everyone clapped their hands. Josef spilled cachaça on the ground.

  “Spirit of Zumbi of Palmares, we call upon you. Enter into this our boy-child and make him great, even as you are great.”


  Josef sat down on a stool and I handed you to him.

  He dipped his right forefinger into a small bowl of water and used it to wet your lips and tongue. He did the same again, and then a third time. Then he addressed you.

  “Kwame Zumbi, if you say this is water, let it be water which I place upon your tongue.”

  Wono offered him another small bowl, this one containing cachaça. He performed the same custom, saying, “Kwame Zumbi, if you say this is cachaça, let it be cachaça which I place upon your tongue.”

  Finally he said to you, “Kwame Zumbi, I have shown you the difference between water and strong drink. If you say it is black you see, let it truly be black. If you say it is white you see, let it be white.”

  He rose and handed you to me. Tomba drank from the bowl of cachaça and I also took a sip.

  “Now we have shown your son to the ancestors,” Josef told us, “you are free to bring him out of doors.”

  Our friends lined up to shake our hands. Then the work bell rang.

  Zacharias

  This pagan rite performed upon me as a child has no force, thank the Lord. It is null and void, wiped out, canceled, by my baptism. When I return to Salvador, I shall tell Senhora Miranda how grateful I am to her for insisting that I be baptized. And I may ask her proud daughter, Senhorita Elizabeth, if she knows that the two of us were baptized on the same Sunday, in the same church, with the same holy water. I wonder what she’ll say to that. If she denies it, I’ll call her mother as my witness.

  As for my own mother, when I ask her to tell me about my baptism, she says she can’t remember. I fear that she might be beyond salvation. Nevertheless, I shall continue to honor her as the fifth commandment enjoins, and I shall redouble my prayers that she may see the light.

  Ama’s story

  Life at the Engenho de Cima hardly changed. The annual cycle of the safra, of St. John’s Day and the feasts of the Virgin Mary and the other saints, of Christmas and Easter, continued in an unbroken succession. Slaves worked the ten years, more or less, which fate has allotted to us, died, and were replaced by new ones from Africa. One year slipped into the next.

  In spite of their promises, Senhor Gavin and Senhora Miranda seldom visited the Engenho.

  Josef brought us news of them. Senhor Gavin’s business interests kept him occupied and Senhora Miranda, encouraged by her husband, became increasingly involved in the high society of Salvador. When they did come, they never brought Elizabeth.

  The Senhor became increasingly frail, but steadfastly refused to follow his slaves to the grave. The Senhora’s hair turned white and she spent more and more of her time in prayer and reading the lives of the saints, leaving the day-to-day running of the casa grande to me and the other house slaves. Increasingly Jesus Vasconcellos took over the running of the business, although the Senhor, in spite of his decrepitude, never allowed him an entirely free hand.

  Olukoya remained a tower of strength, advising, arbitrating, leading by example. He has always been sustained by an unwavering conviction of the value of what we brought with us from Africa and by a vision of a better future, an African Brazil.

  Old Benedito, on the other hand, was confirmed in his faith by the steady growth in the number of converts.

  Olukoya was (and still is) intolerant of human failings, particularly those that cause pain to others; in the other camp, Father Isaac, behind the curtain of the confessional, casually dispensed total absolution from the most abominable behavior at the price of a few Hail Mary’s and the admonition to go and sin no more. Some of us kept a foot in both camps; but to me that was sheer hypocrisy.

  The Senhor could no longer walk from his bedroom to his rocking chair on the veranda. Bernardo and Tomás, the Hausa blacksmith, fashioned a simple wheelchair for him. Then he became too weak to sit up and had to lie all day and night in his darkened bedroom. I fed him, washed him, changed his bedclothes, and treated his sores as best I could. He was heavy, and turning him several times a day strained my back. It still troubles me. The Senhora visited him once a day, prayed, and then left him to our tender mercies. Father Isaac said a perfunctory Mass in his bedroom once a week. Then the Senhor became incontinent. I wiped him and washed him and dried him; but try as I might, I could not clear the pervasive smell of excrement from his room. The Senhora stopped coming to pray by his side. I sat down at his desk, found quill and ink, and wrote to Miranda. Josef took the letter to Salvador. Miranda sent her reply by word of mouth: she had one or two urgent matters to attend to; she would come as soon as she had dealt with them.

