Читать книгу Sea Loves Me - Mia Couto - Страница 7

Vivenda da Santíssima Palha was the name on the sign by the side of the road. A path of sand led to the farm, a place which no longer knew the meaning of sweat and toil. In the middle, half hidden by mango trees, the colonial farmhouse measured itself against time. There, in the afternoon shade, Ascolino Fernandes do Perpétuo Socorro would relax on the veranda. Inheritor of the estate, he ruminated over memories, unhurried and without obligations. He recalled Goa, his native land. He rejected the Mozambican in him: I am indeed an Indo-Portuguese, Catholic in my faith and in my customs.

His dress was of the most formal kind, a suit of white linen, shoes of an identical whiteness, and hat of the selfsame colour. Ceremonious, correct, Ascolino embroidered his speech with the brocades of old Portugal which he admired so much. He decorated his repartee with adverbs for no reason or purpose. A long list of them introduced sentences which were spoken incorrectly and with a strong accent: Notwithstanding, however, nevertheless, perforce …

In Munhava he had established his domains, more dreamed-of than firmly fixed. He alone discerned the glory of being Goan, while separating the breeze from the flies during the long afternoons.

He bowed to his visitors, bestowing upon them long silences and green mangoes with salt. Dona Epifânia, his wife, was the one who served them, so thin that one was not even aware she was approaching. When the net doors flapped, one knew she was there. No one had ever witnessed any expression of love pass between them. Did they love each other? If so, they loved without their bodies. Ascolino suffered because of his wife’s constant seclusion. He consoled himself, but without conviction. Epifânia, he was wont to say, is a clam. If opened, it dies, exposed to the air and to the tides. When the others noted his wife’s absence, Ascolino would affirm:

—Epifâne, most sacred spouse indeed. Notvitsanding, howevah, darty years of marriage.

Five o’clock in the afternoon was a venerated hour, even more sacred than his wife. Whether or not there were visitors, the ritual was repeated. Vasco João Joãoquinho, faithful and devoted servant, would emerge from the shadow of the mango trees. He wore a khaki uniform which consisted of a tunic and neatly pressed trousers. He would approach, wheeling a bicycle. Ascolino Fernandes, with his eye for protocol, would salute both present and absent friends. The servant would hand him a little cushion which he would arrange on the bicycle frame. Ascolino Fernandes would climb on, taking great care not to dirty his trousers on the chain. With these preparations now complete, Vasco João Joãoquinho would mount the saddle, and with a vigorous shove begin the pageant. Their sally was made all the more difficult by the undulations in the sand. And the two of them, Ascolino and his bicycle chauffeur, would press on, bound for Meneses’s liquor store, dispensing greetings as they went. The movements of both were correct, only their vehicle did not uphold the bylaws. On they would press, obeying the degenerate will of Ascolino, pedalling against thirst and distance.

On that afternoon the same scenery passed by with the same men inside it. Vasco chose the grassy parts of the track so the tires gripped better. Suddenly, the bicycle keeled over and both master and servant fell into the ditch. Ascolino lay motionless in the mud. Vasco picked up the bits and pieces, straightened the handlebars, and brushed down his master’s hat.

Ascolino recomposed himself with some difficulty. He surveyed the damage and began to chide his servant:

—What have you done, man? You have been spoiling our hat indeed. Who will pay for it perforce?

—Sorry, boss. I was trying to steer the bicycle clear of that mud back there.

—Are you not seeing, fellow? I am always telling you: do not brake so suddenly.

And on they climbed again: Ascolino Perpétuo Socorro, his dignity restored, his hat battered, Vasco pedalling through the sunset. Overhead, the coconut palms lent sound to the breeze.

—Try not to derail the velocipede again, Vasco, will you?

Reeling through the sands, the servant pushed with all the strength of his legs. But the Goan’s thirst could not wait for the minutes to go by:

—Proceed post-haste, Vasco. Pedal harder!

They arrived at the Bar Viriato, Meneses’s store. The bicycle came to a halt by the cement-paved frontage. The master climbed off, brushing the dust off his clothes. He pulled out his pocket watch as he made his way towards his reserved table. Vasco did not enter the front part. Blacks, according to the custom of the time, were only admitted at the rear. In the back yard, watered-down wine was served. In the bar, in front, the quality was of a different order.

Vasco João Joãoquinho took his time coming in. The others greeted his arrival and asked for stories about him and his boss Ascolino. Vasco always had a tale to tell, inventing amusing incidents. But he always lingered over the beginning while preparing the condiments of the adventure.

—Well now, Vasco? What happened last night with your boss?

Vasco considered his words, and chuckled as he thought ahead about the tale he was going to tell.

