Palmares

by Gayl Jones

  Everyone waited for him to say more, but he did not.

  “See, I have learned,” he said, looking at me. “Everything is possible.

  “Look how she’s become a laughing head. I’ll bet you’re still a little imp yourself, aren’t you? I’ll bet it’s all play and mischief, behind the silence. You’re not really a morbid woman.”

  He came and touched my jaw and kissed me. “Goodbye,” he said.

  The others said goodbye. Joanna hugged me. Old Vera touched my head and shoulders, and kissed my forehead.

  I went to the door with them and stood watching the column of people winding down the side of the mountain. When I could no longer see them, I came back inside and sat in my chair.

  1697

  Jaguaribe, His Family, the Beginning of a Journey

  AFTER THE OTHERS HAD GONE DOWN the side of the mountain in search of the New Palmares, I sat in the chair with a shawl wrapped about my shoulders. What had become of Anninho? I went from the chair to my hammock and lay down. I felt feverish. A recurrence of malarial fever again? Did I call it upon myself at such moments? Out of fear, desperation, loneliness? I thought of the conversation with Mexia and the phrase she had used when she told me about the uncle of Father Tollinare who had been hanged for witchcraft because he had written about it as “the hallucinations of a melancholy woman”? They’d called him a witch and a defender of witches. I lay the back of my hand across my forehead.

  When I opened my eyes I was not alone, but a tall brown man was standing above me. He raised the back of my head and gave me a thick soup which I drank with much difficulty. He lay my head back on the pillow, touching my forehead and jaw. Even though he was near me, I felt as if he was touching me from a great distance.

  “How are you?” he asked. I was silent.

  “My name is Jaguaribe,” he said.

  He spoke with a strange accent, not like a Tupi-Guarani speaking Portuguese; he spoke a bit like Father Tollinare had spoken it and a bit like an Englishman who had come to one of the plantations I had lived on. He stood gazing at me with wide brown eyes. His face was very smooth and firm, his chin slightly protruding. Did I not know him? Was he not the young man I had seen some years ago, the Indian who had returned from European studies? He was not dressed in a black suit now, but in white trousers, a string tying the waist, and a loose short-sleeved white shirt, with turquoise designs on it, reminding me of the designs “the hidden woman” had painted on the masks and headdresses she had made for the festival in which the townspeople had celebrated their Indian ancestry, renaming themselves for trees and rivers, which were the only Indian words they knew.

  “You were with Father Tollinare,” I said. He looked at me carefully.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Almeyda. I was one of the children in his reading class. I was there that day when you came.”

  I remembered eavesdropping on Father Tollinare’s conversation with him, but said nothing concerning that.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. There were furrows in his forehead as he continued to look at me.

  He turned around, setting down the bowl he had had me to drink from.

  “Is Mexia with you?” I asked.

  He turned quickly and looked at me. “Yes,” he said. Then, “Yes, you’d know her.”

  He brought something else from a bowl that he rubbed on my forehead and neck.

  “How did you find me?” I asked.

  “My family used to live here until the men from the quilombo, the Palmarista men came and used this for a hiding place. I took my family away then, but when I returned the Portuguese soldiers were here. When I returned again, there were others living here, having found the place abandoned. I returned now thinking that there would be no one and found you here with malaria.”

  “Where have you and your family been living?” I asked.

  “In a cave nearby.”

  I nodded. I got tired again and drifted off to sleep.

  “They turn into wolves a night, but Jaboti tricked them,” I thought I heard. “That’s the difference between craft and force.”

  I turned. Mexia was sitting in a hammock, holding a child of two or three in her lap. Jaguaribe was sitting beside her touching the child’s head. The child was looking up at him laughing.

  I was sitting in the dark room, my shoulders covered by a shawl.

  Then the little turtle Jaboti came inside. He was looking at me with suspicion.

  “Are you Almeyda?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “They sent me to be your companion and protector on the journey.”

  “What journey?”

