Daria

  “Without that colour,” said the auroch, “we would be all blind and nothing would be differentiated. We would live in an amorphous world with no cedars and no wolves, without water, without spring. And the grey of our brain could not find its tone.” Following the auroch’s advice, the Nubian closed his eyes to the whiteness that was in front of him, for it was winter and the Atlas Mountains were covered with snow. He stayed like that for some time, and then, at the command of the auroch, he opened his eyes again. There it was in front of him. For the second time, he could see the stunning black matter dancing in circles, bubbles, and lines. It was going up and down, intermingling with the whiteness of the snow in a spectacle to die for. He could also see inside himself. He noted the intricate workings of his own brain: the atoms and molecules, the veins and the sub-veins, the circulating blood, and the black bubbles of the precious matter—all the fundamental elements that make us think and love and be wise.

  After telling this story to the villagers of Vimieiro, the Nubian master then proceeded to distribute glasses to everyone and instructed the audience to put them on. This was the only way, he said, they would be able to see the black matter that was going to come out of his box once he opened it. He had invented these high-definition glasses himself, though he had received advice from many of the animals he had come across since the auroch had shown him how to see black matter on the top of the Atlas Mountains in Morocco. The glasses were made of uranium and mercury and had a thin layer of gold, the substance that permits the travelling of light. The villagers did as they were told, and when they all had the glasses on, the master gave a commanding whistle to signal that the moment was coming. Then he opened the box. At first, the audience saw in front of them a milky white vacuum that obscured their vision, but then they saw, slowly ascending from the magic box, spirals of black flowers. These were followed by or intermingled with black bubbles, inside of which were many black things unravelling slowly and steadily: corncobs and Pinto beans, rainbows, horses, Adam and Eve, the big apple, an oak tree, a kangaroo with a baby in its sac, a white frangipani, a rat and an ant, sardines and codfish, a cow and a mule, Galileo and Jesus Christ, Nabia and Apollo, a serpent and a comb, the sun and the moon, a hen and her egg, and many other things that they could not name or understand—perhaps because they belonged to faraway places and had never been seen in Vimieiro.

  The last night the Romani stayed in Vimieiro, the circus put on another spectacle that was out of this world in beauty, in meaning, and in transcendence. The Nubian master came out dressed in his usual white silk vest. He looked stunning: tall, dark, with the unmistakable elegance of a real king. In his hand, he carried a long silver stick and a large circle, inside of which were many little circles. He stood still and silent in the middle of the podium, staring at nothing. Then suddenly he moved the smallest circle from inside the many others, taking it out of the intricate entanglement. This movement sounded like a faintly tolling bell. It sounded like it was coming to the audience from a faraway monastery or church somewhere, announcing the commencement of mass or simply reminding the villagers that it was time to stop working and devote themselves to prayer. But, in fact, this sound was calling the first animal to the podium. Out came the smallest lion, a white cub, agile and tiny. Moving with confidence, it jumped up and went through the small circle held perfectly still by the master. The circle did not move, nor did the master; the only movement was the one produced by the little lion’s body as it entered the circle with a velocity of an arrow. When it came out on the other side, it landed on the ground steadily and with a calm kind of grace. After this first exercise, the other cubs, which gradually grew in size, came out to perform the same ritual as the master moved to the bigger circles to accommodate the size of each animal. As the circle became larger and larger, the sound produced by its movement also became louder and louder, as if the call to mass or prayer was no longer a distant one but rather something very present and urgent, directly addressing the audience. The last lion to come out was the mother lioness—a massive creature that roared like thunder, making the onlookers’ entrails swell in fear. The Nubian master then played the same game with the cheetahs, the elephants, the giraffe, the panthers, the snakes, and the birds, all of which took turns jumping in and out of the circle. On a second round of tricks, the order of animals was changed: snakes, birds, elephants, giraffe, cheetahs, and panthers entered the circle in succession and amazing rapidity without creating any chaos. The master stood as immobile as before, efficiently switching the circles. Then he held his silver stick straight up, pointing to the sky, and the animals jumped onto its tip, each one remaining there for several minutes. The master still did not move; his face displayed no sign of distress, and his eyes were as serene as ever, even when he was holding the larger animals like the mother lioness or the elephant or the giraffe. The audience sighed in awe and screamed when they saw the giraffe standing very still on the tip of the silver stick, up high, high in the sky with her long neck stretching far into the horizon. It was breathtaking. It was nighttime, and the sky’s azure expanse was scintillating with thousands of stars. It was extraordinary. It was dizzying. Then, as if this were not enough, all the animals jumped on top of the giraffe’s head, one by one, building a spiral staircase that did not seem to end and went on and on ad infinitum to touch the wings of the stars. The seven ballerinas were the last ones to jump onto this heavenly ladder, and they were so high up that the audience could barely see them. Then, just as the ballerinas were rising farther up into the skies—carrying magic wands like true fairies of a true world—everything and everyone was brought down. One by one, the