Читать книгу Sea Loves Me - Mia Couto - Страница 21

Firipe Beruberu’s barber’s shop was situated under the great tree in the market at Maquinino. Its ceiling was the shade of the crabapple. Walls there were none: which is why it blew all the cooler round the chair where Firipe sat his customers. A sign on the tree trunk displayed his prices. On it was written: 7$50 per head. But with the rising cost of living, Firipe had amended the inscription to: 20$00 per headful.

On the aging timbers there hung a mirror, and next to it a yellowing photo of Elvis Presley. On a crate, by the bench where the customers sat waiting, a radio shook to the rhythm of the chimandjemandje.‌1

Firipe would weed heads while talking all the while. Barber’s talk about this and that. But he didn’t like his chit-chat to tire his customers. When someone fell asleep in the chair, Beruberu would slap a tax on the final bill. Underneath the prices listed on his sign, he had even added: Headful plus sleep—extra 5 escudos.

But in the generous shade of the crabapple tree there was no room for anger. The barber distributed affabilities, handshakes. Whoever let his ears wander in that direction heard only genial talk. When it came to advertising his services, Firipe never held back:

—I’m telling you: me, I’m the best barber there is. You can walk anywhere round here, look into every neighbourhood: they’ll all tell you Firipe Beruberu is the greatest.

Some customers just sat there patiently. But others provoked him, pretending to contradict him:

—That’s fine salestalk, Master Firipe.

—Salestalk? It’s the truth! I’ve even cut top-quality white men’s hair.

—What? Don’t tell me you’ve ever had a white man in this barber’s shop …

—I didn’t say a white had been here. I said I’d cut his hair. And I did, you take my word for it.

—Explain yourself, Firipe, come on. If the white didn’t come here, how did you cut him?

—I was called to his house, that’s what happened. I cut his, and his children’s too. Because they were ashamed to sit down here in this seat. That’s all.

—I’m sorry, Master Firipe. But it can’t have been a rich white. It must have been a chikaka.‌2

Firipe made his scissors sing while, with his left hand, he pulled out his wallet.

—Ahh! You folk? You’re always doubting and disbelieving. I’m going to prove it to you. Wait there, now where is the … ? Ah! Here it is.

With a thousand cares he unwrapped a coloured postcard of Sidney Poitier.

—Look at this photo. Can you see this fellow? See how nice his hair is: it was cut here, with these very hands of mine. I scissored him without knowing what his importance was. I just saw that he spoke English.

The customers cultivated their disbelief. Firipe replied:

—I’m telling you: this fellow brought his head all the way from over there in America to this barber’s shop of mine …

While he talked, he kept looking up into the tree. He was keeping a watchful eye in case he had to dodge falling fruit.

—These bloody crabapples! They make a mess of my barber’s shop. And then there are always kids round here, trying to get at them. If I catch one, I’ll kick him to pieces.

—What’s this, Master Firipe? Don’t you like children?

—Like children? Why only the other day a kid brought a sling and aimed it at the goddamned filthy tree, hoping to shoot down an apple. The stone hit the leaves and, mbaaa! it fell on top of a customer’s head. Result: instead of that customer having a haircut here, he had to have a head shave at the first-aid post.

Customers changed, the conversation remained the same. From out of Master Firipe’s pocket, the old postcard of the American actor would appear in order to lend truth to his glories. But the most difficult to convince was Baba Afonso, a fat man with an impeccably groomed heart who dragged his haunches along at a slow pace. Afonso had his doubts:

—That man was here? I’m sorry, Master Firipe. I don’t believe a bit of it.

The indignant barber stood there, arms akimbo:

—You don’t believe it? But he sat right there in that chair where you’re sitting.

—But a rich man like that, and a foreigner to boot, would have gone to a white man’s salon. He wouldn’t have sat down here, Master Firipe. Never.

The barber feigned offence. He could not have his word doubted. Then he resorted to a desperate measure:

—You don’t believe me? Then I’ll bring you a witness. You’ll see, wait there.

And off he went, leaving his customers to wait with bated breath. Afonso was calmed down by the others.

—Baba Afonso, don’t be angry. This argument, it’s only a game, nothing more.

—I don’t like people who tell lies.

