The Commander turned forty-eight a month ago. There was a small celebration in his tent. He is not married and has no children. I saw a couple of drunk soldiers making sexual gestures that had them bent over with laughter. There are days when I still feel I am walking in circles in the forest with Macaco and his men. I attach myself to the Commander, even though his violent racism leaves me shaky, often feeling empty. There is the half of me that he resents, but I need to believe that I’m growing stronger under his protection. The other men do not toy with me now. Those I share a tent with look to the cook for cues. Augusto smiles and nods when I enter our sleeping quarters. There is concern in his voice when he speaks to me in front of the other men. There is no judgment in his words. He understands. They all do. Perhaps this is why I leave our tent ashamed, discomfited, all of us players in a degrading sport.
Many soldiers are out every day planting land mines, hundreds of them, added to the million or more that are already out there or will come eventually. I don’t understand the verb “plant” because I think of flowers and vegetables, things that bring beauty to the world. I think of all the civilians who will lose their limbs or lives—farmers, women, and children who are tending gardens, planting food, harvesting crops, or simply strolling to the river to fetch water. In shallow holes, soldiers plant land mines, and the same holes become graves for those who step on them.
I have seen them training near camp, on their knees digging. Carefully, they handle the metal casings, activate them before lowering the discs in the bed of dirt and covering them over. Filled with tiny metal darts called flechettes, they are lethal. I have seen a soldier who did it wrong—his body shredded to a pulp.
I am allowed to shower and change before going to the Commander’s tent to prepare his room and serve him dinner. I look forward to this time. I try to get there early so I can drown myself in the music called jazz that he likes to listen to as he eats.
The Commander comes in late. His food has gone cold and I move to clear the table. I will quickly get them to heat up some dinner for him.
“We leave tomorrow night,” he says, before he notices me balancing the plate with its metal dome, wine glass in hand. “I have no appetite,” he says, and sits down heavily in his chair. I lower the plate onto the table. “My feet are sore,” he says, yawning.
I pour water into the wash basin from the matching jug. I place the basin by his feet. Sitting cross-legged, I look up at the Commander as I unlace his boots. I lift his bare foot and place it over the basin. I wash his foot, gently at first, with soap and water. I begin to rub the arch, then work my way around his toes, his heel, before my fingers reach his ankle. I keep my eyes closed. It allows me to separate what my hands are doing from the pleasure of the jazz filling the tent. The heat is dizzying. The Commander flinches, ever so slightly. I open my eyes as he leans forward. He brushes the outside of his thumb against my cheek. I want to shake his hand from my face. I pat dry his foot, wipe each toe, one by one. I grab the ankle of his other foot, the deformed one, and lift it over the washbasin. He slips down lower until the crook of his neck rests on the back of the chair. His mouth opens slightly, and I catch the silver flash of his metal fillings. He lets out a low groan. I keep rubbing his twisted foot, but there is a sudden splash of water as his foot drops in the basin.
“You can leave now,” he says.
He stares at the entrance of his tent where a girl, a teenager, stands shivering. Set against her dark skin, a white orchid is tucked behind her ear. I stand and she does not raise her eyes to meet mine. I walk past her and catch her scent—sweet, like the smell of freshly cured tobacco leaves. She is one of the girls from the nearby fields.
* * *
—
I went to bed imagining the young tobacco picker, naked except for the flower in her hair. In my dream she swayed to the jazz music and I blushed with excitement. I am woken in the still, dark morning by the faint trace of her smell. I am soaked. The night birds singing are soon drowned out by the sounds of helicopter rotors.
There is no light, only a sliver of moon. I dress and make my way over to the Commander’s tent. It is my duty to prepare him for the morning: dump his chamber pot, help him shave and dress, serve him breakfast. I know from the sound of helicopters and the convoy coming into the camp that my day will be spent carefully packing everything in Commander Fonseca’s tent before Abel loads it all into a truck. It will be sent to the new location and unloaded to the Commander’s specifications. It will all be waiting for him before we arrive.