snakes, elephants, birds, cheetahs, lions, panthers, the giraffe, and ballerinas descended, falling down gracefully like trophies from the other world being offered to the peasants of Vimieiro. The villagers eagerly opened their arms to receive them so that they would not fall on the dry, hard earth and break their limbs. The result was that there were people and children hugging snakes, elephants, cheetahs, panthers, lions, the giraffe, and birds, and no one could tell where the animal began and the person ended. It was love and communion. It was lovely. It was delightful. It was beautiful. Then, in a final shower of beauty, butterflies began to descend, coming down from everywhere, mixing with the animals and the master and the people. The rain of wings was kissing everything and everyone, and everyone and everything felt like flying was all there was to do. There was, among all, the feeling that they were no longer citizens of the earth and had entered another zone—a realm of dancing and swimming where the weight of the body is no longer felt and the hunger of the soul no longer hurts. After the magic had passed, and everyone felt they were citizens of this world again, a fat, stocky man with a red face came to the centre of the podium and started laughing stridently, awakening in each person a visceral need to eat, drink, and copulate. His laughter reminding them of how alive their bodies were and the power they exerted over their lives. They started dancing and screaming, acting like true sons and daughters of Dionysius—eternal, content drunkards. Many pointed to the man and shouted from the depths of their lungs, “Zé Povinho, Zé Povinho!” When everyone was about to jump onto one another to satisfy the needs of their bodies, needs that had suddenly been awakened, the mood changed again. The fat, laughing man disappeared, and for a moment everything became dark, even the stars above seemed to have left the Milky Way to illuminate other galaxies. There was nothing now. Nothing. Only pitch and perfect darkness, a suspending blindness hanging over everything and everyone. Then, gradually, little candles start to appear, drops of light falling into the stark darkness and bringing with them the birth of the world. And then, before the audience knew it, there were circles and circles of candles, small circles inside bigger circles, so many of them, like round gardens of white flowers flickering through the night. As a final wondrous touch, the animals appeared again. Instinctively knowing its place, each animal entered its respective circle in an orderly fashion, one at a time, until all
were there. Inside the big circle, the circle of circles, stood the master. He was immobile as he commanded this whole operation of blinding beauty. And then it was all over. Everyone clapped. Everyone cried and laughed out of pure emotion and love for the world. The chief of the band and the new circus—a tall, dark, and handsome man, with a long moustache and a severe look on his face—stood backstage and fondled the ends of his moustache, thinking about the magnificent beauty of his enterprise. He thought about how much it gave to people and how much it gave him both spiritually and materially. This business was good, the best he had ever invested in. The next day was a sad day. The caravan left, taking with it all the magic. The villagers returned to the reality of their harsh lives, some with tears still in their eyes, others with a longing on their faces that would not go away until the next season when the Romani would return, bringing with them the sacred creative seed that still pulsates in the world’s womb.

  This Romani band was the same that had taken Camila last time they had passed by. When they first arrived in Vimieiro, Arsénio had run to them, eagerness and hope in his eyes, to see if he could spot his mother. But she was nowhere to be seen among the noisy convoy where people and animals, colours and instruments, and all kinds of other magic paraphernalia mixed up, creating a sense of disorder and chaos. The chief of the band told him and all the other villagers that Camila das Dores had been killed by a group of bad, greedy Romani she had run off with. They had been selling her to everyone willing to pay in Portugal, Spain, and well beyond. And indeed many would be willing to pay because the woman had an astounding capacity to make love with a man; she could make him feel the nectar of the bees and the feathers of God’s birds all over his body. She had been buried high up the Pyrenees mountains and covered with layers and layers of snow in the hopes that her body would forever remain intact and that the whiteness and freshness of the snow would cleanse it from any dirt it may possess. When Arsénio heard this, he felt like his world had come to an end: no longer would he be able to hug his mother, to look into her eyes or to drink from her clean cup, the only cup that could make water taste like water. He went mad for several days, insisting that the Romani were liars and that his mother was still alive. He accused them of keeping her prisoner somewhere and exploiting her, and, as evidence, he pointed to the size of their convoy, the extra horses, the carts of merchandise, and the circus they were now running. He got into a physical fight with a group of boys in the band until the chief put an end to it and told him he had to find a way to become a man without his mother. Then Arsénio said he was going to the Pyrenees and that he would not rest until he could find his mother’s body. He promised to bring her back and give her a proper burial in the cemetery of Vimieiro. Everyone tried to calm him down. They told him that going to the Pyrenees was an impossible task that would get him killed; they said the mountains were very high, the snow would engulf him in one single movement, and he would die a white, horrific, cold death before he could find his mother’s body. He did not want to listen and took off on foot, determined to reach the faraway mountains that separate France from Spain. When he was in Salamanca, he was picked up by the Spanish police. Since he had no papers and was a minor, he was brought to Vilar Formoso, and the border authorities then drove him back to Vimieiro. When he