Carlos Gonçalves, the boy Constança had discovered was in love with Manuela, tried to lose himself in his work, feeding the cows, milking the cows, leading those very cows out to the fields every morning, tending to the grapes which grew in his yard. But he kept hearing Manuela’s voice in the trees. He heard her sweet whisper as birds flew overhead; he saw her face reflected in the pools of water and lakes. Her laughter could be heard when the wind rumbled like a waterfall of stones down the side of Pico, and her sparkling tears filled the skies at night; even the rain tasted of Manuela. He felt her forbidden flesh on the ground under his feet. He bent down and kissed the earth, kissing the likeness of Manuela, which he found impossible to resist.
~ ~ ~
At the end of seven long and arduous years, Constança finally closed her eyes and slept. Álvaro and his wife had grown old, but Manuela was even older. She now took care of her parents, though her beauty had been transformed into the earth and into those things that sprang from the earth.
The earth seemed to sleep too, the shaking and rumblings having momentarily subsided.
Manuela’s brother Francisco found a young schoolteacher for a wife, and she moved into the house after they were married.
Manuela married her virtue and solitude, her stony silence and prayers, her eyes of blind wood, her deaf ears of interminable patience. She clung to the whitewashed rock of her arms and legs, as well as the various nests, webs, and assorted odds and ends she stitched together, and found herself giving birth to two large and silent twins of misfortune. Her children were also mute, deaf, blind, and invisible, as lifeless as Manuela, only more so, since they were nothing more than the husks and skins of her misery that over time she had discarded, shedding like a snake.
Carlos, the boy who had loved her, had become hardened to the endless work. He had grown into a man and, instead of loving Manuela—the woman he hadn’t seen since Constança had banished him from her home—he loved the fleeting images of her in the air, earth, water, and plants.
He drank deeply of the kisses of Manuela, in the red wine that came from his vines, in the grapes which grew of Manuela, of the earth that was Manuela, of the water, the air—everything that was Manuela.
Álvaro crept off one night, dragging Constança down to the cemetery. “We don’t need to hang around here anymore,” he said, though his words fell on deaf ears. He stood by the tiny piece of earth where all their ancestors had been placed, one after the other. “This is our place.”
He planted Constança on top of the bones of the other relatives. Then he crawled in himself and covered them both with a heavy blanket of fertile soil. He listened to the slow language of the centuries, of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, and so on. He listened to the incomprehensible words of the eons, to the wordless messages that spoke the phrases of endless repetitions: of the ebb and flow, of the blind tenacity of life, pushing ever forward, striving to continue. The incredibly slow descent of the one, intermingling with the impossibly slow ascent of the others, until they were all one: one father and son, mother and daughter, brother and sister. Even Constança and Álvaro became one, melding with the mountain from whence they had sprung.
Manuela swept up the dust and dirt, the dry husks and spider-web sheddings of her twins, and brought them together to the church, where they sat by her side as she prayed. Fortified by drink, and drunk with the overpowering love he felt for the Manuela he found in everything, Carlos didn’t even see her when he passed the three of them on their way to church. Whenever he came near her, clouds quickly gathered all about Manuela’s body and the spiders, whose shroud masked her beauty, worked at a fantastic pace, spinning new webs to cover her face and shield her eyes from the boy she was forbidden to see.
Constança/Álvaro worked out the secrets of the universe. They and the ancestors who were part of them had been absorbed into the bowels of the volcano, the spring water under the ground, and the vegetable life of the island. Of course, part of them lived on in the form of Manuela, and no one had forgotten that, either.
Least of all Álvaro/Constança.
By this time Francisco and his wife had several children of their own. Naturally they took over all the rooms of the house to contain their growing family. Even so Francisco soon began to think that the house was too small for all of them. “Why shouldn’t I sell the land?” he asked. “With the money we could move to America, like Senhor Campos.”