  The Senhor was dying. He had not eaten for several days and his breathing was irregular. I called the priest. Father Isaac administered the extreme unction, fanning his own face while he did so in an attempt to dissipate the foul smell of illness and death. A pale wraith appeared at the door but did not come in; it was the Senhora. I was alone with the old man when he died.

  “Senhora,” I told her, “the Senhor is dead.”

  She did not seem to hear, so I repeated the words loudly in her ear.

  “I heard you. I may be old but I’m not deaf,” she replied and crossed herself three times.

  The priest, on hearing the news, made the same sign.

  I went down to the carpentry shop.

  “Bernardo,” I told the carpenter in Fante, “dust off his coffin and send it up. I’m worn out. I’m going to tell Josef to take the news to Salvador and then I’m going to sleep. I’ll wash his body when I wake up.”

  Zacharias

  “My Mother,” I tell her, “you may not be a Christian, but that was Christian work you did, succoring the sick and dying.”

  “Thank you, Kwame,” she says.

  She still insists on calling me Kwame.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I never did hear those two words pass the old Senhor’s lips. He had little love for me. And his family hardly showed any gratitude for the way I nursed him in his last days. Sometimes I think I should have just let him rot in his own excrement.”

  It is sad. She is my mother and has many fine qualities, but I have to say it: she lacks the capacity for forgiveness.

  Ama’s story

  By the time Miranda and her brothers arrived, everything was ready; the grave was dug; I had dressed the Senhor’s shrunken body in the uniform of a colonel of the militia, which I found in his trunk; the coffin had been placed on the veranda under an awning to keep off the sun; the kitchen staff had made their preparations to cope with the mourners expected from the surrounding districts.

  Miranda lifted her veil and kissed me on both cheeks.

  “You don’t know how grateful I am for all you have done,” she told me.

  Senhor Gavin nodded.

  “Elizabeth, dear,” said Miranda, “this is Ama. Remember I told you her son is just a week younger than you are? Ama where is Zacharias? I would love to see him.”

  Elizabeth was dressed in black, a miniature copy of her elegant mother. I knelt down and took her hands.

  “Elizabeth, let me look at you. You are so pretty. How old are you now?”

  But she ignored me.

  “Mama,” she said, “I want to see the horses and the sheep and the pigs.”

  Zacharias

  Yes, Elizabeth, Senhorita Elizabeth Williams, Miss High-and-Mighty, Nose-in-the-Air. Judging by what my mother says, she must have been born with those airs. Thank the Lord I am not like that.

  When I first arrived in Salvador with Senhora Miranda, Elizabeth welcomed me. She was stuck all alone in that big house, except when daughters of the Senhora’s friends came to visit. When there were just the two of us together, she didn’t mind playing with me. What choice did she have? But when her friends came, she let me know I was her slave. I used to hide. For one thing, I didn’t want to play with girls but, more important, I didn’t want to be humiliated by them. If Sen
hora Miranda had known how her daughter treated me when she wasn’t around, she would have reprimanded her; but once we had finished our lessons, we didn’t see much of the Senhora.

  My mother asks me, “How is Elizabeth? She must surely be married by now? Does she have children?”

  “My mother,” I tell her, “Elizabeth is still Senhorita Elizabeth. None of the Portuguese boys are good enough for her. She quotes a proverb that says that a really virtuous Portuguese woman leaves her home only three times during her lifetime, once for her christening, once for her marriage, and once for her funeral. She says she refuses to be that virtuous Portuguese woman. She wants the Senhor and the Senhora to take her to London to find an English husband.”

  Ama’s story

  The family met to read the old Senhor’s will.

  Old Benedito was given his freedom. But old Benedito was already dead.

  The Senhor’s property was to pass to the Senhora. The children would inherit their shares only after their mother’s death. The Senhora crossed herself and took no further part in the proceedings. It was decided that the eldest son would administer the Engenho, but since he was running his own sugar plantation, they had to appoint a manager. Jesus Vasconcellos was the obvious choice.

  The Senhora went to live in Salvador. Father Isaac went there, too.

  “Ama, come with me to Salvador,” Miranda said.

  “What about my son, Senhora? And João?” I asked.

  “Of course, you would bring Zacharias. But João doesn’t belong to us. I would have to talk to Senhor Gavin about him.”

  Senhor Gavin made an offer to Tomba’s master at the Engenho do Meio, but the senhor refused to sell. Tomba was a key man in the running of his mill. So, with Senhora Miranda’s reluctant consent, we stayed put.