by Mia Couto
—Come out of the dark, come in!
He did not move, guardian of fears, unschooled in matters of happiness. He had never had any. She called him again, this time more hoarsely. She went down the steps, and pushed forwards into the darkness. She tasted the smell of the mixtures and potions spreading their terror. She had never set eyes on such a smell before.
—Get back inside, Mississe!
This was Patanhoca’s order. It was the first time he had spoken. The words came out spitting and scraping, without the shape lips could provide. The crickets fell silent, the night air stifled. The widow pretended she hadn’t heard and went on without turning. Again Patanhoca shouted his warning:
—Be careful! Snakes!
Then she stopped. He came nearer, keeping to the dark side.
He held out a little cloth pouch:
—Warm up this tea: it’s your medicine.
—No, I don’t need it.
—What do you mean, you don’t need it?
—All I want is for you to come and stay here.
—Stay where?
—To live here, together with me. Stay, João.
He shuddered: João? His eyes closed, pained: can a word, such a trifle, do so much harm to a man?
—Don’t say that name again, Mississe.
She advanced further, wanting ever more strongly to lean against his shadow.
—João? It’s your name. Why can’t I say it?
Silence gave the crickets their leave. Men and animals speak in turn, such is the law of nature.
Can a man weep? Yes, if you awaken the child he has inside him. Patanhoca wept, but he couldn’t shed tears, for he had no lips.
—Why don’t you come back again?
—I’m Patanhoca, snake catcher. It’s not just a name I was given. I’ve got a snout, not the face of a person.
—No, you’re João. You’re my João.
He explained his sorrows, said his life was shattered and that when you want to pick up the pieces, it’s always too late. The Chinawoman wearied of his lament:
—Then let me out. Release me from this nightly prison, these terrors, these snakes encircling my life.
In his fury he threw the little pouch to the ground and moved away from the circle of light to which he had brought his sadness.
4. Second night: the revelation
The next night, Patanhoca returned earlier. She was already seated on the steps, like a queen, smothered in perfumes. Her bangles robbed her of age, and made her skin glow. Patanhoca forgot to cover his shame in the darkness, and approached the woman from the back. He called her but she didn’t flinch.
—Mississe?
The widow looked up and he shuddered. There before him were her twenty years, there was the prize sought by all the hunters of desires.
—Mississe, you’re chancing your luck. The snakes will bite you.
She moved up one step and invited him:
—Sit here, João. Let’s talk.
Back he stepped.
—No. Speak from there, I’m listening.
—João, come nearer. I promise I shan’t look at you. I’ll speak to your back.
He accepted. He remained coiled in his body.
—Well then?
—There is no other man, nor will there be. Just you, you alone.
—Why did you ruin my life, Mississe?
—Let’s not talk about that problem, please.
—We must talk.
She paused. The memory pained her, and it wasn’t saliva she felt in her mouth anymore—it was blood pushing out her words.
—You killed them, João.
—That’s a lie, it was the snakes.
Her nerves started to play on her, and her mouth stumbled in anger:
—And who brought the snakes? Wasn’t it you? I warned you, I begged you so many times: take them away from here, make them vanish into thin air. But you always answered that you were an artist. An artist of what?
—I was, I am. It was just on that night I was drunk. My secrets fled me, that’s what happened.
She cried, didn’t even hide her face. The moon wreathed her tears. Pearls were born. The warmth of the real ones faded with envy. Clumsily, he tried to put right past insults.
—And who were they? Children without any future. Mulato-Chinese, a race without a race. People make children in order to better them …
—Be quiet, Patanhoca!
She raised both her body and her voice, the two suddenly mingled in one. She ran inside and slammed the door, sobbing. Patanhoca, standing, his hands together on his chest, apologized without effect. Mississe’s accusing voice reached him:
—Everyone thinks you’re good, but that’s not true. They think you help me, with your snakes all around my night. I know, only I know the snakes are to hem me in. You want to imprison me forever, so that I won’t run off with other men.
He retreated slowly, hurting himself on her words. But that pain was almost good to feel and, from time to time, he dwelt on what she had said: You are evil, Patanhoca. It wasn’t you who chose the snakes, but they who chose you.
He gave up and moved away, his soul reeling within. Jealousy of others, jealousy of the living, that was his wickedness. The others, whether they were handsome or ugly, could trade with each other by day. Only he didn’t have the right currency. The others smoked, kissed, whistled, had a right to be greeted and bidden good day. Only he had nobody to grow tired of. That Chinawoman Mississe had stolen the fire which we can kindle in others.
5. Third night: the counsel of sleep
It was night, the last but one, and Patanhoca was still in his house. He lay on his mat ordering his thoughts: It’s true. I killed those two little children, but I didn’t mean to. That night, drink confused my hands. I swapped the medicines round. But that Chinawoman got her own back on me.
And he closed his eyes as if that crippling memory hurt him, she giving vent to her furies upon his head, smashing the bottle, cramming his flesh with glass. Blood and beer flowed in one and the same froth, her screams passed out on the ground where he was made night. Everybody thought he had died. Even she did, she who had left him, his wounds and his glass, to the night mist. She moved to a suburb of the city and opened her business.
