The first recounted that one rainy night she had been possessed by the Cobra-Grande and had become so agitated that the whole island began to tremble, and as a result the river Amazon had flooded her house. She then knelt and prayed to expel this profane story from her mind. I don’t remember the other penances, only the last. The lamps were already lighting the square, and by the time the girl stopped speaking my body was weak from sweating. The penitent’s name was Maniva. Small and frail, she said she’d come from far away to work in a local politician’s house and had ended up in the orphanage. She’d studied in the missions of the Upper Rio Negro, that’s why she spoke Portuguese. Before she lived in the Vila Bela orphanage, she couldn’t stop dreaming of blood. My blood was a nightmare, the penitent said. She was about twelve years old and was already an orphan when she saw blood running from her vagina and got a fright. The first blood. She felt her head throbbing, and cried out so much with the pain that her uncle took the poor girl to be cured by the village shaman. Maniva was forbidden from entering the house because menstrual blood was harmful to the shamans. It was sacred, prohibited blood. It was sent by the spirits of nature: thunder, water, fish and even the spirits of the dead. Then the shaman said that the creator of the world sucked the powder, made from crushed paricá leaves, from his niece’s vagina when she was menstruating, asleep. Some of the powder was scattered over the lands of the peoples of the Amazon and spread throughout the forest, but only the shamans can smell the powder and see the world; only they have had the power to open people’s eyes and then transform, create and cure other beings. The girl heard this: when the shaman sucks the blood, the dust, he dies; that is to say, his soul leaves his body and travels to the other world, older than this one, the beginning of everything. He opens his arms to the clouds, embraces the sky and sings; he sits and smells several times the powder with the bone from a falcon’s leg, and so brings the other world into this one. Looking at the moving clouds, the shaman said he was in a sacred, eternal world, and so could act in the human world. He saw what I couldn’t see, what none of us can see, said Maniva. He saw the bones in his own body, and saw his soul journeying to a far distant place, until it reached the mouth of the river that flows in the depths of the earth. Then he went on climbing up a ladder, on the way to the other heaven. The most ancient shaman lives up there, on the final ladder. A sky all white and silvery. A new world. A world without disease.
When the shaman stopped speaking, Maniva’s head was no longer throbbing. She never felt pain again. But the bloody nightmares tormented her life. After her uncle died, she went to Manaus, and then came to Vila Bela with a river trader. She journeyed on, dreaming of blood until she found Mother Caminal and prayed with her to erase the nightmare. She didn’t want to remember the shaman’s words. She crossed herself, knelt down and wept, her body shaking; then she stretched her arms skyward and shouted out the name of God and the Virgin of Mount Carmel. The pilgrims’ and orphans’ applause was accompanied by shouting, and I thought about the penitent and bloody nightmares. Maniva, the pilgrims, the orphans, the nuns—was everyone going mad? It was like a hallucination as, amidst the acclamation of the Virgin, the scent of lavender sent a shiver down my spine, and I turned round to find Dinaura’s lips touching my face. She appeared without my noticing, and caressed me with warm hands that made me feverish. I felt Dinaura’s body and began to sweat, and she only went away when three drummers and a dancer entered the bandstand. They were musicians from the quilombo Silêncio do Matá, and they were the surprise of the night. One of the men lit a torch and used its heat to stretch the snakeskin of the drums. The dancer announced that they were going to perform a homage to the Virgin. Then she began to dance, alone, in the middle of the bandstand, for some minutes. The musicians remained silent. Then, in unison, the sound of the drums burst out, loud as thunder. Dinaura gripped my arm with her sweaty hand; her thigh was trembling, her feet were tapping the ground. Suddenly, she let go of me, ran to the bandstand and began to dance. The shouting that burst out had nothing to do with religious devotion. She imitated the movements and rhythm of the other woman, her shoulders bared; she wasn’t looking at me, but at the sky. I don’t think she saw a thing, nobody at all. She was blind to the world, possessed by the dance. They danced together as if they had it rehearsed. At the end they embraced, and Dinaura left, behind the bandstand. She disappeared. How was I to understand such a changeable woman, with such an unstable soul? I went to talk to the musicians and the dancer, but they didn’t know Dinaura. The orphans and the boarders went into the school, the pilgrims went back to the boats or to their homes. I stayed alone in the square . . . You want to understand someone, but all you find is silence.
