by Mia Couto
I’m going to ask you to do something now. Get undressed.
I’m almost undressed as it is, Dona Bianca.
Take all your clothes off, we’re alone, no one will see us.
Reluctantly, I undid my blouse and dress. The Italian woman took a step back, seized the lamp next to the bed, and held it up high to take a better look at me.
You’re going to drive men crazy before they even touch you.
She put the lamp down in order to feel my hips and my belly. She kept caressing me while she explained: She wanted to know what it was that white men saw in black women. Then she sat down, an enigmatic smile on her lips. She would like to see the look on men’s faces when they discovered us naked and sharing the same bed.
Can you imagine it? Two women, and what’s more, a white woman and a black woman?
I don’t like this conversation, Dona Bianca.
She straightened the straps of her chemise and peered into my eyes as if gazing at herself in a mirror.
I no longer want to have a beautiful figure. Some men are attracted to me just because I’m the only white woman. But you, my dear, what have you done to be so graceful and so free of race?
I’m a black woman, Dona Bianca, I retorted with a shrug of my shoulders.
But I knew how the imprint of my origins had been erased. During my entire childhood, far from my parents, the priest had patrolled my dreams from the moment I woke up, canceling out the nightly messages sent to me by those who had gone before. And apart from this, Father Rudolfo Fernandes would correct my accent as if he were clipping a dog’s nails. I was a black woman, indeed. But that was an accident of skin color. To be white was the only profession my soul had been schooled for.
At that point, the beat of drums could be heard coming from the direction of the river. Groups of people made their way along the village paths. I went to the entrance of the tent. And someone told me about a sinister occurrence: The same tree trunk to which the Vátua spy had been lashed had floated back to the landing stage at Sana Benene. The old tree had traveled against the current, and without the body that had been tied to it. Unmistakable marks on the bark revealed what had happened to the intruder: He had been devoured by crocodiles. This could only be the work of Bibliana, which was the reason for all the agitation; the divine powers that protected us were being celebrated.
The Italian closed her eyes and mumbled: That witch! I told her we did not use that term. And much less did we talk about such things at night. But she continued:
Well, everyone calls me a witch. I’m a woman, I’m unmarried, and I travel alone in the world.
As a witch herself, she had no difficulty in recognizing another one. When Bibliana was dancing in the terreiro, the Italian immediately detected the presence of the devil. The moment she grabbed the black woman’s tunic, other hands seized her. They were women’s hands. She recognized their faces: They were prostitutes who had been killed in the bars that she owned. But she saw other hands too. They were the hands of people who had given her what she called “dirty money.”
I told everyone that I embarked on this long journey for reasons of love. I spoke of my passion for Mouzinho. All that was false. The truth is that I came to collect the debts of Sardinha, the storekeeper.
I recalled the last moments of Francelino Sardinha’s life: the kind way he accompanied me home, the story he told me about Ngungunyane and his search for the poison from the mri’mbava on account of his having succumbed to forbidden love. And finally, the image of the storekeeper of Nkokolani came back to me, breathing his last in a pool of blood, clinging to a rifle with the desperation of a drowning man. That was how he fell asleep every night, hugging his old shotgun.
So they accused the storekeeper of trading arms with the English? Well, I traded with all of them, Portuguese, Vátuas, English, Boers. They say I have hands of gold? If only they were, may God forgive me.
She held out a piece of blue ribbon and asked me to tie it to her hair, which covered her back. While I rolled my fingers in her perfumed locks, the white woman turned down the flame in the lamp and her tone of voice darkened as she murmured:
The real witch isn’t Bibliana. It’s you. Germano is besotted with you. And that’s got to finish.
Finish? How?
Where I’m taking you, there can’t be any wives, husbands, love, or marriage.
She rummaged around in her purse and took out a photograph. Although it was faded and dog-eared, one could make out the image of a tall, gaunt man against the background of a ship.
