Children of the Moon

by Anthony De Sa

  Commander Fonseca slides the gun over to Beatriz. She is not quite sure what she is supposed to do. The Commander curls her fingers around the handle. While she holds it, he grabs her other hand and forces her to spin the cylinder. She can barely lift it to her head. The Commander wedges her mouth open and lets the gun barrel rest between her lips. I hear the clicking of her teeth against the revolver. She heaves, then clicks the trigger. She tries to stand up but she is firmly tied to the chair.

  I take the revolver and for the second time I spin the cylinder. I raise it to my temple. I hold it firm and look directly at Commander Fonseca. I pull the trigger.

  The Commander takes a long drag from his cigarette, holds his breath. He flicks the butt across the room, takes one step forward and the back of his hand strikes my cheek.

  The revolver is in the girl’s hand.

  “Give it here! I’ll go again.” My voice cracks.

  Beatriz spins the cylinder and places the gun upside down in her mouth, its black metal brutal against her delicate face.

  “Give it to me!” I yell.

  She holds the wooden handle of the revolver with both her hands to steady it. She uses her thumbs to ready the gun. She closes her cracked lips around its barrel.

  * * *

  A sudden pop is followed by the tinny sound of metal expanding. The furnace kicks in. Warm air from the vent blows into my bedroom.

  The door is still locked.

  After I let the furnace man into my apartment, I closed myself off in my room and got under the covers. I want to stay here till the repairman leaves. I’ll let the heat fill my room and remain inside until dark.

  “Sir?” He’s knocking. “I’m leaving now. The furnace is running fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I left my number tagged on the furnace. If you have any questions, call and ask for Eduardo.”

  His name speeds through my brain and I cannot stop it. Eduardo. Eduardo. Eduardo. Monday, February 3, 1969, and everything changed.

  * * *

  Lately, a persistent call has been waking me early each morning.

  Propping myself up in bed, I free my legs from the hotel sheets and run my hands lightly over my blistered feet. Ten thousand miles, maybe more, mining track in the bush of northern Mozambique, and hundreds of innocent people, women and children among them, all gone because of me. I need to break free, make amends. The Commander says I must do this one more thing for him. He saved me, he said, so I could atone for my disloyalty.

  With one hand I change the direction of the antenna and use my other hand to turn the dial on the transistor radio on my nightstand. The signal from Mozambique is strong enough and a voice crackles through the tiny speaker. A commentator mocks FRELIMO. The guerrillas are resisting colonial rule. They demand a role in a new government. But the man tells his listeners FRELIMO can’t have a voice in shaping Mozambique’s future because they simply don’t understand how to run a country. He is speaking of the country I am in now, Tanzania. He says the Africans there have grasped nothing, learned nothing. When the British flag was struck down and they raised their own, it was the beginning of a funeral procession. The man reassures his listeners that an increased military presence in the northern provinces has begun and soon all will be secured.

  I roll my shoulders and slap my thighs awake. I yawn, stand up to stretch, naked, staring up at the ceiling. A water stain travels down one corner. I step into a rectangle of light on the floor and catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. My eyes are dark. I try to arrange the straggling wisps of hair that stick to my forehead. The mirror makes me look tall, even though I am of medium height, but I am pleased with what I see, toned and lean. My skin is darker. I need to shave. All attempts to grow a beard have failed. There is a patch of hair on my chest that trails down to my pubic area. I touch my cock.

  I feel powerless as I look down at the reflection of my hands; at the ink the Commander cut into me—five dots between my thumb and forefinger. I will not let him possess me again. I am hungry and at war, but after today, everything will change.

  * * *

  —

  The streets of Dar es Salaam are coming alive. Vendors set up their wares: bolts of fabric, pails, sandals dangling from hooks, small bags of teas and coffee beans, piles of folded khangas, their colours bleeding into each other. There are scarves, kofias stacked high, twine, locks, chains, washboards. Some of the vendors sit to smoke and drink strong coffee. Soon, they will all be shouting over each other.

