Palmares

by Gayl Jones

  “I think he’s a man of integrity. A very honorable, a very worthy man.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But such a man rides easily into . . .”

  “He just doesn’t take his freedom for granted, not as long as there are others . . . None of us can afford to take it for granted.”

  Anninho was silent, then he said something about some using their freedom for grander visions.

  “What do these geometric patterns mean?” asked the man.

  “Something I want to be painted on the upper part of the hull.”

  “The great mystery, eh?” asked the man, looking at Anninho with piercing eyes, his lips curling slightly. “What else are you quietly developing?”

  Anninho was silent, though he too smiled slightly.

  “Could you make me copies of the draughts?” asked the man. “I’d like to study them more.”

  “You still have your doubts.”

  “No, not in the idea. It just seems that so much time is wasted in building.”

  “Parapets but not ships.” He paused. “We’ll start with the hired one from the Massachusetts man. But in the long run our own designs will matter. I’m thinking of the future.”

  The man agreed, though he still seemed uncertain or reluctant. “Aren’t you a believer?” asked Anninho.

  “Everything comes from Allah,” said the man, but he still looked as if there was something he had not resolved.

  “International trade,” said Anninho as if he were proposing a toast. Then he looked seriously at the man.

  “It’s not impossible.” Then he said something about his father’s “holy war” and what he would think of his contacts with a Catholic, a Yoruba ancestor worshipper, an Olurun worshipper, and a Black Puritan from Massachusetts. Then he repeated, “It’s not impossible.”

  “Nothing that can be imagined is impossible,” said the man. “But the trick is to realize it.”

  Anninho nodded, saying nothing, then the two men stood, and moving toward each other clasped hands and embraced. The man said what might have been a short prayer and then the man took some beads from around his neck, which had been hidden under his shirt. Attached to the red beads were square, leather amulets. He handed this to Anninho, who thanked the man, calling him Mualim.

  Anninho placed the amulet around his neck and replaced the plans under his sleeve, promising to get copies to the man, then he reached for my hand and I stood. The man looked at me kindly but did not say goodbye.

  “I keep good hopes for the future,” said the man, as we left.

  “Allah is great,” said Anninho.

  When we were outside, Anninho placed the amulet around my neck, and mounting, lifted me up on the horse, in back of him.

  “I am involved with Palmares,” he said. “But you see, I am involved with something beyond that.”

  I said nothing, though I did not fully see.

  The Return and a Discussion on New Musical Discoveries

  ANNINHO SPENT SEVERAL DAYS, with his other journeys and responsibilities, copying the draughts and then returned to the man he had called Mualim. This time the man was not alone, but in the large room with him were Mr. and Mrs. Iaiyesimi, the Nigerian trader and his wife. The woman stood quietly, dressed in a purple silk, robe-like dress. Her husband wore a long white cotton green-striped robe and a green fez. The woman took me aside and said that we should go into the music room and leave the men alone, but she did not seem to recognize me as the same woman that she and her husband had noticed when they had come to the shoemaker Sobrieski’s shop some months before. If she did recognize me she did not say so, nor did her husband.

  We went into a small room where there was a harp, a harpsichord, a thumb piano, and a long strange wooden instrument, and many cushions. I sat down on one of the cushions, but the woman, who seemed very silent and shy, lifted the wooden instrument, and began to finger the holes along its length, but without making a sound.

  “What’s that?” I inquired as she sat on the harpsichord stool.

  “A clarinet,” she said. “It’s a new musical instrument. It was just invented seven years ago, in 1690. It’s a present my husband and I presented to Mr. Oparinde.”

  “I thought his name was Mualim,” I said.

  “No, no. That’s some title his religion gives him. It means teacher, I think.”

  She began to play a strange music, and sang a song, and then played again. The song was in a language I do not know, so I cannot say the words of it, but it was sung with much expression, as if she were telling me something, or talking to someone else. She played again, slowly at first, and then a faster more energetic rhythm, with many sounds mingling, though I cannot really describe it. When she finished she spoke of her and her husband’s traveling in Europe, and going to a big hall in which people on a stage were singing songs that told stories and that she had just sang one of them. She liked the “arias” and as they had stayed there for three years, she had learned some of them. Then she started talking about the dramatic song-dances that she remembered as a child, the masked dancers, and the blending of dance, music, and drama that reminded her of that, or that that reminded her of, except for where and how they were required to sit to observe it, and the absence of the drums. But every movement, every gesture, every sound had a meaning.

  “Supply international market,” we heard drift from another room.

  “I haven’t met any intelligent Americans,” said a voice which I took to be Mr. Iaiyesimi’s.

  Then there were bits and pieces of sentences. Though I could not hear everything, there seemed to be some connection, or mistrust, or something.