He had crawled through the darkness, hands and voices protecting his thread of life and leading him along paths that he alone knew. He tried to forget the Chinawoman but he couldn’t. He launched the boat of his life in other waters: the same current took hold of it.
He decided to move to her area, he trapped himself as if the hunter of his own destiny. He found her and saw that he had not yet been replaced. Mississe showed her suitors the street, even those who were rich and powerful. Could it be that she was waiting for him?
Fear and shame inhibited him from revealing himself. He appeared through his snakes, sent to dispel the threat of thieves. Whether she took her time to understand, Patanhoca never found out. She did not display any change, but continued, a widow without expectations. Did her calmness belie her?
Such were the questions the snake catcher of Muchatazina, João Patanhoca, pondered on as he laid his tiredness to rest. He fell asleep awaiting the counsel of dreams. He listened with attention to his visions. They told him the following: she had repented, forgiven him. He would be taken back, once again João, once again a name and a face. Once again loved.
6. The last night
Mississe had once more caused his heart to rejoice. She stood there in the cascade of light, extinguishing the stars. She alone glowed, her white blouse and skirt, her tousled hair dripping onto her shoulders. Patanhoca overflowed from his body: then it was true what the dream had said! She was prettifying herself to celebrate his return.
—Tonight, João, let’s have fun.
He made no reply, he was afraid he might snarl and shame the João she was calling. With a movement of the head, she beckoned him towards the corridor:
—Come in, João, let’s drink.
> He climbed up the stone steps, shook the dust off his feet at the entrance, walked across the carpets, excusing himself at every turn. On a cupboard in the living room, a large photograph of their happiness was exhibited, a picture of them both and their two children commemorating life together.
He seated himself awkwardly. She served the glasses. It wasn’t beer, but one of those wines that make you feel dizzy before you even drink it. He unravelled memories, sweet trifles flowed between them, from one glass to another. He began to lose his inhibitions, and drink dribbled shamelessly down his chin.
—I’m going to stop drinking, Mississe. I’m seeing the world go by at high speed.
She wore a strange smile, which was too placid.
—No, João. Drink your fill. I want you to drink. Afterwards, I have a request. And, adversary of empty glasses, she filled another one. João was puzzled by the request, worried by that afterwards she promised. Hopes and fears crossed within him and he said what he didn’t want, ever wanting what he did not say.
—Mississe: it wasn’t the medicines that I swapped round. It was myself I swapped. Now, am I João or Patanhoca?
She took his hands, made them one and spoke:
—João, please, listen: go to your house and bring me that medicine you know about. I want to take it tonight.
So this was the request? Or maybe it was a trap, hopes tricking him.
—I can’t, woman. I’m pissed; I have no legs to find my way with.
—Go, João. You know the way with your eyes closed.
He looked around him: the linen tablecloth, the photograph, things from times that had fled them, they were there, silent witnesses to their disjoined lives. Mississe persisted. She got up and leaned her hot flavoured body against him, placing her hands on Patanhoca’s sweating back. He felt uneasy, unable to take any more.
He got up abruptly, turned towards the corridor and went. He found it difficult to keep to the line of his route. At the end, almost repentant, he turned round:
—But listen here: what medicine is it, Mississe? The snake vaccine?
She didn’t answer, remained with her back to him, clearing away the plates and glasses.
—Do you know, Mississe? The only remedy, do you know what it is? And he laughed, snorting loudly. She looked at him, saddened. How hard it was to look at that laugh he wore but which didn’t belong to him.
—Mississe, I’m telling you: the proper medicine is that wine we’ve just finished.
—It’s late. Hurry up, João.
He struggled down the steps and walked off into the night. She still seemed to say something he didn’t understand; he shook his head, confused. Could it be that he had heard her correctly? Going back to China, was that what she had said? I yearn for the land about to be born? Ravings of a Chinawoman, he concluded quietly.
He smiled sympathetically. The old woman must be drunk, poor thing, she even deserved it. This is what João Patanhoca thought as he stumbled along the path. He felt pity for her. After all, she was the widow of a man who was still alive, he himself. And so many years had passed since she had last taken her lace blouse from the cupboard, so many years since she had spread the white tablecloth on her table for visitors.
The Barber’s Most Famous Customer
Firipe Beruberu’s barber’s shop was situated under the great tree in the market at Maquinino. Its ceiling was the shade of the crabapple. Walls there were none: which is why it blew all the cooler round the chair where Firipe sat his customers. A sign on the tree trunk displayed his prices. On it was written: 7$50 per head. But with the rising cost of living, Firipe had amended the inscription to: 20$00 per headful.
On the aging timbers there hung a mirror, and next to it a yellowing photo of Elvis Presley. On a crate, by the bench where the customers sat waiting, a radio shook to the rhythm of the chimandjemandje.1
Firipe would weed heads while talking all the while. Barber’s talk about this and that. But he didn’t like his chit-chat to tire his customers. When someone fell asleep in the chair, Beruberu would slap a tax on the final bill. Underneath the prices listed on his sign, he had even added: Headful plus sleep—extra 5 escudos.
