by John Keene
D’Azevedo slept fitfully; he rolled about on his pallet as if he were on the deck of a yawl in an Atlantic storm. During one stretch, he saw looming above him a creature, cloaked in a black caftan, its skin white as quicklime, with reddish horns, a beard so matted it appeared woven of copper, the napping becoming an orange flame, and coiling above its head, a tail armored with razors, and when he raised his hands to push it away it transformed into a creature as black the bottom of a pit, the face, a negro’s, sublime in its geometry, its hair alive, a writhing mangrove swamp, which began turning into snakes before D’Azevedo’s eyes, while the body, its black, black body covered with those same tentacular appendages, held D’Azevedo flat against the pallet, and as the creature neared D’Azevedo its bared pelvis sported a rod of such virility that D’Azevedo was sure it would tear his insides to pieces. He screamed out as loudly as he could, though he could not hear a single note issuing from his throat, but the apparition vanished, and he realized that he was sitting on the edge of his bed, sheathed in sweat and moonlight scattered like coins through his shutters. He opened them to admit more, which led him to spot a palm-sized folded slip of paper someone had pushed beneath his door.
Because it was still night and he did not want to wake anyone, as quietly as he could he fished a flint and firestone from his trunk, and lighted a candle, taking care to place it near but not in the window so that the tallow smell would carry into the open air without the light waking anyone. The paper was blank. He held it closer to the candle to make sure he was not missing print too tiny to view in the darkness, and like magic, the tiny, elaborate script, definitely Portuguese, umbered before his eyes as if being written right there on the paper: “They are coming lest you fear watch and listen trust the seer.” The message startled him so he dropped the page into the flame, leaving only ashes on the sill. He returned to his pallet and tried, using the tools of reason, to understand what was going on, from the message, to the nightmare, to the tales Gaspar had told him, all the way back to the unusual circumstances by which he had ended up in this very room the very first night he arrived here. When he made no headway he knelt on the stone floor, his Bible before him, and prayed, remaining there, until exhaustion conquered his efforts, and he did not wake until the final ring of the next morning’s bell.
D’Azevedo rose from the floor, where he had passed out after his mental exertions, washed himself, and threw on his cassock and doublet, then rushed to Matins. Padres Pero, Barbosa Pires, and Dom Gaspar were all aleady there; in their faces and gestures he did not detect even the slightest disquiet. They proceeded through the Breviary without halt; D’Azevedo found himself struggling to concentrate on the words, as his mind was again cycling. It was only when Dom Gaspar extended his hand to help him up from his knees that he grasped the prayers had ended. They exchanged greetings, though the other two priests left the chapel straightaway. D’Azevedo went directly to his office, where the materials for the day’s lessons sat in neat piles on his desk. As he perfunctorily penned a plan to explain several refined points in Biblical interpretation, he would periodically feel a tingle in his cheeks or thighs when the images of the night before flashed in his head.
Not long before he was to head to the scriptorium, where he held the classes, D’Azevedo could hear voices rising like a choir tuning itself, and suddenly, hammering on his door. He went to open it and Dom Gaspar, as red-faced as he had been during his possessed reverie, ran in, crying out:
“They’ve sent a messager, along with coaches from the town, calling all of your boys back. There’s news that the Dutch have laid successful siege to Olinda, and the boys may be needed to participate in a local defense until the Crown’s forces arrive from Bahia and elsewhere.”
“Have they reached our port,” D’Azevedo asked, pulling the stool out for Gaspar, who did not sit, “at Alagoas?”
“Not yet, my Lord, but they say it is only a matter of time before the heathens begin their drive to seize everything and raise the Orange standard above us all.”
D’Azevedo, with Dom Gaspar behind him, went straight to the room where the boys lodged. All were collecting their personal items to prepare home.
“Lusitania has successfully defended her territories from worse threats than this,” D’Azevedo said to the boys, who paused momentarily to turn to him, “and the Netherlanders, like the French, will not triumph. You can be certain we shall reconvene in a fortnight or less, no matter what the threat. In the interim, continue with your lessons on your own, when you can, and if it is possible, send me word of your progress and of what is happening in the town.” When they had finished, he, Gaspar, Zé Pequeninho, who was assigned to serve them and carried as many sacks as he could, and João Baptista, always present, who carried the rest, accompanied them to the stables, where their horses and the coaches to fetch the rest of them awaited. D’Azevedo watched each depart, then returned with Dom Gaspar to his office to formulate a plan in the event that the Dutch did make headway inland.
D’Azevedo asked his charge to notify the other monks that he would like to meet that evening, just before Vespers, to discuss the crisis. Before then, he would examine the house’s inventories to find out what weapons and munition they, lacking a cannon, possessed. From what he could tell there were but a few: several very old swords, a hatchet, perhaps a pike and mace (at least that was what someone had noted down before), and all the agricultural tools, like flails, hoes, and scythes, that could be put to use if necessary. Also listed was a firearm he had never seen, some shot, and a small amount of gunpowder. Nearly all save the pike and farm implements were kept under lock and chain in a vault that he had never entered but knew was accessible via the chapel’s nave.