“Are you all right, Commander?” I am aware that I never speak to him or greet him in this way, but this morning, he is sitting at his table and he strains his eyes. It’s as if he is in a faraway place. “Do you need help, sir?”
The Commander rubs his eyes. I see blood on his hands. I move closer and see that he is naked. His body is covered in blood.
“Are you hurt, sir?” I ask, but the Commander twists the ends of his moustache as if performing a calculation in his head. “Let me help you, Commander.”
The Commander looks down and sees all the blood. He turns to me with a look begging me to explain. I don’t move. The Commander gets up and staggers to the basin. He washes his hands, slowly at first, but then he becomes more brutal in his scrubbing, almost frantic.
A papaya is in the middle of the table that is covered in maps. Some cashews are strewn around the fruit. Flies jump off and on. They land on the two empty glasses on the table, one of which is toppled. Its spilled contents blot the maps, the green fairy. I glance at the stained sheets again, at a dark, deep red, almost black spot, and I see the knife.
I scan the room and now I catch the pale underside of a girl’s foot at the edge of the Commander’s dressing screen. The buzzing of flies grows louder as I get close.
“The love of war is a passion like any other. You love soldiers as you love women—to madness.”
Her body is curled up. Her hands clutch at her stomach, but her eyes are wide open and her head is turned up with parted lips.
“They must be kept in line.” The Commander’s mouth twitches.
“Sir?”
“They can’t hide.”
I place a fresh towel near the basin. Then I begin to strip the bed of its stiffened sheets. I yank at the mosquito netting till it falls down into a pile. I bundle it all in my arms and then drape it over the girl.
The Commander mutters to himself. “These tribes are always fighting. The Senas go at the Changanes, who go after the Makonde. Let them. The fewer there are of them, the quicker this war will be over.”
He catches me looking at him and seems dazzled, his eyes riveted on me. I am his shadow and an accomplice to something vile. Again.
Pó
THE CHILDREN’S PLAYROOM was chosen because the door has a lock, and it is not as damaged as the other rooms. The plaster on most walls has been torn down to get at copper pipes. Much of the hotel was stripped of wires, and wooden floors have been ripped up for firewood. All that remains is a shell.
Ophelia watches over the children. She is patient with them, gentle with their needs. She understands what it is to grow up an albino at the Grande Hotel. It is her home now. Lately, she has been bold enough to slip away from the hotel at night. It worries me. She is sixteen, and I know that she sneaks out to visit with men at the bars and the billiards in Beira. She pencils in her eyebrows and dyes her hair black. I understand her reasons; all a girl wants at her age is to fit in, the freedom to feel there is only one way things can go. She takes risks, lost in the idea that there is nothing beyond her own experience. The men give her money. I do not judge her, I simply worry.
There are seven albino children in the playroom. The youngest is five, the oldest, twelve. A few of them sit colouring or practising their letters. An NGO from the capital visits twice a year to supply them with eyeglasses, but still their faces press up close to their books. The NGO uses the term persons with albinism or PWAs when referring to people like m
e. I appreciate the growing resistance to the word albino, and part of me is sensitive to the change, but I tell them I am of a different generation and am not wounded by it.
Ophelia stands at attention by the beds as four other children hop from one mattress to the next. They wrap themselves in the mosquito netting and swing from cot to cot. They land and a small cloud of dust lifts and sparkles in the shafts of sunlight that stream through the shutters. Amalia plays with the children. She is the only dark-skinned child her age here in Block B. She reaches into her pocket and draws out an elephant carving. It is one of the gifts Ezequiel gave me. I have given it to Amalia. The story that inspired it is her favourite. She holds the carving in her hand, her arm straight and raised. One of the boys grabs for it. Two other children reach up and clamour to hold it. The boy elbows the other children away, toppling them off the cot onto the floor. He is left standing alone with Amalia, his fingers crawling up her wrist. She stretches, holds her treasure high in the air.
I am tired. As I climb the curved staircase on the way back to my room, my hand is guided by the iron railing that was once there. It was torn out long ago and sold, like everything else in this once grand hotel. My mind still sees it there, at the top of the stairs. I remove my eyeglasses and the staircase is unclear. My mind fills in the blanks.
