THE SERGEANT WHO LISTENED TO RIVERS
Lucky are those who, having forsaken their humanity, become creatures of the wild. Unlucky are those who kill on the orders of others, and even more unlucky those who kill on the orders of no one at all. Finally, wretched are those who, having killed, look at themselves in the mirror and still believe they are people.
I remember the day Sergeant Germano de Melo arrived at Nkokolani. In truth, it was immediately obvious that this Portuguese was different from all the other Europeans who had visited us. As he climbed out of his pirogue, he quickly rolled up his trousers and walked ashore. The other whites, whether Portuguese or English, would avail themselves of a black man’s back to carry them to dry land. He was the only one who didn’t bother with these services.
As he did this, I approached him, curious. The sergeant gave the appearance of being taller than he was, his mud-coated boots adding to his height. What I noticed most was the shadow that covered his face. His eyes were clear, almost devoid of color. But his expression was darkened by a cloud of sadness.
I am Imani, boss, I introduced myself, giving a clumsy bow. My father sent me to help you with whatever you need.
Ah! Are you the girl I heard about? How well you speak Portuguese, and with such good pronunciation! Heavens above! Where did you learn it?
It was the holy father who taught me. I lived for years at the Mission at Makomani Beach.
The Portuguese man stepped back to take a better look at me, and said, You’ve got a really pretty face!
I looked down, adding shame to guilt. We were walking along the riverbank when the visitor stopped and closed his eyes, asking me not to say anything. We stood there in silence until he suddenly spoke again:
Where I come from, we don’t have this.
You don’t have rivers?
Of course there are rivers. It’s just that we have stopped listening to them.
The Portuguese was unaware of what was a well-known fact in Nkokolani: Rivers are born in the skies and flow across our souls in the same way that the rain crosses the sky. When we listen to them, we feel less alone. But I said nothing, and waited for my turn to speak.
It’s good to be greeted by a river, he remarked in an undertone. Then he added: By a river and by a pretty girl like you.
Then he told me to wait there with him. It was at that point that I noticed another Portuguese, farther back, a dark-skinned, distinguished-looking civilian. I was told that his name was Mariano Fragata, and that he was the adjunct of the Portuguese intendant responsible for relations with the State of Gaza. Fragata was being carried on the back of one of our villagers, but his position was unstable and ridiculous, as he slid down his porter’s back. The black man didn’t seem to want to let the Portuguese go, while the latter pleaded ever more vehemently: Put me down! Put me down this minute!
They didn’t get as far as both falling over, because I told my kinsman to stop, while he, amused, confided to me in Chopi: That’s to teach them that the one on top doesn’t always boss the one down below.
The intendant’s envoy regained his haughty posture, rolled down his trousers, and looked at me inquisitively. The soldier proceeded to introduce us: This is the girl Minami …
Imani, I corrected him.
This is the local girl who has come to welcome us. You won’t believe how well she speaks Portuguese … Say something, girl. Go on, say something for my colleague!
All of a sudden, I was dumbstruck, all my Portuguese swept away. And when I tried to speak my native language, I faced the same emptiness. Suddenly, I was left without any language at all. All I had were voices, indistinct echoes. The soldier saved me from embarrassment: She’s shy, poor little soul. You don’t have to speak; just take us to our quarters.
Judging by his baggage, I realized that the sergeant would be lodged with us for a while. The other, the civilian, wouldn’t be staying long. I escorted the visitors to the store belonging to Sardinha, the only Portuguese resident in our area, whom we had renamed Musaradina.
The two Europeans took their time examining every corner of the village.
Just look at this village, my dear Fragata. It’s all clean and well swept. I’m amazed—the streets are wide and lined with fruit trees … Who are these blacks, so different from the ones we’ve seen so far?
* * *
Francelino Sardinha was standing at the door and greeted his compatriots effusively, as if, after centuries of isolation, he had discovered the only two human beings on the planet. The storekeeper was a short, fat man, always clutching a greasy kerchief, with which he would wipe away his abundant sweat. In fact, it would be true to say that this sticky handkerchief had become an integral part of his physique. At the entrance, he spoke to me harshly:
You, little miss, stay outside. You already know your people can’t come inside just like that.
And why can’t she come in? the soldier asked.
It’s just that here, my dear sergeant, they know very well, there are rules here. These people can’t come in.
From now on, I’m the one drawing up the rules, the sergeant declared. This girl speaks Portuguese better than many Portuguese. And since she has come with me, she’s going to come in with me.
