by Mia Couto
Fearing what my reaction might be, old Katini whispered in my ear:
They are orders, my daughter. We are here as supplicants.
We? You, Father, are the only supplicant here.
But of one thing I was sure: The biggest beggar was not my father, but the emperor.
34
SERGEANT GERMANO DE MELO’S ELEVENTH LETTER
I dreamed I was an eternal emperor. But I shall have the fate of slaves: They will bury me in some strange land, my body will rot away in the soil of my vanquishers. My bones will dwell beyond the ocean. And no one will have any memory of me. Oblivion is the only way of dying forever. And it will be worse still: Those who remember me at all will be those who never wished me well.
—THE WORDS OF NGUNGUNYANE
Chicomo, November 4, 1895
Dear Lieutenant Ayres de Ornelas,
Shut away here in the infirmary of the garrison at Chicomo, where I have just arrived, I have little news to report. I am surrounded by dozens of patients, but am more isolated here than I was at the outpost of Nkokolani. My boredom is only broken by the repeated summons of Dr. Rodrigues Braga in order to reassess my hands. He has already done this several times. And today, once again, there I was before his desk.
As always happens before an examination, the doctor extended his gaze beyond the confines of the garrison, tired of the somber scene that surrounded him. As if seeking to contemplate the landscape without ever actually seeing it, he removed his glasses. His defenseless, myopic eyes gave him a vulnerable air that was out of keeping with the solid appearance that war expects from those who wage it.
What day of the week is it? he asked wearily.
He knew there would be no answer. I had long lost any notion of time. Braga put his glasses back on and twisted the ends of his mustache upward. It’s Sunday, my young friend.
Once again, he studied my hands, which lay ignored on the table, as if they were a collection of old odds and ends in a display case. As always, the man examined my fingers, felt my skin, tested the joints.
They are continuing to scar without any problems. Who was it that treated you? He repeated the same question asked a hundred times before.
Once again, sir, I found myself hesitating. What could I say? That it had been a black healer who had come to my aid with concoctions, spells, and ointments? It was … it was a woman, I stammered. The doctor answered, with a mischievous smile: A woman? They’re the best cure.
You, sir, are very familiar with the simultaneously abrupt and delicate manner of our physician friend. And this was why he let my wrists drop with blunt disregard, as if he were returning one of my forgotten parts to me. Once again, he fixed his gaze on the horizon. I imitated him in his far-flung contemplation before asking:
Do you think I’ll be able to use a weapon again, Doctor?
The doctor shook his head, as if he were disappointed. Between you and me, Lieutenant, I have to admit my question baffled me. At the time when I was first treated, at Sana Benene, I asked a very different question: whether I would be able to make the sign of the cross again. What warlike fervor was now moving me?
I only hope Mouzinho can’t hear you, the doctor affirmed. The captain will recruit you for his punitive expedition, which he is organizing against all advice.
The sad truth is this, sir: even with my fingers in their present state, I was in better health than most of the soldiers confined to their beds here. Some of them should have long ago been evacuated to Lourenço Marques. Or even to the mother country. But most of these wouldn’t survive the journey. Once, Dr. Braga told me confidentially of the doubt that consumed him:
I learned to deal with the sick. What am I going to do with the dying?
The following day, the doctor acted as if he had found the answer. He commandeered two of the carts used for bringing supplies to Chicomo, which returned empty to Inhambane. In them, he placed the most seriously ill of his patients, and to each one he gave two bottles, one with water, the other with liquor. One to allay thirst, the other to guarantee oblivion. He knew that only a miracle would get these wretched folk to their destination. In this way, he fulfilled his role as a doctor. There being no remedy, they would die in the belief that they were going home.
Wouldn’t you like to help me in the infirmary?
Then he amended his question. He was my superior, and was giving me orders. He went on to define my responsibilities. I would have the task of ordering and administering the medical supplies. He showed me a pile of papers on his desk. They were requests for matériel: bandages, quinine, purgatives, balsam pills, poultices, and phenic acid for infections. All this matériel had been held up at Inhambane for months.
I’m a soldier, I replied. I went through military school, it would be a waste for me not to be at the battlefront …
Braga took a deep breath, as if he felt suffocated. Then, all of a sudden, he got up, held out his arm, and said:
Come with me, I’ll show you a battlefront.
And he took me to see the wounded. He asked each one to show us his injuries and to relive the circumstances of the battle. Many of them are mad, the doctor explained as if he were comforting me. Then he added:
Madness is sometimes the only way to overcome fear.
Within a few minutes, my vision had become blurred. One of the soldiers, who appeared to be in better shape than the others, sat up on his bed and opened his eyes wide while repeating: The angels, the angels …
This is how he arrived from the Battle of Magul, the doctor said.
The confused soldier launched into a description of the roars and clouds of smoke, imitating the noise of rifle and cannon fire. Then he spoke of the Portuguese and Vátuas all being turned into smoke. And he imitated the guns aimed at clouds and smoke, with such intensity that the heavens were forever torn apart. Are you my angel? the delirious soldier asked, digging his fingers into my arm.