I still remember the afternoons of longing and desolation, the slowly passing days and the nights of broken sleep. The four or five telegrams sent from Manaus, which I tore up in a rage without reading, without even opening them. Florita’s nervous voice asking: What if it’s something urgent?, saying: I bet Dr Estiliano wants to speak to you, and her searching for the bits of paper, trying to put words together, to decipher their meaning. One afternoon in December, I got to the square earlier, lay down on the warm seat and went to sleep. As I was awoken by the clock striking five, Dinaura’s face appeared against the sun. I had no time to ask about the dance, or to get up; I saw her black eyes, large and frightened. Could it be a dream? But I didn’t want a dream, I wanted her there, clear as day. Then I stroked Dinaura’s mouth with my fingers, felt her anxious breathing, the tremor and the sweat on the open lips as they brushed against my face. In the pleasure of the kiss, I felt a ferocious bite. I let out a cry, more out of fright than pain. I tried to speak; my tongue was bleeding. In the confusion, Dinaura escaped.
In the Carmo College, one of the boarding girls claimed I’d forced Dinaura to kiss me. One Friday morning, Florita heard that she wanted to journey to the submerged city.
Who told you that crazy story?
Iro. The messenger that lives in the square.
I went after Iro, but Estiliano caught me on the ramp going up to the Market and took me to the quay. He was on board the steamship Atahualpa and was going to spend some days in Belém before moving to Vila Bela. He asked if I’d not read the telegrams, adding: The manager wants to speak to you. He can’t pay the employees any longer, or send your money.
Is the firm in trouble?
Rubber exports have plummeted.
I was suspicious: Estiliano hadn’t told me everything. I was more anxious than he was, and struggled to swallow my curiosity.
Tomorrow the Anselm will berth in Vila Bela and then go on up to Manaus, he said.
I looked at Estiliano in annoyance: Tomorrow? Saturday? I can’t.
That girl’s intoxicated you, Arminto.
Again I heard his hoarse voice, insisting that I should go. Estiliano was right: I was drunk on Dinaura; I wanted to know why she hid her past, why the dance, the kiss, the ferocious bite that drew blood from my tongue. I didn’t have dinner with Florita or try to get her to talk. Saturday dawned cloudy, and the Anselm, in the harbour, was taking wood on board for fuel. Arneu came by the white palace to ask if I wanted to take lunch on board ship. I told him I was going to eat at home. Were any passengers going to stay in town?
Arneu pointed to three passengers: an old man, a woman and a lad.
The Becassis, a family from Belém, he said. The woman’s name is Estrela, the son is Azário. It’s said they’re going to live in Vila Bela.
For the first time I saw, in the distance, Estrela’s curly hair; she was hand in hand with her son. The older Becassis was behind the cart carrying the luggage. The vision of Estrela made me forget my deranged state. Arneu was staring stupidly at the stranger’s body; he began saying that she was the prettiest woman on the Anselm, and that she’d send the men of Vila Bela mad. I didn’t like hearing that. He had his uses, but he had a mania for making up to any woman he met. And he liked to show off, drooling over women who weren’t for him. How b
ig a tip had he got just for giving information about passengers? As he moved away, I followed the three foreigners with my eyes. On the pavement in front of the Travellers’ Bar, the old man stopped to talk with Genesino Adel. Then he went with his daughter and grandson to Salomito’s pension.
I lunched with no appetite, and as it was too early to go to the square, I lay down in the hammock in the parlour and thought about Estrela; I was thinking about her so as not to suffer more disappointment at the hands of Dinaura. The wind from the river increased the heat in the room. Was it obstinacy on my part that I wasn’t on board the Anselm? Passion and desire were more likely reasons. The whistle, the roar of the engines, the sound, like a waterfall, of the wheels at the sides, everything was gradually blotted out. The smoke from the chimney covered the open window, and I felt my body dulled as a heavy sleepiness took me to a strange place. I could clearly see Estrela’s hair waving in the water like flames. As I looked at the face, I recognised Dinaura, and heard her voice saying calmly that we could only live in peace in a city at the bottom of the river. Afterwards, in the swirling, muddy waters, I saw the stern face of a man with a threatening look. I uttered something out loud, gasped for air, and the image disappeared. I was alone in an unknown town. I woke up with my mouth open, breathing like an asthmatic. I felt my wet shirt and saw Florita’s face.
