Sea Loves Me

by Mia Couto

  —She’s like the scorpion that carries its poison in its back.

  We shared our laughter among ourselves. Everybody, that is, except my father. He remained intact, solemn.

  —No one can understand the degree of her tiredness, you see. Always lugging her back around on her back.

  My father concerned himself a lot with other people’s tiredness. He himself couldn’t be bothered with matters of fatigue. He would sit there and make use of life’s many tranquilities. My uncle, a man of diverse resources, would advise him:

  —Brother Juca, find yourself a way of making a living.

  My father didn’t bother to reply. He even seemed to become more firmly ensconced, an accomplice of his old chair. Our uncle was right: he needed a salaried occupation. His only initiative was to hire out his own shoes. On Sunday, his team’s supporters would pass by on their way to the soccer.

  —Juca, we’ve come because of the shoes.

  He nodded ever so slowly.

  —You know the contract: take them and then, when you come back, tell me what the game was like.

  And he would bend to take his shoes from under the chair. He would stoop with such effort that it was as if he were picking up the floor itself. He would lift the shoes and look at them in feigned farewell:

  —This is hard for me.

  It was only because of the doctor that he stayed behind. He had been forbidden excesses of the heart, rushes of blood.

  —My lousy heart.

  He thumped his chest to punish the organ. Then he addressed his shoes once more:

  —Look you here, my little shoes: make sure you come home on time.

  And he took his payment in advance. He sat with a set expression counting the notes. It was as if he were reading a fat book, of the type that like fingers more than they do eyes.

  My mother: she was the one who stepped out into life. She would leave very early on her business. She would arrive at the market when the morning was still small. The world re-emerged through the sun’s first rays. Among the piles of cabbages, her face could be seen, fat with sad silences. There she would sit, she and her body. In the struggle for life, Ma escaped us. She arrived home and left in the dark. At night, we would listen to her complaining to Father about his idleness.

  —Juca, do you think about life?

  —Indeed I do, a lot even.

  —Sitting down?

  My father spared himself in his replies. She, and she alone, lamented:

  —Me all alone, on the job, here at home and out there.

  Gradually, their voices would fade away down the hall. From my mother there were still some sighs to come, as her hopes swooned. But we didn’t put the blame on our father. He was a good man. So good he was never right.

  And so life went on in our little neighbourhood. Until, one day, we got the news: Rosa Caramela had been arrested. Her only crime: venerating a colonialist. The militia chief explained the sentence: yearning for the past. The hunchback’s madness concealed other, political motives. That was the commander’s judgment. If it were not so, what other reason would she have to oppose, with bodily violence, the statue’s demolition? Yes indeed, because the monument was a foot from the past dragging the present along behind it. It was a matter of priority that the statue should be circumcised, for the nation’s honour.

  Consequently, old Rosa was taken away, to cure her of her alleged mentality. Only then, in her absence, did we realize how much she contributed to the making of our landscape.

  For a long time we heard no news of her. Until one afternoon our uncle tore open the silence. He had come from the cemetery, from Nurse Jawane’s funeral. He climbed the little steps up to the veranda and interrupted my father’s repose. Scratching his legs, my old man blinked hard, sizing up the light.

  —So, have you brought my shoes?

  My uncle didn’t answer straightaway. He was busy helping himself to some shade, curing his sweat. He blew on his lips, tired. On his face, I noticed the relief of someone who has just returned from a funeral.

  —Here they are, good as new. You know, Juca, these black shoes were really useful!

  He fumbled in his pockets, but the money, always quicker to enter, was reluctant to come out. My father stopped him:

  —I didn’t hire them out to you. We’re of the same family, our shoes are related.

  My uncle sat down. He pulled over the bottle of beer and filled a large glass. Then, with the skill of knowledge, he took a wooden spoon and removed the froth to another glass. My father drank the froth from the glass. Forbidden liquids, the old man only indulged in fizz.

  —It’s light, this froth. The heart doesn’t even notice it go by.

  He consoled himself, his eyes looking straight ahead as if he were extending his thought. That self-absorption was nothing but a pretense.

  —Was the funeral full?

  While he unlaced the shoes, my uncle described the flood, crowds trampling on the flower beds, all there to bid farewell to the nurse, poor man, who had also died by his own hand.

  —But did he really kill himself?

  —Yes, the fellow strung himself up. By the time they found him he was already stiff, he looked like a lump of starch on the end of a rope.

  —But why did he kill himself?

  —How should I know? They say it was because of women.

  They fell silent, the two of them, sipping at their drink. What pained them most was not the fact but the motive.

  —To die like that? It’s better to pass away.

  My old man took the shoes and examined them suspiciously:

  —Is this earth from there?

  —What, that there?

  —I’m asking you if it’s from the cemetery.

  —Maybe.

  —Then go and clean it, over there. I don’t want the dust of the dead hereabouts.

  My uncle went and sat on the bottom step, brushing the soles. Meanwhile, he continued to talk. The ceremony was going on, the priest was saying the prayers, reviving their souls. Suddenly, what happened? Along came Rosa Caramela, all dressed in mourning.

  —Has Rosa come out of prison? my father asked, astonished.

