Children of the Moon

by Anthony De Sa

  It will only be a few minutes until the next wave finds me.

  * * *

  —

  My bout of malaria lasted a good week or two. I’m not certain. I have been told that six weeks ago I entered the camp as a prisoner. None of Macaco’s men had made it. The last one had been dragged into the jungle and shot. I think of Armando looking to heaven.

  Here, I fought back. When they woke me every morning in the dark to get the kitchen ready for breakfast, I would punch something, whatever was close by. I refused to do anything at first. I wouldn’t let them have power over me.

  The surge of my rebellion has lessened. Still, I do their bidding reluctantly. At noon, they give me bread and soup of cassava leaves and okra. I eat my first bowl of hot soup in the open, away from the other men. I sit there wiping the rain off my face and listening to it crashing through the branches, hitting the canvas tents till they are soaked and the ground turns black. I focus my attention on the gushing torrent that breaks down the ground to form small rivers across the clearing. I eat my soup and my insides grow warm.

  I ignore the movement in the camp, of soldiers and militia. They are mostly commissioned soldiers and assimilados. Most are white, but there are also black soldiers, who carry out orders against cousins and brothers. They seem uncertain of me, keep their distance, but a few of the men in our tent have shown some kindness: bringing me food, urging me to eat something or drink, or offering a kind word.

  August 1966. On the calendar pinned to the tent wall, the twenty-eighth is circled in pen, and I think how odd it is for there to be so much rainfall in August. The heavy rains only begin in October, if we are lucky.

  At night I pile dishes outside the mess tent. I know from the scraps what I will eat later, after all the soldiers have eaten their meals and after I have washed all the dishes. Today it is green bananas and beans, cabbage and onions, goat, I think, swimming in a thick broth. In the mornings, far earlier than anyone else gets up, I flush out the latrines, which are nothing more than holes at the edge of the camp. I pour buckets of water in the ditches to dilute the stench before lining them with moss, ready for another day.

  I’m not certain of our exact location, except I know we are near marshland and the Zambezi River, not far from a place where engineers are looking to build a dam. Government officials often take Portuguese soldiers from the camp to escort them to the site. The camp is erected close to a makeshift airstrip. The Portuguese run the camp. No prisoners remain. I have heard they have been transported elsewhere, to prisons in bigger cities. I’m not allowed to go near the airstrip, but I can hear the hum of aircraft landing or taking off. On the other side is a swamp bordered by mangroves, their roots anchored on nothing. I’m told if I’m not careful I will slip inside and be trapped in the mangroves’ underwater cages. There are breezy days when I must cover my mouth and nose from the rot that sweeps across the camp.

  Sheets and a pillow are the one luxury I am happy to have. I share a tent with six men who are relegated to a separate tent. I am the youngest at sixteen and forced to do the most menial tasks. I’m not quite like them and they are unsure of me. I am not afraid.

  “You are to be repatriated—reinstated into normal society,” the lieutenant told me shortly after my malaria broke.

  “I’m going home?” Confused by my own question.

  “You have no home, Ezequiel. When this war is over you’ll adjust to your new life. It is clear you are educated. Your Portuguese is too precise. You were raised by whites on a mission, I believe.”

  “How do you know?” I held my breath, pressed down any recollection of the place.

  “Malaria is like liquor. It reveals things.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You called out to Papa Gilberto—your father at the mission. You are one of us,” he said.

  I don’t trust the lieutenant’s protection. It sounds like he knew Papa Gilberto, but it could be a trap. I certainly don’t feel I belong to anyone or anything. He thinks that a change of place, removing me from Macaco’s group, will make me “normal.” I walk into the barracks and feel as if nails are being hammered into my head. The tent’s ceiling is dark. I bind a tea towel around my head and lie down awhile. My eyes struggle to become familiar with my surroundings. I splash some cold water on my face and look at the small mirror that hangs on the tent wall. I notice facial hair for the first time, and I feel distant from the face I see.

