For the executioner had done his work and the body of Nanwei’s lord hung from the gate beam of his palace.
IV
FAR TO THE SOUTH, in a lonely region, although no more than two days’ journey from Canton with its millions, a small uninhabited peninsula juts into the sea. In a circle of rocks on the strip of land there stands amid the boulders a rough redwood shrine, sparingly gilded. No elegant statues or perfumed censers. In an alcove is a crude stone statue of a sea monster, whose gaping jaws snap at the peaceful face of the goddess. From the roof beams hang rough wooden junks and sampans. On the steps in front of the altar are dried fish.
It is the shrine of A Ma O, the goddess of typhoons. Only fishermen and pirates honour her.
On the furthermost tip of the peninsula there is another stone. That is all that has been built by human hands here. No one remembers which tribe gave the goddess her sanctuary and sacrificial altar. The stone actually bears the name and date of its foundation. It is a padrão, a memorial stone, like many that commemorate a first landing on the coasts of Africa and Malabar, but like no other in China. And this is not only a memorial to exploration, but a tombstone. It reads: Here landed Joaquim Ferreio with the Padre and the Tejo. AD 1527.
He had a very modest aim in mind: to dry his cargo, which had become wet from the swamping seas, in the sun. Spices and textiles were spread out on the flat dry beach, next to a few tents occupied by himself and his men, while his ships were refitted.
One morning hordes of Chinese warriors surrounded the tents. And an envoy came to demand a thousand pieces of gold for the violation of their soil, which must not be trodden on by a foreigner with big eyes and long curls. Ferreio paid and left with his still half-damp cargo and hastily readied ships. He knew perfectly well that if he stayed the following day another mandarin would demand twice as much, hence wiping out the entire profit of his disastrous voyage.
He had a padrão hastily constructed, recording his stay on this bleak coast. The Chinese left it intact, fearing the spirit inhabiting the stone.
For twelve years the rough monument stood alone on the lonely spit of land.
Then again a ship was stranded there, whose only cargo was ten or so Jesuits on a mission to Beijing. They also had damage to repair, caused by their dysentery. Three of them died there and were buried around the padrão, covered by crude tombstones.
And the place was given a wide berth.
In this way there was from an early date a spot in the forbidden kingdom that belonged to Portugal, through its dead—before Farria sailed in and landed there to found the city he wished to hold and strengthen, against the Chinese and for the Portuguese.
It seemed as if he would achieve this secret aim, since the city had an impregnable location; at the narrowest point of the peninsula a small fort and three hundred men were sufficient to keep thousands in check. From the side it was protected by groups of islands and sandbanks.
He built a few forts and warehouses—churches came of their own accord.
The ships came and went in ever growing numbers: Macao lay halfway between Malacca and Japan on a protected anchorage, whereas Lian Po had been exposed to the stormy side of the Straits of Formosa. But Farria died as he was beginning to feel in a strong position, and Macao remained, even in the times of weakness and decline, almost alone: o mais leal, loyal to the King, even when there was no longer any king or any Portugal.
Neither Pinto nor Farria took revenge. And the way in which someone else later did so is nowadays seen not as revenge but as endorsement.
CHAPTER 1
I
Lisbon, August 15…
GOD KNOWS I avoided her as far as I could, but the King doesn’t know that. It might have been better if he had. Nor does he know that it was his own fault that the unforgivable happened. She is intended for the Infante, and though I loved her, my blood did not rebel at the prospect. The Infante is, like so many kings’ sons, someone whom one can meet, even be on intimate terms with, without being changed in the least by the experience. It’s as though they are state institutions, not people. She whom I call Diana could marry him, share his throne and bed, bear his children and yet remain Diana.
And what about me? We were to experience intense passions, she was to be swept from one emotion into another, and after a few years I would no longer love her, since she would no longer be the woman I now call Diana and always shall, not only not to betray her name but also because in that case I no longer need describe her to myself, or torture myself by freeing her from my heart where she lives, interwoven with the darkest secret core of my being in a helpless attempt to bring her to life in my words, which may be able to embrace worlds and seas, but not her essence.