  I dodge the traffic—broken-down taxis and dubious dala dala buses mix with bicycles and wooden toroli carts all honking for a way out. Dar es Salaam is far more energetic than Porto Amélia. I’ve been scoping the city for a few weeks, going over my planned route, timing everything. In all this time I haven’t adjusted to the early-morning stench of sewage wafting from the gutters or along the roads where water and urine and blood from the butcher shop sit stagnant at the curb.

  I turn around quickly. I do not see Abel. The Commander sent him here to ensure I carry out my orders properly. Abel has become my shadow. I am certain that once this task is completed, I will be killed.

  I reach the unmarked storefront. As planned, no words are exchanged. A hard-boiled egg and a pot of spiced coffee are brought to my table. I manage a few sips of coffee before the waiter returns with a parcel.

  “Do not stop. Do not speak to anyone.”

  The recipient’s name is written clearly, Mr. Eduardo Chivambo Mondlane, the leader of FRELIMO. PIDE has gone to great pains to make the parcel appear as if it has been posted from the Netherlands. The combined counter-intelligence of two states has devised a simple letter bomb wrapped like a book. If asked about the contents upon delivery, I’ve been instructed to simply drop the package.

  “And run?” I had asked the Commander.

  “No need,” he replied. I did not allow him the satisfaction of seeing my fear, the flush of panic, and the way the muscles in my face ticced underneath my skin.

  Leaving the shop, I hold the parcel in both hands and think of Eduardo Mondlane, the soft-spoken intellectual. They say he abandoned his texts for war. A true freedom fighter.

  A black car is parked in the small square. Whoever is inside has a clear view of the storefront I have just exited. I cannot see the driver, but I know it is Abel. I turn the corner and lose my footing on the curb that has crumbled away. One step becomes a hundred. Just one step in front of the other. I tuck the parcel in my satchel.

  I shift the carrier bag so that it rests flat on my lower back. I can feel the parcel through the bag’s thick canvas. I straddle my motorbike and turn on the ignition. The ride is not bumpy. I have mapped out every divot and every portion of unpaved coastal road. I pass the railway station and the ferries that shuttle people across to Zanzibar. I lean forward and shift gears, allowing my chest to vibrate in tandem with the engine. In my rear-view mirror, I can see the black car tagging along. I breathe in the clean ocean air mixed with the pungent scent of eucalyptus from cook fires. These are the smells that waft through family homes and outside camps. I push the thought out of my mind.

  With my sweaty palms gripping the handles, I ride for twenty minutes until I begin to see the large homes and manicured gardens of Oyster Bay, a very different Dar es Salaam. The houses are a brilliant white, surrounded by high fences and barbed wire. There are uniformed guards and armed policemen on watch. A group of men with machetes on their belts and hedge clippers in their hands loiter by the guards.

  I stop behind a bus in front of Mondlane’s home. The gates are open and a guard stands by the door. The car is not in the driveway, which means Mondlane has left for his office. He is following his routine. I had to be certain.

  It is still early when I get back to the city. I stand across from the building where the FRELIMO offices are located. There are police officers in front. I do not cross the square. Instead, I walk along the storefronts and office buildings. As I approach, a couple of police offic
ers notice me reaching for the parcel in my bag. They stop their talk. Their hands go to their guns. Relax. Breathe. It’s not wise to look these men in the eye. I look down at the parcel, the intended’s name so clear. The FRELIMO office is too noisy and crowded. Mondlane goes in every morning but only to pick up his mail. I walk up to the entrance where a uniformed man sits at a desk. The police officers resume their discussion.

  “I have a package,” I say, raising it up to my chest and tilting it slightly. “Mr. Mondlane?” I say, reading the label as if I’m uncertain of the name.

  The guard at the desk shells pistachios and pops them into his mouth. He looks at the officers. They are indifferent. He motions me closer. He stands up, reaches for his rifle and taps its muzzle on top of the package.