came back his eyes were crazed and he was as thin as a eucalyptus tree. His cheeks had sunk into a defunctness that scared anyone who saw him, as if what they saw was no longer of this world. His father beat him and tied him up at home for several days to make him see reason, make him forget his dead mother. His father said she was just a whore anyway, always bringing shame and sorrow to the family. Just as Arsénio seemed to be getting more accustomed to the idea that his mother was gone forever, other news came that disturbed his fragile sense of peace, making him more distressed than ever. Malaquias Alcatraz, a Portuguese soldier who had fought at the Battle of La Lys in Flanders, came back to Vimieiro in 1918, just after the armistice was signed. He claimed that Camila das Dores was the most well-known prostitute at the camp of La Lys and had died of a venereal disease. She had been interred at a cemetery on the French side in Richebourg, amongst the many soldiers who had died in battle. Her grave was surrounded by white and blue tulips, and it had a stone with an engraving that read, Here lies an unknown soldier—the one who fought the hardest battle. Arsénio became angry again and attempted to fight Malaquias for spreading false rumours about his mother. He did not know if he should believe the Romani or Malaquias. He had recurring dreams about his mother. Sometimes in these dreams he would see himself climbing the Pyrenees for a long time, a circular time that seemed to have no end. And then he would see himself at the highest point of the mountain range, where he was sure his mother was buried. He would scratch the snow ferociously with his hands, like an angry dog looking for a buried meal, trying to uncover her body. Then he would fall into the hole he had managed to open and, breathless and gasping for air, he would watch the endless whiteness closing in on him until he stopped breathing and his heart stopped pounding. He would wake up exhausted, scared, confused, and feeling like he had died in his sleep and would never again be able to be a living being. Other times in these dreams, he would see himself running through Spain and then France, trying to reach Richebourg. Sometimes he would be stopped by the police in Spain or France and sent back to Portugal since he could not prove that he was a citizen of either country and all he could say when addressed was Yo soy portugués or Je suis portugais. But sometimes he managed to evade the sentinel of the police and reach his destination: the cemetery in Richebourg. He would go around and around trying to find his mother’s grave, but it was an impossible task for all the graves appeared the same. They were all encircled with white and blue tulips, and the engraving on all the upright tombstone was exactly the same: Here lies an unknown soldier—the one who fought the hardest battle. It was as if the person who designed the cemetery was an architect of equality who wanted to emphasize the greatness of each soldier and, at the same time, annihilate selfishness and egoism. He would run around the cemetery in endless circles, feeling like he was in a labyrinth with no end and no beginning, trapped in a maze of flowers and engravings and tombstones that said nothing about his mother, that placed her in eternal anonymity and made him enter a state of profound melancholia. Still other times, he would dream that he was standing on top of the Pyrenees, and then, after meditating for a long time, he would see his beloved mother leave the belly of the mountains and ascend to heaven in slow motion, beautiful like never before, enveloped in a white cotton robe, whiter than any white he had ever seen. At that moment, he would extend his arm to reach her body so that he could say goodbye to her before she forever left to inhabit the skies, but as his finger gently touched her, her body would disintegrate and she would break into large fleecy snowflakes as if it had suddenly started to snow. As a last attempt to receive her, he would stand erect, his eyes closed, his face upwards, his arms fully extended, feeling her disintegrated body fall upon him like a mantle of soft wool, offering him a last warm moment to remember in eternity or winter’s cold. For a brief moment, he would feel her gentleness on his face and all over his body—a sort of feathery embrace that reminded him of the goodnight kisses and hugs she gave him when he was a little boy just before he fell asleep, right after she finished telling him enchanting stories of faraway lands where the world is perfect and people are always happy. But then it was all over, and when he opened his eyes, all of her had already fallen on the mountain’s mesa to become a nothingness that was indistinguishable from the rest of the whiteness covering the endless chain. He would feel cold to the core, falling on his knees, crying and sweeping the frigid floor with his entire body, trying to find trace of his mother: an arm, a single strand of hair, a cheek that he could put against his to feel her flesh one more time. But there was nothing; there was only a bare endless whiteness that annihilated every form or shape, killing every individual in existence and making the world dead. Sometimes he would
also dream that he was watching the beautiful show put on by the Romani circus. In the dream, he would see his mother, real and intact, coming out of one giant black bubble. He would scream with joy and run to catch the bubble, but when he grabbed it everything disappeared. He would feel blind again, falling into a white milky nothingness, frantically trying to search for the magnifying glasses that had fallen out of his eyes. These dreams assaulted him for a long time, making him very tired and afraid to go sleep. He became more and more withdrawn and morose, his melancholia reaching unbearable heights. He was often alone and had that look of those who have lost something very dear to them, something that cannot be replaced with anything else. All these misadventures had made Arsénio into a very, very dark man, one who was capable of doing to others what life had done to him. It was as if he refused to live alone in his excruciating pain and needed some company to help him bear the heavy load.

