Sea Loves Me

by Mia Couto

  Only the next morning did she relate what had happened. Jonasse was preparing to take off for his job on the eve of his descent into the belly of the mountain. He stopped at the door, reconsidering his intentions. Jonasse Nhamitando, all father-like, went to his daughter’s room and found her lying still, her only wish to rest. Without removing his rough, worn glove, he tenderly stroked her face. Was he saying goodbye to another girl, the one who had been his little daughter? Then the young girl’s father left the way a cloud parts from the rain.

  The years passed in less than a blink of an eye. Novidade grew up, nothing new there. Her parents had acknowledged and assented to the idea: their daughter had sealed Veronica’s womb. She wasn’t an only child: she was a none-ly child, a creature of singular stock. Jonasse was a kind man, he refused to abandon Veronica. And the couple’s daughter, in a pact with the void, showered her father with love and tenderness. Not that she put this into words. Rather, she did so by the way she would wait, suspended in time, for the miner’s return home. For the duration of each of the miner’s shifts, the girl remained apprehensive, neither eating nor drinking. Only after the father returned would the girl reassume her normal expression, and, in her voice like a stream, they discovered tunes that no one, save the girl, knew. And then there were the gifts she would pick for him: bizarre little flowers of no other colour than the blue found in her eyes. No one ever learned where she plucked such petals.

  Many nights later, the family relived their earlier suffering. Jonasse was nowhere to be found. The miner was out digging the earth full of holes on the night shift. Back at the house, his wife’s eyes rested over the rim of the light coming from the xipefo, their old oil lamp. She stitched together swaddlings of nothing, tiny clothes for a son who, as they well knew, would never come. Little Novidade dozed at the woman’s side. The girl began to curl up, convulsing, her epilepsy an epic lapse. Her mother quickly tended to her. In her panic, she shattered the light to pieces, overturning the xipefo and its glowing light. As she calmed the girl, who was all lips and heavy breathing, Veronica Manga sought the matches above the chest. Only then did a muddy sound from the mountain outside call her attention. What was that? The mine exploding? Good heavens! She broke out in goosebumps. And Jonasse, her husband?

  The woman zigzagged through the house in a run-or-die, moved from anxiety to alarm, a fly in a bull’s tail. And then came even bigger explosions. Seen from the window, the mountain was transformed into a fire-breathing pangolin. Would boulders and bedrock tumble down upon the houses? No, the mountain, that one at least, had a tough constitution. And what about Jonasse? The woman knew she would have to wait till morning for news of her husband. But the young girl didn’t wait for the morning light. In silence, she gathered up her tiny things in a basket and a sack. Then she arranged her mother’s belongings in an old suitcase. Finally a few meagre words, in a gentle command, came from her mouth.

  —Let’s go, Mother!

  Without stopping to think, the girl’s mother abandoned her post, the spot where she’d nested for so many years. She let the young girl lead her by the hand, trusting in who knows what intuition. Along the way, the two of them crossed some others, like them, on the run. And Veronica asked them:

  —This thing we’re hearing: What is it?

  It wasn’t coming from the mine. Those were military explosions, the war was approaching. And our husbands, where can they go to save themselves?

  —There’s no time. Climb onto the truck, the others responded.

  And up they went. Veronica situated her things better than herself, and made Novidade sit on top of the basket. The motor turned over, spinning more slowly than her eyes in their anxious search to find Jonasse emerging from the clouds of smoke and chaos. The truck pulled away, leaving behind only debris and explosions. Mother stood looking at her daughter, the composure in her expression, her dirty dress. What was she doing? Humming. In the midst of that whirlwind, the girl panned for bits of joy amid her quiet songs. Was she defanging that moment pregnant with disaster?