—You won’t believe this one about my boss …

—Come on, man! Tell us it.

And he related the incredible incident of the previous night. Ascolino Fernandes, in the furthest depths of the middle of the night, had started his singsong with the “Fado of the Little Swallows.” Vasco Joãoquinho imitated him, glass in hand:

When a little swallow died

All the little girls cried …

Ascolino sang the whole night through. The little swallows kept dying and his fury kept growing. Until he began to trumpet threats through the open window:

—Now I’m going to throw the fan out.

And down came the fan with a crash, hurled from the first floor. It smashed into smithereens on the ground, its pieces flying across the yard. Then another warning:

—Now for the dishes.

And down into the garden fell pieces of crockery. Gleaming splinters of glass exploded into a thousand moons in the yard of the farmhouse. Ascolino sang ever louder:

When a little swallow died …

There was no sign of Epifânia. Maybe she was shut away in her room. Or perhaps she was crying in the way that only she knew how. The saddest sadness is that which is not heard.

—I’m talking seriously, my friends, because I know all about sadness. Our race cries with its body. They don’t. They’re locked inside their tribulations.

—Listen here, Vasco, don’t get off the subject. Go on with the story about your boss.

Bits of furniture came travelling through the window. Vasco came over and begged:

—Please, boss, stop all this.

—Get out of the way, Vasco.

—Oh, boss, don’t go on, don’t wreck the whole house.

—Whose house is it? ls it yours?

—But boss, have you seen all the junk down here?

—Get out of the way! Hurry! Now I am throwing the fridge machine.

Terrified, Vasco left the yard. Taking a short step and then a longer one to avoid the broken glass, the servant went and hid in the shadows. There, sheltered by the darkness, he waited for the crash. Nothing. The refrigerator wasn’t coming.

—Boss?

—What is it that you are wanting? Nevertheless are you still annoying me?

Then he began to sing fados again. He bellowed his song, the whole of Munhava was littered with little swallows. He interrupted his artistry and turned towards the inside of the house to insult Epifânia:

—You don’t care about me. It’s just prayers from morning to night. This isn’t a house for mortals. It’s not a farmhouse! It’s a church. The Cathedral of Santíssima Palha. Notwithstanding, I tell you what I am going to do: I am going to throw out all the furniture for praying, your crucifix, and the altar. Everything out, out of here!

Then it was the turn of silence. Vasco Joãoquinho asked himself: is this an interval or the end of the show? Just as he thought it was all over, he heard the noise of a chair being dragged over to the window. It was then that the figure of the Goan appeared fully, from his knees to his head. His skinny hands tidied his unkempt appearance while he announced solemnly:

—The furniture has all gone. Now it is my turn.

And before Vasco could say anything, Ascolino Fernandes do Perpétuo Socorro threw himself down from the window. Ascolino’s skinniness did not help his speed. He was more like a curtain than a body. When he landed, he didn’t get so much as a grunt from the ground. Just a sigh, a little cloud of dust. Vasco, alarmed, ran over to help. He searched for signs of blood, of injury to the body. There were none.

—Boss, did you damage anything?

—What anything? Help me out of the ground.

He lifted his boss. When he had reached his full height, Ascolino surveyed the damage around him. Then he walked away through the darkness quietly humming his fado.

Everyone at the rear of the Bar Viriato laughed at the story. This time, however, Vasco Joãoquinho arranged his silence with an expression of sadness on his face.

—Hey, Vasco, you always bring us such good stories, man.

—I didn’t invent it. All of what I told you happened. But don’t laugh so loud, he might be listening from over the other side.

But nothing could be heard from the other side. Ascolino was hard at work on the whisky. Separated by only a wall, the other side was still a long way away.

Seated at his reserved table, Ascolino, relishing his own company, recalled Goa, Damão, and Diu and spouted adverbs. Notwithstanding, however.

—Please to bring me another helping of visky.

Meneses didn’t even seem to see Ascolino. He poured out the orders while the sky gradually lost its light. Time slipped by between one glass and another. Ascolino drank with the confidence of a viceroy of the Indies. A finer quality Ascolino than the other Ascolino—the Indo-Portuguese superimposing himself on the Mozambican by means of alcohol. Only one anxiety remained, which had not been drowned by whisky: Epifânia. At this stage, his wife must be turning in her sleep, tossed between insults and exhaustion. Ascolino looked at the time; he didn’t want to stop for the night on the journey home. Guessing his fears, a Portuguese said:

—Don’t hurry yourself, Fernandes. Don’t hurry. Your lady’s going to get angry with you anyway.