It’s Fábio, my husband, she murmured, as if at a wake. Then she rummaged through the purse again and pulled out half a dozen envelopes. These are the letters he sent me when I was in Italy. They’re Fábio’s letters.
With the utmost care, she put the photo back. And, in Italian, she lamented: Sono tutti uguali, gli uomini sono tutti uguali. At first she assumed that her beloved was telling the truth when he expressed his yearning for her. How real her tears were, in that faraway Italian village, as she read the painful messages from her sweetheart exiled in Africa. It was all an illusion. Like the other white men, her companion was busy with other charms, other sweet exiles. And it was in another tone of voice that Bianca Vanzini returned to the thorny matter of my future.
Anyway, this is what’s going to happen: I’m going to make a queen out of you. The white men will rush to kneel at your feet.
But what if I don’t want to, Dona Bianca?
You will, Imani. You’re an intelligent woman. You know what your future will be like with a disabled man who will be more like a son than a husband.
And what if I refuse?
If you do, then I shall remind Sergeant Germano who it was who fired the shot, who it was who crippled him forever more.
She lay down, and with her eyes closed, now repeated in Portuguese what she had said in Italian but a few moments before:
Men are all the same, in Africa, in Italy, or in Hell.
I thought she was already asleep when I heard her once again searching among the envelopes. Her hand, lit up by the oil lamp, suddenly turned much paler as she touched my shoulder.
Read me this letter. Don’t tell me you don’t know the language. You do, oh yes, it’s a love letter.
I deciphered the words letter by letter. I omitted what I couldn’t understand, and embellished what I could. But I read quickly, in a low voice, for fear of being heard outside the thin canvas walls. Maybe it was different in Italy. But for us, stories can only be told at night. Only like that can the darkness be distracted. Fortunately, the white woman soon fell asleep.
Lulled by my own voice, I too slipped away into sleep. I dreamed of the tree my grandfather had planted behind our house. During the day, it was scrawny and its shade was sparse. But when darkness fell, it turned into a vast, leafy creature. In the moonlight, its luminous fruits could be seen. It was a nocturnal tree. No one else witnessed its splendor. Only the moon and I.
8
THIRD LETTER FROM LIEUTENANT AYRES DE ORNELAS
… the slightest disobedience or mere delay in fulfilling an order of mine was punished immediately and harshly—not to say barbarously—with a hippo-skin whip, and a black convicted of spying was shot and his body burned in front of some three hundred Mabinguelas and Mangunis, assembled there at my orders. Do not think I enjoy seeing natives killed in cold blood, or writhing in agony under the lashes of the whip, but I realized that Gungunhane was still greatly feared and respected, due in part to the deaths he ordered every day, and that was why I did all I could to inspire a similar terror to that which the Vátua ruler dispensed around him.
—MOUZINHO DE ALBUQUERQUE, QUOTED BY ANTÓNIO MASCARENHAS GAIVÃO, IN “MOUZINHO DE ALBUQUERQUE. FROM THE BACKLANDS OF MOZAMBIQUE TO THE POMP OF EUROPEAN COURTS,” OFICINA DO LIVRO, CRUZ QUEBRADA, 2008
Inhambane, July 29, 1895
Dear Sergeant Germano de Melo,
Thank God I have resumed my calling as a soldier. I received orders t
o abandon my diplomatic tasks and to prepare, here in Inhambane, for a powerful military offensive that will take place on the plains of Magul. Indeed, my stay in Manjacaze had become unbearable. Not only because of the fruitless wait for Gungunhane to change his position, but because everything about the place was somber and decadent.
Did you, Sergeant, not complain that your military post at Nkokolani was more of a shop than a garrison? Well, José d’Almeida’s residence at Manjacaze had been transformed into a bottle store, where alcohol was distributed without any controls. The great and the good of Gungunhane’s court, the king’s wives and his military chiefs, all pretended that there was a purpose to our official audiences. Then one would watch them leaving, moments later, staggering away with bottles in their hands. Drinking was no longer enough. It was vital that those drinking should be seen doing so by all the others, for they gained social prestige by availing themselves of the alcohol of the Europeans.