  He was silent, then he said, “Well, you certainly fit the description I was given. They said that you were a solitary and morbid woman, and very timid. They said that you were like the Mimosa Pudica.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a very sensitive plant. Her leaves close whenever you touch them, but she’s a special friend of mine. She only seems morbid and sensitive; underneath she’s as playful and mischievous as I am. On the surface I’m quiet and shy too. They said that I’d find you alone, and that you’d behave coldly but that I shouldn’t mind that . . . They also said that if you weren’t ready, I should wait. They said that you weren’t very spiritually adventuresome and might have to be coaxed, but if anyone should be able to do it, it’s me. They think I’m a ‘smart fellow,’“ he said with a laugh. “That’s because I’m not an ordinary warrior, I’m an explorer of the soul.”

  I watched them for a long time before Mexia saw me and handing the child to his father, she got up and came over to my hammock.

  “How are you, Almeyda?” she asked.

  “All right,” I said.

  She was wearing a dress made of bark cloth and a shawl of anteater’s hair draped about her shoulders.

  She looked at me pensively for a long time, but did not speak. After a moment, she touched my forehead, then the side of my neck. She lay her hand on my shoulder, and then went to sit back beside her husband.

  “Was one called Anninho among them?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Did a man called Anninho ever come here?”

  “I did not know that one,” said Jaguaribe. “I did not know their names, only the name of their king, Zumbi. The others I did not know. Only Zumbi and the one they call Garrostazu.”

  “Was Garrostazu with the others?”

  “No, he came apart from the others. He came before them.” I looked at Mexia and then back at Jaguaribe.

  “He told us that they would be coming,” he said. “He told us about King Zumbi and the place called Palmares and the forthcoming battle. That was when I took my family away. He offered cures and protection for them, the Palmaristas, while I protected my family.”

  I felt stronger. I wondered what medicine he had given me. There was the smell of ginger.

  “Who is Anninho?” Mexia asked.

  “My husband,” I said, looking at her.

  “You believe he was with the quilombo men the Portuguese captured?”

  “No. I thought perhaps he came afterwards. I don’t know. He didn’t escape with King Zumbi. We were together. In the forest. A riverbank.

  “There were Portuguese soldiers. I don’t remember. They . . .”

  “Yes, I saw their cruelty,” said Jaguaribe.

  He looked at me strangely. He had set the child in his wife’s lap, and stood up—a tall, well-built man with a narrow, handsome face and very black eyes. He stood near the door. Mexia watched him. He looked at Mexia and then went out.

  She was silent, holding the child, who kept twisting in her lap, looking at her and then at me.

  “Were you one of those they captured and took to the quilombo?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “That was where I met my husband.”

  “We stayed in the forests near the plantation. We lived in the bushes like Aimores for a while. And then when Jaboti was expected, w
e came here and Jaguaribe built the cabin here.”

  “Jaboti?”

  “Yes, you know the Indian stories about the mystical Jaboti?” I nodded.

  “This is Jaboti,” she said, touching the child’s head.

  The child kept rubbing his round face against the anteater’s hair. He twisted suddenly and stared at me with huge, brown eyes.

  “I didn’t see any of the men from the quilombo,” she said. The child quieted down suddenly, and sat motionless, looking at me. “Jaguaribe told me that there would be Africans coming here, and so he took us to one of the caves. He had already stored things there. I don’t know how he knew when they would be coming. I didn’t see any of them. The name of the man you spoke of—Anninho—sounds familiar to me, but I don’t know where I’ve heard it. But we left before the Africans came, and then there were Portuguese soldiers all over the mountain.”

  When Jaguaribe returned he had fish, pineapple, Brazil nuts, manioc flour, and sugar. Mexia lay the child in the hammock and she prepared a meal. Jaguaribe gave me more of the malarial medicine to drink, and as I felt stronger I sat up in the hammock. We sat on mats and ate dinner.

  Everyone was silent, except the child who would occasionally say something to his father in Tupi-Guarani. His father would nod, say one or two words, and sometimes say his name, Jaboti. I did not know the language. For dessert we had sugarcakes. We drank juice from the sweet cassava.