  Between bombs and gunshots, the truck pulled forwards until it reached the front of the mine where Jonasse worked. And then the girl, disregarding the moment’s developments, leaped to the ill-advised ground. She took a few steps forwards, ironing out the wrinkles in her little dress, turned backwards to offer her mother a sign of affection. Horrified, the vehicle came to a halt. Little Novidade resumed her path, crossing the road exposed to certain danger. The truck honked its horn in fury: the only thing that took its time there was death. The girl didn’t appear to even hear. She stood in the road as if the way were entirely hers. In the dictionary of her footsteps, there was no sign of arrogance, nor any grand declarations. The fact that she was standing in the road, upsetting the chaos, wasn’t an act of defiance but of distraction, plain and simple. She put the blue of her eyes to use. The driver, all nerves, called for her one last time. And the rest of the passengers screamed for her mother to order her to return. But Veronica didn’t utter a word.

  Atop a pile of sand pulled from the mine, Little Novidade leaned down to pluck wildflowers, the kind one spots on roadsides. She chose them at a cemetery pace. She stopped before some tiny blue petals identical to the colour of her eyes. The truck, tired of waiting, beset by the distressed clamour of its passengers, darted down the road. The mother refused to look away from her daughter, as though she wished to see her fate in its final form. What happened next, no one knows. Only she could see it. There, amid the dust: what happened was the flowers, the ones with a blue glimmer, began to swell and soar towards the sky. Then, all together, they plucked the girl. The flowers grabbed hold of Little Novidade with their petals and pulled her down into the earth. The girl seemed to expect this, as, smiling, she was swept away into the same womb where she’d seen her father extinguished, out of sight and out of time.

  ‌Blind Estrelinho

  Blind Estrelinho was a man of no moment: were it not for his guide, Gigito Efraim, his story could be recounted and discounted. Gigito’s hand had led the unvisioned man for ages and ages. That hand was separate yet shared, an extension of one man into the other, siamesely. And so it had been almost from birth. Estrelinho’s memory had five fingers and they were those of Gigito, gripped firmly in his own hand.

  The blind man, curious, wanted to know everything. He didn’t make a fuss about life. For him, always was too seldom and everything insufficient. He would say, with these words:

  —I’ve got to live right away, or else I’ll forget.

  Little Gigito, however—he described what wasn’t there. The world he detailed was fantasies and fine-lacery. The guide’s imagination bore more fruit than a papaya tree. The blind man’s mouth filled with waters:

  —What marvellosity, this world. Tell me everything, Gigito!

  The guide’s hand was, after all, a manuscript of lies. Gigito Efraim was as Saint Thomas never had been: he saw to not believe. The aide spoke through his fingertips. He peeled open the universe, abloom in petals. His imagination was such that even the blind man, at times, believed he could see. The other man would encourage him in these brief illusions:

  —Get rid of your cane, you’re on the right path.

  A lie: Estrelinho still couldn’t see a palm tree in front of his nose. Nevertheless, the blind man did not accept his sightlessness. He embodied the old adage: he was the legless man who was always trying to kick. Only at night would he become discouraged, suffering from fears older than humanity. He understood that which, in the human race, is the least primitive: the animal.

  —Does it trouble you that there is no light at night?

  —Trouble is having a white bird spread its wings in your sleep.

  A white bird? In your sleep? The place for birds is in the heights. They even say God made the heavens to justify birds. Estrelinho tried to mask his fear of omens with subterfuge:

  —And now, Little Gigito? Now, looking up in this direction, am I facing the sky?

  What could the o
ther man say? For a blind man, the sky is everywhere. It was with night’s arrival and his guide fast asleep that Estrelinho lost his footing. It was as if a new darkness had appeared inside him. Slowly and stealthily he nested his hand in that of his guide. The only way to fall asleep. Is the clam’s shyness the reason for its shell? The following morning, the blind man admitted:

  —If you die, I’ve got to die right after you. If not, how do I find the way to Heaven?

  It was in the month of December that they took Little Gigito away. Took him from the world to send him to war: they required his military services. The blind man protested: the boy could un-come of age. And the service the boy provided him was life-giving and lifelong. The guide called Estrelinho aside and calmed him down:

  —Don’t go lonering around now. I already sent for my sis to take my place.