Using the walls for support, I walk down the dark hall to my room. I ignore the squatters cooking their food and smoking in the hallway. They reach out to me, try to grab the hem of my shuka or dare to touch my feet. I have learned to keep walking. My room will be cool and my bed soft. I will be alone. Down the dark hall I make out the shape of a figure smoking. The man sees me approaching and his posture stiffens. The man bows slightly as I near and I know it is Serafim.
“Bom dia,” he says.
“You are early,” I say, putting on my eyeglasses. I walk into my room feeling good about the pink sari draping around my neck that once belonged to Fatima. Serafim knocks on the inside wall before he enters. I do not turn to greet him right away.
I catch him placing a jar on the table next to the chair.
“I hope you don’t mind. I brought some cream for you.” He raises his hand to his neck. He digs into his bag and pulls out a chocolate wrapped in colourful foil. “And a chocolate for Amalia.”
I give Serafim a sly smile. “That child’s affections cannot be bought. Sit, please,” I say, gesturing to the chair.
I lean my shoulder against the window frame, looking out. By the sound of it he has dragged the chair closer to the table before sitting. There is the snap of an elastic band, which most likely holds his notebook closed. He leafs through some sheets and I hear the scratch of pencil on paper—he is writing the date next to the word NOTES. I have seen it before. I inhale and close my eyes, the familiar sounds taking me back to before he’d lie down to sleep—my soldier writing on his own scraps of paper.
“When did you first know you were good with words?”
“It’s the one thing I’ve always done well.” Serafim nibbles at the arm of his eyeglasses. He waits a few seconds. “After my grandmother died, I did not speak. For months I tried, but the sounds never took shape. It was my teacher who encouraged me to write things down instead.” He chuckles to himself. “That’s how those words and first phrases presented themselves, on paper. And I felt free.”
“Have you ever tried to write your story down?”
Serafim wets his lips and I think he looks like a hungry man.
I tap my head to make it clear I hold everything inside of me. “When words are written,” I say, “they can’t be changed. If those same words swim in my head, I can always make them do what I ask.”
I take in the shape of him, sitting comfortably in the chair. He wears a linen shirt that remains dry. He is not shaven, but his hair is greased and parted on the side. As he readies himself, his expression is soft, an invitation that draws me in. I want to tell him everything, but I am not a young girl, and I know what it is to hold back.
* * *
One night, when I was thirteen, Simu nudged me awake. Koinet and Lebo were sleeping on the raised platform, under their skins, while Majuto slept on his back, his head on his wooden pillow.
“Get up, Liloe,” Simu said, rolling me over onto my back.
Outside, the warmth of the rain struck me. The moon was out, and strange shadows were cast across the ground. Simu’s ankles were covered in mud. Her shuka clung to her body. She held out a sack.
“Simu?”
“You must leave tonight, Liloe,” she said, grabbing me and holding me tight. “I have watched over you with love and care. But the others will harm you and I cannot protect you from them. You are no longer safe here. I will not let you stay.” She cupped my face in her hands. “You will go to the place your mother knew well. I am sending you to the city, to a great friend of your mother’s. Your mother followed the river to the city a few times to sell jewellery to this woman. She trusted her. You will be safe there. There is a letter in this bag. I do not understand the words, but once you arrive, you must show the paper to someone there. There are coins and food in the bag as well.” Simu turned over a large gourd covered by hide. Underneath were my mother’s beaded collars and earrings.
“You must go, but wear your mother’s things proudly. Use them wisely.”
I preferred to travel in the dark. The moonlight guided me and comforted me. It was also safer to do so. The animals were not hungry, people were more easily avoided, and the sun did not beat down on my skin. I was heading to the large city near the sea.
