Where Tigers Are at Home

by Jean-Marie Blas de Robles

Pins, mascara, face powder, blusher, lipstick, when it was all done and she appeared in the great hall, escorted by her old fairies, Moéma set off a chorus of exclamations and drums:

  Yayá, Yemanjá! Odó Iyá!

  Saia do mar,

  Monha sereia!

  Saia do mar

  E venha vincar na areia!

  For everyone she was now simply Yemanjá, the siren-with-the-voluminous-breasts, the one who that very day would emerge from the depths of the sea. Dadá Cotinha was obliged to step in to stop the most fervent adepts from touching her. She made a little sign and Uncle Zé gave the order to leave.

  “What about Nelson?” Moéma asked. “Isn’t he coming?”

  “I don’t know what he’s up to,” Uncle Zé said with annoyance. “He should have been here ages ago. We can’t wait for him any longer. Anyway, he knows where it is.”

  He’s found out that I’ve borrowed his money! Moéma immediately feared. Impossible, he would have come here right away to tell his friend. Her concern was unnecessary.

  “Time to go, Princess,” Uncle Zé said, helping her up onto the trailer, uncovered for the occasion.

  “You knew that he’s got a pistol in his shack?” Moéma asked without thinking.

  “A pistol? A real pistol?”

  “Yes. I don’t know about these things, but it looked like a policeman’s gun …”

  “How do you know? Did he tell you?”

  She was sorry now she’d mentioned it. Her carelessness was taking her onto dangerous ground. “No, he’d hidden it. He doesn’t know I’ve seen it …”

  “We’ll sort that out later,” Uncle Zé said with an inscrutable expression, as he went off to climb into the cabin of his tractor trailer.

  THERE WERE HUNDREDS of trucks like theirs, of all sizes, all colors, streams of them rattling along all the roads. Piled into the back of one, in the middle of an improbable number of passengers, the samba orchestras drowned out the roar of the engines. Men and women were jigging to the rhythm of the accordions and marimbas, clinging onto the rails, the people were laughing, singing, calling out to each other: Yayá, Yemanjá! May she bless you! May she hear your prayers! Moéma was all eyes. The power of these people, their contagious joy, but also their irreverence, the disillusioned cynicism engendered by poverty that she could read in the inscriptions on the trucks. All along the route these puns and maxims passed like the pages of an intangible book: Four full tires for an empty heart … Friend of the night, companion of the stars … Sadness is rust on the soul … From Amazonia to Piaui I only stop for a pee … I’ve looked down the blouse of distance at the breasts of melancholy … A girl’s kiss cleans better than dentifrice … Your God is mine as well, millionaire … Lucky old Adam with no mother-in-law or toothbrush … The only time the poor are in front is when the police are running after them … I’m parked in the garage of solitude … If my mother asks for news of me, tell her I’m happy … If your father is poor, it’s down to bad luck, if your father-in-law is, it’s because you’re a dumb cluck … If the world was perfect, its creator would be living in it … Light of my eyes … The good life is that of other people … The only one who’s made money out of running all over the place is Pelé …

  Today is the first day of my life was written on the billboard they finally stopped beside. Moéma felt a surge of self-confidence; there were signs for her everywhere, signs of rebirth.

  THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE were milling around on the Future Beach, adherents of the terreiros, city folk keen on folklore, young people with nothing better to do. Divided up into innumerable sections, makeshift enclosures with improvised altars, the shore disappeared under the boisterous disorder of the crowd. From the road where Zé had just parked his truck it looked like a huge demonstration squashed into the wide corridor separating the dunes from the sea. Bathed in the light of a sun that seemed to renew its strength with every second, this teeming, tumultuous mass formed a contrast with the pale green of the Atlantic. A continuous stream of reinforcements came pouring down toward this deafening magma. Hanging from their poles, the banners billowed in the wind like the sails of a schooner; basic canvas shelters shook violently, threatening to take off. Shimmering, shining, like café advertisements against the glorious sky, huge flags flapped the three colors of Brazil.