  The blind man stretched his arm as if hoping to hold onto their goodbye. But the other was no longer there. Or had he turned away on purpose? Then, with neither time nor tide, Estrelinho listened as his friend pulled away, engulfed, fargotten, inevitably invisible. For the first time, Estrelinho felt disabled.

  —Now, only now, am I one who turns a blind eye.

  In the minutes that followed, the blind man spoke loudly, all to himself, as if conjuring the presence of his friend:

  —Listen, my brother, listen to this silence. The mistake people make is to think that all silences are the same. They’re not: there are distinct qualities of silence. It’s like this. The dark, this snuffed-out nothingness that these eyes of mine touch: each one is unique, colourless in its own way. Understand me, brother Gigito?

  But a response from Gigito never came, and silence followed, this one, yes, repeated and the same. Dis-tended to, Estrelinho stood watching the in-sights, his eyes surrounded by sunspots and milky no-ways. It was a moonless night, its dark dye unending. Squinting, the blind man took in the darkness, its shapes and its fragments. The world bruised his uncoupled hand. His solitude hurt like a kink in a giraffe’s neck. He recalled the words of his guide:

  —Lonely and sad is rheum in a blind man’s eye.

  Fearing the night, he set off wandering, staggering along. His theatrical fingers played the role of eyes. Stubborn as a pendulum he went, choosing a route. Stumbling, snagging, he ended up falling down on the side of the road. There he fell asleep, his dreams zigzagging in search of Little Gigito’s hand.

  Then, for the first time, he saw the heron. Just as Little Gigito had described: the soaring bird, white like dawn. Its wings throbbing, as though its body occupied no space at all.

  Anguished, he averted his empty gaze. It was a vision to invite misfortunes. When he returned to himself, it seemed as if he knew the place he’d stumbled upon. As Gigito would say: that was a place that snakes came to refill their venoms. But he couldn’t muster the strength to leave.

  He remained on the side of the road, like a balled-up handkerchief soaked with sadness, one of those that always appear at separations. Until the timid touch of a hand on his shoulders roused him.

  —I’m Gigito’s sister. My name is Infelizmina.

  From then on, the girl led the blind man. She did so with great care and long silences. It was as if Estrelinho had, for a second time, lost his sight. The young girl showed absolutely no talent for invention. She described each snippet of the landscape with reason and factuality. The world the blind man had come to know dimmed. Estrelinho no longer had the lustre of fantasy. He stopped eating, stopped asking, stopped complaining. Weak, he wanted someone to carry him along, no longer just his hand but his entire body. At each turn, she pulled the blind man to her. He went along feeling the roundness of her breasts, his hand no longer sought only another hand. Until, at last, he accepted the invitation of desire.

  That night, for the first time, he made love, intoxicated and overcome. In an instant, Gigito’s teachings returned to him. What before had been scarce became abundant and the seconds surpassed eternities. His head swooped like a swallow and he let his heart be guided like bats: by the echo of passion. For the first time, the blind man felt sleep come over him without any anguish. And he fell asleep curled up in the girl, his body imitating fingers dissolved in another hand.

  In the middle of the night, however, Infelizmina awoke, mugged by alarm. She’d seen the great white heron in her dream. The blind man felt a thud, as if wings had beat against his chest. But he feigned tranquility and began to soothe the girl. Infelizmina returned to bed, night-drowned.

  The morning brought the news: Gigito had died. The messenger was brief, as a soldier ought to be. His message resonated infinitely, as the wounds of war ought to. It was strange the way the blind man reacted without the least surprise, as if he were already aware of the loss. The girl stopped speaking, orphaned of her brother. From that death on, she only grew sadder, withering away. And so she remained, unable to resume her life. Until the blind man approached and led her to the house’s veranda. Then he began to describe the world, outdoing himself as he detailed the heavens. Little by little, a smile began to spread: the girl’s soul was healing. Estrelinho befancied all manner of lands and landscapes. Yes, the girl agreed. She’d slumbered in such landscapes before she was born. She looked at the man and thought: I held him in my arms before this life. And when she had already shaken loose her sadness, she risked the question:

  —All this, Estrelinho? All this exists where exactly?