Let me remind myself once more what her life would have been. A retreat to the desolate estate where she slowly changed into a sluggish woman, deprived of all attraction by motherhood and daily cohabitation; I on the other hand consumed by the longing for distant lands that I could not reach, and bearing my resentment against her in silence.
But who can overcome their desire with reason? Only those in whom it is like a fleeting spring wind. In me it was as scorching and constant as the trade wind. I did fight, though.
The struggle between renunciation and desire made my voice falter, my eyes wander and my attitude dither whenever I met her. She would turn away full of anger and boredom, and the eyes of the Infante and his royal father would shine with triumph.
Then I considered the moment opportune and went to the King to ask to be given a ship.
“Later, when you have more of the conqueror about you than now, I may be able to appoint you.”
He no longer feared my rivalry with his son. I turned away with a bow, hiding my rage at the royal provocation.
Very well. We shall not save that attitude for overseas, but shall adopt it here. It was Your Majesty’s will.
Now, in order to win her again, I was forced to fight with a weapon that I was proficient in but preferred not to use.
Diana was infected by the fashion that had reached us from Italy (the proverb says “the wind from Spain brings no good”, but I wanted us to add “and that from Italy nothing but ill”): she wrote poems and wanted others to write poems for her. What is poetry to a people that has better things to do than struggle with a recalcitrant metre, that for centuries has been crammed together on a narrow strip of land, has fought the violence of Moors, Spaniards and seas, whose language through a strange freak of nature happens to be melodious enough already, and is even called the language of flowers!
That women, who have nothing to do but weave, should alternate this with embroidering on the cloth of language, in imitation of others of their sex at the countless Italian courts, is all well and good. But that men should also participate in such vanity when there are still so many countries to conquer, to discover, and the Moors are still nestling just across the water, is worse.
Diana, then, presided over a literary court in her own summer mansion of Santa Clara. To be in favour there one had to read verses.
It is true that I had never opened my mouth (except to yawn or to answer the questions she put) and yet her big green eyes were often focused on me. I admired her from afar—she was beautiful, a true princess—and disdained the doggerel-writing suitors surrounding her. Now that I wished to approach her, I had to join in the fashion, mustered my knowledge of poetry, acquired in the years on my father’s deserted estate where reading, writing and hunting were the only recreations, and wrote a sonnet and a few redondilhas.*
These I took to Santa Clara on the Thursday afternoon following the King’s refusal.
My announcement that I would also read verses caused a stir. With sarcastic haste the sycophants surrounding her made ample room on both sides, but Diana remained serious and focused her gaze on me. I acted as if I were speaking to her alone, and in the silence I could not hear my own voice. I could tell from her eyes what was happening: she admired the sonnet, but was struck by the
bold haste and shameless tumult of the redondilhas, so well was my feeling expressed in them for her alone, hidden from all others. The others muttered applause, despite themselves; only she did not speak, but an hour later walked with me in the courtyard of Santa Clara. There was a narrow, bright moon, but the daylight still persisted under the leaves of the avenues. Her eyes were light, soft as the moon, her nearness like the sun, her bosom the softest and most exalted thing on earth.
Never since the encounter with my love had I felt the presence of the feminine so powerfully. I no longer thought of mythology, although I spoke of Endymion and Diana, no longer thought of her high and my low rank. We were like the first beings in the rediscovered magic garden, though we walked on side by side calmly and with dignity, for from the window, we knew, the jealous world stared down at us; for an hour we were Luís and Diana.
And for that one hour…
No, my chain of disasters began after this hour but did not issue from it. It began with my birth. For over my first hour on earth hung the most malevolent signs in the heavenly constellations, and not a single good fairy was on hand to lighten my destiny. And this love was one more thing that imposed its arduous demands on me.
On the following occasions I came without verses—we did not go into the garden but stood together in the window alcove. The other men and women avoided us automatically while we were together.