  “You’re the one who got into Father Tollinare’s bookroom? Isn’t she the one?” Jaguaribe asked.

  Mexia nodded. She had spoken to him of me? I felt very glad and pleased. She had impressed me during the years when she was the housekeeper—and dare I say slave?—of Father Tollinare, but I did not think that I had been remembered by her. I thought of the silent Mexia of those days, and wondered at how different she seemed now.

  “I found my way there,” Jaguaribe said, touching his jaw. “But he never discovered me. I would take a book and return it before he discovered it was missing. I suppose he is somewhere still experimenting with the ‘intelligence’ of blacks and Indians.”

  “He sent you to Europe to study,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. He frowned.

  “You must have learned many things there,” I said.

  “He’s indifferent to it,” said Mexia. “When we were living like the Aimores he would go to his grandfather and he took as seriously what he would learn from him—the preparation of herbs and medicines. All the time they would spend preparing herbs and medicines together. He took that as seriously as he did the teachings of Father Tollinare and then the European schooling.”

  Jaguaribe said something in Tupi-Guarani and Mexia was silent. “One learns from every place,” he said, looking at me. “The exact truth is always unknown.”

  I said, “May I stay here tonight? I’ll go on my way in the morning.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here,” said Mexia.

  Jaguaribe was silent.

  “Which way will you go?” asked Mexia. “It is still dangerous here. There are bushwhacking captains everywhere.”

  “I want to find a woman by the name of Luiza Cosme.”

  Jaguaribe stood up and paced again. “What do you want with her?” he asked.

  “Perhaps she can help me to find Anninho.”

  Jaguaribe went to the table, and picking up some of the paper that Barcala had left, began making broad and rapid strokes.

  “You will need this,” he said, handing the paper to me. “It will get you through the territory. Some of the bushwhacking captains can’t even read, but even they recognize the words for freedom.”

  I did not tell him that I could have forged my own free papers. I thanked him.

  He looked at me kindly. He said something to his wife in Tupi-Guarani. She looked at me and nodded.

  In the morning, Mexia prepared mungaza or munguza, a gruel made from corn and coconut milk and spices. I said goodbye to them and set out in search of Luiza Cosme, whom I felt might lead me to the man who had disappeared.

  When I went to the door Mexia said she would walk with me a while. “You seem different,” I said.

  She was silent. She smiled a bit.

  “I think he knows him,” she said after a moment.

  “What?”

  “I think Jaguaribe knows the Anninho you were talking about . . . Once before the Palmaristas came, I saw him go outside to meet a man. It seemed as if he called that name. That’s where I think I heard it. A handsome, dark-skinned, bearded man.”

  “That could be anyone,” I said. “Did you really hear him call his name?”

  “I think so. They talked for a while, and then they clasped hands and the man left. Jaguaribe came in frowning. Then he said he had to go to Bahia. He hid us in a hollow tree for nine days.” She looked at me. “He gave us something he learned from his grandfather that we ate each morning, and we didn’t get hungry or thirsty or tired.”

  I looked at her, incredulous. When we got to the place where the path went down the mountain, I embraced her. Then I followed the trail that the others had gone on their way to the New Palmares. But I would not go there. I would go first to find Luiza Cosme. If I could not find her, or if she claimed to know nothing then I would go to Bahia.

  Why Don’t They Go to the Interior

  I WAS HALFWAY DOWN THE SIDE of the mountain when there were hoofbeats behind me. I prepared to take out the free papers, thinking it was one of those bushwhacking captains searching for runaway slaves, when I turned and there was Jaguaribe on horseback—a black, sleek horse. Jaguaribe jumped down and held the reins.

  “You will need this for your journey,” he said.

  “Where did he come from?” I asked, looking up at the man, who seemed as tall and thin and young as when I’d first seen him at the mission school.

  “You will need him,” he said, passing the reins to my hands.