  Yes, she’d come out. During an inspection tour of the jail, they’d given her an amnesty. She was mad, she’d committed no more serious crime than that. My father insisted, surprised:

  —But she, at the cemetery?

  My uncle went on with his account. Rosa, all in black from her back down. Like a raven, Juca. She came in like a gravedigger, glancing at each tomb. She seemed to be choosing her hole. You know, Juca, in the cemetery no one lingers when visiting graves. We pass by in a hurry. Only that hunchback, the old girl …

  —Tell me the rest, my father cut in.

  The story went on: Rosa right there, in the middle of everybody, began to sing. The bystanders stared at her in educated astonishment. The priest kept up his prayer, but people were no longer paying any attention. It was then that the cripple began to undress.

  —You’re lying, brother.

  Cross my heart, Juca, may I be had by two thousand knives. She undressed. She began taking off her bits of cloth, at greater leisure than today’s heat. Nobody laughed, nobody coughed, nobody did anything at all. When she was naked, de-clothed, she came over to Jawane’s grave. She raised her arms and threw her clothes onto his tomb. The sight scared the crowd, which retreated a few steps. Then Rosa prayed:

  —Take these clothes, Jawane, you’ll need them. For you’re going to be stone, like the rest of them.

  Eyeing those present, she raised her voice, she seemed larger than a mere creature:

  —And now: am I allowed to fancy him?

  The onlookers fell back, you could hear the dust speak.

  —What was that? I can fancy this dead man! He no longer belongs to time. Or am I forbidden him too?

  My father left his chair, he seemed almost offended.

  —Rosa spoke like that?

  —It’s the truth.

  And
my uncle, by this time in the spirit of the thing, imitated the hunchback, her twisted body: and this one, can I love him? But my old man didn’t want to listen.

  —Shut up, I don’t want to hear any more.

  Suddenly, he hurled the glass through the air. He wanted to get rid of the froth but, in a mistaken lapse, he let go of the whole glass. As if in apology, my uncle went and picked up the pieces of glass, scattered on their backs all over the garden.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. I went and sat my restlessness down in the garden in front of the house. I looked at the statue, it was off its pedestal. The colonialist was lying with his whiskers next to the ground, it was as if he had climbed down himself, burdened by fatigue. They had uprooted the monument but forgotten to take it away, the job needed finishing. I felt almost sorry for Beardy, all soiled from the pigeons, covered in dust. I stoked myself up, and came to my senses: am I like Rosa, placing feelings in lumps of stone? That was when I saw Caramela herself, as if summoned by my ruminations. I sat frozen, stock-still. I wanted to run away, but my legs dissented. I shuddered: was I turning into a statue, becoming the subject of the cripple’s passion? What a horrible thought, my mouth might escape me forever. But no. Rosa didn’t stop in the garden. She crossed the road and reached the steps up to our house. She stooped and cleaned the moonlight away from them. She put her belongings down in a whisper. Then, tortoise-like, she withdrew into herself, perhaps getting ready to sleep. Or maybe sadness was her only intention. For I heard her weep, in a murmur of dark waters.

  The hunchback was shedding herself, as if it were her turn to become a statue. I wandered endlessly in such thought.

  Then it happened. My father, in painstaking silence, opened the door to the veranda. Slowly, he approached the hunchback. For a few seconds, he leaned over the woman. Then, moving his hand as if he were dreaming his gesture, he touched her hair. Rosa didn’t react at first. But soon she began to emerge from herself, her face in the fullness of light. They looked at each other, both of them gaining beauty. Then he whispered:

  —Don’t cry, Rosa.

  I could hardly hear, my heart thumped in my ears. I drew nearer, ever concealed behind the darkness. My father was still speaking to her, in a voice I had never heard before.

  —It’s me, Rosa. Don’t you remember?

  I was in the middle of the bougainvillaea, its thorns were tearing me. I didn’t even feel them. Fear pricked me more than the branches. My father’s hands sank into the hunchback’s hair, they were like people, those hands, like people drowning.

  —It’s me, Juca. Your sweetheart, don’t you remember?

  Gradually, Rosa Caramela emerged from cover. Never had she existed so much, never had a statue merited such eyes. Softening his voice still more, my father called her:

  —Let’s go, Rosa.

  Without wanting to, I had left the bougainvillaea. They could see me, I placed no obstacle between us. The moon even seemed to sharpen its shine when the hunchback got up.

  —Let’s go, Rosa. Pick up your things and let’s go.

  And off they went, the two of them, deep into the night.

  ‌The Bird-Dreaming Baobab

  Birds, all those who know of no abode on the ground.

  That man will always remain in shadow: no memory will be enough to save him from the dark. To be true, his star was not the Sun. Nor did he come from a country called Life. Maybe that was why he lived with all the caution of an outsider. The bird seller didn’t even have a name to shelter him. They called him the birdman.

  Each morning, he would pass through the white folks’ neighbourhood, carrying his enormous cages. He made these cages himself, from such flimsy material that they didn’t even look like a prison. What they did look like were winged cages, cages that might fly away. Inside them, the birds fluttered around in a twinkle of colour. A cloud of twitters enveloped the bird seller, so loud that they made the windows rattle:

  —Mother, look, here comes the dicky-bird man!

