“I’ve put the matter to your younger wives, and we agree unanimously. You must have a new wife.”
My dulcet words shoot through the air. There’s a whiff of irony, there’s a whiff of hypocrisy, which bombard him like hailstones. He smells the threat and is scared out of his wits. He throws us a glance which pleads for mercy. For the first time, he speaks in a low voice.
“God help me, you’re killing me. I was always a man who was avid for life, but not any longer. I’m tired of so much loving and so much suffering. Please, I beg you, don’t punish me with this. I can’t withstand strong emotions, you know that. It’s about my life, my health. I’ve already done too much loving in my life. I married a lot of women, and now I’ve had enough.”
“Men are strong, Tony, they can put up with the world’s burdens, get married again,” I insist.
“Oh, no!”
“A king can’t refuse either a throne or servitude offered. If you refuse to accept our decision, you repudiate us. An extra woman in a polygamous home is always welcome,” says Saly.
“I’m not ready for it.”
“But we are. We’ve found the ideal woman, and now all we have to do is to prepare the ceremony. Mauá, bring in the bride,” I order.
Mauá goes to the bedroom and returns leading by the hand a jewel, a pearl, a diamond made especially to be admired. This is the bride. She takes a few steps. We look at her. My God, I’ve never seen such a pretty girl. She walks like a gazelle. From every gesture emanate waves, sea birds, white clouds, breeze, perfumes, all of which complement her. She is perfection in movement. Even the steps taken by her bare feet go well with her. Even the grasses she treads are thankful for the gift of having been brushed by her perfume. She stops and looks at Tony. Even the pose she assumes as she stands there looks good on her. Her eyes are Venus’s diamonds, and when she blinks, each eyelash releases gold dust, and it all looks good on her. From her smile, doves, birds, flowers, are released, and they all suit her perfectly. Her backside looks so good, nicely wrapped in her blue-check capulana. Mauá invites her to take a seat, and my God, how she sits! She parks her butt on the chair like a bird lovingly protecting her eggs in the nest. Even the simple gesture of sitting down on the velveteen sofa suits her perfectly. The fragrance of her body, the movement of her chest in the gentle act of breathing, suit her perfectly. Her little cotton blouse that envelops her full breasts gives her a freshness that suits her perfectly.
Tony is left speechless. All passion begins with a simple gesture. The vast forest succumbs to a mere flame. This jewel has the power of fire. She has the color of the sun. She has the color of the moon. She is both moon and sun in the same heavenly body.
“Take this girl away from me before I fall in love,” he says with some difficulty. “Protect her from my claws before I commit original sin.”
We glance at each other and remain silent. A donkey that refuses its pasture, if it hasn’t lost its teeth, must be ill.
“I can’t think clearly with her around. She’s making me dizzy. She’s setting my body on fire,” he bursts out.
Tony is suffering. Passion is giving his soul a horsewhipping as strong as hammer blows. He’s dying of desire, but he’s clutching the reins of his appetite with the strength of Hercules. Ardent love is powerful and brings all red-blooded men to ground. Vanquished, he declares his love.
“Girl, I’m going to pay your bride price with all the money the world contains. I’ll give my entire fortune for you, all my life, my very being, for you, girl, you’re so pretty! You’re like the sea. You’re like moonlight. You’re everything, sea and sky.”
Tony’s voice is gentle because the music of love has penetrated his soul. Love is both a remedy and poison. It saves and kills in one go.
“Come here, girl. Sit down next to me. What is your name?”
“Saluá.”
“That’s a pretty name and it suits you. Where are you from?”
“From Niassa, I’m a Nyanja.”
“Ah, you’re from the lake that has good fish. What do you want?”
“To be your wife.”
“You’re still a child.”
“I’m eighteen. I was damseled at fifteen. I know how to wash clothes and to wash the dishes. I don’t know how to cook well, but I can learn, and I know the most important thing: I’ve got my fish scales and I’ve got my squid. I learned how to make love during the initiation rites.”
“You were damseled?”
“Yes. To damsel is to celebrate the rites of initiation.”
