Daria

  There were many of them, thousands of them, young and old, men and women, all Black, their shining skin against the light of the universe competing to be seen. It was a beautiful procession of people united in their suffering, evading the enemy, walking towards their destination. Francisco and the horse trotted in front of them, guiding them and giving them strength to continue. It was an uncanny image: people guided by one man and one horse, all suddenly so sure that the end was approaching and that the shore was not far away now. They knew, they sensed, that they could finally rest on secure land and build a home. After a long while, they reached the shore and fell exhausted on the ground, thanking God or the gods in many African languages, many of which were familiar to Francisco’s ear. At the shore, there were thousands of people awaiting them as if they had known the newcomers were arriving at that precise moment. They offered the newcomers blankets and chicken soup—for their souls and bodies. They offered them the flags of many new countries. In the middle of this awaiting crowd, Francisco spotted Ana. She seemed strong and happy, young and unspoiled by Arsénio—just like when he had met her that first time at the meeting of the comrades. He dismounted from the horse and ran to her. They embraced frantically, touching one another all over to make sure they were not a mirage caused by a weakened mind and a tired body. Then, when they were certain that they were real beings in flesh and bone and blood, they rolled on the floor and cried out loud, like newborns announcing their lives to the world. Everyone looked at them and exclaimed, “Look how beautiful they are, how happy they are. Look. Look.” At that precise moment, Francisco woke up, opened his clenched hand, and read the note the compound doctor had given him: In the middle of the night there will be a song coming to you by radio waves. It is the end, my dear brother. I will shake your hand, and we’ll sing “Grândola Vila Morena” together. You will be able to hug your wife.

  THE RIVER, THE MOUNTAINS, AND THE PRISTINE CHURCH. Like Francisco, Ana fell into a dream, a grand and awe-inspiring dream, full of uncanny revelations. She travelled to places she had never travelled to and countries she never wanted to visit, as if her mind and her body were telling her the world is a very big place and must be discovered. Or as if her ancestors from Trás-os-Montes were calling her to her roots, wanting to introduce themselves to her, wanting her to know she had many people within her and many lands she could call her home. In the dream, she first felt that her body was weak, like a castle that was old, a castle with walls that, despite being massive and thick, had in them the weight of time. They had been damaged by intemperate seasons and by the countless armies that had come to ransack the castle and take possession of its wealth, mines and mines of precious minerals that had been safely kept inside the beautiful fortress for a long time. She touched herself all over, trying to determine where the hurt and tiredness were. She thought that if she could identify the wounds, she could then attempt to cure them with all the remedies she had at her disposal. She felt her long legs and her long slender arms and noticed that they had dark spots in them, like nodules of cancerous cells—cells that had gone into disarray, losing their DNA IQ, becoming mad and not knowing where to stop, multiplying endlessly and producing tumours that would eventually take over her entire body and annihilate her being. She then touched her belly, her small breasts, her navel, and the gentle part between her legs. She wanted to make sure she was still a woman of reproductive capacity and integrity who could have many more babies with the man that she knew she loved. She could not remember his name or anything specific about him, but she was certain that he existed, that she had met him, and that she had already made love with him. She knew this because her body, or perhaps her soul, carried the memory of him. She also felt within her the cries of her absent twins: Oto and Quintana. She could not remember exactly who she was, where she had been, or where she was going, but she knew she was someone who had been to many places and had many more to visit. She knew she was still young, and—despite the hurt she felt all over her body, especially in the gentle part between her legs—she was sure that life would spring out of her in the times ahead. She knew those times were coming, and she sensed they would be better, would allow her to breathe a clean air, dance in the open field of her childhood, and make love with the man of her choice. She heard the murmurs of water not far from where she was, and she followed the sound until she found the river running upwards. She looked at herself in the reflection of the water to see if she could recognize her own her face, and she was happy to see that indeed she knew who she was. She then took off her white robe and slowly entered the river waters. At first, she felt very cold; shivers ran up and down all over her, making her want to retract and regain again the certainty and warmth of the land. But she knew this initial reaction was normal and that her body was just adapting to the new world it was entering, a world that was clean and refreshing, a world that would give her body the energy it needed to continue. She washed herself thoroughly with that clean fresh river water. It was going upwards, which she found odd, for she had always thought that water ran downwards, from north to south, and not the other way around. When she was thoroughly cleansed and her body felt reenergized, she dried herself with some leaves she found on the riverbank. The leaves looked odd to her too—they were excessively long and thin, and they had a texture she had never encountered before. Still, they felt good on her skin, emitting a cool scent she could not quite recognize but which seemed to be from a tree she had read or heard about, the eucalyptus, which was known for its healing properties. She then put on her robe and walked along the river, upwards, for a long, long time. The river was moving upwards as if it were going to the North Pole, and it was calling her