Читать книгу Sea Loves Me - Mia Couto - Страница 5

The old woman was seated on the mat, waiting motionless for her man to return from the bush. Her legs suffered a double weariness: from the time-worn byways, and from the times trodden.

Her worldly goods were spread out on the ground: bowls, baskets, a pestle. Around her was emptiness, even the wind was alone.

The old man approached slowly, as was his custom. He had shepherded his sadness before him ever since his youngest sons had left on the road to no return.

My husband is shrinking, she thought. He is a shadow.

A shadow, yes indeed. But only of his soul, for he scarcely had any body left. The old man came nearer and draped his leanness on the neighbouring mat. He raised his head and, without looking at the woman, said:

—I’m thinking.

—What is it you are thinking, husband?

—If you die, how shall I, alone, sick and without strength, how shall I bury you?

He passed his skinny fingers over the straw mat on which he was sitting, and went on:

—We are poor, all we have is nothingness. Nor do we have anybody else. I think it better that we start digging your grave now.

The woman, touched, smiled:

—How good you are, my husband! I was lucky to have you as the man of my life.

The old man fell silent, lost in thought. Only later did he open his mouth:

—I’m going to see if I can find a spade.

—Where are you going to get a spade?

—I’m going to see if they have one at the store.

—Are you going all the way to the store? It’s a long way.

—I shall be back this side of night.

All the silence remained hushed so that she might listen for her husband’s return. When he came back, ragged tatters of dust were retaining the last rays of sun.

—Well then, husband?

—It cost a lot of money. And he held up the spade the better to show it to her.

—Tomorrow morning I’ll start work on your grave.

And they lay down on their separate mats. Softly, she interrupted his drift into sleep:

—But, husband …

—What?

—I’m not even ill.

—You must be. You are so old.

—Maybe, she agreed. And they fell asleep.

The next morning he looked at her intensely.

—I’m measuring your size. After all, you’re bigger than I thought.

—Nonsense, I’m small.

She went to the woodpile and pulled out some kindling.

—The wood’s almost finished, husband. I’ll go to the bush to get some more.

—Go, woman. I shall stay here and dig your grave.

She was already moving away when an invisible hand seemed to tug at her capulana‌1 and, pausing, but still with her back to him, she said:

—Listen, husband. Let me ask one thing …

—What is it you want?

—Don’t dig too deep. I want to be near the top, just below the ground, so that I’ll almost be able to touch life a little.

—Very well. I shan’t put much earth on top of you.

For two weeks the old man busied himself with the hole. The nearer he got to completing it, the longer he took. Then suddenly the rains came. The grave filled with water. It looked like a brazen little puddle. The old man cursed the clouds, and the heavens which had brought them.

—Don’t talk silliness, you’ll be punished for it, his wife warned.

More days of rain, and the walls of the tomb began to cave in. The old man walked over and surveyed the damage. There and then he decided to go on. Soaked under a river of rain, the old man clambered in and out, his groans ever louder, the amount of soil he carried ever less.

—Come on in out of the rain, husband. You can’t keep on like this.

—Stop fussing, woman, ordered the old man. From time to time, he would pause to see how grey the sky was. He was trying to see who still had more work to do, himself or the rain.

On the following day, the old man was woken up by his own bones, which were pulling him further into his aching body.

—I’m in pain, woman. I can’t get up.

His wife turned to him and wiped the sweat from his face.

— You’re full of fever. It’s because of the soaking you got.

—No, it isn’t, woman. It’s because I slept near the fire.

—What fire?

His reply was a groan. The old woman got alarmed: what was this fire the man had seen if they hadn’t even lit one?

She got up to take him his bowl of mealie porridge. When she turned round he was already up, looking for his spade. He grabbed it and crept out of the house. At every other step, he would pause to gather strength.

—Husband, don’t go out like that. Eat first.

He made some drunken gesture of dismissal. The old woman persisted:

—You don’t know your left from your right. Rest a little.

He was already inside the hole and getting ready to start work again. The fever punished him for his obstinacy, giddiness caused the sides of his world to dance before his eyes. Suddenly, he cried out in despair:

—Woman, help me!

He fell like a severed branch, a cloud rent asunder. The old woman ran over to help him.

—You’re very sick.

Pulling him by the arms, she brought him to the mat. He lay there taking deep breaths. All his life force was concentrated there, distributed among those ribs which rose and fell. In this lonely desert, you slide into death as quietly as a bird folding its wings. It does not come with a violent flash, such as happens in places where life glitters.

—Woman, he said in a voice that left no trace, I can’t leave you like this.

—What is it you are thinking now?

—I can’t leave that grave without a use. I must kill you.

—That is true, husband. You worked so hard to dig that hole. It is a pity it should remain empty.

—Yes, I’m going to have to kill you; but not today, for I have no body for it.

She helped him to get up and made him a cup of tea.

—Drink it, man. Drink to get better, for tomorrow you will need your strength.

The old man fell asleep, and the woman sat down in the doorway. In the shadow of her repose she watched the sun, king of light, gradually drain. She thought about the day and laughed to herself about its contradictions: she, whose birth had never been registered, now knew the date of her death. When the moon began to light up the trees in the wood, she leaned back and fell asleep. She dreamed of times far away from there: her children were present, the dead ones and those still alive, the machamba‌2 was full of crops, her eyes slid over the green of it all. There was the old man in the middle, with his tie on, telling stories, lies for the most part. They were all there, her children and grandchildren. Life itself was there, unrolling, pregnant with promise. In that happy assembly, all believed in the truths of their elders, for they were always right, and no mother opened up her flesh to death. The noises of morning began to summon her out of herself, while she tried hard not to abandon her slumber. She begged night to stay so that her dream might linger, she begged this with the same devotion as when she had beseeched life not to take her children away.

She felt in the shadows for her husband’s arm to give her strength in that moment of anguish. When she touched her companion’s body with her hand, she saw that it was cold, so cold that it was as if, this time, he had fallen asleep far from that fire that no one had ever lit.