Ascolino decided to ignore deadlines, to show he was a man and daring in his delay. If he was downtrodden in life, he excelled in the art of discourse.

—Epifâne, she is already being aware of everything. Curry, chacuti, sarapatel,1 all the good food there is, everything she has been cooking for us to eat upon our arrival. Epifâne, most sacred spouse.

At another table, a group of soldiers awaited their chance. At this point they decided to issue their challenge:

—Goa’s gone. Indian motherfuckers; scum of the earth.

But Ascolino, to their astonishment, did not show offence. On the contrary, he joined his assailants.

—Yes sir, Indian motherfuckers indeed. Perforce, however, I am an Indo-Portuguese, defender of the Lusitanian fatherland against its enemies.

The soldiers eyed each other suspiciously. But Ascolino took the affirmation of his Portuguese loyalty a step further. He climbed onto his chair and, swaying this way and that, held forth upon his heroic dreams. A crusade, yes, a crusade to reconquer the name of Goa for Portuguese usage. At its head, commanding the battalions, he, Ascolino Fernandes do Perpétuo Socorro. Behind him, soldiers and missionaries, ships loaded with arms, Bibles, and some little bottles of visky.

—This bloke’s taking the piss out of us, concluded one of the soldiers, the biggest one. He got up and walked over to Ascolino, getting the scent of his humours:

—Crusades, what crusades? The only cross you carry is the cross your skinny little caneco’s2 legs make.

It was not intentional, perhaps it was because he lost his balance, but Ascolino spilled a few drops of whisky on the other man’s uniform. A fist flew through the air, tore through the orator’s words, and Ascolino collapsed on the ground. The others seized the aggressor, dragged him away, and threw him out of the bar. Ascolino lay there on his back, in surrogate death, one arm raised and holding his glass. Meneses came to his assistance:

—Senhor Ascolino, are you all right?

—I have been fallen flat.

—But how did it happen?

—Abruptly.

They put the Goan back on his feet. He straightened his creases, and peered into the bottom of his glass. He looked round at the crowd and declared the crusade postponed.

In front of the bar, the Goan prepared his retreat:

—Vashcooo, lessgo!

While waiting for his chauffeur, he fumbled for his pocket watch, creature of habit that he was. Only this time he found the chain but no watch. Ascolino consulted his non-existent watch and remarked on the lateness of the hour.

—Quickly, Vashcooo.

He arranged the cushion on the bicycle frame before seating himself. The cushion was in place, it was just that Ascolino missed. He fell, tried again, and returned to the ground.

—Vashcooo, switch on the light, switch off this darkness.

The servant aligned the dynamo with the wheel and gave the pedal a healthy kick. Ascolino was on his hands and knees looking for his own body.

—Did my hat run away?

Vasco Joãoquinho was also reeling. He picked up the hat and climbed on the bike. Then they both got ready, hindering each other in the process. Meneses enjoyed the spectacle from his window:

—That caneco’s stoned out of his mind. Full of whisky and punches.

Vasco pushed aside pieces of darkness and other obstacles as they set off home. He pedalled along, ringing his bell, cring, cring. No longer could ravens be heard or herons seen. Night had levelled colours, erased differences. As they went on, the effects of the Scottish brew began to be felt even more strongly by the Goan, who abandoned his good behaviour once and for all.

—I’m a pale-assed little caneco, a first-class one if you please. And shouting with all his soul:

—Long live Nehru!

Some way further on, where the rice plantations end and the coconut palms begin, Ascolino exchanged his servant for his wife and began to call him Epifânia.

—A woman doesn’t ride behind. Get up in front.

Vasco obediently gave up his saddle seat. The Goan, excited, grabbed his servant round the waist.

—Hey, boss, get away with you.

But Ascolino pressed forwards with sugary insistence. He tried to kiss his servant, who avoided him vigorously. As insistence increased, respect diminished. Vasco now pushed his boss aside:

—Leave me alone, I’m not your woman.

And another stronger shove sent Ascolino to the ground. Silence among the coconut groves. Only the ravens watched the scuffle inquisitively. The Goan lay spread-eagled on the ground. He asked for a light to see whether the stain on his trousers was puddle water, or whether he’d pissed in his pants. Vasco laughed. Ascolino began to raise himself, reeling, his nose nearly scraping the ground. Then, when finally upright, he examined the surrounding grass:

—Vashcooo, they’ve stolen the Vivenda da Santíssima Palha!

—No, boss! We haven’t got there yet, there’s still some way to go.

But Ascolino’s mind was made up, and he retorted:

—Vashcooo, we’ve lost the house. Perforce, you are going to look for it.

