by Gayl Jones
He sat and stared at me. He put his hand in his coat, then removed it and wiped it on the cloth again. He looked at me for a very long time. He raised himself up again, in anger, I thought, then he peered at me calmly.
“I brought her bottles of red wine from Europe. I had a gold necklace sent over, a wide gold necklace that had once belonged to an Egyptian princess, or could’ve belonged to one. She claimed she was Iararaca—is that the name of it?—the great magic serpent, the mystical serpent. She said yes she was one.” He stared at his hand as if it were Iararaca, and then he wiped it on the cloth again. “I treated her like a lady, but I should’ve known what she was from the beginning, and what she’d do when she had her chance to do it.”
“What did she do?” I asked.
“Destroy. She tried to destroy everything. All I’d built. Everything.”
“Burn it?” I asked, thinking of my grandmother.
“Burn? What do you mean burn? Did she tell you? Did she betray me in that too? A code of silence we had.”
“No, she didn’t tell me.”
“Are you another Iararaca? I won’t put up with it.”
I shook my head.
“Burn?” he asked. “She tried to burn. Burn all the grounds, cotton, sugarcane, cassava, banana trees. And to burn this, to burn this.” I thought he would put his hand in his long coat again, but he waved it in the air. “She tried to burn this mansion with me inside of it. Burn it while I was right here inside. Burn it to the ground. My cruelty? Ah, and now she’s afraid of her own bosom. Why do I tell you all this?” He peered at me. “Did she send you here? I’ve not had a woman in this house. Did she send you here?”
“No, you did, Sir. You sent for me.”
“Cruelty? I’m not the one who brought the cruelty. I left her for dead. I walked away from her. But she healed miraculously. Plants she knows, herbs, her magic,” he said with contempt. “Or maybe she is old great Iararaca. But it wasn’t my cruelty, not mine. Did she tell you it was mine?”
I shook my head.
“She healed miraculously, and so we have a code of silence, and the old serpent doesn’t enter here. I’ve watched her grow old, but me, all she remembers is the man bending over her with the machete and what pain she felt, if Iararaca is capable of that. But that’s the man she remembers, and I’ve kept it so. But her. Does Iararaca grow old? I left her for dead, lying against the house she tried to burn, with me inside. But I came out in time and saw what the witch was doing. And we’ve a code of silence, and she doesn’t know of the man you’re seeing now. She only remembers that one . . . Did she send you here to spy on me?”
“You sent for me, Sir.”
He looked at me and wiped his hand across his chest as if he were slashing with a machete. I’ve heard of such sexual punishment for women, and my grandmother had said that she’d seen it done, the breasts of an unfortunate woman cut off. It was whispered that Entralgo had once tried to do the same thing to Antonia but that Father Tollinare had forbidden it.
“The man was drunk and angry at someone and the woman got in his way, and so he cut her breasts off. There wasn’t any crime she’d done.”
My grandmother had told me that story when my mother was away, because my mother didn’t like her to tell me such stories.
“She won’t always live in this little world,” my grandmother had replied. “They’re not all Entralgos. There are Corricaos too.”
Yes, that was the first time I’d remembered hearing the name of the slave breeder Corricao. It was said that he bred even his own daughters and the daughters of his daughters, but I’d never seen him. But whenever grandmother told such stories or mentioned the names of such masters as that one, my mother would look at her with anger and had even once said, referring to my grandmother’s insanity, “And maybe she’ll not always be sane, but she is now, and I want to keep her that way as long as I can.”
My grandmother had said nothing then. I looked at her and smiled and made her smile too.
“My cruelty?” Azevedo was still asking when I emerged from my reverie. “It’s only that I didn’t recognize the serpent in the woman. That was my error. But I won’t make that error again.” He flung his hand into the air. “But she’ll see. She’ll see I’ve been with a good woman again. You’re not as handsome as her though.”