He followed this with inventories of all other aspects of the house: its finances, the food stocks, the state of the crops, the animals, the slaves. He had heard throughout his time in school on that the Dutch, unlike Lisbon’s ancient allies the English, were especially brutal to adherents of the Roman faith, even though he had also heard the Dutch Church had survived the pox spreading outward from Saxony and that seductive false prophet of Eisleben. If the local forces retreated here in their march toward the interior, the monastery would be able to provide sustenance and shelter; if the Dutch managed to vanquish them, D’Azevedo reasoned it would be beneficial to have at hand every means to ensure their magnimity. In the event of a siege he tried to figure how long he and the monks could hold out. On the back of a letter from the municipal authorities, concerning rules that had been implemented as of the turn of the year, he designated which bottles of cane liquor and wine, casks of English beer, horses, sacred implements, including the gold-plated chalice and the patin, gifts of the Albuquerque family, that were the pride of the Sacristy, as well as slaves, could be used to curry favor. He wrote two versions of this, one which he would entrust with Dom Gaspar, and one which he would keep on his person, to be presented personally to the Dutch commander if necessary.
Throughout the day messengers to the monastery brought notice of the approach of the Dutch fleet, the preparations in town, the lack of response from Olinda and Bahia, or Heaven forfend, distant Rio de Janeiro, the unlikelihood of reaching either Lisbon or Madrid, or, as some fancied, London. D’Azevedo wrote out an appeal to the mother house, but having heard nothing from them in over a month tore it up, and tried to busy himself with other preparations. He checked the food rations again, and requested that all the ovens be fired for extra loaves in preparation for the first waves of refugees and soldiers; explored the feasibility of fortifications, and ordered cordons of rope tied around the perimeter of the
various fields to prevent them from being trampled; conducted a tally of candles, lamps and palm oil, and had new candles fashioned out of the latter so that the house would have sufficient light; and, just before the day plunged into the unquiet evening, climbed onto the roof himself to roll a white sheet to be unfurled, if needed, along the house’s façade as a sign of neutrality. The visits from the outside world ceased completely. D’Azevedo returned to his office to await the brethren. Only Dom Gaspar appeared at his door.
“Where are Padres Pero and Barbosa Pires?” D’Azevedo asked. He peered around Dom Gaspar into the dark, open hallway.
“There has been an incident, my Lord—”
“Dom Gaspar, we are facing an imminent attack—”
“—at the slave quarters. Indeed I came to fetch you. . . .” D’Azevedo noted how the light from the lantern Dom Gaspar brandished before him contorted the deputy’s features into a mask of fright. The provost set down his quill and followed his charge outside.
During the time D’Azevedo had led the professed house, he had often ventured near the shacks where the slaves made their homes, usually during the early morning, usually to conduct a quick inspection to ensure that things were as they should be. Not once had he noticed anything amiss. Nevertheless, as he now trod the hard, hot soil trail behind Dom Gaspar, it was as if he were stepping into a completely different world. Behind one of the shacks, straight ahead, he saw Padre Pero, shirtless and wearing only a bandanna around his neck, soiled work britches, and shoeless, dressed in the manner of a slave himself, holding a black woman by her neck, her wrists bound behind her back. Her wild hair cascaded about her narrow shoulders, covering her face, down almost to the waist of the gossamer linen frock that stopped just above her ankles, which D’Azevedo could see were also bound tightly with rope. She was slender, slight almost, and appeared to be standing only because Pero held her up. Before her, up to her knees, rose a pile of wood, and beside it several urns, smelling of palm oil, and several long coils of rope. D’Azevedo tried to piece all these clues together but they made no sense. It was only then that he noticed that there were only two other adult male slaves present, also apparently bound by their wrists, behind Padre Pero. Three, he realized, instead of the eight that should have been there, though little Filhinho stood almost within the prodigious beard of Padre Barbosa Pires, who wore only his cassock and no doublet, he grasped that the other child, who had served his students and whom he had seen quite recently, also was missing.
“Padre Pero, for heaven’s mercy,” he called out to the older priest, who maintained his tight grip on the slavewoman’s neck, “what is the source of this commotion?”
Pero released his grip on the slavewoman, and raised his other hand, in which he held a large hunting knife. “These creatures were going to burn us all to ashes in preparation for the heathens’ arrival, led by this beast, isn’t that right?” He cuffed the woman hard on the side of her head, knocking her to the ground. One of the black men stumbled forward to assist her, but Pero brandished the knife and the man froze. The fallen woman struggled to her knees, before Pero pushed her back down with his foot, holding her there. “I have a mind to take care of it myself right now.”
“Padre Pero,” D’Azevedo said again, “in the name of Our Father, and the Holy Bible, and the Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church, and the Captaincy of this Province, and in my capacity as the Provost and head of this Professed House of the Second Order of the Discalced Brothers of the Holy Ghost, I command you to desist. If this person, these persons, have been engaged in any mischief, such as a plot to harm this house, especially at this fraught moment, we will address it according to the laws and rules already set down.” D’Azevedo took two steps toward the woman, who continued to writhe about until she rose to kneel, and then was again standing.