But in the generous shade of the crabapple tree there was no room for anger. The barber distributed affabilities, handshakes. Whoever let his ears wander in that direction heard only genial talk. When it came to advertising his services, Firipe never held back:
—I’m telling you: me, I’m the best barber there is. You can walk anywhere round here, look into every neighbourhood: they’ll all tell you Firipe Beruberu is the greatest.
Some customers just sat there patiently. But others provoked him, pretending to contradict him:
—That’s fine salestalk, Master Firipe.
—Salestalk? It’s the truth! I’ve even cut top-quality white men’s hair.
—What? Don’t tell me you’ve ever had a white man in this barber’s shop …
—I didn’t say a white had been here. I said I’d cut his hair. And I did, you take my word for it.
—Explain yourself, Firipe, come on. If the white didn’t come here, how did you cut him?
—I was called to his house, that’s what happened. I cut his, and his children’s too. Because they were ashamed to sit down here in this seat. That’s all.
—I’m sorry, Master Firipe. But it can’t have been a rich white. It must have been a chikaka.2
Firipe made his scissors sing while, with his left hand, he pulled out his wallet.
—Ahh! You folk? You’re always doubting and disbelieving. I’m going to prove it to you. Wait there, now where is the … ? Ah! Here it is.
With a thousand cares he unwrapped a coloured postcard of Sidney Poitier.
—Look at this photo. Can you see this fellow? See how nice his hair is: it was cut here, with these very hands of mine. I scissored him without knowing what his importance was. I just saw that he spoke English.
The customers cultivated their disbelief. Firipe replied:
—I’m telling you: this fellow brought his head all the way from over there in America to this barber’s shop of mine …
While he talked, he kept looking up into the tree. He was keeping a watchful eye in case he had to dodge falling fruit.
—These bloody crabapples! They make a mess of my barber’s shop. And then there are always kids round here, trying to get at them. If I catch one, I’ll kick him to pieces.
—What’s this, Master Firipe? Don’t you like children?
—Like children? Why only the other day a kid brought a sling and aimed it at the goddamned filthy tree, hoping to shoot down an apple. The stone hit the leaves and, mbaaa! it fell on top of a customer’s head. Result: instead of that customer having a haircut here, he had to have a head shave at the first-aid post.
Customers changed, the conversation remained the same. From out of Master Firipe’s pocket, the old postcard of the American actor would appear in order to lend truth to his glories. But the most difficult to convince was Baba Afonso, a fat man with an impeccably groomed heart who dragged his haunches along at a slow pace. Afonso had his doubts:
—That man was here? I’m sorry, Master Firipe. I don’t believe a bit of it.
The indignant barber stood there, arms akimbo:
—You don’t believe it? But he sat right there in that chair where you’re sitting.
—But a rich man like that, and a foreigner to boot, would have gone to a white man’s salon. He wouldn’t have sat down here, Master Firipe. Never.
The barber feigned offence. He could not have his word doubted. Then he resorted to a desperate measure:
—You don’t believe me? Then I’ll bring you a witness. You’ll see, wait there.
And off he went, leaving his customers to wait with bated breath. Afonso was calmed down by the others.
—Baba Afonso, don’t be angry. This argument, it’s only a game, nothing more.
—I don’t like people who tell lies.
&
nbsp; —But this one isn’t even a lie. It’s propaganda. Let’s pretend we believe it and have done with it.
—As far as I’m concerned, it’s a lie, fat old Afonso kept saying.
—Okay, Baba. But it’s a lie that doesn’t harm anyone.
The barber hadn’t gone far. He had walked no more than a few steps to talk to an old man who was selling tobacco leaf. Then the two of them returned together, Firipe and the old man.
—This is old Jaimão.
And turning to the tobacco seller, Firipe ordered:
—You tell them, Jaimão.
The old man coughed up all his hoarseness before attesting.
—Yes. In truthfully I saw the man of the photo. It was cut the hair of him here. I am witness.
And the customers showered him with questions.
—But did you get to listen to this foreigner? What language did he speak?
—Shingrish.
—And what money did he pay with?
—With copper coins.
—But which type, escudos?
—No, it was money from outside.
The barber gloated, self-satisfied, his chest puffed out. From time to time the old man breached the limit of their agreement and risked using his own initiative.
—Then that man went in the market for to buy things.
—What things?
—Onion, orange, soap. He bought baccy leaf too.
Baba Afonso leaped from his chair, pointing a chubby finger at him:
—Now I’ve caught you: a man like that wouldn’t buy baccy leaf. You’ve made that up. That category of fellow would smoke filter cigarettes. Jaimão, you’re just telling lies, nothing more.
Jaimão was taken aback by this sudden onslaught. Fearful, he looked at the barber and tried one last line of argument:
—Ahh! It’s not a lie. I remember even: it was a Saturday.
Then there was laughter. For it wasn’t a serious fight, their scruples were little more than playfulness.