  And the blind man, confident in stride and course, responded:

  —Come, I’ll show you the way!

  ‌The Perfume

  Today we’re going dancing! is how Justino announced himself, extending hands full of a package the colour of a gift. Gloria, his wife, wasn’t sure how to accept it. He was the one who ended up untying the knots and pulling from the colourful wrapping paper a dress no less vivid. The woman, accustomed to living low, had spent so long waiting she’d already forgotten what it was she was waiting for. Justino oversaw the railway, one hour fused with the next, one enormous cloud of steam, a minute hand buried in his heart. Time, that stale thief of spontaneity, was an uninvited guest driving a wedge between husband and wife. What remained was a landscape of weariness, uninterest, and uh-huhs. Love—in the end, what was the point?

  Which is why Gloria was so startled, leaving the dress dangling across her lap. What was she waiting for, why didn’t she get ready? Her husband seemed to have played a joke on her. What had happened to him? He had always guarded her so jealously that she could barely appear at the window, much less anywhere else. Gloria stood up and dragged the dress along with her to the bedroom. Incredulous, she sleepwalked the comb sluggishly through her hair. In vain. Her untidiness had resulted in permanent braids. Gloria remembered her mother’s words: an emancipated Black woman is one who knows what to do with her own hair. But, Mother: First off, I’m of mixed race. Secondly, I’ve never known this thing called freedom. She laughed at herself: free? It seemed like a word from another language. Just spelling it out caused her embarrassment, the same kind she tasted when putting on the dress her husband had given her. She opened the drawer, winning the battle with the stubborn wood. She grabbed the bottle of perfume, old but still in its packaging. It weighed very little, the liquid had long since evaporated. Justino had given her the perfume when they began seeing each other, she still a girl. It had been the only present she had received in her entire life. But now there was the dress. She squeezed the perfume bottle, milking the final drops. What did I use this perfume on? she asked herself as she tossed the bottle towards the void beyond the window.

  —I don’t even know what wearing perfume feels like.

  She listened to the old bottle shatter on the sidewalk. She turned back towards the living room, her dress going one way, her body the other. The hem of the dress nibbled at her shoes. She dreaded what her husband would say, he was always pointing out when she went too far. This time, however, he had an unusual look, as though he didn’t believe his eyes. He pulled her to him and adjusted
her lines, lifting the dress a bit higher, until it was nearly nipping at her waist.

  —You’re not going to put a little something on your face then?

  —A little something on my face?

  —Yeah, a little colour, a little polish or whatever.

  Gloria didn’t know what to think. She turned around and headed for the bathroom, mouth agape. What had come over him, was he ill? Where the devil had that lipstick gone, the one that had spent years on the shelf collecting dust? She found it, hardly more than a stub, worn down by the kids’ playing. She applied some to her lips. Lightly, only a shadow of colour. Load some more on, put the red ones to use. Her husband was talking to her in the mirror. She lifted her head, a stranger to herself.

  —Yes, we’re going to the dance. Did you used to dance, before?

  —And the children?

  —I already made arrangements with the neighbour, don’t worry about that.

  And off they went. Justino had to push the little truck. As always, she got out to lend a hand. But her husband refused: no, not this time. And he pushed the truck alone, where had anyone ever seen such a thing?

  They finally arrived. Gloria’s expression suggested she couldn’t take in the reality. She sat there on the old truck’s seat. Justino gently-manned the situation, hand extended, arm at the ready to hold doors. The dance had brought people from all around, full to the stitches. The music flowed throughout a dance hall swarming with couples. They found a table and sat down. Gloria’s eyes did not do their work. They merely gazed bashfully at the table.

  Then a man came up to them, his conduct respectful, and asked the brakeman if he’d allow his wife to take a gentlemanly spin around the dance floor. Her eyes, full of terror, waited for the storm to blow in. But it didn’t. Justino looked at the young man and gave his consent. Gloria responded: