So we, a hundred slaves, men, women, and children, devoted all our energies for four weeks to the preparations for the festivities. There would be horse racing and cock fighting, hunting and cards to amuse the men. And eating and drinking, of course. On the night of the wedding, there would be a great ball with an orchestra brought all the way from Salvador. The annual issue of clothes to us was postponed until the eve of the wedding. Each male field hand would receive a pair of drawers that reached below the knee, a coarse homespun shirt, and a bright head kerchief; each woman, a shift, a frock, and an apron; and each child a shirt with long tails. And as a bonus, a new tin plate, a spoon, and a mug.
The Senhor issued instructions that no effort or expense should be spared.
A week before the date set for the wedding, Miranda and her mother returned.
Senhor Gavin came with them and went to stay as the guest of the new owner of the Engenho do Meio.
As the big day approached, the pace of work quickened. The glamour and excitement of it all affected us, too. The Bishop arrived from Salvador, his throne borne aloft on a litter and escorted by a retinue of his personal slaves. We gathered to watch the family and the visitors line up to kiss his ring. As each party of guests arrived, the Senhor came out to welcome them formally. The yard was full of fine carriages, seldom used because of the condition of the roads. Strange horses raced up and down the paddocks. The estate was alive with strangers. They inspected the livestock and the mill. Some of them even toured the senzalas, poking their heads inside our cabins. The young men regarded us, the female slaves, as fair game, squeezing breasts and pinching buttocks. I found my missing eye a valuable weapon. Assaulted in this way, I gave the assailant a fierce look and spat on the ground. My victim told his fellow rakes that I had the evil eye and they gave me no more trouble.
The unmarried sisters of these young men were kept in seclusion in the Senhora’s quarters. Their time would come with the grand ball, an occasion to put their virtuous gifts on display for the benefit of prospective suitors.
We had our own guests to accommodate and entertain, for every white family brought with it a retinue of domestic slaves.
“Maybe we can find you a husband, too, Ama,” Wono teased me.
At ten o’clock precisely (more or less) on the big day, the bridegroom arrived.
A great cheer rose from the guests on the veranda as Williams’s carriage approached. It was drawn by four magnificent white mares and escorted by an honor guard of the younger male guests on horseback.
Fifi, dressed in a red uniform with gold braid, held the reins. Beside him, bolt upright, sat a stranger in similar attire.
“Look at Fifi,” I said, clutching Wono’s arm. “Doesn’t he look grand?”
“Who is that beside him?” Wono asked.
“It must be one of the new slaves at Fifi’s place,” I said.
“Fifi, Fifi,” cried Wono, as if it were he who was the center of all this pomp, rather than his passenger.
I looked again at the new man.
“Wono,” I said, digging my nails into the flesh of her arm.
“What?” she asked.
“I know him. He was my malungo on The Love of Liberty.”
And then I must have fainted.
When I came to, I was lying in the shade of a tree.
Wono was kneeling by my side. We were surrounded by a crowd of friends.
“Move away, move away,” I heard Wono say. “Give her some air.”
I opened my eye and blinked.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You fainted,” Wono replied. “Are you all right now? Can you sit up? You gave me a quite a start. For a moment I thought you were ...”
“Dead? Me? Not yet, sister Wono.”
“Ah, here they come,” said Wono.
“Who?” I asked, sitting up.
“Fifi and Josef. And Fifi’s friend, your malungo. I sent for them.”
I felt my heart pumping. I struggled to get up but I was too weak.
“Wono, help me,” I begged.
Josef asked, “Wono, what is the matter? The lad you sent sounded anxious.”
I said, “It is nothing, Bra Josef. We just wanted to greet Fifi in his fine clothes.”
Fifi greeted me in Fante, “Sister Ama, maakye. How are you?” and shook hands.
When I had replied, he said, “As for these clothes, they dress us up like performing monkeys when it suits them. I would be happier in my working shirt, hot and itchy as it is. But I forget myself. I haven’t introduced our new brother. João, this is Wono, Josef’s wife. And this is Ama.”
Wono was about to say something but my look shut her up.
I turned and looked Tomba straight in the eye. His mouth opened wide. I would never let him forget the astonishment with which he recognized me. Recovering quickly, he took both my hands in his.
“Sister Ama and I,” he said to his new friends in Portuguese, “have met before.”
Zacharias
Tomba! My father! He hasn’t been far from my thoughts since my mother told me the story of the failed revolt on board The Love of Liberty. I have struggled to summon up a picture of him, but in vain. At first I condemned him as a murderer but since then, I have had second thoughts. If a son cannot forgive his own father, who can? Except the Lord, that is.
I need to think about this.
“My Mother,” I tell her, “my hand is sore from all the writing and it will soon be dark.”
“Tomorrow,” she says. “Let us continue tomorrow.”
I leave her and take the path behind the senzalas, the slave quarters. Halfway up the hill, there is a rocky platform. I sit down and watch the ever-changing chiaroscuro of crimson and gold in the western sky.
“Lord, I see your work,” I whisper, and the anger which has threatened to split my brain begins to subside.