I’m not the one who needs you, the doctor declared after the visit was finished. You’re the one who needs me.
So that is how I came to take up residence in a hut next to the entrance to the infirmary. Now I feel the weight of eternity upon me every time Dr. Rodrigues Braga announces the arrival of yet another Sunday.
I shall leave the account of an incident until the end of this letter, at which point you, sir, will assess its relevance. This morning, we received the visit of the doctor and missionary Georges Liengme. Such an irony of fate: you, sir, prevented me from going to meet the Swiss. And now he has come my way. Dr. Rodrigues Braga is aware of recommendations from on high that he should keep his distance from this missionary. However, possibly because he is also a doctor, he received the visit with graceful good manners.
In defense of our doctor, I should emphasize that, the moment he arrived, he was reminded of the official position of Portugal with regard to the Swiss Mission and its missionaries. His reception was, Braga made clear, an exception to the rule. Georges Liengme, falsely resigned, declared:
The Portuguese dislike me only because I have taken up the cause of the blacks.
You haven’t taken up the cause of the blacks, the Portuguese doctor countered. You have taken up the cause of Gungunhane. And you can be sure, my dear doctor, that the Portuguese are protecting many more blacks than the Swiss and all the other Europeans combined.
Should we not leave that question to the very people whom you claim to defend? Liengme queried.
Then the Swiss smiled in order to mask his fatigue. He had left Manjacaze three days before on a harnessed mule and leading a cart pulled by two donkeys. He was coming to Chicomo to deliver correspondence for Colonel Eduardo Galhardo. He no longer trusted emissaries. In moments of crisis, loyalty is merely an absence of opportunity.
And they had lunch together. After lunch, our friend Braga invited the Swiss to visit the infirmary. Liengme spent time at each bedside, asking each patient to tell him their story and praying for their recovery. He spent longest by an injured patient who was suffer
ing from hallucinations. The unfortunate fellow was convinced that his body had been pierced by a kaffir spear. And he was writhing and moaning, all doubled up with an endless attack of colic. The Swiss spoke in the softest murmur, the palm of his hand resting on the raving soldier’s brow.
What are you doing, colleague? the Portuguese doctor inquired with interest.
I’m not doing anything. What I’d like to try is hypnosis. It’s my specialism.
Before long, my dear Liengme, none of us will remember what specialism we studied.
Then, as it was getting late, Braga insisted our Swiss visitor stay the night. So that is what happened. That night, the man who cared for those who would kill us slept inside our fortress.
35
THE VULTURE AND THE SWALLOWS
To have enemies is to become their slave. Peace is not born by defeating an adversary. True peace consists in never making enemies.
—A PROVERB FROM NKOKOLANI
My father looked wrinkled and ancient standing before the emperor, who was occupying the bed in the infirmary as if it were a throne. Old Katini’s legs were trembling so much that the flies were unable to land on them. The sentries watched carefully as my old father sat down on the ground, as protocol demanded; visitors should be viewed from a higher position. With his face almost touching his knees, curled up like a bundle of elephant grass, he waited for permission to speak.
Who are you? Ngungunyane asked without looking at him.
Katini Nsambe was slow to speak, moving his lips without articulating a word, as if he were at once gagged and mute. His jaw receded into his face, his gaze drifted through endless space looking for the exact words. Instead of talking, however, Katini burst into an inconsolable fit of weeping. His crying degenerated into uncontrollable sobs.
Ngungunyane showed no concern at all, and stared at the ceiling. I was afraid he would eventually lose his patience altogether. But it wasn’t a question of patience. It was disdain. My father didn’t exist, and for that reason the emperor was unaffected by the time it took for the crying to cease.
When silence finally returned, the great chief of the VaNguni closed his eyelids and spoke:
The people of your race, the VaChopi, cry as if they were continually being reborn.
According to the emperor, this was how we of the VaChopi nation behaved in order to demonstrate that we were defenseless. The bow and arrow, which had brought us fame as warriors, were, after all, childhood toys. That was how he explained my father’s exhibition: solitary and vulnerable, he was asking for a protective embrace. You are all women, he concluded, as if spitting at him.
Just as a lumberjack assesses the tree he is going to cut down, the emperor contemplated my old father from top to bottom, while cleaning his nails with his little piece of bone. Eventually, my father seemed able to articulate some words and he mumbled:
My name—
No one is interested in your names. Rather, this: Tell me how many children you have, Muchope.
Katini Nsambe grated his teeth so hard, it was impossible to hear whether he had managed to speak. All one could see were his hunched shoulders. The emperor smiled condescendingly:
You’re telling me you don’t know. Well, I’m the only one here who has a right not to know.
He didn’t know where his domains ended. He didn’t know how many wives he had. And there was so much death in his family that he needed to make enough children to lose count of how many there were. Then he returned to his personal hygiene.
As my old father still did not speak or move, I stepped out of the shadows and announced:
My father came here to offer me as your wife.
The emperor did not bother to look up. Instead, he now addressed my father in a harsh tone:
Who said I needed a wife? Who are you to think about what I need?