Very well, very well, then, if that’s what Your Excellency wants. With his back turned to the soldier, he addressed me again: Sit down over there, in the kitchen, on that little chair.
After that, they paid me no more attention. I contemplated the roof and noticed where the tiles had been repaired. And I was afraid about what was said in the village: The building had remained forever unfinished because at night an invisible hand undid what the Portuguese had built by day. Ghosts still lived there, hanging from the ceiling like huge bats.
The two newcomers wandered around the store with some difficulty, taking care not to stumble over the merchandise that was scattered carelessly across the floor. The days were long past when I would peep through the window of the store, attracted by piles of cloth and shoes. The disorder, however, was worse than ever: heaps of boxes and bundles; boxes torn open, allowing cans and bottles to tumble onto the floor.
My eyes paused on a roll of material with a blue-and-white check pattern. The soldier, guessing my thoughts, directed his question to me in a loud voice:
Do you know what this is?
They’re clothes, boss.
Call me “sergeant.” Did I hear you say these were clothes? The label states that this is striped denim, but to call them clothes requires a considerable degree of imagination. The thing is, no one in Europe, not even the poorest of the poor, would wear something made out of this.
He ripped a piece of the material and dangled it in front of the horrified storekeeper’s face. Look at this: steeped in starch! When this is washed, the white powder will be released, and all that will be left is a cobweb. It’s like that horrible concoction they call “Black Man’s Wine.”
The trader swallowed the insult. After all, the visitor was a member of the occupying power. Military opinion held more sway than his private business interests. When he gave his reply, his tone was contained, confirming his demotion from Sardinha to Musaradina: These cloths, Excellency, are what we can sell here. Blacks aren’t interested in the comfort of their clothes. As far as they are concerned, clothes are ornaments.
The people of Nkokolani, he went on to complain, didn’t buy as much as other blacks. We VaChopi were happy enough with the resources of the land and the forest. These guys even eat snakes. The others, the Vátuas, are right to look down on them, the storekeeper lamented.
They aren’t Vátuas, there is no such thing as Vátuas, I dared to correct him from my corner, in a faint thread of voice that no one heard.
The soldier stopped in front of the wooden counter and, with one sweep of his hand, sent the rolls of material to the floor. The serenity with which he spoke contrasted with the decisiveness of his gesture: I don’t know how to say this. But there’s no other, pleasanter way to tell you. My dear Sardinha, I’ve come to inspect this store. But there’s another reason why we are here: we came here to arrest you.
Arrest me?
Tomorrow, some sepoys will take you to Inhambane.
Sepoys?
Not for a second did the storekeeper’s brainless smile fade. It was as if he had paid no attention to the warrant. I’d like to offer you a drink, he said while he rolled up the cloths scattered across the floor. This wine is the best there is, this is a fine tipple, he commented as he poured his visitors’ wine into metal mugs.
You’ve come to arrest me? May I ask what I am charged with?
You know very well what you’ve been selling here. And it hasn’t been to the Vátuas, or the Chopi …
I know where these rumors have come from, from that Indian … from that Indian darky Assane, who’s got a store in Chicomo. I swear to God …
Let’s not beat about the bush. You know why you’re being arrested.
To tell you the truth, the storekeeper replied, all that interests me is that Your Excellencies are here with me. Whether you’re here to arrest me is of little consequence. It’s so long since I’ve seen a white man that I was beginning to forget my own race. Living alone among these kaffirs, I already saw myself as a black. That’s why I say to you: Your Excellencies haven’t come to arrest me. You’ve come to liberate me.
He took a bottle from the cupboard. He wanted to celebrate that moment, even though it was based on an inconvenient bit of misfortune. The strangers were initially cautious in their reaction. But, little by little, all three Portuguese emptied bottle after bottle, and as they drank they became a family, even though they occasionally drifted into heated arguments.
At a certain point, the sergeant made a move to sit down on a wooden crate. He was reeling from drink, and already indisposed because of the heat. The storekeeper Sardinha hastened to stop the soldier: Don’t sit there, Sergeant. That crate contains a valuable consignment: bottles of port wine. And do you know who they’re for? They’re for Gungunhane—the best wine for our worst enemy.
Our worst enemy is someone else. And you know who that is …
Sardinha was overcome with embarrassment. Owls could be heard scudding through the night, the oil in the lamps was threatening to run out, and the storekeeper was assailed by a sudden fit of melancholy: Am I going to be taken away by sepoys? Couldn’t I go alone? I promise not to run away. It’s just that to pass these people while escorted by two blacks …
Who said there would be two of them?