“Yes, we could have a big house there, and pretty things for us and our children,” his wife said.
They had forgotten all about Manuela. No one had seen or heard her, so there was no reason to take her into consideration.
Francisco tried to find someone interested in the land, in the house and cows. Somebody suggested Carlos.
He began to think perhaps he could convince Carlos to take over; after all, he had enough money. Then Francisco and his wife could make plans for America, where he could get a better job.
Constança/Álvaro’s voice cried out at this scheme. The hitherto silent stones began to speak: “After all the work I did, what will happen to Manuela? Especially if that boy moves into our house. I won’t have it!”
“They can’t sell the house!” Álvaro/Constança added.
“Or move to America!” said Constança/Álvaro.
“Our blood, spit, and sweat is in this soil. How can they sell it and leave?”The one who was in fact many asked themselves an endless list of questions, and grew even more furious at the lack of answers.
They shook the ground with their fury. Constança/Álvaro was determined to keep Manuela away from Carlos, Álvaro/Constança was just as adamant about not losing the house, and both were equally determined not to have the family move to America.
“I’ll rip a hole in the ground to swallow that Carlos boy.”
“And I’ll move the earth and knock the house to the ground—so they’ve nothing to sell.”
Their anger shook the island. Constança/Álvaro did try to swallow up Carlos, but only succeeded in destroying Carlos’s house. Álvaro/Constança’s anger bubbled up at a weak spot in the earth’s surface, just off the shore of the island.
Lava boiled the ocean, and bellows of steam and smoke shot high into the air. Ashes rained down on everything. The sea turned red from the fires.
Francisco and his wife threw themselves on the ground and cried. “How can we stay here?” she said. “Nothing is safe here.”
“But now our land will be worthless.”
The ocean was covered with a layer of fire, bubbling and boiling; thunder rocked the world from the air, and Pico shook from deep within. The night turned blacker than black. There were no stars or moon at night, and no sun during the day.
“We must go before we are killed,” Francisco’s wife cried.
Pico roared and rumbled as the whole island shook.
They gathered what little they could carry and fled, leaving everything to Carlos for next to nothing.
Manuela whispered to the crack in the earth behind her house. She tried to soothe the fires and calm the noisy earth.
Carlos and some others ran to the shore, prayers flying out of their mouths. Many brought food and gifts to appease their angry God. All of them made many promises to reform, to better themselves, repay old debts, give more to charity, stop bad habits, do good turns. “Please, anything you ask, dear Lord, if only this terror will stop.”
Someone carried the silver crown of the Holy Ghost, its dove with outstretched wings atop, in a show of penitence and prayer. Another brought out a brightly painted statue of Our Lady of Miracles, who smiled with supreme beneficence upon the devastation.
“We will honor you with a procession of thanks every year, if you stop this,” they promised. Here and there men and women alike fell to their knees moaning, weeping, and crying for help to a litany of saints. Novenas were offered—nine weeks of prayers to Our Lady of Sorrows, nine special offerings to Saint Isabel of Portuga
l.
Several idiot children and adults of diminished capacities came out to help, guiding people this way and that, going where they were needed. Old women ran from their homes, shrieking and pulling at their hair. Grown men cowered on the ground.
Manuela tried to find her twins, but they had disappeared. She kicked the earth and pleaded for her innocent babies to be given up. The earth responded—thanks to Constança/Álvaro—by trying to take her instead. She heard her mother calling, “Manuela, Manuela, come now my child, forget everything else. Come with us.”
Manuela fought back, but Constança/Álvaro was cunning and powerful; she destroyed many of Manuela’s trees, as well as her animals, lakes, and pools, the fields of grass and even the thin layer of fertile soil that had captured Manuela’s most precious gift; for Constança/Álvaro was of the hot inner earth, of the lava that seeped from the living core whence the lineage of all life sprang. And frankly there was more of her—her and all the ancestors past—than there was of Manuela, whose hold was rather tenuous.
Someone shouted, pointing up at the sky, “Look, there, a face!” There were clouds above Pico, and indeed they did form what was clearly a face—with eyes, nose and mouth—though only Carlos recognized the face as Manuela’s.
The battle between Manuela and her mother waged on while everyone else was busy saving those who could be saved, as well as attempting to placate Álvaro/Constança, who ripped a gigantic gash on the ocean floor, churning the sea and filling the sky with black clouds and explosions.
Then the heavens exploded with a burst of thunder and the rains fell, while lightning lit up the skies.
The argumentative voices rose in collective shrieks and bellows. Thunder shook the island from above, the volcano shook the island from below, and lightning danced between them both, as the battle became one between the earth and sky.
Fierce winds swept across both the sea and the island, sending waves crashing across the land and lashing everything with pelting rain.
~ ~ ~
After twenty-nine days of continuous rain, Filipa slammed the door behind her and stepped out into the deluge. She had remained solitary after Constança had gone, but she was not going to spend the rest of forever locked up, afraid of a little rain. “God is displeased,” said her neighbor Dona Maria Campos, who sat facing out her window, as if searching for something lost in that wall of water—perhaps awaiting the return of her husband, who was still searching for wealth in America.
“This is the end,” Dona Maria said. “Soon we will all be swept out to sea.”
Filipa mumbled. “If it does, well then, fine!”
“It’s a wonder it didn’t happen a long time ago. We should all be punished. Perhaps at the bottom of the sea we could be washed clean of the sins of this life.”
“This rain can’t last,” Filipa said. “The skies have to dry up sometime.”
She shuffled down the flooded street, her head and shoulders bent over by the furious rain. She passed the normally dry creek bed. It was overflowing.
“There has never been a rain such as this,” the voice of Dona Maria followed her. “The tears of heaven are falling, for there is only sadness in this world.”
“Even God cannot cry forever,” Filipa said.
Filipa navigated down the flooded streets toward the bakery. The wind whipped around her and the rain found its way through her protective clothing and shoes.
The bakery was closed.
She headed for the market. Perhaps there would be a little food there. People had to eat.
Everywhere there was the sound of water: waves crashed against the rocks, water rushed down the streets, and the continuous rain fell everywhere, running off rooftops.
She looked out toward the sea and sky, but they were one. She couldn’t tell where the horizon was or whether she stood at the bottom of the ocean or at the roof of the sky.
It was like Dona Maria had said—the end had come, and the only thing that continued was the misery of life, which knew no end.
Filipa knew right then what she had to do, and so she waded down the rivers which had once been streets, to go talk sense to that friend of hers, the only one who could end this nonsense, Constança.
The battle between the earth and sky had come to a ridiculous stalemate. The earthquakes and volcano had shaken many people and buildings into a state of fragmented and confused disarray; then the rains had destroyed much of what was left. And finally the winds had torn off roofs and uprooted trees, knocked down walls and cleared planted fields of any vestige of life.
In the wake of the storm there remained only dead animals, ruined homes, and those poor souls who had lost everything. Boats had sailed away with no one aboard to steer or guide the way, confusing the bottom of the sea with some safe distant port. Much of the island lay in tatters.
Hardly anyone remembered the volcano now. The earth’s grumbling still frightened some, but most people were too numb to care. They had lost too much.
Filipa talked to Constança, imploring her to sleep and spare everyone, the poor living, those who had no such luxuries as rest and sleep.
“You’ve made your point,” Filipa said. “Now why don’t you let things get back to normal?”
~ ~ ~
Constança/Álvaro saw it was no use: either they would have to destroy the entire island and everyone on it, or let Manuela go. Now that she had been stripped of her clouds, her spiders and spider webs, everything else—the trees, rivers, lakes, and gravel—had given the girl back her unequaled beauty. She was no longer invisible and Carlos, of course, was one of the first to see. He cried with joy, and she did as well, for in her time of invisible blindness she hadn’t seen him at all.