I sink to my knees and say the Pater Noster, slowly, concentrating on each line, praying to the Holy Spirit for the gift of forgiveness.
When I awaken, night has fallen. No moon. No stars. But the hellfire of the furnaces, the terrible handiwork of man, illuminates the mill in the dark valley below.
The rock I have been lying on is damp and my body is sore. I feel my way down the track, back to my room.
Ama’s story
Our wedding was celebrated in a more modest fashion than Williams’s and Miranda’s.
Tomba ran from the Engenho do Meio to the Engenho de Cima after work on Saturday night just as he did several times a week. I had a basin of hot water ready for him to take his bath.
Josef took the part of my father and Olukoya spoke for Tomba. Josef poured libation, speaking to my ancestors, first in my own language, of which, at his insistence, I had taught him a few words, and then in Fante. Olukoya did the same, speaking in Portuguese so that all could understand. Josef called on the ancestors to bless the union of their daughter (that is, me) with the man I had chosen to be the father of my children. Olukoya had a more difficult task. He and Tomba had become close friends. Tomba had told him about his unusual childhood and about his ignorance as to who his forebears were. He had been brought up without any system of belief and religion played no part in his life. He had no family apart from Ibrahima, who might or might not have been his father, and therefore recognized no ancestors. So Olukoya addressed his words to the ancestors of all the African slaves. He spoke of Tomba’s struggle against the slave trade in his part of Africa and of his attempt, with me, to take control of The Love of Liberty. He spoke of his courage and he called on the ancestors to watch over him and his new family, not as a man of this or that nation, but as an African.
We passed a bowl of cachaça round and each of us drank from it. Then the older women and those who had feigned illness so that they could spend the day cooking, brought in the wedding meal, which they h
ad improvised from bush meat trapped in the forest, a stolen sheep, and the produce of our allotments.
Drums were beaten and we sang and danced around the fire.
Old Benedito came to us after Mass the following day and advised us both, for the sake of our eternal souls, to beg the priest to marry us in church. We promised to consider his advice. I asked the Senhora, who had returned to the Engenho de Cima after Miranda’s marriage, to speak to the Senhor on my behalf, but my mistress thought it better that I make my request to the Senhor in person.
The Senhor was playing chess with Father Isaac on the veranda.
“Senhor, Father, I beg permission to make a request,” I told them.
“What is it?” grunted the Senhor.
“I want to get married, Senhor.”
“Who is the man?” asked the priest.
“His name is João, Father.”
“I have no slave of that name,” said the Senhor.
“He belongs to the Engenho do Meio, Senhor.”
“Out of the question,” replied the Senhor. “Find yourself a man in this engenho.”
He turned to the priest. “I won’t have my slaves marrying outsiders, Father,” he said. “It only causes trouble.”
“Senhor, I beg you. Would the Senhor not consider buying João from the senhor at the Engenho do Meio; or selling me to the senhor there?”
“I will think about it. Now, clear these things away.”
“I don’t mind what the Church says,” I heard him say as I went through the door, “marriage is not a proper institution for slaves.”
I paused to hear the rest.
“When they get tired of their spouses, they have a tendency to poison them. Then the poor owner loses a slave through no fault of his own. What do you think, Father?”
“That is certainly a risk, Senhor. I have heard of such cases. The Church, need I say it, is in favor of marriage in principle. In practice, the problem is that Africans are so lascivious that, once they are married, they regularly practice adultery; and that is an affront to the Church.”
I was busy preparing their bedroom for Senhor and Senhora Williams when Miranda walked in. Her face lit up when she saw me.
“Ama, awâwâwâ,” she said as we approached, using the Asante which I had taught her.
“Senhora Miranda, atúù,” I replied as we embraced.
We stepped back and held each other at arm’s length. Each of us looked at the other; then, eyes wide, each pointed at the other’s belly and we giggled. We embraced again. Then we went to sit side by side on the bed.
“Tell me all the news,” Miranda demanded. “I want to know exactly what has happened here since I left. My mother tells me nothing; well, nothing of any importance. I didn’t even suspect that you were pregnant, let alone married. All of a sudden. Who is he?”
“He is called João. He comes from the Engenho do Meio. But we are not married. Not in church, anyway. The Senhor would not permit it.”
I gave Tomba the name by which the Portuguese knew him.
“What nonsense, Ama,” Miranda said.
I knew the look of concern on her face was genuine.
“Why, in heaven’s name?”
Marriage to Williams, or was it living in Salvador, had changed Miranda. Such a casual profanity would never have passed her lips when she was a child.
“I think it would be better if you asked the Senhor that question yourself, Senhora Miranda,” I replied, “but it is not really important. Everyone knows we are married. But tell me about yourself. How long are you going to stay?”
“Until my baby is born. Senhor Gavin says he needs a break from my extravagant habits. He complains that I am driving him into debt. So my pregnancy has provided him with a convenient excuse to send me home to Mother. For the duration, at least.”
“Won’t you miss him?”