The hunger I experienced in Manjacaze was such that even I, who am parsimonious when it comes to drinking, ended up consuming wine without due restraint merely to forget the lack of food. We got to the stage of asking Georges Liengme for food for our people and corn for the horses. He provided us with four sacks of grain.
The saddest thing, the doctor remarked, is not that one has to give food. But it is not knowing whether this food is for people or for animals.
Can you think of anything more annoying than this type of comment coming from a European?
I have shared these initial confessions with you, but I should warn you right away that this is not exactly a letter. It is a command that I am drawing up in the intervals between my busy preparations in this pleasant city of Inhambane. As I mentioned at the beginning of this letter, we are on the eve of a major offensive in Magul. This is going to be a crucial moment in my career. The hierarchy has its eyes on me and I cannot miss this opportunity to shine.
I shall get to the point without more ado: I urgently need you to act as my informer on the ground. This is not a request. It is an order from your commanding officer. None of this is related in any way to my promise to arrange for your transfer back to Portugal, for that will be a future favor of no relevance here. This is different. It is going to be vital that I should get firsthand accounts of a strategic nature. The most important of these will concern Gungunhane’s movements, or those of the two fugitive leaders. If I am apprised of these before any other Portuguese official—and above all before Mouzinho de Albuquerque—I shall have a golden opportunity to stand out in front of my own superiors. Our correspondence must therefore take on a practical, discreet character. Your letters can and should continue to talk about your personal sentiments, of course. But these should take the form of notes on the side. The most important thing is that you should provide me with useful assets that will serve to boost me and harm my political adversaries. I shall know how to reward you. The moment I am promoted, you, my friend, will be sent back to Portugal immediately. That is my firm promise.
9
AN AGE WITHOUT TIME
The history of the world is a story of three days and three deaths. On the first day, there was a flood and all creatures were turned into fish. This was how my two daughters became submerged in the river. On the second day, a fire devoured the forests, and where clouds hovered, only dust and smoke were left. The sources dried up and rivers disappeared. Then all creatures were turned into birds. That’s what happened to your mother, do you not remember her in the tree? On the third day, a violent storm swept through the sky and all the winged creatures were turned into earthbound animals, spreading through valleys and across mountains until they no longer recognized themselves. That is what is happening to us, the survivors of war.
—KATINI NSAMBE, ADDRESSING HIS DAUGHTER IMANI
This is what delights the cook: to see the plates clean as if a cat had licked them. This was what the plate looked like after Father Rudolfo had satisfied his hunger. He was now fanning himself with it. Suddenly, the priest put aside his improvised fan in order to comment on a rumor that was going around. It was said that the queen, Impibekezane, had been seen in the vicinity of Sana Benene.
I hope she’s not thinking of coming here, the priest declared quietly.
Rather than an honor, a visit by someone of that rank was a reason to feel insecure. The priest wanted the house of God kept away from politics and wars. The church could be an infirmary. But never a place of ashes and death.
In this, I am in complete agreement with you, Father, Bianca acceded. Sometimes the worst thing that can happen in a war is to win a battle. The Portuguese won at Marracuene but left a few dozen dead there. Vengeance is coming.
The heat was intense at that hour but what we found most stifling was the prospect of imminent tragedy. War surrounded us on all sides with its invisible claws. With so much danger lurking, what worried me was how we were going to get Germano to the Swiss hospital.
Don’t worry, my dear Imani, Father Rudolfo declared, adding: That white man of yours is going to have to stay here a while yet.
Our departure to Mandhlakazi was delayed. Dr. Liengme had been summoned to Lourenço Marques by António Enes. And no one knew when he would be back.