  A fresh uniform, a bar of glycerin soap, and a towel are at the foot of my bed. Next to them is the beret and a pair of new boots. It is the uniform of the Caçadores, the elite light infantry soldiers of the Portuguese army. I’m not certain what to do with it all.

  Tucked in the towel is a toothbrush, some toothpaste, a straight razor and shaving soap, hair grease, and a tortoiseshell comb. These gifts mean something. I’m not sure what I have done.

  That evening, a nick under my chin and one below my ear, my beret slightly askew, the way the other soldiers wear it. Augusto, the cook, enters the tent and whistles. A tall man with a slightly hunched back, he tames his silver hair with what the other men in our tent joke is pork grease. The smell of him keeps everyone constantly hungry.

  “Didn’t need any spit with that polish,” he grins.

  Those are his first words to me and I’m caught off guard. His smile brings me back to happier times at the mission, where so many of the workers drew me in with their warm gestures that made me feel like I belonged with them. Shame overwhelms me. I turn away and am confronted by the lieutenant standing by the barracks entrance. He allows Augusto to slip away.

  “I see you’ve found the new uniform. I have your orders,” he says, taking my beret off my head. “You have no need for this tonight,” he says.

  The lieutenant is well-dressed this evening. His skin looks pasty, no matter how pressed his uniform or how perfectly parted his hair. He knows my secrets.

  “We are expecting a very important man tonight—a very powerful man. I have recommended you to be his personal assistant. Do you understand me, Ezequiel?” A dribble of spit runs down from the corner of his lip. “Understand?” he says, pressing a cloth to his swollen cheek.

  “Yes,” I say, and I feel relief that this man has delivered me once again.

  “Good. You are in his complete command. You are to do everything this man tells you. If he asks you to wipe his ass, you do so. You smile while you do it. The last thing you want is to make him angry.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t want to find out,” he says, straightening his shirt cuffs. They are not rolled up above his elbows the way he normally wears them. “If anything goes wrong, if you hear any complaints or if he appears dissatisfied, I need you to—” He places a hand on my shoulder. His nose almost touches mine. “Take these,” he says, and places some official-looking identity documents in my hands. “I will come for you when he arrives.”

  “His name?” I ask.

  The lieutenant hears me but only walks away. He stops at the tent’s opening, his back to me.

  All I do is hold my breath.

  * * *

  —

  At night, the heat makes life difficult. You wake up drenched and begin the day that way. The tsetse flies gorge on blood and mosquitoes make sleeping impossible. I remain dressed and wait alone in my tent to be called. Some of the soldiers are discussing what went wrong in combat, how they lost three men, boys really. They were Azorean. By their tone, it sounds things could have been worse.

  Papa Gilberto taught me about Portugal and all its colonies spread across the world. I knew about the Azores Islands, Goa, Macau, and other Portuguese colonies in Africa. There were colourful maps. He used a book he had in his office to explain the history of Mozambique, and he read from the book like a teacher giving a lesson. There was no pride in his voice. I once asked him if he was Portuguese. Without taking a breath he replied, No, I’m Mozambican. His family could be traced back three hundred years
, but why they came was something he didn’t like to talk about. Slavery. Only once did he speak of how his relatives, people he no longer knew or had much in common with, now lived off the land they had stolen.

  I hear a convoy of trucks drive into the clearing. I’m sitting on my lower bunk, facing the wall, but there is still no relief of my migraine.

  I’m not certain how long I have been lying on my cot when the lieutenant nudges me. In a daze, I wipe the sweat from my forehead, careful not to mess my hair. He says nothing. I simply follow him outside. I take a quick look in the mirror. My hair is parted. The grease has darkened my sandy hair to a brown.

  “Pronto. Remember one thing, only speak when asked to. Keep it brief. Do as you are told.”

  The lieutenant leaves me at the entrance to a newly erected tent, a little way from the cluster of tents in the camp. I step inside and the largest man I have ever seen blocks me. He is bald. The light in the tent reflects off his smooth head. His arms are crossed in front of his chest and he does not move.