As D’Azevedo asked, “Can someone tell me whence this African woman came?” Pero reached out and yanked the curtain of hair from her head, revealing the slave João Baptista, whom, D’Azevedo could see, was also gagged. Lacking words to express his astonishment, D’Azevedo staggered backward, until he felt Dom Gaspar’s arms bracing him.
“This João Baptista, or Quimbanda as they call it,” Pero said, “has long been a source of mischief, well before you arrived. It—she—he sent away a number of the slaves, as you can see, as part of his, its mischief, and was planning to dispatch the rest of us to that blackest place, well before the Dutch could.”
“T-t-t-throw him on the w-w-woodpile,” Barbosa Pires shrieked, startling D’Azevedo, who was just regaining his composure. “T-t-t-there may be more p-p-plots afoot in town given w-w-what this one is capable of.”
“I concur with Padre Barbosa,” Padre Pero continued, “that we hurl this pillar of evil on the very woodpile it was assembling”—and as he uttered these words he approached the bound slave and whispered something D’Azevedo could not hear, the knife in his hand grazing the back of João Baptista’s neck—“then put all the rest of them on there, lest those filthy Dutch or anyone else get their hands on them.”
“T-t-there is a plot afoot,” Barbosa Pires screamed.
“Padre Pero,” D’Azevedo said again, “Padre Barbosa Pires, we will not and cannot proceed in this manner. We have laws and rules and will deal with this person, these persons, as they compel us to, and we shall follow them.” After saying this, D’Azevedo stood silently, neither he nor Dom Gaspar nor Padre Barbosa Pires nor Padre Pero nor any of the enslaved men, save João Baptista, stirring at all, until he finally said, “Dom Gaspar, I want you to bring this person to my office, immediately.” He turned to Padre Pero, who was still holding the knife and glowering at João Baptista as he was led away, and Padre Barbosa Pires, who was holding tightly onto the boy in front of him, and, collecting his words before he spoke, D’Azevedo said, “My blessed brothers, I want you to untie these men and take them and the boy to the barn. Order them to stay there. Then I want you to get dressed, and prepare yourselves so that we might discuss not just this matter, but the far graver threats we face. We shall meet in the chapel in one hour.”
D’Azevedo did not move until he had watched Padre Pero cut the manacles of rope off the two men, before guiding them, with Padre Barbosa Pires following him, Filhinho in tow, toward the barn. If it came down to the Dutch offering these men their freedom he would emancipate them all on the spot. He decided to draft a document to this effect as soon as he was done with his initial interrogation of João Baptista. When Dom Gaspar returned, he asked the brother to collect the wig, the rope and the oil; the first two he should bring to the chapel for the meeting and discussion, the second he should deposit in the kitchen. D’Azevedo went straight to his office.
The slave João Baptista stood waiting outside the door. D’Azevedo led him inside and, taking a rare step, locked the door behind him. At first sight, the slave looked wretched and forlorn. The thin linen shift was smeared with dirt and grass, and a large patch of soil, where Padre Pero had pushed him down, covered part of his neck and cheek. Down the white back of his shift rilled a thin band of blood. There was also blood on his lips, and on his slender arms. D’Azevedo removed the gag and untied the rope binding João Baptista’s hands and feet, guiding him to the stool facing D’Azevedo’s desk. Into one small glazed bowl he poured well water and into a second coconut water from the very urns that João Baptista brought to him several times a day, then handed both, with a rag that sat on his table, to the servant so that he could refresh and clean himself.
Now that he was looking João Baptista in the eyes, he considered that he had never really observed him, never seen him befo
re. The face was crystalline in its familiarity, but not from regular viewing; it was if he had glimpsed this face somewhere else, on an inner mirror, and what he had seen for nearly his entire stay at the house had been merely an outline, a mask, a shadow. João Baptista’s face was very dark, like ebony bark with numerous threads of navy woven through it, the ageless features full but at the same time delicate, the contours sharp but pleasing to the eye. As woman or man he was, D’Azevedo considered, striking. The eyes seemed to blossom from their pupils outward, fixing D’Azevedo’s own. He had to look away, toward his books, to settle his thoughts.
What he thought was: he had never conducted an inquiry of this sort before, and although he had halted Padre Pero’s savagery, supported as it now appeared by Padre Barbosa Pires, he had no idea of how he should proceed. He had immediately sought to question the slave to ascertain the depths of his mischief, which included but was not limited, given the cross-dressing, to the alleged plot. Were there time, D’Azevedo thought, he would seek the counsel and lead of the Olinda House, appealing directly to you. But he had not heard from you in a month, for he, like nearly everyone in that house, was unaware that the Dutch had already seized Olinda and were on the verge of doing the very thing of which the person sitting there was charged: burning most of it down.