A few weeks later the Infante went pale and Diana’s eyes shone when I moved towards her. Had she once despised me for my hesitation? Misunderstood? I forget what I said to her, and perhaps the words were of little importance, but the sound must have been right. I constantly fascinated her. The Infante, on the other hand, did nothing but stutter, blush and laugh, to the amusement of both of us.
Now my conquest in this forbidden field achieved what my goodwill had not been able to. If I had been a man versed in the ways of that world, instead of a country boy, I would have realized that sooner.
One afternoon I was standing in the window alcove with Diana; the Infante, in the centre of the room, was talking in a bitter, absent-minded tone with his chamberlain. An elderly lady-in-waiting, standing at the door, tried obstinately and in vain to catch his eye. She was disturbed in that endeavour when the door suddenly opened. A page came to fetch me. The King summoned me. I followed the page.
“We can now grant your wish. The Estrella is ready to sail. There are soldiers on board; you are too young for the command of a warship, but with a competent captain to advise you can certainly lead a troop. Are you ready?”
I pretended to reflect, with head and knees bent.
“Well?” snapped the monarch, betraying his tense mood.
I did not reply till I was fully prepared.
“I thank Your Majesty for your attention and favour. I still do not possess the virtues that some time ago you considered indispensable for a command. Moreover, an important matter detains me.”
I paused for a moment, peeped upwards from my bent position and saw the anger rising in the monarch’s face, impelled by my boldness.
“If you mean that you…” He could not continue.
“It is because of my father. He feels his time is near and summons me to settle the inheritance. I must therefore most humbly ask your permission to leave the court. My father may soon die, and I am his only heir.”
“Your father’s suffering may also continue for a long while yet.”
“In that case I am the only one whom he would want to be at his sickbed for any length of time.”
I lied quite consciously. My father did not have a moment’s peace when I was with him. The King knew that as well as I did, but officially fathers and sons love each other. I went on, since the King remained speechless:
“I therefore ask Your Majesty’s permission again to leave the court. On Monday a vessel is sailing up the Tagus, which will take me most of the way.”
“Of course you may go. Assure your father of my royal affection. And what afterwards?”
He made a gesture which meant more or less: “When your father is dead and life on an impoverished estate bores you?…”
The Infante must have been very afraid of my competition.
“…Then I request your permission to acquire the virtues of a courtier and commander in your proximity.”
“One of them you will never be. The other you are already by virtue of your birth. You may go. I give you leave to take part in tomorrow’s hunt. When you return another ship will be ready, though I don’t know if there will be a detachment of soldiers for you then. But you can be sure of a letter of recommendation for the viceroy of Goa.”
So I had been honourably banished from Portugal, with a reprieve because of my father’s illness. The audience was at an end. I made to kiss the King’s hand, but his face went purple, and all he managed to say was “Go… away!”, pointing convulsively at the door.
I could not sort things out in my mind. Was this a victory or a defeat? Had I achieved what I most wanted: the chance to travel to distant countries, or thrown away what I most loved? In any case I had the proof that I was feared. What joy it was to needle, provoke the hated, supercilious tyrant, till the blood in his brain burst out of its vessels here and there, destroying the tissue, damaging his mediocre intelligence even more!
I did not like Portugal, though it was the land of my birth. The country is monotonous and melancholy, and so is life there. There is no flourish or panache as in Italy and France, and my fatherland is inferior in everything save navigation. But it was still painful to see how this uncouth monarch with his coarse mind and misshapen body sucked it dry and drove it to its downfall, had everything in his power, used everything for his own profit: agriculture, industry, navigation. In gluttony and greed he was matched only by prelates and pirates.