They marched with the others to the edge of the island, offering a thousand good things if the volcano ceased its convulsions.
Now that Francisco and his family had left, Álvaro/Constança decided it was better that Carlos and Manuela have their house and land, to raise their own family. It was clear that the island would suffer a terrible drought and famine in the next year. Manuela would need someone at her side to help, in order for her and the farm to survive.
The island settled down and was quiet again. Though not before Constança/Álvaro managed to open the earth below Filipa’s feet—where she stood talking Constança’s ear off—in order to keep them company in the ground below.
Manuela and Carlos were soon married. The villagers slowly rebuilt their homes and stores, and replanted their fields. Álvaro/Constança worked hard to seep life back into the ground, exhaling their smoky breath from Pico’s crest, and providing fertile soil for Carlos and Manuela’s farmland. Even the part that was only Constança smiled, for there was now a spark of life in Manuela’s belly. True, it was part of Carlos, but perhaps he wasn’t quite so bad as Constança had once thought, and, in any case, it included part of her, too.
FERNANDO NORONHA GRAPPLED WITH THE BOX THAT HAD ARRIVED with the morning mail and brought it into the house. The mailman made some comment, but Fernando’s English was not good, and he was too excited and impatient to try to decipher what the man had said. “Yes, yes,” Fernando said, waving the man away and closing the door quickly behind him.
He carried the box into the kitchen as if it were a precious treasure and carefully set it on the table. There was a springiness and joy to his movements that had long been absent. It is a treasure, he thought. He sniffed the box in delight, able to smell, even through the cardboard, the paper wrappings and tape, the scent of home.
“At last,” he said, trembling with excitement. A box full of Azorean soil. Sent all the way from the islands, so many months in transit, and such a large, heavy box, too. And safe, not opened or damaged by careless handlers, not mislaid or lost as he had expected and feared might be the case. Not even seized by customs or postal officials, which he had also feared—although he wasn’t sure why they would. Perhaps, the Azoreans would resent anyone taking any of their precious soil, their homeland, to
some other land. And perhaps American officials would object to allowing the soil of the Azores, or any other place, to come into the country.
Fernando went to a drawer and took out a kitchen knife. He cut through the string that crisscrossed the box, then the tape and paper. He opened the flaps of the package, and sifted through the soil with his fingers. He smelled the rich, fertile soil of Faial—the same luxurious earth that many of the ancient Azorean captains had carried with them when they had sailed round the world, assuring that if they were to die on a foreign shore, they would at least have the comfort of being buried with the soil of their homeland.
“While it’s true I am exiled from my islands,” he said, “here, now, I have reclaimed a small piece of the Azores.” This then was the true meaning of saudade, not merely to long for what is gone, what has been wrenched away, but also to feel that part of you remains there, in essence to be separated from oneself.
It was impossible for Fernando to avoid reflecting on what he had left behind. He often found himself peering from a window or doorway, expecting to see a neighbor or friend: the faces of people who knew and respected his family name, and whom he knew as well. Furthermore, the natural beauty of the islands also was imprinted in his mind, as were the unavoidable comparisons with what now surrounded him.
Here in California he had no friends; instead, there were countless strangers, streams of people seemingly without end—people who cared nothing for what was dear to him. Instead of the sublime majesty of Pico towering above the clouds, there were indistinguishable rolling hills and endless flat farmlands. Instead of the lush greenery of the islands, the fields here were yellow and brown. Instead of soil that was dark and in which anything would grow, in which it was impossible to quench life, he saw only the poor dirt surrounding San José, which, by comparison, was dry and barren. He saw endless vistas of dust and sand. It was a desert really. Not paradise, as he had heard. Instead of the cool ocean breezes, the air was hot and stifling, as if it sprang from the land itself.
The Conjurer and Other Azorean Tales Page 13