  The new arrivals made their way toward the location Dadá Cotinha had chosen two days before. Surrounded by women bearing flowers and garlands and earnest little girls in their immaculate dresses—ceaselessly readjusting the white pschents they were wearing on their heads—with men laden with baskets large and small bringing up the rear, Moéma-Yemanjá walked with her head held high.

  As in a crystal cut in facets, the siren goddess multiplied: young women in more or less successful costumes, papier-mâché giants or modest votive statuettes, each idol gathering its group of faithful round it. So many clusters, so many syncopated tunes, benedictions, laughs jostling together without producing any discord at all. Deriving from the cordels and congadas, the army of Charlemagne deployed in all its pasteboard splendor. The beach was awash with limp plumes and wooden swords—belonging to the avatars of Roland, like Uncle Zé; of Oliver; of Guy of Burgundy; but also of the Saracens, Fierabras to the fore; or even of Galalão, the traitor Ganelon of the Song of Roland, who seemed unconcerned by their expiatory role. The latter pretended to attack the spectators to give the valiant heroes the opportunity of defending them, a ploy that led to violent single combats, fights between Sicilian marionettes in the course of which these puny paladins cut each others’ throats before laughing as they bit the dust. Slightly worried despite everything, a few tourists with fair hair and red faces smiled inanely, one hand on the zip of their belt, the other securing the shoulder strap of their Nikon.

  When Dadá Cotinha’s people joined the little group that had waited all night for them on the beach—men she could trust, whose job it was to keep the candles to Yemanjá alight along the shore—they quickly set up their stand. Moéma had to take her place at the top of a large wooden stepladder where she towered above the crowd. The steps were decorated with flowers and pieces of cloth, then a big basket of flowers was placed at her feet.

  Yeyé Omoejá

  O mother-whose-children-are-fish!

  Yemanjá!

  Janaína, Yemanjá!

  A new center of the world had come into being, similar to all those filling the beach, yet different, unique, not replaceable by any of the others.

  Sitting facing the sea, which was breaking on the shore some thirty yards in front of her, Moéma breathed in deeply the windborne spray. He breasts had swelled with excitement, the star on her pearl diadem blazed. The souls in torment on this earth came one by one to place their offerings in the basket. For hours on end they raised eyes clouded with tears to the hope and mercy she represented. Deeply moved, aware of her role, she listened to the people beseeching her:

  “Hail, Yemanjá Iemonô, oldest goddess, richest, farthest away in the sea! See that my children always have something to eat. I give you this perfume sample so that you will smell good …”

  “Hail, Yemanjá Iamassê, violent goddess with blue eyes, you who live on the reefs! See that my husband finds work and stop him beating me up. I give you some salt and onions because I haven’t enough for a duck …”

  “Hail, Yemanjá Yewa, timid goddess! Make Geralda respond to my advances. Here is a comb for your long hair and a lipstick …”

  “Hail, Yemanjá Ollossá, you whose look is unbearable, who always appear in profile, such is your haste to turn away from the ugliness of the world! Make my little girl regain her sight. She gives you her only doll so that you will recognize her. Don’t worry, I’ll make her another one …”

  “Hail, Yemanjá Assabá, you who live in the surf of the beach, clothed in mud and gooseberry-colored seaweed! Make me win the lottery so I can return to the Sertão with my family. I leave you some soap and a pretty bracelet …”

  “Hail, Yemanjá Ogunté, you who
care for the sick, you who know all the remedies! Cure my husband of cachaça or make him die, we can’t go on living like this. I give you this piece of cloth to make a dress or whatever you like …”

  “Hail, Yemanjá Assessu, you who live in the eddies! I give you this postcard with a picture of a duck because I know you like them. Make things change, I beg you. You know what I mean. I also give you my lunch for today and this necklace of shells …”

  Others left their requests in little messages folded in four, people threw armfuls of roses or bougainvillea into the basket, ribbons, lace, mirrors, anything that might please the goddess-with-seven-paths and bring down her favors.