His head settled against his heavy neck and he fell asleep. I sat there for several hours, it seemed, until he woke and ignoring me asked Pita to go for Sobrieski to take me back.
When I entered the hut, it was the old woman’s eyes that stared at me without stopping. Had he been right? Had she made use of me to see him for herself? It was rumored that witches could do that, use the eyes of others to see whatever and whoever they wanted to see. Had I seen everything she’d wanted me to see? Had I heard more than she’d wanted? Thinking she had, had he broken their code of silence?
I kept waiting for her to say something to me, but she never did, except here were times when she would stare at me for a very long time. I wouldn’t look at her at those times, and when I did look, my eyes would not go beyond her flat and covered bosom.
New Sandals
THE NEXT MORNING when I came to work, new sandals had been left beside my stool. I left them sitting there and didn’t try them on. Fazendo, one of the men who cut cassava, continued to look at me evilly throughout the day. The Indians entered as usual to bring bushels of cassava, and when a certain woman entered, Mascarenhas, as usual, would say, “Me? I didn’t touch the Indian woman” except this time he added, “Me? I’m not the one. I didn’t make a present of new sandals.”
I said nothing, but I felt shame again, although nothing had occurred between the master and myself. I stared ahead of me, and nodded when the woman set the basket of ripe cassava by my feet. This time I looked up at her. Her eyes were not staring blankly as they usually did, she was staring straight at me, her flat long hair hanging down on all sides. I didn’t know what to make of her expression, and glanced quickly away from her.
“Me? I didn’t touch the Indian woman. You think I’m the one? I didn’t make a present of new sandals either.”
I glanced at him expecting him to be looking at me, but he wasn’t. He was staring straight ahead, standing in the center of the cassava barn, with a long whip I hadn’t as yet seen him use.
I felt Fazendo’s eyes on me, but didn’t dare look at him. I wondered if the same were true of the men as I’d been told of the women who worked there. There were only three men among us, and the two servants of Azevedo that I’d seen. Azevedo had called me one of Father Tollinare’s experiments, but did he have his own cruel experiments?
When the day was over I dropped my little knife beside my basket. I looked at the sandals and started to leave them there. I sensed Fazendo waiting to see what I would do. I lifted them up quickly by the leather straps, not knowing why I’d done so, and left, walking behind the other women.
“Me? I’m not the one . . .”
I imagined his sly eyes on me. Outside, Fazendo’s hand slid against my arm. I didn’t look at him, although I let him walk beside me.
“Do you stay now with those women?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You don’t know if the shoes fit.”
I looked at him. He wasn’t watching me, but looking ahead. I stared at the smooth line of his jaw and his thick hair.
“So you’ve seen him,” he said. “So you know what he looks like.”
“I’ve seen only as much of him as you.”
His eyes narrowed at me. “He’ll send for you again. He’ll send for you anytime.”
“There won’t be any other time,” I snorted. “I’ll escape and go to Palmares where I’ll be a free woman.”
He laughed, but looked at me strangely. “Who told you about that place? What do you know of that place?”
“No one told me. I’ll be a free woman and no one can touch me there.”
He laughed again. “Oh, there’ll be plenty to touc
h you there, my dear.”
I frowned.
“If I wanted you for myself,” he said, “why I’d go to Mascarenhas. But you’ve nothing. You’ve nothing for a real man.”
“And isn’t he real?”
“Who, Mascarenhas? I have my doubts.”
“No, the master.” I pointed to the mansion. “Isn’t he real?”
“You’re the one who’s seen him. But I have my doubts about that one too.”
Then he stopped walking. I stopped a moment, but seeing he had nothing else to say to me and had meant for me to go on, I continued.
When I got to the door of the women’s hut, I looked back and saw him waiting. Then he turned quickly and I entered the long hut. The old woman Vera’s eyes were on me as I set the sandals on the ground, and climbed into my hammock. She looked at the sandals as though she would burn them.