My God, Tony is driven crazy when Saluá opens her mouth and reveals those teeth that are whiter than grains of corn, more sparkling than pearls, and that produce a lunar reflection that suits her very well. When she speaks, the breath released from that flute suits her well. That skin of hers like a ripe cashew, those eyes of a meek cat, suit her down to the ground. That succulent body, like a fresh tomato, is perfect for the semi-toothless mouth of a fifty-year-old polygamist. This girl Saluá is perdition in the midst of paradise. The role of serpent in the Bantu Eden suits her well.
“Tony,” Saly explains, “we know your desire to embrace the whole country through marriage, which is why we went to get this girl from the northwest. She talks Portuguese with a Nyanja accent, but we’ll get her talking correctly in due course.
He takes a deep breath and sighs. He kneels at this young girl’s feet and worships her like a goddess. His voice takes on a sweet, melodic tone. His mouth fills with words of sugar and passion. His eyes are agog with so much desire. The love he feels for her is both fire and torment. He takes her silky hand, and then let’s go.
“Dear God, she’s beautiful. She is a flower, and my hands are soiled, I’m scared of touching her in case she gets tainted. I feel old and tired of running from shelter to shelter like a crab. Do you think I should deflower this young girl, accompany her through her pregnancy, childbirth, menstruation, diapers, bibs, and babies’ nighttime tears? No, I can’t, I don’t want to. When I was in the hospital, I saw men wasted away like ghosts. I saw wizened, skeletal women. I thought about life. The world has got AIDS. My sexual curriculum is abundant and enviable, it makes me imagine both truths and fantasies. I don’t want to touch this flower in order not to sully her, please, take this girl back to her home.”
We are left bewildered. He hides his face. The time has come for the snail to hide inside his shell. He’s defeathering himself with his own beak, like an old parrot. He’s abandoning love like a castrated ox and folding his wings in full flight. It’s the first sign of autumn, winter is getting ready to make its entrance.
“Tony, are you still really a man? Are you still a man with a capital M?” Saly challenges.
“Why?”
“Ah, you’re no longer a man, Tony, my darling. You’re broken,” she replies. “You’ve laid down your arms. Your arrow has gained the curves of a rounded mirror, dearest Tony, you’re a weakling now.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you. But I like my love tasting of conquest, and I can’t accept a woman placed in my arms. I’m a wolf. A shark. A hawk. I like to fight with my prey in the act of hunting. I’m still a red-blooded male.”
“This is about polygamy, Tony,” I cut in menacingly. “In this system laws speak louder than your desires. You don’t have a choice. Do you accept her or not?”
This generates a moment of deep silence as if it were incubating a storm. What words can be uttered to break the ice? Who will win in this contest? He or we? There’s stalemate. We say yes. He says no. But he can’t even contemplate or imagine what it means to go against the wish of four women together.
“I can’t accept the offer. No, I don’t accept it.”
“Is that your final word?”
“Yes. And let’s not talk further about the matter.”
Oh dear! The game’s been lost. All we can do now is climb to the top of the mountain and unleash our curse.
“We respect your decision,” says Saly. “You�
��ll remain in your corner, then. You’ll have all you need: food, care, and peace and quiet, but not our company. Your refusal is a declaration of sexual impotence, and so we’ll summon a family meeting and inform its members of what is happening, so that we can then seek conjugal assistants. This is a right that polygamy gives us.”
A firestorm explodes in Tony’s soul that balances in the flame’s dance. He suspects he’s being consigned to solitude in the heart of the crowd. When love is offered him on a plate, the lover gets suspicious. Now he understands that he’s not being the target of love, but of an amorous revenge.
Mauá looks down and appears to be concentrating. Then she opens her mouth and speaks. She gains courage and gets it off her chest in one go.
“I’ve already got a conjugal assistant who’s going to be my husband within the next fortnight. Tony, I shall miss you a lot. It only remains for me to thank you. You saved me from the trash heap and brought me close to Rami, who taught me lessons about life and caused me to be born anew.”