  From time to time Uncle Zé came to see how Moéma was doing and offer her a lemonade bottle filled with cachaça. He was content; the girl was radiant on her throne, she seemed happy. Since Nelson still hadn’t turned up, he questioned the people around with growing concern. When his back was turned Moéma took little pinches of powder out of her bag and inhaled them as she pretended to blow her nose. With a slightly bitter taste at the back of her throat, she didn’t tire of observing the mass of humanity, of sensing a sort of nervousness arise, an infectious carnal tension. Dadá Cotinha blessed her followers by making them pass under her shoulder; a young man—decked out in a yellow satin shirt and a maharajah’s turban surmounted by an incredible ostrich feather—was dancing on the spot, swaying convulsively. Arms outstretched, palms upward, he was showing the whites of his eyes, like a martyr in ecstasy. A good-luck ribbon tied round their foreheads, their long hair open to the wind, tall women were whirling round, oblivious to everything. Superb bathing beauties displayed thighs smooth and tanned like a Vienna loaf, their minimal bikinis glistening in the sun. Fishermen with faded locks got majestically drunk, old people passed by, their donkey or bicycle at their side, one was praying standing up, head in his hands, in the grip of a vague headache. People fell into trances, like fires breaking out unexpectedly, a Saint George in a red cloak decorated with stars and spangles was trying to see something in the distance, shading his eyes with his hand. A skinny woman was shaking large, two-colored maracas, kids were bathing, playing in the rollers. Languid bodies were getting carried away by the rhythm of the sambas, blacks were stumbling along …

  This flood of humanity gave off a pungent stench of wild beast and cheap eau de cologne.

  Moéma was suddenly afraid she might see her attackers in the crowd. The thought had not occurred to her when she went back to the favela the previous day, so urgent was her need for coke. Now the possibility filled her with dread. What should she do if it happened? Hand them over to Uncle Zé and the lynching that would probably ensue? That would solve nothing, as she was very well aware. But her desire for vengeance was still there, insistent; despite herself, something inside her was demanding justice and the paradox disturbed her.

  The heat had become intolerable, Moéma was dripping with sweat underneath her wig and her costume. Not seeing Uncle Zé, she waved over a man he’d been talking to only a few minutes ago: “Have you seen Zé?”

  “He’s just gone.”

  “Where to?”

  “Don’t really know. Perhaps to the rally with the governor, at the other end of the beach. I told him I’d seen Nelson, this morning. He was hitching a lift to get down there. Senhor Zé said he’d go and look for the lad and that he’d come back.”

  Moéma knew all the terms of the problem, but not for a moment could she establish the connection between them that had precipitated Uncle Zé’s departure. She was simply glad she’d see her guardian angel again soon.

  Coming from no-one-knows-where, a flotilla of jangadas had started to glide along a parallel course close to the shore. Regularly one of them would detach itself from the group and ride the surf in masterly fashion to land on the beach. The great moment of the festival had arrived. The samba orchestras and violeiros redoubled their efforts on their instruments; corridors opened in the middle of the throng for the procession of the filhas-do-santo carrying the baskets of offerings onto the sailing boats. Escaping from a horrendous crush, Dadá Cotinha managed to clamber aboard the boat she desired: like all the spiritual leaders on the beach, she had to stay with the basket from her terreiro to the very end. Without the signal they were obeying being obvious, all the jangadas set out to sea again as one, accompanied by a delirious crowd in the waves; they were heading for the open sea to meet Yemanjá. There, far out in the swell, they would deposit the pitiful offerings of her followers; if none of them was found on the beach the next morning, they would deduce that they had been accepted by the Princess of the Sea and their wishes would be granted.

  Moéma took out the syringe she had prepared that morning: a dose of coke, the last, but a stiff one to celebrate giving up. She couldn’t have chosen a better moment, the crowd had its back to her, watching the jangadas leave. The beach looked like the banks of the Ganges during a ritual period; the sea, the people themselves, nothing had ever been so ablaze with holy energy. To be in agreement with the world, she thought, injecting the contents of the syringe. It must happen, Yemanjá, I must regain my taste for simple things, rediscover the pleasure of just being alive …

  She hardly had time to register the impression of plunging naked into a mountain stream, of feeling her veins freeze. The images started to flutter, like an old film with faded colors. A man was drinking seawater and laughing. The waves were rolling up wedding dresses, there were gleams of orange along the edges. Then the film suddenly broke and all she could see was a kind of white sky swarming with swallows more and more quickly streaked by the opening frames of a reel. Nothing was passing through her mind, not a word, not a vision, not a memory, simply the feeling of having missed the boat. For a brief moment she knew she needed help, but an iron fist gripped her jaw tight enough to make it crack.

