Читать книгу Sea Loves Me - Mia Couto - Страница 20

Mississe had once more caused his heart to rejoice. She stood there in the cascade of light, extinguishing the stars. She alone glowed, her white blouse and skirt, her tousled hair dripping onto her shoulders. Patanhoca overflowed from his body: then it was true what the dream had said! She was prettifying herself to celebrate his return.

—Tonight, João, let’s have fun.

He made no reply, he was afraid he might snarl and shame the João she was calling. With a movement of the head, she beckoned him towards the corridor:

—Come in, João, let’s drink.

He climbed up the stone steps, shook the dust off his feet at the entrance, walked across the carpets, excusing himself at every turn. On a cupboard in the living room, a large photograph of their happiness was exhibited, a picture of them both and their two children commemorating life together.

He seated himself awkwardly. She served the glasses. It wasn’t beer, but one of those wines that make you feel dizzy before you even drink it. He unravelled memories, sweet trifles flowed between them, from one glass to another. He began to lose his inhibitions, and drink dribbled shamelessly down his chin.

—I’m going to stop drinking, Mississe. I’m seeing the world go by at high speed.

She wore a strange smile, which was too placid.

—No, João. Drink your fill. I want you to drink. Afterwards, I have a request. And, adversary of empty glasses, she filled another one. João was puzzled by the request, worried by that afterwards she promised. Hopes and fears crossed within him and he said what he didn’t want, ever wanting what he did not say.

—Mississe: it wasn’t the medicines that I swapped round. It was myself I swapped. Now, am I João or Patanhoca?

She took his hands, made them one and spoke:

—João, please, listen: go to your house and bring me that medicine you know about. I want to take it tonight.

So this was the request? Or maybe it was a trap, hopes tricking him.

—I can’t, woman. I’m pissed; I have no legs to find my way with.

—Go, João. You know the way with your eyes closed.

He looked around him: the linen tablecloth, the photograph, things from times that had fled them, they were there, silent witnesses to their disjoined lives. Mississe persisted. She got up and leaned her hot flavoured body against him, placing her hands on Patanhoca’s sweating back. He felt uneasy, unable to take any more.

He got up abruptly, turned towards the corridor and went. He found it difficult to keep to the line of his route. At the end, almost repentant, he turned round:

—But listen here: what medicine is it, Mississe? The snake vaccine?

She didn’t answer, remained with her back to him, clearing away the plates and glasses.

—Do you know, Mississe? The only remedy, do you know what it is? And he laughed, snorting loudly. She looked at him, saddened. How hard it was to look at that laugh he wore but which didn’t belong to him.

—Mississe, I’m telling you: the proper medicine is that wine we’ve just finished.

—It’s late. Hurry up, João.

He struggled down the steps and walked off into the night. She still seemed to say something he didn’t understand; he shook his head, confused. Could it be that he had heard her correctly? Going back to China, was that what she had said? I yearn for the land about to be born? Ravings of a Chinawoman, he concluded quietly.

He smiled sympathetically. The old woman must be drunk, poor thing, she even deserved it. This is what João Patanhoca thought as he stumbled along the path. He felt pity for her. After all, she was the widow of a man who was still alive, he himself. And so many years had passed since she had last taken her lace blouse from the cupboard, so many years since she had spread the white tablecloth on her table for visitors.