Tony opens his mouth like a hippopotamus sighing. Words remain suspended between pain and surprise. Astonishment is transformed into a deadly wind, but no breath emerges to feed it, and it is made to dance around in a twister. Dark clouds descend from the skies and blindfold him. Mauá’s attitude was expected. She was too tender a blade of grass for an old donkey. She was seeking a father and not a husband, and now that she’s earning her own crust, she’s found true love. Could she be considered self-seeking? Has she committed a crime by any chance? She knew she was being used, she played the game and won hands down.
Ju opens her mouth, she’s going to say something, this Ju who never says anything, always immersed in pain and silence.
“I never speak, but today I want to talk. I need to talk. Tony, your black children have got a white stepfather, they’ve gone up in the world. Your nineteen-year-old son drives a Mercedes his stepfather gave him on his birthday. He no longer needs to point at his father’s blue car speeding off down the road. My new husband is Portuguese. We love each other very much, really very much. He’s ever so gentle, my dear old man. He’s a widower, this man of mine. And he’s got money. Lots of money. He’s got bank accounts, shops, houses, cars, properties. I’ve got money flowing out of the pores of my skin now, Tony. I take baths in money. I breathe money, lots of it, all I tread on in my home is money. He’s adopted my children as his own, and shows them a lot of affection. I’m soon going to marry him, veil and all. At last, I’m going to step up to the altar in a wedding dress, wear a ring, enter the church to the tune of ‘Here Comes the Bride.’ ”
Her words are the fatal bullets that unseat the horseman and make him fall to the ground. Ju has left us in a state of shock, and we are flabbergasted. Tony’s heart is left to bleed slowly, like a piece of turf that has been sparked and is gradually turning to ash. He tries to open up the ground to swallow him, but the ground rejects him. Like the ostrich, he hides his head under his wing and leaves his backside for all to see. We raise our eyes to Ju and contemplate this incredible miracle. The deceived woman who deceives her deceiver and rises from the ashes in a victory that’s the size of the world.
“You’re prostituting my children, Ju,” says Tony with a sigh.
“Are you absolutely sure they’re yours?”
“How long have you had this man?”
“Two years.”
“How?”
“A polygamist only has two eyes, he can’t see what’s going on behind him. He’s only got one nose and can’t go sniffing around everywhere.”
Ju’s speech is caustic. It is searing. It is carcinogenic. Tony’s body writhes in the dance of death. There’s debauchery in Ju’s tone of voice. There’s vengeance and rejoicing in Ju’s soul. She’s carved out her own space and now enjoys the best cuts of steak, she eats chicken gizzard and fish heads as she relaxes in peace under the shade of the banana tree. How happy she is, our Ju! Ah, my Tony! Your castles at the top of the hill were built of sand. Your vulture’s beak was made of clay, and it wore away at every peck. You were born a man, but you were given wings of wax, and when you flew up to your castles, the wax melted, you fell to earth and your snout was smashed like a hen’s egg. Dearest Tony, everything that begins ends, like the wind that blows, like the sun that rises and then sinks, like the spring that comes and then passes. An octopus has many tentacles, but it can’t grasp all the oceans of the world. The wild animal kills only to satisfy its hunger, while you wanted to devour the entire world with milk teeth. Beautiful women are born every day, in every corner of the planet. You can’t sleep with all the women in the world, but please, Tony, do give it your best shot!
43
My rivals leave, taking the rejected girl, Saluá, with them. Only the two of us are left. We reencounter each other.
“Rami!”
“Yes, dear Tony.”
“Today, I’d like to speak words of remorse to you. But a man cannot show remorse. Everything he does is well done.”
“Just as well.”
“I’d like to tell you you’re a great woman. But I can’t do that either. Women are always small.”
“I know, Tony.”
“I adore you. I want to adore you, but I can’t. To adore is to get down on your knees. A real man doesn’t bow, he remains erect.”
“Really?”
“I’d also like to say I trust you, but I’m also not allowed to. Men must always suspect women, and women must always trust men.”
“I know.”