—But this one isn’t even a lie. It’s propaganda. Let’s pretend we believe it and have done with it.

—As far as I’m concerned, it’s a lie, fat old Afonso kept saying.

—Okay, Baba. But it’s a lie that doesn’t harm anyone.

The barber hadn’t gone far. He had walked no more than a few steps to talk to an old man who was selling tobacco leaf. Then the two of them returned together, Firipe and the old man.

—This is old Jaimão.

And turning to the tobacco seller, Firipe ordered:

—You tell them, Jaimão.

The old man coughed up all his hoarseness before attesting.

—Yes. In truthfully I saw the man of the photo. It was cut the hair of him here. I am witness.

And the customers showered him with questions.

—But did you get to listen to this foreigner? What language did he speak?

—Shingrish.

—And what money did he pay with?

—With copper coins.

—But which type, escudos?

—No, it was money from outside.

The barber gloated, self-satisfied, his chest puffed out. From time to time the old man breached the limit of their agreement and risked using his own initiative.

—Then that man went in the market for to buy things.

—What things?

—Onion, orange, soap. He bought baccy leaf too.

Baba Afonso leaped from his chair, pointing a chubby finger at him:

—Now I’ve caught you: a man like that wouldn’t buy baccy leaf. You’ve made that up. That category of fellow would smoke filter cigarettes. Jaimão, you’re just telling lies, nothing more.

Jaimão was taken aback by this sudden onslaught. Fearful, he looked at the barber and tried one last line of argument:

—Ahh! It’s not a lie. I remember even: it was a Saturday.

Then there was laughter. For it wasn’t a serious fight, their scruples were little more than playfulness.

Firipe pretended to be upset and advised the doubters to find another barber.

—Okay, there’s no need to get angry, we believe you. We accept your witness.

And even Baba Afonso gave in, prolonging the game:

—I expect that singer, Elvis Presley, was also here in Maquinino, having his hair cut …

But Firipe Beruberu did not work alone. Gaspar Vivito, a disabled lad, helped him with the clearing up. He swept the sand with care, so as not to spread dust. He shook out the cloth covers far away.

Firipe Beruberu always told him to take care with the hair clippings.

—Bury them deep, Vivito. I don’t want the n’uantché-cuta to play any tricks.

He was referring to a little bird that steals people’s hair to make its nest. Legend has it that once the owner’s head has been raided, not a single whisker will ever grow on it again. Firipe blamed any decrease in his clientele on Gaspar Vivito’s carelessness.

Yet he could not expect much from his assistant. For he’d gone completely awry: his rubbery legs danced a never-ending marrabenta.‌3 His tiny head tottered lamely on his shoulders. He slobbered over his words, slavered his vowels, and smeared his consonants with spittle. And he tripped and stumbled as he tried to shoo away the children who were collecting crabapples.

At the end of the afternoon, when there was only one customer left, Firipe told Vivito to tidy up. This was the hour when complaints were received. If Vivito could find no way of being like other folk, Firipe paid more attention to jokes than to barbering skills.

—Excuse me, Master Firipe. My cousin Salomão told me to come and complain at the way his hair was cut.

—How was it cut?

—There’s not a hair left, he’s been completely plucked. His head is bald, it even shines like a mirror.

—And wasn’t it he who asked for it like that?

—No. Now he’s ashamed to go out. That’s why he sent me to complain.

The barber took the complaint in good humour. He made his scissors click loudly as he spoke:

—Listen, my friend: tell him to leave it as it is. A bald man saves on combs. And then if I cut off too much, at least he didn’t have to pay.

He circled the chair this way and that, then stood back to admire his work of art.

—There you go, get off the chair, I’ve finished. But you’d better take a good look in the mirror, otherwise you might send your cousin to complain later.

The barber shook the towel, scattering hairs. Then the customer joined his protests to those of the plaintiff.

—But Master Firipe, you’ve cut off almost everything in front. Have you seen where my forehead reaches to?

—Ahh! I haven’t touched your forehead. Talk to your father, or your mother, if you want to complain about the shape of your head. It’s not my fault.