  “Abel, leave us alone,” a voice says.

  Abel moves aside and bends to exit.

  Without Abel blocking my view, I’m struck by the tent’s luxurious interior: a mahogany desk and chair, travel trunks, a full bed with linens suspended off the floor and completely draped with mosquito netting. The floor is covered with Persian rugs, layered over each other. A small table is set next to the bed. On it are a candle and some books. Near it, on a longer table, I see a plate made of china and decanters of wine and liquor and an assortment of goblets made of cut crystal. My head is pounding.

  “Don’t mind Abel.” The deep voice emerges from behind a screen that has been set up in the corner of the tent. A military uniform is draped over the screen and in front of it is a porcelain washbasin and jug.

  “He’s harmless. Except to those I tell him to hurt.” He gives a half-hearted chuckle. “I cut off his tongue,” he says, and I’m not sure if I’m expected to react. “He’s very good at keeping secrets,” the man says, emerging from behind the screen cinching his robe across his waist. “What’s your name?” A small breeze could shift the mosquito netting and catch fire.

  “Zeca,” I say.

  He walks up to me, and I notice his limp. One leg is shorter than the other and the heel never touches the ground. I try to avert my eyes, but he is upon me before I can look up.

  “The lieutenant said your name was Ezequiel. I don’t like names that are shortened. It cuts a man in half. But you are still a boy, I see.” His eyes shine the colour of an escudo, coppery and unreal. His sideburns almost meet with the ends of his full moustache, the tops of which are waxed and twisted to a point.

  He is a tall man, six foot two or so. So pale, and his teeth are white and straight. The sweltering heat of the tent only makes the smell of him that much stronger, a mix of freshly sawn wood and musk.

  “Your lieutenant’s breath reeks, but I can see he chose wisely.” He measures me with a smile. I want to defend the lieutenant, but I hold my tongue.

  He pinches my chin and turns my face away. “Mulatto,” he says, and I hear the displeasure in the word. His hand drops. His power frightens me. The men I had spent time with in the bush knew I could read and write. The workers I was raised with in the mission, all black, also recognized my social status—son of white missionaries.

  “A mulatto may serve my purpose. I need a shadow.” He steps to the table, where his meal has been finished. “Someone to do my bidding before I even know what I want.” He looks down at his plate. “It’s so hard to find that kind of understanding in this place. But can you be trusted?”

  I move to the table and pick up the plate and cutlery, clear the table for him before he sits down. I am too afraid to do anything wrong. I walk carefully, terrified of tripping. The weight of his plate steadies my hand. I am terrified to look at him. I have seen how brutal a man can be, and this man holds such power.

  “They need us. They turn us into beasts, but they need us. The problem is there are too many of them. A burden. They fuck like rabbits and we’re the ones who need to look after them. Without us they’re useless. They just don’t know it.”

  His words ring in my ears and make me feel dirty. I leave the tent and drop the plates outside the opening. A slight breeze whispers through the jungle. I return to the warmth inside the tent. The man sits in his chair at the table. He holds a glass of green liquid over a candle. He swirls it slowly over the flame, his eyes focused on the task.

  “I’m told you like music,” he says.

  It is not a question, and I do not respond. I do not know who told him this or how it is anyone knows. I play my harmonica only when alone and under my covers, and even then I do so quietly. I can’t chance them taking it away from me.

  “The leather box on top of the trunk,” he says.

  I make my way over to it and open a portable record player. All the metal parts are gold-plated and the motor board a dark polished wood. The winding handle is attached to the outside, and inside the lid is a collection of five albums. I slip one out of its jacket, Kind of Blue by Miles Davis, and place it on the turntable. I crank the arm. The sound emerges into the suffocating heat trapped in the tent.

  I have never heard such discordant sounds fitting so perfectly together.

  “Come here,” he says, his eyes slightly closed as he swirls his drink over the flame. “You are to call me Commander. Do you understand?”