“Today, I’d like to violate all the norms and tell you I admire you and hold you in high esteem. But I can’t even do that. It’s women who should feel proud of their husbands and never the other way round. Women are supposed to admire their husbands and never the other way round.”
“What a pity!”
“Today, I want to cry, Rami, let me cry. All I’ve ever given you is the anguish of my passions, and I hurt you on a daily basis. I love you like no one else. I’m that restless sea, that cold, dark blanket that has covered your whole life. I’m the one who closed my ears at night to your song of love. I’ll be yours forever, because I’m your lament, your breath of fire, your bitter memory. I tattooed your body with thorns of fire. When your soul wandered, desolate, it was my image that emerged before you like a ghost. When you felt the pain of abandonment, it was for me that you yearned. If one day you have a night of love with some other man, it’s me you’ll recall in the elegy of lost time.
I fold my arms. I look. I listen. A wave of blood crashes furiously in the deepest branches of my arteries. I tremble. Today, he seems to be telling the truth, but I don’t believe him. How can I believe in a man who has spent his whole life lying?
“I don’t understand your problem, Tony. Why so much sadness because of a new wife?”
He doesn’t answer me. I look at him with pity and tenderness. He gets up and goes to the bedroom. He opens the wardrobe and picks out one or two items of clothing, which he places in a travel bag. He walks from one corner of the room to the other, he stops, sniffs loudly, sobs, raves: No, it’s impossible, it’s not true, no, no no … He seems to be in conversation with creatures from other planets, other spaces, other dimensions, that only he can reach. And they still say men are strong, when this one weeps and is frightened of taking a new wife. He makes his way toward the falling rain. He puts his hat on his head and lumbers out into the rain.
In my mind, I recall magical tales of people vanishing in water vapor, in a nocturnal thunderstorm, into the morning mist. I start to panic.
I give a fierce yell and set off after him. He stops for a second, looks at me, and sets off again. I catch up with him and block his way. Good Lord, his eyes are more than ruddy, as if his breast were ablaze and the flames were consuming his whole body. I’m a few meters away from him, but can hear the drumbeat of his vanquished heart. I’ve seen many men falling from the top of their pedestals, but I’ve never seen one fall from the ground into a ditch. How sad! I thought
only women wept when they’d been abandoned. But why build pedestals if the ground is firm? Why complicate existence when life is simple? Why dream up terrible conflicts, impossible loves, if everything in life is mortal and comes to an end, like the trees, fire, diamonds? Why create traps to imprison souls, thoughts, feelings, if life is a mere puff of air, if it’s as free as the water that flows, the wind that passes, the flight of a tiny bird? Why mistreat women, if they are existence, luster, stars, light, the Milky Way, paradise?
“Tony, come back, you’re going to catch a cold.”
“Let me leave for a world where there are no women, no temptations, no loves, no children. A world solely made up of men. But I know that such a world only exists in the confines of my imagination. That’s why I’m going to the house of the only woman whose love has no equal: my mother.”
“Tony, it’s cold.”
“I want to feel this rain, this wind, this coolness. I want it to penetrate my soul and calm this fever.”
Rain washes everything: the sky, the ground, the horizon, the whole of nature. It extinguishes fire, but not bitterness. Sadness is made of stone, only time can eat away at it.
“Why so much sadness, dear Tony?”
“Now, when I close my eyes, I can see how life has stifled me. I have made a blanket of thorns to cover myself with. I’m bleeding. I’ve lived my whole life with a razor-sharp sword up against my neck. I never saw it.”
“But why?”
He rummages around in his memory like a dog gnawing at an old bone. His delirium blows away like particles of air escaping through a broken window. His voice hisses like a whirlwind dragging up dead leaves, sand, and dust.
“I turned love into a suicidal game and your tears haunt me like ghosts. Having many women doesn’t mean you’re manly, it means you’re grazing. I don’t even know how these children were born or grew up. I never accompanied their mothers to the maternity clinic, I never held them in my arms, there are so many of them that I even get their names mixed up, I never went to their birthday parties.”
The First Wife Page 29