The malcontents joined forces, bemoaning their double baldness. It was an opportunity for the barber to philosophize on capillary misfortunes:

—Do you know what makes a person go bald? It’s using another man’s hat. That’s what makes a man lose his hair. I, for instance, I won’t even wear a shirt if I’m not sure where it’s come from. Much less trousers. Just think, my brother-in-law bought a pair of underpants second-hand …

—But Master Firipe, I can’t pay for this haircut.

—You don’t have to pay. And you, tell your cousin Salomão to pass this way tomorrow: I’ll give him back his dough. Money, money …

And that’s how it was: a dissatisfied customer earned the right not to pay. Beruberu only charged for satisfaction. Standing from morning to nightfall, weariness began to burden his legs.

—Hell, what a dog’s life! Ever since morning: snip-snip-snip. I’ve had enough! Living’s hard, Gaspar Vivito.

And the two of them would sit down. The barber in his chair, his assistant on the ground. It was Master Firipe’s sundown, a time to meditate on his sadness.

—Vivito, I’m worried you may not be burying the hair properly. It looks as if the n’uantché-cuta is losing me customers.

The boy replied with choked sounds, he spoke a language that was his alone.

—Shut up, Vivito. Go and see if we made much money.

Vivito shook the wooden box. From inside there was the jingle of some coins. Their faces lit up with a smile.

—How well they sing! This shop of mine is going to grow, mark my words. In fact, I’m even thinking of putting in a telephone here. Maybe later, I’ll close it to the public. What do you think, Vivito? If we only take bookings. Are you listening, Vivito?

The assistant was watching his boss, who had got up. Firipe walked round his chair, talking all the while, enjoying imagined futures. Then the barber looked at the handicapped boy and it was as if his dream had had its wings shattered and had plummeted into the dark sand.

—Vivito, you should be asking: but how will you close this place if it hasn’t got a wall? That’s what you should be saying, Gaspar Vivito. But it wasn’t an accusation. His voice lay prostrated on the ground. Then he went over to Vivito and let his hand ripple over the boy’s dangling head.

—I can see that hair of yours needs cutting. But your head won’t stand still, always moving this way and that, shaky-shake here, shaky-shake there.

With difficulty, Gaspar climbed up into the chair and put the cloth round his neck. Agitated, the boy pointed to the darkness round about.

—There’s still some time for a scissorful or two. Now see if you can sit still, so that we can hurry.

And so the two preened themselves under the great tree. All the shadows had died by that hour. Bats scratched the surface of the sky with their screeches. Yet it was at this very hour that Rosinha the market girl passed by, on her way home. She appeared out of the gloom and the barber stood hesitant, totally enveloped in an anxious look.

—Did you see that woman, Vivito? Pretty, too pretty even. She usually goes by here at this hour. I sometimes wonder whether I don’t linger here on purpose: dragging time until the moment she passes.

Only then did Master Firipe admit his sadness to himself, and another Firipe emerged. But he didn’t confide in anyone: as for the mute Vivito, could it be that he understood the barber’s sorrow?

—It’s true, Vivito, I’m tired of living alone. It’s a long time since my wife left me. The bitch ran off with another. But it’s this barber’s profession, too. A fellow’s tied here, can’t even go and take a look at what’s happening at home, control the situation. And that’s what happens.

By this time he was masking his rage. He diverted the human grief from himself and imposed it upon the creatures of the earth. He threw a stone up into the branches, trying to hit bats.

—Filthy animals! Can’t they see this is my barber’s shop? This place has got an owner; it’s the property of Master Firipe Beruberu.

And the two of them chased imaginary enemies. In the end they stumbled into each other, without a heart to be angry. Then, exhausted, they let out a chuckle, as if forgiving the world its insult.

It happened one day. The barber’s shop continued its sleepy service, and on that morning, just as on all the others, gentle banter flowed from one topic to another. Firipe was explaining the sign and its warning about the tax on sleeping:

—Only those who fall asleep in the chair have to pay. It often happens with that fat one, Baba Afonso. I start putting the towel round him and he starts snoozing straightaway. Now me, I don’t like that. I’m not anybody’s wife to have to put heads to sleep. This is a proper barber’s shop.

At that point two strangers appeared. Only one of them entered the shade. He was a mulato, nearly white in colour. Conversation died under the weight of fear. The mulato went up to the barber and ordered him to show his papers.