  Something horribly specific came down on her.

  FAVELA DE PIRAMBÚ: The coldness of the metal, its weight, like a tumescent organ …

  Nelson had passed the afternoon at the Bar—the marshy estuary of the River Ceará—on the bank of a lagoon where the women of Pirambú went to do any washing people were prepared to give them. With the water halfway up their thighs, the washerwomen were beating red linen with heavy blows of their paddles. Their bottoms were sticking out toward him, their damp dresses clinging to them. A little farther away naked children were playing football with a tin can. Nelson saw neither the dead pig, swollen to bursting-point on the sand a few yards away from the other women getting water for the kitchen, nor the flies, nor the desolate appearance of the pool teeming with death in all its infinitesimal forms. It was life such as he had always known it and he was sad to have to leave it behind, however worthless it might seem. He was moved, too, by the memory of Moéma. He was madly in love with his Princess who had come from nowhere and never ceased imagining the moment when he would see her again.

  When he went back home, at sunset, a word from Uncle Zé or Moéma would have been enough for him to give up the idea. He felt alone and spoke to the soap and the iron bar, hoping for a sign that would tip the scales once and for all. With nothing better to do and to help him weigh up the two sides of his dilemma, he dug up the plastic bag.

  The loss of his savings left him cold. Not for one moment did he think who might have taken them; he was looking for a sign, now he had it. Someone had made the decision for him and sealed his fate to that of Moreira. The possibility of recovering his money never occurred to him. The extreme weariness that had crept into the farthest recesses of his being told him it would be too hard to start all over again. It was as if the Colonel had come in person to take away his wheelchair, depriving him—after his father—of the only reason he had left for living. He would go to the rally, do his duty as a son and that would be that.

  Check the hammer was working while it was unloaded, clean the bullets again and again … His night was like a vigil of arms dedicated to the thousand deaths of the governor.

  THE NEXT MORNING
Nelson headed off for the beira-mar. Standing by the roadside, he got a lift on a truck that dropped him on the first part of the beach. That was where he met Lauro, who had climbed up the dunes to wait for Dadá Cotinha. Fortunately no one had arrived yet. The very thought of meeting Uncle Zé or Moéma made him break out in a cold sweat. He was afraid the old man’s look would make him lose his nerve, afraid of seeing in Moéma’s the confession he dreaded. He gave evasive answers to Lauro’s questions and found another vehicle for the next part of his journey.

  When he reached the placards announcing the governor’s rally he was still a half mile away from the platform. Making his way toward it, he didn’t take his eyes off it so as to make his route as short as possible. Then it was the crowd and the jungle of legs blocking his view. He pushed his way through slowly, all the time asking people to let him through, out of fear of being trodden on. One or two would move aside and then he’d have to go through the process again. The most difficult part was not to yield to the temptation to warn people by touching their calves; that provoked an instinctive reaction of alarm that resulted in an immediate kick. Nelson took his direction from the powerful loudspeakers playing sambas before the party leaders made their speeches. He had let his football shirt hang loose, à la Platini, to avoid arousing suspicion that he might have a gun. Stuck in between his skin and the elastic of his shorts, the pistol bit into his flesh every time he crawled a bit farther forward. The coldness of the metal, its weight, like a tumescent organ, anesthetised even the pain of being alive.

  The crowd around him started to dance, threatening to crush him. Never having been in such a throng, Nelson panicked. The music seemed to be coming from all sides at once, legs bumped into him, he was breathing in sand. Stepping back, a fat woman tumbled down on his chest, almost crushing his ribs. “Where are you off to like that?” said a swaggering black man with biceps the size of his head.