The Stranger
A STRANGE WHITE MAN came riding into Azevedo’s plantation. He was riding a skinny, pointy-eared horse, and there was an umbrella over his head. Everyone else after looking at him went about their business, but me, I stood and watched the strange skinny man on the skinny horse. The Indian woman who spoke to no one was sitting in her doorway holding the light-haired baby on her lap. The man kept looking around at people. He looked at me. It was Sunday and I too sat outside my hut, weaving and reweaving and reweaving the same basket. He rode straight to the Indian woman and got down from the skinny horse. His own face was very long like the animal’s, and sallow. He got down from the horse, folded his umbrella, and knelt in front of her on one knee.
“My mistress, my lady,” he said. “Don’t you appreciate the aspect of a man of good character who would live his whole life in your honor?”
She continued to watch him but said nothing.
“Who would protect you from any danger and just now has traveled a long and treacherous journey to come to you?”
I heard a few suppressed giggles while others went about their business, weaving or carving, or other of their own work they spent the holiday doing. Even Old Xavier, who was known as the wizard and was Old Vera’s rival on the plantation (those who were not satisfied with Old Vera’s cures would go to Arraial Xavier and vice versa), had brought out his small bottles of tonics and was exchanging one for a bag of ground nuts a broad-shouldered man was handing to him. He too acted as though the stranger were not there, continuing to examine his bottles, to taste samples which could cure everything from maculo (diarrhea), to the “white man’s disease,” and there were some bottles that were for love-sorcery, to cure what Xavier called “diseases of the heart”; he even boasted of having medicines to cure soul ailments.
Watching Old Xavier, I’d lost the beginning of what the stranger said, but heard only the words “perpetual adoration” as he continued on his bent knee. Then before he stood he reached for the woman’s hand and gently kissed the back of it. She allowed him to, and then returned her hand to hold the baby more securely.
Suddenly, I couldn’t tell whether the man was Portuguese or Indian or Negro, and the hat he was wearing didn’t allow one to see the texture of his hair. He said nothing else to the woman, but rose in silence, got up on his horse and rode away the same way he’d come. The woman remained sitting as if nothing unusual had happened.
I was the only one who continued to watch her. For a moment, I was uncertain whether this was one of my waking dreams or whether it had actually happened. And I had become afraid to ask questions of the old woman Vera, because she continued to look at me strangely, and had not said one word to me since I’d been sent for by Azevedo. So I kept looking at the Indian woman until the baby pulled at her breasts and began to suck, then I went over to Vera’s rival, the old man Xavier, whom I discovered was also the cook for Azevedo, because he spoke Portuguese well and knew something of the Christian religion, which Azevedo expected of his house servants and those who touched his food, no matter what “sorcery” they used outside or what concoctions they made for others.
I walked up to him and stood there for a long time without speaking.
I’d never spoken to him and was a little afraid. He had a very long neck that looked like a goose’s neck. As I stood there, he squatted on the ground and drew my eyes, then he stood up.
“Do you wish to speak to me or to the one who touches the eyes without medicines and heals them? If you wish to speak to me, then you must translate your silence into words. Come on, what is it?”
“I came to ask about that man.”
“Haven’t you seen a lunatic before?” He tasted from one of his bottles, squinted his eyes, and tasted again. “He’s a lunatic, that’s all.”
“Who is he, where does he come from? I haven’t seen him anywhere before or anyone like him.”
“Are you sure of that?” He squinted at me. “He’s a traveling lunatic. You’ve heard of troubadours, haven’t you?”
I nodded.
“Well, he’s something like that, except he’s a traveling crazy man. Who knows where he’s been? But he certainly comes here twelve times a year to make much ado over that woman. Twelve times a year he brings himself into her presence. Don’t ask me what it’s for. I accept the gifts that’ve been given me, and sometimes the spirits enter me and I can see the future and the past, but otherwise I’m a rational man. I’ll tell you what he thinks he sees in her. He thinks her eyes reflect the universe. Ha.