  “For Mr. Mondlane?” he says, in Kiswahili.

  “It’s a special delivery from the bookshop on Samora.” Although I could communicate, I practised the words in Kiswahili until there was no trace of a Portuguese inflection.

  The guard drinks his beer and upends his glass. A moustache of foam remains on his lip. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll take it,” he says.

  The door swings open and a tall man walks out. I know it is Eduardo Mondlane from all the photos and newspaper clippings. I didn’t think he’d be such an imposing figure close up.

  “A package for you, sir,” the guard says, standing up to block his glass of beer from Mr. Mondlane’s sight.

  I hold the package in my hands. Mr. Mondlane’s eyes lock with mine and I see the kindness and intelligence of this man.

  “For me?” he says, reaching for the parcel.

  I hold on tighter than I thought. Once it is firmly in his grasp, I can do nothing but look at the coin he has placed in my palm. He brushes by me, his mail and the package tucked under his arm. He slips into a waiting car. As he does every morning, he will make his way to Betty King’s house. She is an American lady who works for the African-American Institute, an NGO sympathetic to the cause of independence. An informant has told me that she has given him a corner office in her home—a place to reflect and meditate and discuss important issues with his comrades.

  I turn to leave. I see Abel across the square. He has surely witnessed the exchange. Closing his car door, he begins to cross the square. I slink behind a slowly passing truck and walk with it, blocking Abel’s view. I fight the urge to run. I need to stay hidden and get lost in the crowd. As the truck pulls away I drop and roll under a parked car. I do not want to look back, but I must. When I do I see Abel, searching the busy square. I slip out from under the car and dart into a side street. For an instant my mind goes blank and I’m afraid I’ve lost my bearings, until I see the motorcycle I have stowed at the entrance to a building.

  I jump on my motorcycle and begin to weave through the narrow alleys and streets. Abel’s car cannot follow me at the same speed, but he will soon figure out where I have gone. I cannot stay long, and I’m not certain why I am drawn to King’s house—my role is done.

  I ride slowly by the house and see that Mondlane’s car is parked in the driveway. His driver and a guard lean against the car, smoking.

  It is a clear day, and looking over the glittering ocean I catch a glimpse of Zanzibar’s coastline. The dhows skim the sea’s surface. These are the same boats that have sailed these waters, unchanged, for centuries.

  It happens in an instant—the heat of the explosion hits me and I’m thrown to the ground. I hear yelling and the scraping of metal against concrete, the sound of a car horn that will not stop.

  From close by I hear a rifle’s quick snap. In a daze I see men from neighbouring homes raise their guns, shaking themselves into motion, running toward the little house by the sea. It is all unravelling in horn-filled slow motion. I manage to get up on one knee. A corner section of the house is hollowed out like the bite of an apple. The billowing white smoke turns grey.

  Perhaps the war is over now. Everything will go back to the way it was. Cashews will drop into my palms. Papa Gilberto will appear from the mountains unharmed.

  The dust has a familiar smell—a whiff of iron, like the scent of dried blood. My ears ring to the sound of the sea: “Run, Ezequiel. You are free.”

  Ezequiel

  HEAVY RAIN HAS STRIPPED the oak tree in the front yard of its last leaves and the wind has funnelled them into the walkway I share with my neighbour. I know he will be upset. It’s my tree. I should rake the leaves up before the snow falls.

  A child’s cry, the same wailing that kept me up through the night, starts again. The renters upstairs have brought home another child. I haven’t seen the couple for months and didn’t know she was pregnant.

  * * *

  There is nothing we can do to make Mother Anke feel better about our lives in the mission. Every day she pleads with Papa to leave.

  “Anke, please. We’re going around in circles with this. It’s nonsense,” he tells her.

  Outside Papa’s office door, I slide down to sit on the floor and press my back against the wall.

  “You are away so often. You don’t see it, Gilberto.” She has to pause to catch her breath. Portuguese is not her language of anger. She told me she met Papa when she was eighteen. Her parents were Dutch missionaries looking to set up a mission in Mozambique. They didn’t last but Mother Anke stayed with Papa.

  “The planes are getting louder. I place my head on the pillow and hear land mines exploding in the distance.”

  “Anke! It’s your imagination playing tricks.”

  “I can smell the sulphur, Gilberto.”

  “You’re tired. We’re all tired,” Papa says, “but this will pass. This is our home.”

  “They will take everything we have. They hate us for our skill, our ability to organize, the way we make things work.”

  “Soon you’ll say they hate us most because their magic doesn’t work on us. So we allow terrible men to lead us, defend our right to make money off their sweat, their blood.”

  “You always take their side.”

  I can hear the defeat in her words.

  “No. I simply don’t believe that the blacks are whetting their knives to slit our throats while we sleep.”

  “The Liberation Front is gaining momentum. There will be a war.”

  “What would you have me do?” Papa says. “Our workers take refuge here.”

  “You talk as if we cannot be touched. You have the boy believing it too. He sees a helicopter and thinks it is a toy. All the Portuguese can do is dig land mines in the thousands, and the only ones hurt are the farmers and their children who step on them. Can’t you smell the fires burning?”

  “Our flock is loyal to God and to us.”

  “And your loyalty to me? You promised me if I did not feel safe here we would return to the Netherlands, back to my parents’ home.”

  “This is our home. This is my home, and I will protect what we have built,” Papa says, his voice tired and cracking.

  “They will turn, but then it will be too late.”

  She locks herself in her bedroom. I slip into Papa Gilberto’s office to take my spot on the rug in front of his big desk. The night is filled with sounds, with insects and frogs and the low murmurings of cattle. These sounds are familiar and yet every night I’m surprised by how close they are.

  Papa Gilberto sets aside his work and pours himself a glass of port. He places his new record on the turntable. I like the scratching and popping sounds of the record player, when the needle hits the record and skips, almost as much as the music itself. Papa has tried to explain how the needle works on the record album. I’m only interested that its tip is made of diamond. There is one song that begins like a stutter, as if the needle is caught in the record’s groove. Then the song builds and rises; it makes me feel like I have climbed a mountain and am looking down as only a bird can. I wonder how something so beautiful could come from something that sounds gloomy, as if the woman singing is lost and can’t find her way back. Papa’s
feet poke out from underneath his desk. His shoes are worn and crinkled. He lets me buff his shoes every day, and when I do I like to add up all the things that have contributed to them looking so old. Time plus dirt plus bends, so that the creases in the leather are just so.

  The song ends. Papa lifts the arm back to the beginning. When we’ve listened to the song at least ten times, he cranks the record player once more and lets the rest of the album play out. He lies on his back beside me. He is large and warm. He clasps his hands behind his head. I copy. I am part of him and he’s part of me.

  “That song is beautiful,” I say.

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “Is the woman sad?”

  “I’m not certain, filho. It’s in German,” he says. I can’t see his face.

  Why can’t I see his face?

  “Papa!”

  * * *

  The panic jolts me from my dream. I kick the sheets off and look around the room.

  As I sit on the couch the basement door opens. I hold my breath. A large woman walks in, her hospital shoes so quiet she appears to float.

  “How you feeling today?” she says, dropping her closed umbrella and purse on the La-Z-Boy.

  I stare at her as she bends down to place slippers on my feet. “These floors are too cold. You’ll get sick.” The little light that comes through the window stretches her shadow as she goes to the refrigerator and unsticks a note. She stands in front of me, the note held a foot away from my face—HELEN, scrawled in thick marker.

  Helen takes a sip from a paper cup. I close my eyes and breathe in her coffee breath. She moves around the apartment, shutting cabinets, clanging pots, wiping counters.

  A wave of loneliness fills me; my guts turn inside out. But Helen’s calm voice and the way she places her purse on her lap as she sits in the chair reassure me.