I took another step forward and my anxiety to become visible distorted my voice so much that I no longer recognized myself:
I know the language of the whites, Nkosi. I was brought up among them.
The emperor hesitated. He wasn’t struck so much by what I said, but by my irreverent ways. He clicked his tongue against his teeth and nonchalantly pursed his lips:
I have my translators. I don’t want any more, they are a risk I can do without.
And he elaborated on his doubts. The white men’s noses are the beaks of vultures, he said. Translators also grow the same curved beak. What they didn’t know and what they come to know are dangerous. More dangerous still is what they come to know and don’t translate.
You should trust me, Nkosi.
Why?
Because I’m a messenger, I affirmed.
From whom? The Portuguese?
From a woman.
A woman?
From Vuiaze.
Mention of the name struck the emperor like a thunderbolt, his whole body shook, and the bone slipped from his fingers. He stared at me as if seeking a face behind a mask.
The tale of the forbidden love between Ngungunyane and Vuiaze, the most beautiful woman in all the kingdom of Gaza, had become a legend. Her radiant face, her comely body, her light skin, all this had attracted men. When he was still a youth, the pretender to the throne fell passionately in love, and his love was immediately reciprocated. There were anxious murmurings in the court: such an ardent love could distract the future ruler. An unhappy emperor risks the security of the empire. But an emperor in the throes of great happiness is an even greater threat. Rumors soon began to spread that Vuiaze was an easy woman, succumbing to every courtly advance. King Muzila kept her away from Ngungunyane to prevent them from marrying. But he did not have the power to thwart the flame of their romance. From their love, Godido would be born, Gungunhane’s favorite son.
One day, Vuiaze was found dead. Mysteriously, the body disappeared within hours. And she was never seen again.
The emperor’s revenge was capricious: At the oath of military allegiance, all his subordinates were obliged to pay their respects to the vanished woman.
Vuiaze! they bellowed in unison.
And the emperor asked me to pronounce the woman’s name once again. I agreed. Vuiaze, I murmured, my eyes closed.
How old are you? he asked.
I have no age, I answered.
He interpreted my answer as a graceful way of confirming that I was a virgin. And he smiled in the way that only victors do.
Then he summoned his aides to ask them if there was still a bottle of port left.
I trust the alcohol given me by my enemies more than the liquor served me by members of my own family.
The Portuguese had been warned to send him only a few supplies at a time, a crate with just four bottles. Otherwise he would be obliged to distribute the gift among his family and officials. Then he turned his attention to me once more.
The indunas, my counselors, are the ones who will decide the matter of our marriage. I’m tired, tired of myself, tired of all these people.
He was more bothered by his advisers than he was by his weak knees. This was the king’s complaint. He felt like treating his counselors the same way he had treated the swallows. As these swift little birds refused to obey him, he had ordered them to be exterminated. All the travelers told him that not a single swallow was left in the entire country.
Some practical instructions followed. The following day, I would wear the same dress, but would leave my shoes at the hospital.
I cannot appear with a woman wearing shoes. Do you understand?
The advisers would ask me some terrible questions, the women of the court would claim that I would only be doing the tasks of a junior wife, that of collecting and burying the king’s stools and urine.
My daughter will do all that is required, my father declared, having suddenly found his voice.
The emperor gestured for us to be silent. Damned VaChopi, you’ll be my next swallows, the emperor announced. One could see the pain of humiliation in Katini Nsambe’s face. Horrified, I saw my fath
er take from his bag the iron crucifix with which he had murdered the Angolan. Raising his cross, he walked resolutely toward Ngungunyane. I waved my arms, I wanted to scream for him to stop. But my furious father was already lurching forward, his improvised weapon on high. Terrified, I closed my eyes, only to open them again when I heard him mutter softly:
We are almost celebrating Kissimusse. I would like to offer you this Christ, Your Majesty.
The sovereign of Gaza was slow to accept the gift from my submissive father’s hands. Then he turned his gaze to the skeletal figure of Christ.
Poor man. At the hour of his death, did no one help him?
They couldn’t.
Did the son of God die without anyone to comfort and support him?
We all die alone, was Katini’s reply.
* * *
My father and I withdrew from the makeshift infirmary, leaving the king of Gaza asleep. No less drowsy were the two guards, who were slumped together. From inside our hut, we could hear the imperial snores. My father admitted that, during our audience with the king, he had lacked the courage to fulfill his intentions.
Did you want to kill him, Father?
It wasn’t his desire that had flagged, but his courage. The fearlessness that had abounded in him when confronting his son’s killers had ebbed away when facing the emperor.
Do you want me to kill Ngungunyane, Father?
I have already arranged everything with him.
With whom?
With the king. Tomorrow you will be subjected to the approval of the court.
Are you punishing me or Ngungunyane?
I’m not sending you to be his wife. You’re going there in order to be his widow.
And what about you?
I don’t know. For now, I shall return to Sana Benene. Later, I’ll go back to Nkokolani.
Nkokolani no longer exists, Father. Who will look after you?
Places are our eternal family. We mustn’t let them die alone, my father said. And then he concluded, with a trace of mockery on his lips: It’s a lie, what I told the king. No one dies alone.