to go there too. She was enjoying this walk very much and did not feel tired though she knew she had walked a lot already and that she still had a great distance to conquer. She would sometimes stop to take a sip of water or just to refresh her body again. And sometimes she would be taken by the beauty of the vegetation she encountered on the shore of that great river. She was in awe of the plants and flowers she found, and especially of those little blue flowers with a yellow faint centre, so beautiful and so tiny. She would reach for them, wanting to cut them off from their source and take them with her, but then the yellow centre would smile at her and tell her not to do so. It said that if she did, the flowers would cease to exist, and without them the world would be poorer, with fewer species. She listened to the flower, and she respected its wishes and its tenacity to live. She also saw and heard birds that she had never seen or heard before. They were tinier than the ones she had seen in the world she had lived in before, but they were nonetheless magnificent. Their songs kept calling to her, sounding like faint murmurs of lyrics she knew she had in her memory but could not quite push to consciousness. When she finally reached the end of the river, she noticed that she was in a place of high mountains, green fields, and tiny, tiny houses made of sturdy stone. She looked at her surroundings and observed the smoke that was coming out of the chimneys of the small houses. There were many mountains and hills; there were many little houses like this with the same little chimneys, lost in the valleys, on the sides of the slopes, or sometimes even standing on top of hills or mountains, standing proud and defiant, built to withstand the harsh climate of the region. Her eyes could see nothing but that: mountains and hills and houses and chimneys and smoke coming out of the chimneys. It was dawn, and there was a faint fog dancing in the region and hiding some of the houses in the valley. Everything had a misty quality, and Ana felt at peace. She felt at home even though she was sure she had never set foot on that land. As the day awakened and walked towards its destiny, she saw people passing by with their sheep and goats and cows. They were taking them to pasture. The animals had bells on their necks, and as she heard the music that came from the bells and the language spoken between the animals and their caretakers, she knew the language was familiar. She knew the language she was hearing was Portuguese, the same language spoken in the land she had come from and
had always lived in—though not by most of its people. But the tone of that language was different from the one she had grown up with. And the people, though familiar, were also strange: the way they walked and talked to their animals, and the bells those animals had. It all seemed very uncanny to Ana, and she felt somehow disoriented and out of place. At the same time, she was quite sure she liked this place, and that she wanted to be introduced to its people, to eat their food, to sleep in their beds, to hear their stories and the lullabies they sang to their children when they went to sleep. She stayed there, observing her surroundings in minute detail for a long time, and then, as the night gradually approached, she noticed the lights that were now appearing to illuminate the place. And she saw the chimneys giving away smoke and the fog coming again like it had in the morning. She saw the animals and their caretakers returning from their pastures with their bellies full. She sensed how happy they all were, animals and caretakers, coming home from the mountains to sleep and rejoin their families, to rejoice in the company of those most dear to them. She noticed how the animals lived just beside the humans, and she felt the fresh smell of cow dung invading her nostrils. She saw children playing outside, happy, happy. She saw how some of them came running when they saw the animals that their parents or older siblings were bringing home and how they hugged those animals, calling them by their names. They called them Alemania and Tulipa and Madureira and many other names. A little boy approached a goat and then touched her round belly while she stood still with her ears pricked and her eyes alive, a princess in waiting. He asked his father, “When is Bem Feita going to give birth, Dad? When, when? Look at that belly, round like the moon!” And he kissed her face. Then, when all was quiet and dark, and all the families had gone inside the house to eat dinner, Ana saw a church down by the foot of a hill. Her eyes were drawn to it because it was now the only thing emitting light. It stood there, erected, at the foot of the hill, calling you like a giant messiah. It had the pristine, unspoiled, and wondrous quality of a magic circus or an ancient primal dwelling, a home calling you back, offering protection. The land was very still and very dark, except for that extraordinary church down by the foot of the hill, and she felt she was almost blind. She made her way there by resorting mostly to her other senses, like a truly blind person does. She walked carefully and slowly, feeling the stones of the path with her feet; sensing the branches on the sides with her long arms; opening her ears to the faint melodies coming from the magic, illuminated place resting by the hill; and following the light that came from that centre of life. As she came closer to the church, she could hear distinct songs, beautiful songs, words and vibrations that sounded religious or perhaps just agreeable to the soul. Ave Marias and arias so enchanting that she thought she was an angel approaching heaven and being invited to come in by the kindness of God or the gods. And indeed, as she approached the church, which was closed for the ceremony, someone came to the door to open it and allow her in. As she stepped on the granite stone of the church stairs, and as she extended her hand to the massive wooden doorknob, she saw in front of her a little boy dressed in white. He smiled and said, “Come in, my lady. Come in. This is your home too.” She went in, putting her feet on the cool granite floor. Dressed in her white robe and with her hair falling down, she looked like a virginal vision to the people