  He offers me his drink. “Absinthe,” he says. I take the warm glass from his hand, my fingers brushing across his hairy knuckles. His nails are buffed and appear wet.

  The liquid is slightly bitter, but the taste of anise comes through.

  “You like the green fairy, do you?”

  I nod and give him back the glass. Reaching up, before I can take a step back, the Commander’s thumb is smudging a dribble from the corner of my mouth. My lips do not tremble; they are numb.

  “Not easy to come by, but anything can be bought, even in this hell.” He again hovers the glass over the flame.

  The hot liquid is burning its way down my throat. I feel the flames licking the insides of my stomach. I close my eyes for a second, but the sound of shattering glass forces them open. The Commander holds the broken glass in his hand. The absinthe has spilled over the candle and doused the flame. I grab the towel from the wash basin and press it to his hand. With my other hand I remove the shard embedded in his palm. He does not appear to feel a thing, simply tilts his head back and closes his eyes. I curl his fingers over the towel, urge him to hold on to stop the flow. I dampen a cloth in his basin and begin to wipe his hand. He has the five-dots tattoo that many of the soldiers do. The five dots are arranged like the dots on a dice, spaced between his thumb and forefinger.

  “I think you’ll work out fine,” he says. His eyes, although half-closed, are on me. I cannot help but think he is testing me and I dare not look away.

  “Bring me my razor,” he says. I return to him with a dry towel and the razor he requested. “And another candle and that bottle of ink on my desk.” I do as I’m told. I place these on the table. He burnishes the tip of the razor over the flame.

  “Give me your hand,” he says.

  Inside the warm glow of the tent I give in to his power over me.

  The Commander dips the right angle of the straight razor into the ink. He presses the point to the top of my hand, near the base of my thumb. I feel the pinprick of heat, the moment the drop of my blood mixes with the ink, and I hear him say, “Half-blood.”

  “These dots represent the five shields of Portugal. It will protect you. You can trust President Salazar,” he whispers. “Only he can free us.” He whispers “Salazar” as he pricks my skin for the second time with the corner of the blade.

  I close my eyes and let him press the tip of the blade three more times. Each time he presses the point of the blade down, there is an urge to take a step back. He whispers a word with each prick he makes: “power,” “wisdom,” a
nd “loyalty.” The heat radiates on my skin as the ink mixes with my blood.

  He takes the same cloth I had used to clean his wound and finds a clean corner. He lays it over my fresh tattoo and presses down, as if sealing our pact.

  “Loyalty is the most important,” he says, almost dreamlike. He draws in his breath, hesitates. His yellow eyes hold me in a trance. “In Africa death is always close by. The heat. The rot.”

  The Commander grabs my arm and tugs me closer. I look away but his hot breath fills my ear.

  “The blacks are coming. And when they do, I’ll be ready for them.”

  * * *

  —

  The months pass and I am content to move from camp to camp with the Commander and Abel. I have picked up details of the Commander along the way; have overheard some of the men of high rank call him Commander Anselmo Fonseca. I’ve been able to piece together that he is a commander of the Polícia Internacional e de Defesa do Estado, what they called PIDE. The group rounds up snitches, sometimes women, who are offered money or certain positions of power in exchange for secrets. If these incentives don’t work, PIDE resorts to torture.

  The Commander is a powerful man in the colonial police and he oversees Portugal’s counter-insurgency operation. As a young man he was hand-picked by the head of PIDE. The Commander spoke highly of this man, saw him as a mentor, a father figure, who recognized a quality of character in him that his own father had not. I know this because the Commander goes into long tirades. Anger spewing from him, he transforms into his father. You’ll never amount to much, not with your deformity. You need to build character. This mentor recognized how the Commander had turned his deformity into a strength, harnessing his resentment into a cold ruthlessness. In 1956, this man dispatched the Commander to Mozambique to head the secret police here. “Gave me this shithole” is how the Commander describes it. “Saw something in me and rewarded me with this misery.”