We sat in silence while Bibliana gathered in the plates and cutlery to put them in a basin of water. Every time the black woman passed by, the white woman would stretch her legs out to try to block her way. Unable to trip her up, Bianca lost her temper and said:
Don’t pass in front of people. Keep behind us. Didn’t the Father teach you any manners?
When, at last, Bibliana retired to the shadows of the kitchen quarters, Bianca commented in a harsh tone: That woman was wearing her nightdress.
Dona Bianca, around here all dresses are nightdresses, the priest retorted irritably.
Women wear those clothes inside the house.
You don’t understand, madam: For these folk, the house is all that you can see around us.
The white woman contemplated the disorder around us while the priest continued speaking.
The problem is, Dona Bianca, that you are scared of Bibliana. You don’t see her as a person. You see a black woman, a witch.
It’s not she who worries me, but you. You’ve forgotten that you are a priest and that this house is a holy place.
A holy place? Do you want to know why I’m here? They sent me to Sana Benene because this place is in the middle of nowhere. I was punished. I blew the whistle on dirty goings-on, business dealings carried out in the name of important people.
What business dealings?
Slaves.
Now, now, Father, let’s get things straight. Slavery finished ages ago!
That’s the problem, Dona Bianca. It didn’t finish. And you know very well what I’m talking about.
* * *
As he entered the church that afternoon, Father Rudolfo was surprised by the presence of three men sitting in the first row of the paltry collection of chairs. The strangers introduced themselves as Manhune, Ngungunyane’s general and adviser, along with two bodyguards in civilian attire. It is bad manners for a visitor to state their business straightaway, but Manhune was above such precepts, and without beating about the bush he announced the purpose of his visit. He was there to fetch the women.
What women? the priest asked, all aquiver.
Bibliana and the white woman who has just arrived.
They would not leave without taking the women with them. The Nkosi wanted both of them. The black woman because of the powers she possessed. The white woman because of the prestige he would accrue by having a European spouse. The priest implored, almost sobbing: Please don’t take my husband away from me.
The messengers burst out laughing. Husband? They overlooked the slipup: The white was talking in a language that was not his. And they corrected him patiently. The linguistic misunderstanding stopped them in their tracks momentarily. The messenger agreed that the priest should organize the move before they returned in a few
days’ time. At that point, the women should be ready to leave. And they withdrew, disappearing into the darkness of the surrounding countryside.
* * *
Neither Bianca Vanzini nor Bibliana could be found in the churchyard, and so Father Rudolfo took the opportunity to tell me and my father about the visit of the VaNguni chief and Ngungunyane’s intentions. He asked us not to mention anything to anyone. There was no point in frightening the women who were the target of such threats. And so a heavy silence fell over us, only interrupted by my father’s desperate swigs from the bottle. Irritated, the priest snatched the bottle of nsope from his hands:
Where is your son Mwanatu?
Katini contemplated the vast expanses of grassland around them as if, rather than searching for his son, he were seeking a language in which to answer:
He’s around somewhere …
Around where? This isn’t a time to be around somewhere …
My father did not reply, for fear of being misunderstood. People spoke of his son in the same terms as they spoke of all madmen: He was prowling through the night putting the wild animals to sleep. He was placating the tiredness and hunger of these beasts. By so doing, he took on the spirit of the creatures of the wild.
The boy is still a simpleton. That’s the sad fact of the matter, the priest insisted, concerned.
Katini Nsambe ignored the respect due to a priest and overcame his misgivings in addressing a white.
That’s my son we are talking about.
His nervousness prevented him from remaining seated any longer. He walked around the tree and tore off bits of bark until his fingers began to bleed.
The priest spoke to me as if my father were not present:
Your father is happy to take you to the land of the white people. Is that what you want to be? A black woman in a white man’s world?
For a second I thought my father was leaning over the priest in order to attack him. And that was what Rudolfo feared too, shielding his face with his hands. However, Katini Nsambe was just reaching past him in order to seize back his bottle of liquor, and he walked resolutely away, clutching the bottle close to his chest.