In the evening I drank with the pages on guard, and then I went to my room. I felt light-hearted and thought only of the hunt. Diana was to go too. I would give her a sign and preceded by a fleeing deer she would stray down to where I was waiting. Then, afterwards…
The light shone through a chink in the window, through a bottle of wine, onto the black table, across my hands lying there, separately, as if they alone knew what was going to happen with the rest of this life. The change had begun. Soon the luxurious court robes would be exchanged for cumbersome armour. These hands would change, I would have to forget, unlearn many things: how to turn the head of a lady of the court with just looks, how to show one’s rival one’s contempt, put him in the shade and with a well-chosen last word cause him to disappear for days from court circles. Forget Portugal, the little country whose border one can reach in three days. And I knew nothing of the Eastern Hemisphere that awaited me; I as yet knew nothing except vague tales and the pungent smell of spices. Would it be as wonderful as I thought? I remembered how I pictured Lisbon, as a city of golden palaces, sunny feast days and silver nights. It’s certainly a beautiful city, no less, but certainly no more.
It grew lighter and became gloomier again. In the light of morning a smile from Diana struck me as more desirable than a voyage around the world. But it was too late. I had played the dangerous game of two great vital interests, betting blindly, playing boldly, and too late I realized that I was losing what I should have fought desperately for and winning what was less close to my heart. Suddenly all my thoughts again turned to the hunt. I would pursue her like a deer, until she could flee no more, until she begged for mercy. I already knew where it would be: at the spring where the drinking animals break the reed stalks and where people do not venture, fearful of water spirits that raise their mist-shrouded arms and pull intruders down into the depths till they drown. And I would be with her when she feared the worst.
* An intricate verse form at which the young Camões excelled, with seven-line stanzas of between five and seven syllables, and an abbaacc rhyme scheme.
II
BUT WHEN CAMÕES SAW DIANA in the hunting party, seated unattainably on horseback, he suddenly kne
w that she was not the game that he could hunt, but that he would be the fugitive, even though he fled to the other end of the world. Cautiously he edged his horse closer to hers and asked her if she would stray away from the company and come to the spring of fairies and ghosts. She agreed. For a long time he sat waiting on a fallen tree trunk, half in the lake, scooping up water with his hat. Finally the noise of breaking branches, the deer escaped from the trees and shortly afterward Diana rode her horse to where he sat; she placed her foot in his folded hands and descended to him.
In the evening she returned to the hunt alone, she did not talk of a sprained ankle or a misleading path and no one asked her. She never alluded to this day in a letter, and it never became a page in the chronicles, as did many days on which something less important happened, when a city was burnt to the ground or a battle was won. No confessor later betrayed it in his memoirs. The walls of the convent to which she consigned her body, abandoned by Camões and denied to the Infante, do not hold the echo which only centuries later returns the words whispered to their stones.
After that Camões abandoned love songs, forcing himself to obey the strict measures of the crude poem that transformed plundering expeditions into feats of heroism. Only in the depths of misery, while seated on a scorched rock by the Red Sea, did he lament the fact that he had lost, and had wilfully turned his back on happiness. —Perhaps Os Lusíadas was only written in order to throw up a word here and there among the innumerable stanzas, just as the long wide waves throw up a few planks from which a shipwrecked mariner later builds a house on distant coasts. But no one has ever collected those words: Os Lusíadas has gone on existing like the convent, as a remnant of fame; behind the joints, through the cracks and splits one does not glimpse the sweet and painful life walled up in it.
III
PATIENT AS A DEAD MAN, I sat waiting on the deck of the boat that was to take me upstream. It was a gloomy day. The myriad colours of Lisbon were blotted out by a mist found only extremely rarely round the mouth of the Tagus. It was a slow business. Time after time a few people or a few barrels would cross the gangplank—but suddenly a wide stretch of water was flowing between the river and the shore. I saw a horseman ride off; I knew his face: a courier whose duty it was to report that I had safely left. But who was to prevent me from jumping in the water and regaining the shore in a few strokes! I did not do it, though it would have been easy. Little did I know that I was later to make that leap to swim across a distance a thousand times greater, no longer to save my soul, but my skin, and a piece of paper.
The Forbidden Kingdom Page 2