I heard the shouts of someone drowning and came to help you.
Speaking that way, she seemed to divine my dreams. I was frightened by Florita’s words—the fear of someone who knows us too well. To put her off the scent, I asked her to perfume the bathwater with cinnamon essence. When she saw me all dapper and perfumed, she said I shouldn’t leave the house.
Why?
She didn’t answer. And I trusted to my intuition. Before five o’clock, I went to the Ribanceira and leant against the trunk of the cuiarana tree, in the spot where I’d seen Amando die. On the ground were flowers torn down by the wind. A sky just like this afternoon: big, thick clouds. Matadouro Street was deserted. I was so anxious that I shook when I heard the stroke of five. Then she appeared alone, in a white dress, her arms bare. We sat down under the tree; its trunk was covered in flowers. I caressed Dinaura’s arms and shoulders, and wondered at her face. The desire in her eyes grew. I asked nothing, said nothing. Any word was inadequate to my urgent love. There was a strong wind blowing. She wasn’t frightened by the thunder, nor did she avoid my embrace. I kept the words in my thoughts. One day we would travel together, we’d get to know other cities. She was looking at the other side of the Amazon, as if in a dream. We were going to get married and then live in Manaus or Belém, or in Rio, who knows? The rain approached, making a noise like a waterfall. It seemed we were alone in the town and the world. She lay down on the wet earth, the cloth of her dress clinging to her dark skin; she took her clothes off unhurriedly, her petticoat, corset and bra, and stood up, naked, and took off my clothes and licked and sucked me with intense desire; then we rolled on the ground to the low wall of the Ribanceira, and then back to the tree, making love as if we were starved for it. I don’t know how long we were there, entwined, feeling the warmth of the inner flesh. I hardly noticed the beauty of her body, so stunned was I by the way she made love. A dancer. Jealousy burned me up. I wanted to forget all that and looked at the sky, the tree, the church tower. The wet flowers fell down and covered my eyes. I awoke with the cracking sound of the rain on my face, and unwisely kissed Dinaura with an almost violent desire. I wanted to touch her skin, kiss her body. I wanted more. Her eyes said no. I put my ear close to Dinaura’s lips, but the rain deafened us. So did what I could read on her lips—a story. What about? She got dressed and made a gesture: I was to wait for her, she’d come back soon. She ran off, as if fleeing from something threatening. I went after her and stopped in the middle of the square. I returned, got dressed and waited for her in the same spot. It was still raining when someone appeared in the entrance to the school. I called for Dinaura, came closer, and saw a man who’d fallen down. He was kneeling. The beggar-cum-messenger was gripping a smashed black umbrella. Iro let out some groans; he was waiting for some leftover food from the school refectory. I took a damp banknote from my pocket and threw it into his belly.
God is the Father.
A strange character. He got up, crossed the square, stopped in the Rua do Matadouro and let out a laugh, with no meaning or object to it. I stood in front of the Carmo School, wondering what Dinaura’s secret could be. Or the story she wanted to tell. I felt no guilt: I felt jealous of someone I might know, but I didn’t know who it was. I remembered every face I knew, I hated all the men in Vila Bela, I brooded over my anger and jealousy. As I was going back home, I saw two men drinking from bottles. I went into the Travellers’ Bar, asked for a bottle of wine and unhurriedly drank it, sitting on the pavement, defying the looks of Adel and his customers. They were looking at me, laughing, and I could hear mockery in their laughter. What were they laughing at? Old Genesino, the owner of the bar, provoked me:
Everyone’s talking about your marriage to the orphan.
Who’s talking? Your shitty customers?
He stroked his moustache and banged on the cash register:
People like your grandfather’d better keep away from here.
I left the bottle on the pavement and went into the bar. Genesino Adel came round to the front of the bar to face me, but one of his sons separated us.