  And the children would flood the streets. Joyfulness was exchanged: the birds shouted and the children chirped. The man would take out a muska‌1 and put sleepy melodies to tune. The whole world was filled with stories.

  Behind their curtains, the settlers tut-tutted at such abuses. They sowed suspicions among their children—who did that Black think he was? Did anyone know his credentials? Who had authorized those grubby feet to dirty the area? No, no, and no again. The Black ought to return to his proper place. But the birds, they’re so cute, the children insisted. The parents took on sterner airs: enough said.

  But the order was not destined to be greatly respected. One little boy more than all the others disobeyed it, and devoted himself to the mysterious birdman. That was Tiago, a dreamy child, whose only gift was to pursue his fancy. He would wake up early, put his nose to the windowpane waiting for the bird seller to come by. The man would come into view and Tiago would rush down the stairs, thirty steps in five jumps. Feet bare, he would go down the street and disappear among the swarm of birds. The sun would sink and there was no sign of the lad. At Tiago’s home, people would start to give their worries a polishing:

  —Barefoot, just like them.

  The father planned his punishment. Only the mother’s soft heart brought relief to the little boy’s arrival, in the fullness of night. The father insisted on an explanation, even if it were but the outline of one:

  —Did you go to his house? But does that good-for-nothing have a house?

  His dwelling was a baobab, the empty hollow inside its trunk. Tiago told them: it was a sacred tree, God had planted it upside down.

  —See what that Black has been filling the child’s head with.

  The father turned to his wife, heaping blame on her. The lad continued:

  —It’s true, Mother. That tree is capable of great sadness. The old men say that a baobab can commit suicide in despair by way of fire. Without anyone setting it alight. It’s true, Mother.

  —What nonsense, the lady of the house soothed.

  And she would draw her son away from his father’s reach. Then the man would decide to go out, and join his rage to that of the other settlers. At the club there was clamour from all: the birdman’s visits had to be stopped. Measures could not include death by killing, nor anything that might offend the eyes of women and children. In a word, the cure would have to be thought about.

  The following day, the bird seller repeated his joyful invasion. Even the settlers hesitated: after all, that Black was bringing with him birds of a beauty never before seen. No one could resist their colours, their chirping. The sight was like nothing else in this very world of ours. The bird seller bowed in nameless modesty, disappearing from himself out of humility.

  —These are truly excellent birds, these ones with their wings all a show.

  The Portuguese began to wonder: where in the name of magic did he get such miraculous creatures? Where, if they themselves had already brought the most distant bushland to heel?

  The bird seller dissembled, answering with a chuckle. The whites began to fear their own suspicions—might that Black have a right to enter a world which was closed to them? But then they set about paring down his merits: the fellow lived in trees, among the birds. They were like creatures of the wild, was the general conclusion.

  Whether because of the scorn of the powers that be, or because of the admiration of the meek, the birdman became a topic of conversation in the concrete part of town. His presence began to fill the length of a conversation, unsuspected empty moments. The more people bought from him, the more their houses were filled with sweet song. Such music fell strangely on the settlers’ ears, proving that the area they lived in had little in common with the land around them. Could it be that the birds were eroding the residents’ sense of self, turning them into foreigners? Or was it the Black who was at fault, that son-of-a-bitch who insisted on existing, unaware of the duties of his race? The traders ought to realize that there was no room for his bare feet
in those streets. The whites were concerned at such disobedience, blaming it on the times. They yearned jealously for the past, when creatures could be tidied away depending on their appearance. The bird seller, by overstepping himself in such a fashion, was leading the world towards other awareness. Even the children, thanks to his seduction, were forgetting their manners. They were becoming more like children of the street than of the home. The birdman had even made inroads into their dreams:

  —Pretend I’m your uncle.

  And they all joined the family, all became related, relatively speaking.

  —Uncle? Have you ever heard of a Black being called Uncle?

  The parents were determined to arrest their dreams, their tiny, boundless souls. The command was issued: the street is out of bounds, you can’t go out anymore. Curtains were drawn, the houses shut their eyelids.

  Order seemed to rule once again. That’s when things began to happen. Doors and windows opened by themselves, furniture appeared turned back to front, drawers were swapped round.

  At the Silvas’ house:

  —Who opened this cupboard?

  No one, no one had. Old man Silva got angry: everyone in the house knew that firearms were kept there. With no sign of having been forced, who could the burglar have been? Such was the indignant plaintiff’s doubt.

  At the Peixotos’ house:

  —Who scattered grass seed among my papers?

  No one, nothing, not anyone, came the reply. The Peixoto supremo warned: you know very well what type of documents I keep in that drawer. He listed their secret functions, their confidential matters. Let the spreader of grass seed own up. Bloody birds, he mumbled.

  At the mayor’s residence:

  —Who let the birds in?

  Nobody had. The governor was unable to govern his temper: he had come across a bird inside a cupboard. Solemn municipal discussion papers covered in bird droppings.

  —Just look at this one: bird shit in the middle of the official seal.