When I grew hungry, I trapped a few small fish in my shuka and swallowed them whole. They swam down my throat. The worms I dug up from the riverbed tasted of mud. They too were slippery when I swallowed. I held my stomach and sang the song to the fishes swimming and the worms wriggling in my belly. When I noticed the signs that a village was close, I moved away. I listened for predators and kept my distance from lions—remained calm, never turned my back, and never ran. With other animals, like baboons, I made myself appear bigger by raising my arms over my head and making noise. The thoughts of food and water and animals and shelter crowded out thoughts of Simu and my home.
From a distance I saw a large stone where I knew I could find shade. As I drew nearer, I could see it was not a rock but a truck. It must have swerved into a huge baobab. A shrub had grown through the floor into the front seats. I scanned the plain. It was rough and dusty—a dull brown landscape—and everything seemed to have faded away. The people in this truck had been lost, stuck in the middle of nowhere under a burning sun. From the condition of the truck’s metal, it may have been there for years. As a child, I had seen a few of these machines from a distance, kicking up a long trail of dust. They never came close.
I needed rest. I crawled into the back seat. The shade from the roof felt good. I closed my eyes and slept.
I found a bag tucked under the seat. Inside were some men’s clothes—long-sleeved shirts and trousers. I could use these to cover my head and neck. Underneath the clothes were some papers, held together in packets with wire. I couldn’t read the scribbles written in these books and pages, but I thought the paper would start a strong fire. My fingers touched something smooth and cool in the bag—a pair of men’s boots. I did not hesitate—the soles of my feet were cracking. I slipped on the boots. They were big, but my toes felt like they were dipping into a cold stream. I held back my tears. Do not be afraid, I heard in my head, and I knew that Simu and my mother were with me.
I had counted over thirty moons since I had left my village, and I feared there would be more moons than I could count before I reached the city. There were days when I felt I was no closer, as if I was walking in circles, but I pushed ahead. I ate berries. I no longer had the strength to dig for roots.
My feet began to vibrate with the ground. I climbed up to the first branch of the nearest tree. It was high enough to see the train coming. Steam and black smoke breathed from its head. I slipped down and ran th
rough the trees and shrubs, I ran to the edge of the bush. Peeking through the shadows, I could see the train speeding along the plain. I could see people riding its roof or sitting in open parts of its cars, their legs dangling out over the edge. I was too hungry to be fearful. I ran towards the serpent that would take me to the great city by the sea.
In the distance, the train slowed down. A small herd of elephants crossed the tracks. I was thankful that I did not have time to think. I ran fast, my boots kicking the back of my heels. I threw my bag into one of the cars just as it jolted forward. I grabbed hold of a metal bar and swung my wobbly legs and body up onto the wooden floor. I dragged myself to crouch between large, ropy squares. The train’s movement travelled up my back to my neck and head. With every gentle turn I tilted onto my side. It was dark inside the car, except for the lines of light that squeezed between the wooden walls. I sank back and pressed my hands against the bales of sisal to steady myself. The train gained speed. After a while, my heart did not beat so fast and my breathing steadied.
It took me quite a while to grow accustomed to the sounds and the movement. I could not look down because the grasses blurred, but if I looked across, out into the plain, it was as if all trees and mountains were standing still. Everything had a shape to it, even when sand grains rose in the wind, dulling the sun. I crossed through low scrub that stretched far away into the distance where the purple thumbprints of mountains smudged the edge of the sky.
With my eyes half-closed, I passed patches of green where wild dogs chased the train. It was only when I neared the coast, and my trance began to obscure the shoreline, that I had no energy left for excitement. I let sleep take hold of me.
The train pulled up by a long house. A pair of man’s legs dangled from the roof of the train. The man threw his bag to the ground, then jumped down and ran off. I stepped out onto the slanted concrete platform. A woman balancing a shapeless bundle on her head stacked a basket of chickens on top of a sack of dried fish. A man in uniform began to shake his arms and raise his voice at her. I looked away. I had seen hunters but never men dressed in uniforms with guns across their backs. All the jittering and knocking during my travels had made my stomach weak, but all was forgotten when I saw the city houses, square and tall, with windows going up three high. Their fronts were painted a brilliant white, and I thought if I pressed up against their walls I would disappear like a chameleon.
Children of the Moon Page 6