  The wife of Mr. Iaiyesimi, whose first name I did not remember, and who did not tell me, sat studying the harpsichord keys. I could not tell if she was also listening. I wondered what kind of man Mr. Iaiyesimi was. What had enabled him to travel around the world, making trading contacts? Was he a prince or a king? When other Africans traveled internationally it was in the holes of ships, though it is told that there were African explorers with early expeditions. I wondered what the men were planning and what it would mean. How did they plan to reconstruct their world? Hadn’t I seen Mr. Iaiyesimi converse as easily with the Polish shoemaker Sobrieski as he was conversing now with these men? Who was this strange African woman, his wife, who knew European music and played it with such ease?

  “It’s a very ecstatic experience, like a religious one. Everyone is possessed,” the woman was saying.

  “It’s here for the taking,” I heard from the other room. “There are always threats of disintegration . . .”

  “It’s called opera,” the woman was saying.

  “What do you mean, how will the world respond?” from outside.

  “Still it would be easier to simply hire a merchant vessel and an escort ship.”

  “I’m concerned with what it will mean over time. In the future.”

  “An ecstatic experience. A possession,” the woman said.

  Then Anninho and Mr. Iaiyesimi appeared at the door, and we each went with our husbands.

  We left through the entrance hall, but I did not see Mualim or Mr. Oparinde as we were leaving. Mr. Iaiyesimi and his wife said goodbye and got into a carriage. My husband lifted me onto the back of his horse but he was silent as we rode back. Though in the silence I felt there was anger. If other visits were made or other discussions held, other plans, I did not know of them, nor even the full meaning of those I was in some proximity to.

  A Medicine Man Is Banished

  MY GRANDMOTHER RUSHED INTO MY HUT and told me to come to the door.

  I came seeing a man being hurried along the street, dragged along, with much noise, and being beat by ropes. The man was very silent, perfectly silent, but the men dragging him made noise, and continued to flog his bare back and arms, and where his trousers were rolled up, the calves of his legs.

  “What has the man done?” I asked.

  “That is what they do to medicine men and witches,” s
he said. “They are not permitted here.”

  “Are you a witch?”

  She looked at me. “I have a knowledge of medicines and herbs. I’m a medicine woman,” she said, nonchalantly.

  “How did they find out what he is? Did someone tell on him?”

  “There are numerous spies. Someone, I think, overheard him speaking about the fate of Palmares, and trying to work his medicines to prevent such disaster, and they told the king. He did not deny it. He confessed. He spoke of his hope for Palmares, that he might be able to help. But the king said such beliefs are the weakness of the State, and had him banished.”

  “Not killed?” I asked.

  “No, not killed,” my grandmother said, staring at the man, who as he passed our doorway glanced our way. My grandmother nodded to him with reverence. I looked on with curious eyes.

  “He’s not a witch but a diviner,” my grandmother said, when he had been taken further down the road. “He divines destruction and he offers cures to prevent it. But they say it’s witchcraft.”

  I said nothing, hearing the noise and the silence of the man.

  “We won’t hold the ground for a very long time,” my grandmother said.

  “Does he have a wife?” I asked suddenly.

  “A wife?” she repeated. “No, that man is without a wife. Why do you ask?”

  “I wondered how she was feeling.”

  She was silent, then she said, “Perhaps there is some Palmarista woman, who is not exhibited in public.”

  Many watched, and for a moment I thought I saw that special woman, standing with her hands in her hair, and suddenly her hands were at her sides, and all the time she remained perfectly silent.

  “They will continue to fight,” my grandmother said, “but the ground is not meant to be held.”

  She made a long shadow across the door as she went out.

  When she returned she said again that he was not a witch but a diviner. “They say it’s witchcraft, and so they won’t attempt his occult stratagem.”

  A Woman Not Exhibited in Public

  WHY I WAS DRAWN TO THE WOMAN I cannot say. I waited until one could hear no more noise, and then when the woman turned and went back to her hut, I followed her. Inside she sat on a reed mat, with her forehead in her hands. I stood in the doorway, until she felt or saw my shadow and looked up. I had expected to see tears, but her face was very dry and very solemn.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  She frowned a bit, and kept looking at me.

  “I know that you’re his woman, and that you love each other,” I whispered.

  “Come in,” she said, standing up quickly.

  I came in. She motioned for me to sit down on the mat she’d been sitting on. I sat down.

  She remained standing, her hands to the sides of her face.

  “How do you know what I am to that man?”

  I told her my suspicions, a fleeting gesture, my grandmother’s comments.

  “Ah,” she said, looking down at me.

  She put her hand to her hair. We looked at each other in silence. I was thinking of Xavier, the old medicine man I knew when I was younger. I was wondering what it would be like to be the woman of a man who knew all kinds of magic. Why did I say they loved each other? I did not even know the woman. I had never spoken to her. I wondered if Xavier had had a woman whom he did not exhibit in public.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “What do you want to tell me?” she asked.

  “Just that I am sorry about what happened.”

  “I’m glad you’ve come. Now I can tell him someone came to comfort me. What is your name?”

  “Almeyda.”

  “Almeyda,” she repeated. “My husband will be pleased and he will reward you for being my friend and coming to comfort me.”

  I wondered how he could reward me not being here and no one knowing what had become of him.

  She sat down on another mat.