  There was also the affair of the priest, what he did to Arsénio for years and years. Slowly and gradually, the priest started touching his hand more and more, telling him during the secret and sacred moments of confession that he was the true son of God, a very special boy, and that was why he was so fond of him. He had been told by God that Arsénio ought to be treated in a very special way and needed a lot of guidance because of his bad father and gravely disturbed mother. God told him to become Arsénio’s closest friend. And indeed Arsénio needed a very close friend, even more so when his cousin was away at the seminary, and so he believed the priest. They had long sessions alone, and the things that the priest asked Arsénio to do were many and very strange. He was just a boy, and he was lonely, and he believed in God, so he obeyed. Only when he became older, did he understand that what the priest had asked of him was not saintly, was not good, was not pure. He kept the sordid secret within himself and did not even divulge it to his cousin, his best friend who knew almost everything about him. When his cousin became the head of state, Arsénio was sent to Tarrafal to be the chief of the prison. The communist dissidents from the metropolis were kept there, as well as, later on, the guerrilla fighters of the colonies like Francisco Magno Motumba. In Tarrafal, Arsénio regained some self-respect. He felt like he was a man of power, and he made sure that no one would ever step on him again: not his father, not the priest, not the boys in school who called him names. But today he felt a sense of profound helplessness come upon him, rising from the depths of his being, making him feel alone, scared, incapable. He felt that nothing he had devoted his life to was really worthwhile, for all he had ever wanted was to be a painter, a fine artist who could capture the beauty of life. He wanted to capture the subtleties that live under the visible spheres, which only especially wise human beings can see. Because Arsénio could not be an artist, he had had to find a way to keep some sanity in the midst of the horrible work his father forced him to do or when he himself was doing something horrible. Whenever he could, he would try to paint one thing or another. As an attempt to capture the soul and body of his mother, he frequently painted portraits of her. This exercise gave him some solace, and when he was immersed in this endeavour, he would feel very close to his mother, as if they were together again, just like when she carried him in her womb or when she returned from her stays with the Romani to take care of him and love him, very, very much. As he grew older, the portraits of his mother became insufficient for his all-consuming hunger and the profound yearning he had for her inside him. He started to make life-sized dolls of her with rubber and plastic. His room in Tarrafal was full of these portraits and dolls, all trying to capture his mother’s essence and bring her back so that he could go on with his life. And when things were bad and he could not get the secrets out of the prisoners with the portraits of Rembrandt, he would close himself in his room for an intimate tête-à-tête with his mother, as if there was a connection between the mystery of her disappearance and the activities of the guerrilla fighters who were working hard to destroy the great empire. He would stare with intensity and melancholia at his mother’s lookalikes, trying to solve the mysteries that had affected and were affecting his life. He spoke to her in tender and supplicatory tones, trying to awaken her from dormancy. He touched the different versions of her face on all the portraits, looking into her eyes, asking for answers, asking for love, asking for something that he could not quite name but that he desperately needed to save both himself and the great nation. He spent hours alone with the likenesses of his mother, talking, observing, caressing, and supplicating. But it was all to no avail because the effigies did not reveal any secrets. They stood mute on the walls, or sitting on the chairs, like beautiful but blind mercies that could not be awakened by the needs of anyone, those cavernous endless empty spaces that lie deep within each of us. Today, after his disappointing sessions with Francisco, Arsénio followed all these rituals, observing, supplicating, and asking for guidance from the effigies. As usual, nothing of substance came and all he could see were shadows: shadows on their hair, shadows on their dark eyes, shadows on their limbs, shadows on their wombs. They were mere lifeless dolls, mirages of something that once was. Then, sipping on a glass bottle of Coca-Cola, his favourite drink, second only to the sour green wine from Vimieiro, Arsénio reread the letter he had recently received from his cousin urging him to act. He tried to summon some hope and regain strength for the hard-core punishment that he needed to inflict upon Francisco the next day. He summoned hope that Francisco’s secret would be divulged and the empire would be saved from the communists, or whomever was after it with greedy eyes and dog’s teeth, just like what had happened many, many years ago when he had to use one of his most efficient methods on Miguel Cunhal, the cocky communist leader who thought he could escape his hands. And to reassure himself that he could deal with Motumba the next day as he’d dealt with Cunhal many years ago, he reread that letter that his cousin had sent him then, also urging him, begging him to act, to save the empire.