“Of course, but he has promised to come down at least twice a month. He says he is going to get Josef to teach him how to sail. Oh, Ama. He is such a wonderful husband. Not at all like the stuffy Portuguese men. He has taught me so much. Do you know that I can read and write English now? And speak it a little, too.”
“I don’t believe you. Show me.”
“Heh! Cheeky, cheeky! Speaking to your mistress like that. I’ll have to report you to the Senhor.”
She saw me start at the rebuke, smiled at her little joke, and kissed me on the cheek.
“Tchtt! Tchtt! You didn’t take me seriously, did you? You see, my little one-eyed beauty, I have penetrated your disguise. I know all your secrets. Senhor Gavin has told me everything about you. Everything!”
“Everything?”
“Everything! You wicked girl. Why did you keep so many secrets from me? Don’t you see? Now we can talk away in English and, when Senhor Gavin is not around, no one else will be able to understand a word.”
“I don’t think the Senhora would approve of that. Do you?”
“Hmm! Perhaps you are right. I didn’t think of that. But at least we can read to each other. Story books. Novels. I love English novels, don’t you? They are so much more interesting than those boring Portuguese stories about the saints. Realistic, Senhor Gavin says.”
“What have you been reading?”
“Tom Jones. Tom Jones is my favorite. And Pamela. She is so brave. Heh! Senhor Gavin says that when he knew you before, your name was Pamela. Is that true? How many other names do you have, dear Ama, which you have never told me about? You really are a most secretive person. I want you to vow to me that from now on you will have no secrets from me, not a single one. And I will make the same vow to you. Ama, promise!”
“Senhorita Miranda, I mean Senhora, how you have changed! The ideas that just come tumbling out, one after the other!”
“Ama, your vow! Repeat after me, ‘I vow that I will never keep another secret from Miranda, so help me God,’ and cross your heart.”
“Senhora, I cannot do that.”
“Why not? Why not? Ama, you are not my real friend. I would do anything for you, anything. And when I ask you for just this small favor, you refuse. I think I am going to cry.”
I put my arm around her shoulder and hugged her. Miranda sank her head into my breast. I rubbed her back, comforting her as I had done when she was just a girl, before she had married. After a moment, she sat up straight.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “I don’t think I shall cry. But tell me why you won’t take my vow, you little vixen.”
“I beg your pardon, Senhora, I am not your little vixen; nor anyone else’s for that matter,” I said.
It struck me that Miranda was acting out the part of a romantic heroine in one of the novels her husband had given her to read. I smiled, recalling the idle months I had spent reading my way through Mijn Heer’s library. Then a thought struck me.
“Tell me, tell me,” insisted Miranda.
“In a moment,” I replied. “But first I want to ask you something. Those books which Senhor Gavin has been giving you to read, are they brand new, or do they have someone else’s name written inside the front cover?”
“How did you know that? My mother always said she suspected you of being a witch. Have you been practicing black magic with your drums, and cutting the throats of poor cockerels and things?”
“What was the name?”
“I forget. I’ve never seen a name like that before. It’s not Portuguese and not English.”
“Try to remember.”
Miranda smiled slyly.
“You tell me,” she suggested. “Guess the name and I’ll tell you if you’re right.”
“Pieter de Bruyn,” I said.
Miranda looked at me, flabbergasted.
“My mother was right,” she said. “You are a witch. How could you possibly know that?”
“Now, y
our vow,” I said, quickly changing the subject. “Are you going to tell me all the intimate secrets which you and Senhor Gavin share? How would he feel about that?”
Miranda put her hand over her mouth and stared at me.
“I didn’t think about that,” she said, and then, almost at once, her face brightened and she continued with a note of triumph in her voice.
“It’s simple,” she said. “We can leave those out. ‘All secrets except those shared with husbands.’”
“You win that one,” I said. “By the way, has Senhor Gavin taught you to play chess?”
“Yes, but I’m not very good at it. It’s so boring.”
“Let’s make it more interesting. I challenge you to a game. Only this time, the rules will be different. I shall play with the white pieces, but only eight of them: the king and the queen, the knights, the bishops, and the rooks; no pawns. You’ll play black and you will also have eight pieces, only they will all be pawns. What’s more, when it is my turn to move, you must warn me in advance just what move you plan to make next. Oh, yes, and since I’m playing white, I’ll make the first move.”
Miranda looked puzzled.
“Ama, I don’t understand you. That wouldn’t be fair. I wouldn’t have a chance.”
I took her hands.
“Senhora Miranda, it’s a sort of parable, like those in the Bible.”
Miranda looked at me, a puzzled expression on her face.
“Senhor Gavin told me how you lost your eye,” she said. “No, I give up. I never was much good at riddles. Explain it to me.”
“It’s simple, Senhora,” I said. “The white queen is ... you; and the black pawns are us, your Africans. And you are asking us to tell you all our secrets. You see, Senhora Miranda, you are the daughter of the Senhor. I am his slave; I am your slave. I love you dearly and I know that you love me, too, but I am still your slave. Can’t we just let each of us decide which of our secrets we want to share?”
Brave Music of a Distant Drum Page 10