The universe, mind you. He thinks her right eye’s the sun and her left eye’s the moon. What do you think of that?”
I watched the woman staring down at the child.
“As for me,” said Xavier, “I don’t see the universe in any woman. And if I did see it, I wouldn’t believe my own eyes.” He lifted one of his bottles and smelled it, put a bit on his finger and tasted it. “Well, I’ll say one thing, he’s a free man, and that’s more than I can say for myself. I’m not Old Vera I’m not, who claims she’s free when the soul of one of the gods enters. Me, I’m a rational man.”
He screwed on the top of one of the bottles and handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“An antidote,” he said. “I’m a love-sorcerer, am I not? You’re the one to decide what it’s for and when it will be useful.”
He handed the bottle to me in one hand and held out the other one. I wondered again whether the man had been real or all in my imagination. I knew that if he hadn’t appeared I would have never dared to say a word to Old Xavier.
I handed him the basket I had woven and rewoven many times.
I stared at the black liquid in the bottle. It reminded me of what my mother had made from the black root and had given me to drink. I took the bottle and looked again at the Indian woman who sat calmly in the door with her fair-haired baby.
“Maybe he’s not crazy,” said Xavier, looking at the woman. “But me? I haven’t seen the universe in any women’s eyes and don’t intend to.”
I went back and sat in front of the squat, long building, imagining it was myself the lunatic had come and knelt before, seeing the universe in my eyes.
The Hidden Woman
I DON‘T KNOW IF IT WAS OLD VERA‘S machinations (because I had seen Azevedo or had dared to seek out the advice of her rival Old Xavier) or whether it was an idea the master had his own self, but I was rented to a woman in the city, and it was at that time that I realized that I was destined to meet people who were repetitions and variations of my grandmother.
Sometimes when I met them I wondered whether they were indeed my grandmother, capable of doing what they said witches in the Old Country could do, transform themselves. Witches in the Old Country, they said, were capable of all sorts of transformations and transmutations. But I don’t know if any of that is true. The woman herself had come for me driving the wagon and wearing a man’s trousers, shirt, and hat. At first I hadn’t recognized the woman as a woman, for she sat silently in the driver’s seat and I on straw in the back of the wagon, although I noticed that there was a certain st
rangeness to the curve of the man’s back. She’d covered her hair with a huge straw hat as I’d seen many wear in that country. As we journeyed into town, she never said a word to me.
We entered the wide gray streets of the city and drove around the back of the little shop. How the woman had rented me from Azevedo I never knew, as he kept himself hidden from strangers as well as most of his servants, and he seemed, as we saw no strangers enter or leave the mansion, to have no friends among the townspeople or other plantation owners in the region. I assume, though, that Sobrieski must have acted as his agent in this as other matters.
At the rear of the shop we stopped and the man, the woman whom I thought was a man then, jumped down. At the time I didn’t know that there would be such another scene sometime in my life, but for quite a different purpose from my going to serve someone. I don’t mean to jump ahead in my story but only to point to my suspicions of Old Vera’s or perhaps even my own grandmother’s machinations in this destiny. Nevertheless, the woman, acting as a man, helped me down, but still didn’t speak to me, and then she opened the heavy gray door and went into the back room of the shop, which looked to be a shop where women’s hats were sold.
The man said, “Wait here.”
I waited, as the man went into another small room. I remained standing. There was a rosewood table and two hard rosewood benches on either side of it on the left side of a curtained door leading to the front. A very tall dark mahogany chest of drawers which ended only a few inches below the ceiling stood beside the table. There were two rosewood hard chairs against the wall. On the left wall was a slender hammock.
A woman who seemed to be in her early thirties came out, dressed in a plainly cut silk dress. She resembled the man and I thought she must be his sister. She had in her hand the hat he’d been wearing. I thought she must be a special servant to the hatmaker who’d hired me to work for her.
“What does your mistress want me to do?” I inquired.