—Why my papers? Am I, Firipe Beruberu, disbelieved?

One of the customers came over to Firipe and whispered to him:

—Firipe, you’d better do as he says. This man’s from the PIDE.4

The barber bent over the wooden crate and took out his papers:

—Here are all my bits of plastic.

The man examined his identity card. Then he screwed it up and threw it on the ground.

—Hey, barber, there’s something missing.

—Something missing, what do you mean? I’ve given you all my papers.

—Where’s the photograph of the foreigner?

—The foreigner?

—Yes, the foreigner you sheltered here in your barber’s shop.

Firipe was puzzled at first, then he smiled. He had realized what the fuss was about and prepared to explain:

—But officer, this business of the foreigner is a story I made up, a joke …

The mulato pushed him, silencing him suddenly.

—A joke, let’s see about that. We know only too well there are subversives here from Tanzania, Zambia, wherever. Terrorists! It’s probably one of those you put up here.

—But put up how? I don’t put anyone up, I don’t get mixed up in politics.

The policeman inspected the place, unhearing. He stopped in front of the sign and read it clumsily under his breath.

—You don’t put anyone up? Then explain what this here means …

—That’s just because of some customers who fall asleep in the chair.

The policeman’s fury was already growing.

—Give me the photo.

The barber took the postcard from his pocket. The policeman interrupted his movement, snatching the photo with such force that he tore it.

—Did this one fall asleep in the chair too, did he?

—But he was never here, I swear. Christ’s honour. That’s a photo of a film star. Haven’t you ever seen him in films, the ones the Americans make?

—Americans, did you say? Okay, that’s it. He’s probably a friend of the other one, the one called Mondlane‌5 who came from America. So this one came from there too, did he?

—But this one didn’t come from anywhere. It’s all a lie, propaganda.

—Propaganda? Then you must be the one in charge of propaganda in the organization …

The policeman seized the barber by his overall and shook him until the buttons fell to the ground. Vivito tried to pick them up, but the mulato gave him a kick.

—Get back, you son of a bitch. We’ll arrest the lot of you before we finish here.

The mulato called the other policeman and whispered something in his ear. The other one walked back down the path and returned some minutes later, bringing with him old Jaimão.

—We’ve already interrogated this old man. He’s confirmed that you received the American in the photograph here.

Firipe, smiling feebly, almost had no strength left to explain.

—There, you see, officer? More confusion. It was me who paid Jaimão to testify to my lie. Jaimão is mixed up in it with me.

—That he is, to be sure.

—Hey, Jaimão, admit it: wasn’t it a trick we agreed on?

The old wretch turned this way and that inside his tattered coat, baffled.

—Yes. In truthfully I saw the man of which. In that chair he was.

The policeman pushed the old man and handcuffed him to the barber. He looked around with the eyes of a hungry vulture. He faced the small crowd which was silently witnessing the incident. He gave the chair a kick, smashed the mirror, tore up the poster. It was then that Vivito became involved and began shouting. The poor lad clutched the mulato’s arm but soon lost his balance and fell to his knees.

—And who’s this? What language does he speak? Is he a foreigner too?

—The boy’s my assistant.

—Assistant, is he? Then he’d better come along too. Okay, let’s go! You, the old man and this dancing monkey, get moving. Walk in front of me.

—But Vivito …

—Shut up, mister barber, the time for talking’s finished. You’ll see, in prison, you’ll have a special barber to cut your and your little friends’ hair.

And before the helpless gaze of the whole market, Firipe Beruberu, wearing his immaculate overall, scissors and comb in the left-hand pocket, trod the sandy path of Maquinino for the last time. Behind him, with his ancient dignity, came old Jaimão. Following him lurched Vivito with a drunkard’s step. Bringing up the rear of this cortège were the two policeman, proud of their catch. Then the humdrum haggling over prices ceased, and the market sank into the deepest gloom.

The following week, two guards arrived. They tore out the barber’s sign. But as they looked around, they were struck by surprise: nobody had touched anything. Instruments, towels, the radio and even the cash box were just as they had been left, waiting for the return of Firipe Beruberu, master of all the barbers in Maquinino.