  “Just sit with me. We don’t have to talk. I don’t care to talk. I’m glad that you’ve come.”

  We sat together silently for a very long time. Then she began to talk slowly. “He will come, even if the gates are guarded and the doors are locked. He’ll look at me and we’ll both be free. We shall amuse ourselves, in spite of all of this. We’ll surround ourselves with each other. Again and again we’ll take each other for husband and wife. No meaningless ritual.

  “I’m grateful that you’ve come. And he’ll be very glad of it. He’s a great man and will reward you. Did you know he can write the future? Yes, he can write it out in full. I’ve seen it happen. He knows they’ll be surrounded on all sides. But who’ll listen? He’ll give you a gift. Yes. A supernatural gift. Though with Indaya you needn’t worry. I’ll see him again soon. When we see each other we will laugh, and congratulate each other, and speak about how good it is to be in our native country.”

  I looked at her, but said nothing.

  “My husband is a good man,” she said. “He’s a preserver of life.”

  She smiled at me. “He’ll come and take me away from here, and we’ll laugh in our native country . . . Do you know I’ve never laughed here? I’ve wanted to, but I never have.”

  She climbed upon her hammock.

  “I want to be alone now,” she said, “but I’m grateful that you came. Come tomorrow and I won’t be here.”

  I went out, asking myself, was the woman crazy? But the next day when I went there, she was not there. When it was discovered that she was missing, an expedition was sent in search of her, but she was never found.

  Pedro the Third

  I AGAIN SAW THE MAN called Pedro the Third, who had worked in the shoemaker’s shop along with me. I had not seen him in the several months since we had been brought to the quilombo and then I saw him walking down the street in front of my house, carrying a big bag of coffee. Anninho was not there as he had gone into town on some business. Though in my mind I saw him and the woman they called Luiza Cosme in a secret meeting at this man Martim Aprigio’s house—the wife of Martim Aprigio and others gathered in a back room.

  When I saw Pedro I went outside and stood. When he did not look toward me I called his name. He turned and stopped, but said nothing to me.

  “Pedro, how are you?” He said nothing.

  “I have not seen you in a very long time.”

  “Did you think I was dead? Did you think they had murdered me?”

  I said nothing, though I had worried at not seeing him, and thought perhaps he had tried to escape, or they had learned of his military past, and he had been strung up in the horrid way that other man had been—though since that first discovery I had not seen with my own eyes any others who had deserted and were captured and brought back.

  He seemed at first to be afraid to be speaking to me and then he got closer, though he was silent, waiting for me to speak. A man passed on the street and glanced at us. He frowned but kept walking.

  “They disapprove of the wife of Martim Anninho speaking to me,” he said, then he laughed. “Or do you still say you are your own woman?”

  He had heard Capao ask me one night if I had been anyone’s woman before I had come there.

  “I have been and am my own woman,” I had said. “I lay alone in my own hammock.”

  “Your hammock,” he had said. “Not your hammock. Not your own soul. I could ask him anytime, or he could say, ‘Here, Capao.’ Anytime. His tongue has been cut out,” he said of Pedro. “He claims he did it to himself. He claims he cut it at the roots his own self.”

  “He speaks. I heard him.”

  He had laughed then, and then I did not know what he had meant. “Capao will tell any lie,” Pedro had said.

  “I’ve hunted for such men as these,” he said now. His face looked ashen. “My captain gave the orders and I went. They think I do not know if I am a white man or a black one. I remember. Sure I remember. I
killed some, captured others and made them slaves again. Why do you always want to know that? Why do you want to know that? She looked a bit like you, that’s why I didn’t want you there. I’d go to visit her, not to stay with her, because they didn’t want the black soldiers to sleep in the barracks with the other men, and so those who had women would go to them. I’d lay with her. And after we made love I would tell her. Why I chose to tell the woman I didn’t know. But I would tell her how many I had killed and what horrible things—what mutilations I had done and had to do in the name of the army, and how many I had captured and brought back to be slaves again. But one night she said to me, “‘You said those of you who would serve in the militia were given your freedom. It was part of the exchange?’

  “‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You know that.’

  “She said nothing. She kept looking at me and would not take her eyes off.

  “‘You know I will be here when you return. You know I will be here again and again. But do not tell me those things you have done or the things you must do tomorrow.’

  “I did not go back to her nor did I go back to the others. I deserted them both—the woman and the military. I cut my own tongue out. I branded fujao on my own head. I let them hunt for this fugitive.”

  I said nothing. We kept watching each other. I kept trying to remember how much of the story had changed, and whether this was the true version.

  The man who had passed us before passed by again. “Get along, Pedro. Get along, man,” he said, without looking at either one of us.

  Pedro walked on down the road and I entered the house to wait for Anninho’s return.

  An Ob server in Porto Calvo

  ANNINHO CAME BACK carrying a bag of coffee like the one I had seen Pedro carrying. I thought at first that the man who had passed us on the street had said something about his wife standing in the doorway talking to a certain slave. But he said only hello to me and set the bag down in the corner and there was no mention of the incident.