Edílio Cordovil’s bad reputation was still alive in the memory of the older people. I left, still stunned with other memories: the wet skin, the scent of lavender, the body kissed and possessed so eagerly in the rainy night. I went home and slumped into the hammock in the parlour. I awoke on a Sunday of deluging rain. It rained all day and night for a whole week. The Amazon dragged everything away: remains of houses on stilts, canoes and drifting boats, rafts with cattle tied to them, bellowing in terror. Santa Clara Harbour was submerged, and the rivers Macurany and Parananema flooded the lower part of the town. The caretakers tied hammocks under the eaves and spent the night singing and praying for the rain to stop. And when it stopped, Florita and I went to the top of the ravine. The Carmelites’ school and the orphanage, near the bank, weren’t flooded. But along the edge of the rivers, Vila Bela was an amphibious town. The slaughterhouse was a sea of mud with carcasses and bits of flesh under a sky full of vultures. Limbs and entrails were floating in the dirty water, right up to the doorway of the mayor’s house. The rotting remains were buried far from the town, but the mayor still had to leave his house because of the stink. I remember the episode because at that time I tried to speak to Dinaura and, while I was waiting for news, I had to put up with the foul stench coming from the slaughterhouse. Then I found out that she was going into complete reclusion—a month without seeing anyone. It wasn’t an order from the headmistress, it was Dinaura’s own decision. But the worst news came in a telegram from the manager of the firm: Shipwreck Eldorado in Pará. Come urgently to Manaus.
The rumours in the port contradicted one another. Some said that the captain of the Eldorado had been drunk; that he’d gone out of his way to see a lover at São Francisco da Jararaca; that the rain and the excessive cargo had caused the accident. A captain from the Ligure Brasiliana fleet gave me more precise information: the Eldorado had crashed into a sandbank at the end of Caim Island, between Curralinho and Farol do Camaleão, near Breves, in the lower reaches of the Amazon. The cargo and the ship were lost. I heard that, in the Travellers’ Bar, Genesino Adel’s family had celebrated the loss.
They celebrated your misfortune, said Florita. What are you waiting for? Get a boat to Manaus straight away.
My indecision lasted a few days; Estiliano was in Belém and I didn’t know when he was coming back. Early one morning, Florita saw me in the hammock in the parlour and sat on the floor of the room. Before dawn arrived, she said in a calm voice that I should embark for Manaus on the next boat. She said the same thing so many times over that I convinced myself she was right. Money. Th
at’s what it was. I didn’t want to leave . . . The night of love with Dinaura, the desire to be with her, and the other nights of our life . . . But how could I live without money?
Florita got me out of the hole. She said she was going to get the house ready for the wedding to Dinaura: a month’s absence couldn’t drown a love of that sort. I embarked on the Índio do Brasil with these words in my head, and in the sleepless night I spent as I went up river, I read a novel Estiliano had lent me. I remember the words of one of the characters, a father: I don’t want you to remain here, a useless, unhappy, lacklustre son. You have to continue our name and make the business prosper. Reading this made me downhearted, worried. And that was how I got to Manaus one late afternoon. I sent a boy to tell the firm manager that I was coming to the office the next morning. But that day I was jinxed. I was more than an hour late because of a disturbance in the centre. A group of agitated people were running around and shouting on Seventh of September Avenue. I thought it was a protest, or a parade. It was in fact the lynching of a thief. I saw the fellow almost naked, tied to a cart and being pulled along by a horse. They were stoning the poor man and whipping him with his belt. The animal was whinnying, but it didn’t drown out the human suffering. Afterwards the police dragged the thief, the horse and the cart away. As they passed by me, I recognised the lad from the Saturno pension. Juvêncio couldn’t even see who I was: his red eyes, in his swollen head, looked dead already.
The manager watched the scene from his office window. For the first time he faced me, his face tense, and his hands in his trouser pockets. He didn’t even sit down as he told me that the Lloyd Brasileiro, the Amazon Navigation Company and other large businesses had lowered their freight charges. My father hadn’t renewed the insurance on the Eldorado, and the firm still owed a lot of money to the English bank.
Orphans of Eldorado Page 4