  “Thank you,” I said. I wanted to ask him about Anninho, but he had told me nothing before. If he had known Anninho, why did he not tell me before? Nor did I want to betray Mexia’s confidence. I was grateful for the horse, who had moved to stand next to me as soon as I took the reins, but I looked at Jaguaribe with anger, for what he had not told me. He held my elbow and I got upon the horse.

  “After you find Luiza, will you go to Bahia?” he asked.

  I looked at him. He still seemed as intriguing as he had that first time I had seen him with Father Tollinare, sitting by his desk observing his new pupils. Was he telling me to go there, to Bahia, or asking if I would go?

  Did he know that Mexia had spoken to me? Perhaps he knew. I patted the horse on the side of the neck, but said nothing.

  “Until we meet again,” Jaguaribe said, lifting his hand.

  I nodded to him and turning the horse, went down the narrow path.

  I journeyed down the mountain and back through the forest of gameleira trees to the place where Anninho had hidden us. The mat of grass and leaves was still covering it. Could Anninho have made his way back here, could he have escaped and come back? Had he tried to find me, and not having found me, come back here to wait? I tied the horse to the gameleira tree and pushed the mat aside. The sunlight hit the face of a bearded white man lying in the hammock eating a mandacaru. He sat up with his eyes wide when he saw me. He was dressed in dirty white trousers and a ragged gray shirt. I was ready to pull out my free papers when he put his hand up. Three of his fingers were missing. He held the mandacaru in the other hand. Why had he showed me his mutilated hand?

  “Is this your place?” he asked.

  He was Portuguese. I nodded yes. I stood looking at him, but ready to climb on the horse again.

  He threw down the mandacaru, licking the fingers of his left hand, which were intact. His eyes were blue and piercing. Suddenly I recognized him as the same one who had come to the Entralgo plantation to work with Father Tollinare on the Brazilian dictionary. There were lines all around his eyes but they were the same steel blue.

>   “You’re the one.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked as he climbed out of the hole, with difficulty. He stood in front of me.

  “The one who worked with Father Tollinare on the dictionary.”

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer, then I said simply that I had seen him there. I was still ready to take out my papers if there was any problem.

  “What happened to your hand?” I asked. He was leaning against the gameleira tree.

  “Some people call this the suicide tree,” he said. He looked at his hand with the missing fingers. “What happened to my fingers?” he asked. “I cut them off.” He looked at me to see how I would react. “I have no attraction for Mars. I took our dictionary manuscript to Portugal to try to get it printed, and they tried to conscript me, for the military service to go and fight in Angola. I’ve seen others mutilate themselves worse than this to avoid military service. Some became priests so they wouldn’t have to go, others pretended they were mad or had caught some contagious disease. The recruiting sergeants have gotten wise to the other ploys by now, so that the only thing that still works is mutilation. At least I thought it was the only thing. They’re wise to all the lunatics. But there was one young man whom I met on the street afterwards, and I said, ‘You look like a whole man. What did you do to get out of it?’ He was going into a tavern and I went along. ‘What did I do?’ he said. ‘Have you ever known an instance where a Christian became a Jew?’ Do you know what he did? He feigned Jewishness. He said that he was a pure Jew, on his mother’s and his father’s side, and they let him go! Ha ha. Now Jewishness is the new madness, the new contagious disease. Well, they’ll get wise to that in another year, and take the New Jews along with the others. But he stayed a whole man on account of it, and he had to flee the country . . .”

  He started laughing again and looking at his hand. “Mutilation is the only sure thing, and they’ll do anything to avoid the garrison. They’re drafting convicts to serve there now, because there’s hardly anyone else willing, except the real madmen. If they want to get rich they ought to send people into the interior of this country. That’s what they ought to do. Instead of military service in Angola they ought to send them into the interior, instead of staying like crabs along the coast. That’s what the English would do. They’d have the interior explored by now and foreignized, and they’d be wealthy men. But the Portuguese have no imagination. All they know is amours, church, and music . . . Instead of filling the garrison at Angola and fighting the Palmaristas . . .” He started laughing again, without finishing what he would say. “Well, I’ll let you have your hole back and go find my own . . . Did you escape from Entralgo’s?”