inside the church who were there precisely to celebrate the birth of Jesus. There was an elaborate Nativity scene on the side of the altar where the little baby rested on Mary’s arms. Mother and baby were encircled by Joseph, the Magi, the sheep, and the cows, a sturdy barrier protecting them from the wrath of Herod, that beastly cannibal who could be satiated only by the blood of innocent babies. This scene was truly beautiful even though all the figures were lifeless and made of ceramic. They stood there like statues to be adored and revered but did not seem to give much back, as if blind and mute to the cold of the winter and to the real pains of people. When they saw Ana, the celebrating parishioners came to her and chanted, “Ave Maria, Ave Maria cheia de Graça, Ave Maria, Ave Maria full of Grace.” They chanted and chanted and clapped and clapped, all of them—young and old, men and women, fat and thin. The priest came to her and put around her head a wreath of white and red roses, and then he performed a ritual that involved the elaborate recital of a text in Latin and then in Ancient Greek. Finally, in a language that everyone understood, he pronounced her the virgin of the night, the true mother of Jesus, the magnanimous woman who gave birth to the saviour. They sung some more songs that seemed to be in different European languages, and then they switched to African songs, some of which Ana knew. They would alternate between languages, between songs, and they would play various instruments, some serene and low like the flute or the piano in a low key, others thunderous and potent like drums or horns. She became immersed in this feast of the body and soul, and she danced with everyone, men and women, young and old, thin and fat. Then they formed a circle and moved, hand in hand, inside the church, dancing, chanting in a collective act of profound solidarity. They did this for a long time, but no one was tired. It was as if everyone in that church, including Ana, knew the ritual had to be performed for a long time, the songs sung many times, the dances danced many rounds until the last drop of hope that they were waiting for came, announcing, strong and unmistakable, the end of suffering and the beginning of love. And indeed, that last drop of hope finally came. As Ana watched, the door of the church suddenly opened by itself and she saw healthy, strong, and upright, her beloved Francisco Magno Motumba. He was in a white robe too. She stopped dancing and chanting, took a big breath, and then ran to him: a princess running to her prince with whom she had momentarily cut ties and not because of her own accord. He took her in his arms, and, just as he had seen it in his own dreams, they felt each other fully, up and down, to make sure that they were real beings in flesh and bone and blood and not figments of a wishful and very tired mind and body. When they were fully certain that they were real and alive, the parishioners came to them and guided them to the side of the altar where the Nativity scene was. They took out all the ceramic figures and carelessly dropped them on the floor, breaking some of them, and then they took Ana and Francisco by the hand and seated them inside the scene. Their naked feet rested on the fluffy softness of moss that had been gathered from the rich floors of pine tree forests, which are abundant in that land. The people went outside, brought in their real sheep and cows, and placed them there as well. They brought in the goat Bem Feita, who was contorting herself with pain—her hour had come. They helped her bring the little one out. It was a she-goat, and they named her a Encantada, the Enchanted. Finally, they brought in a baby who was clearly of mixed race, even though the mother had claimed she had only made love with her husband. He had not believed her and had since divorced her, leaving her alone with an unwanted baby to raise by herself. They brought in this unwanted baby boy and placed him in Ana’s arms. She received him with eagerness and love, and showed him to Francisco. They both undressed him and touched him all over his tiny body to make sure that he was healthy and to stare at that beautiful skin of his. The scene was now perfect. Everyone in that church was happy and standing still, looking at the Nativity scene, smiling, in awe of what they were witnessing. Ana and Francisco and the little one felt at home. They felt wanted, loved, dignified. Someone in the audience took a photo of this scene and then showed it to everyone. They decided to call the photo and the scene the Mystic Nativity, and indeed, if one were to carefully look at the photo and the scene it depicted, one would clearly see elements of Sandro Botticelli’s masterpiece. There were the colours; the decorative detail; the levels of vision with three centres of power; the grand scene in the middle with the virgin and the baby; the golden, open heavens; the kind and simple magi in adoring awe; and the virgins and the angels immersed in devotion and love, and flying in sensual ecstasy. There were also the dark demons lurking here and there, reminding us of the exquisite mastery and insight of the early Renaissance painter. They also remind
ed us of the teachings of the Dominican friar Girolamo Savonarola, that man from Ferrara known for burning books and immoral art, who believed art should reflect the best of human nature, like a superior vision calling humans to their higher realization. The photo, as a mirror of the thing it reproduced, seemed to have a more powerful effect than the thing being depicted. It was as if the camera that had taken the photo possessed a soul, perhaps the soul of the person who took it, which would equate to the soul of the artist. That soul was a clear mirror of our lives and told us, in vivid detail, what our lives could be, ought to be, if we could get rid of all the devils roaming around, often in the most secretive places, which we often failed to even notice. Then, after adoring, in speechless wonder, the colours and magnificence of the photo and of the thing the photo reproduced, the people heard a sound: a rooster’s crow announcing the Christmas Eve midnight mass. The sound then transformed into another melody, becoming a chant with very distinct and unmistakable lyrics: