Читать книгу Sea Loves Me - Mia Couto - Страница 18

The next night, Patanhoca returned earlier. She was already seated on the steps, like a queen, smothered in perfumes. Her bangles robbed her of age, and made her skin glow. Patanhoca forgot to cover his shame in the darkness, and approached the woman from the back. He called her but she didn’t flinch.

—Mississe?

The widow looked up and he shuddered. There before him were her twenty years, there was the prize sought by all the hunters of desires.

—Mississe, you’re chancing your luck. The snakes will bite you.

She moved up one step and invited him:

—Sit here, João. Let’s talk.

Back he stepped.

—No. Speak from there, I’m listening.

—João, come nearer. I promise I shan’t look at you. I’ll speak to your back.

He accepted. He remained coiled in his body.

—Well then?

—There is no other man, nor will there be. Just you, you alone.

—Why did you ruin my life, Mississe?

—Let’s not talk about that problem, please.

—We must talk.

She paused. The memory pained her, and it wasn’t saliva she felt in her mouth anymore—it was blood pushing out her words.

—You killed them, João.

—That’s a lie, it was the snakes.

Her nerves started to play on her, and her mouth stumbled in anger:

—And who brought the snakes? Wasn’t it you? I warned you, I begged you so many times: take them away from here, make them vanish into thin air. But you always answered that you were an artist. An artist of what?

—I was, I am. It was just on that night I was drunk. My secrets fled me, that’s what happened.

She cried, didn’t even hide her face. The moon wreathed her tears. Pearls were born. The warmth of the real ones faded with envy. Clumsily, he tried to put right past insults.

—And who were they? Children without any future. Mulato-Chinese, a race without a race. People make children in order to better them …

—Be quiet, Patanhoca!

She raised both her body and her voice, the two suddenly mingled in one. She ran inside and slammed the door, sobbing. Patanhoca, standing, his hands together on his chest, apologized without effect. Mississe’s accusing voice reached him:

—Everyone thinks you’re good, but that’s not true. They think you help me, with your snakes all around my night. I know, only I know the snakes are to hem me in. You want to imprison me forever, so that I won’t run off with other men.

He retreated slowly, hurting himself on her words. But that pain was almost good to feel and, from time to time, he dwelt on what she had said: You are evil, Patanhoca. It wasn’t you who chose the snakes, but they who chose you.

He gave up and moved away, his soul reeling within. Jealousy of others, jealousy of the living, that was his wickedness. The others, whether they were handsome or ugly, could trade with each other by day. Only he didn’t have the right currency. The others smoked, kissed, whistled, had a right to be greeted and bidden good day. Only he had nobody to grow tired of. That Chinawoman Mississe had stolen the fire which we can kindle in others.