The servant lost his patience and began to pull him along by the armpits. On tow in this fashion, Ascolino saw the road back to front, retreating crablike. Confusing his coming with his going, he pleaded:

—Vashcooo, don’t walk backwards. We are going back to Meneses’s store.

And as if going on ahead, he shouted his order:

—Meneses, give me visky, and another helping for Epifâne, most holy drink. And in a generous mood, he turned his head:

—Order whatever you want, Vashcooo. And deduct it from your month’s pay. You can drink on this side, there’s no need for you to go to the back.

Tired out with walking backwards, Vasco let go of him. Feeling himself horizontal, the Goan said his prayers and then took his leave:

—Good night, Epifâne, most holy wife.

But Vasco was no longer there. He went back to get the bicycle. Ascolino raised his head with difficulty and, seeing his servant loaded down, he hailed him:

—That’s it, bring my blanket to cover me with. And cover Epifâne too.

Vasco, in despair, attempted a final warning:

—I don’t know, boss. If we don’t get back tonight, and sleep here, your lady’s going to kick up a big fuss.

Ascolino agreed. The threat seemed to have had an effect. Propping himself on his elbows, the boss looked straight at his servant and said:

—What’s wrong, Epifânia? Are you sleeping in khaki trousers now?

And without further ado, he fell asleep. So heavy was his slumber that Vasco failed to budge him.

Next morning, they were covered by a sheet of insects, leaves, and dew. Vasco was the first to arrive back in the world. He was surprised by the sound of a motor nearby. He looked around him, fighting the weight of his eyelids. It was then that he saw, in the near distance, the Vivenda da Santíssima Palha. Could it be that they had slept only a minute or two from home?

In the front yard, all the furniture had been piled up. There were men loading it all onto a truck. That, then, was the motor he had heard. Dona Epifânia was directing the operation like some supreme commander.

The servant hesitated. He looked at his boss, still given over to sleep. Finally, he made up his mind. Vasco Joãoquinho followed the familiar sandy path up to the house. When he got there, he realized what his mistress intended to do. She wanted to leave, to terminate her association with Ascolino without warning or explanation.

—Senhora, don’t go away, please.

The mistress was startled. Then, recovering from her fright, she continued with her removal.

—Senhora, we were late because of the beating the boss got back there in the bar.

The servant’s words had no effect. His mistress continued to give out her orders. But Vasco Joãoquinho didn’t give up:

—Senhora, it wasn’t just the business of the beating. We were late because of an accident on the road.

—An accident?

Epifânia, suddenly uncertain, began to think. She asked for proof of his truth. Vasco showed her the twisted hat. She looked at the stains and bit her lip. She chose her words carefully before asking:

—Was he killed?

—Killed? No, Senhora. He’s just lying in the road.

—Is he hurt?

—No, not at all. He’s just sleepy. Can I go and get him?

Words to be regretted, for once Epifânia had heard them she renewed her determination to leave and the furniture began to be loaded again.

Vasco retraced his steps along the road. Slowly, he returned to the place where he had left his boss asleep. When he got there, Ascolino was already stretching himself. Unable to take the light, he rubbed his eyes, unaware of the noise of the approaching truck. He sat up and his aching body shrank. The truck’s horn startled him, and in one leap he landed in the ditch. The load passed slowly by, as if opposed to its journey. There before Ascolino’s untutored eyes, his life was ebbing away, unrecorded and unnoticed. When the dust settled, Vasco could be seen standing glumly on one side of the road. On the other, Ascolino was climbing out of the ditch. As he looked, the truck continued further into the distance. Then, brushing the creases in his coat, he asked:

—What’s happening, Vasco? Are some neighbours moving from Munhava?

—They’re not neighbours, boss. It’s the lady, Dona Epifânia herself, who is going away.

—Epifâne?

—Yes. And she’s taking everything with her.

Ascolino looked askance, repeating:

—Epifâne.

He stood there churning over his thoughts, kicking at clumps of grass, untidying the scenery. The servant couldn’t bring himself to look up. Then, suddenly, Ascolino spoke decisively:

—Bring the bicycle, Vasco. We are going to pursue that truck. Quickly.

—But boss, the truck’s a long way ahead by now.

—Quiet, you know-nothing. Load the velocipede, speedily.

So the servant prepared the seats. On the frame, and without a cushion, sat the boss, while the servant sat on the saddle. And they began to cycle off down the road.

The groove made by the tires gradually unwove itself in the morning air. No longer could the noise of the truck be heard through the surrounding rice fields. Ascolino the viceroy led his impossible crusade to try and regain his lost spouse.

—Pedal, pedal quickly. Perforce we must arrive early. When five o’clock strikes we must go back to Meneses’s store.