And Fragata and Germano laughed. In any case, the intendant’s adjunct added, you’ll be escorted by sepoys and not Gungunhane. And they laughed even louder.
It’s not “Gungunhane.” We say “Ngungunyane.”
The Portuguese gaped at me in surprise. They couldn’t believe I had spoken, much less to correct their pronunciation.
What was that you said? Fragata asked, astonished.
It’s supposed to be pronounced “Ngungunyane,” I insisted gently.
They looked at each other blankly. Fragata imitated my diction, mocking my purist intentions. Then they went back to their drinking and complaining in hushed voices. After a while, I realized the soldier was mumbling: What disturbs me more than anything about this Gungunhane is not that he hates us, but that he doesn’t fear us.
Do you know what we should do? Sardinha suggested. We should put some poison in these bottles, the ones you people insist on giving him! We don’t even need to fire a single shot—one drop is enough. One drop and the entire Gaza Empire collapses.
We’ve got orders not to kill him.
Now I’m the one who feels like laughing, Fragata remarked. We’ve got orders not to kill him? We’re lucky he hasn’t killed us all.
The storekeeper left for a moment and returned holding a musket. He hurried to calm those who had come to arrest him: Don’t worry yourselves, gentlemen, it’s not loaded.
It was the gun he fell asleep clutching every night. He showed it off as if he were the proprietor of an arsenal rather than a store. And he declared: This is the only language they understand. Or are you hoping to win the war with gifts and good manners?
And he mumbled and muttered improprieties until he announced that he was going to bed. He spread some cloths over a sleeping mat and collapsed on the floor, hugging his old shotgun.
Germano dragged a chair over to sit beside me. Then he stared closely at me, as if he were studying a map. He had a fiery look in his eye. I was reminded of moths fluttering around the light of a lamp. The storekeeper noticed the visitor’s interest, and, with his eyes half closed, warned: Take care with that little girl. She’s young, but she’s got a woman’s body. Black women are skilled in the devil’s arts. I know what I’m talking about.
It only took a few minutes, however, for the sergeant to stop paying attention to me and begin to contemplate the wall against which he was resting his feet. He sat there for some time until he murmured: There, on that wall there, lies my country. He pointed to a stain on the paint. It was a faded rectangle, caused by dampness that had discolored the lime wash. That’s Portugal there, on that wall.
Balancing himself precariously, he climbed up on the chair and scraped the stain with his fingernail, then looked down at the lime scattered on the floor as if he were standing before a dying animal. The attentive storekeeper immediately pointed to a broom: Come on, girl. You’re supposed to clean the floor, and you sit there in a daze?
But the sergeant took the initiative and lifted the broom in the air as if it were a sword, proclaiming: I’m the one who’ll do the cleaning. That’s what I came here to do—to clean up the filth that others have caused.
In the silence that followed, I began to think about the best way to make my exit. My shyness had taught me that the timid and the invisible become terribly exposed when they take their leave. It was night, and I was merely a woman among strangers. The storekeeper got up from his improvised bed and came over to me, carrying a box.
Take this port wine to your father. It’s my gratitude for all he has done for me. Take care, because it’s heavy.
Stooping under the weight, I started to stagger across the darkened yard, but Sardinha’s voice stopped me: Wait, I’ll go with you and give you a hand as far as the road. Turning to the soldier inside the store, he asked: May I, Sergeant? It’s just five minutes; I won’t run away.
The moment the storekeeper had closed the door, he directed his fetid breath at me and made the strangest request: he asked me to speak to him in Chopi while he gathered some herbs.
Go on, speak, girl. Speak to me, address me as Musaradina.
What do you want me to say, boss?
Anything, just talk, don’t stop talking …
And he bent down, examining the ground, like a dog sniffing. He gathered up leaves and seeds and held everything up to his face, breathing in deeply, with his eyes closed. Then he straightened himself up and declared, I saw him here, out here, in this open ground.
Forgive me, boss, Musaradina: who did you see?
Gungunhane. He was here. He wanted to kill his beloved. And he wanted to die as well.
Gungunhane was here?
He came here secretly, looking for the poison from the mri’mbava tree, which grows around here, near the lagoon at Nhanzié.
I looked at the storekeeper and saw that he was dark, with Sardinha’s skin and Musaradina’s soul. This Portuguese was a Chopi, one of us. Not just because he spoke our language, but because he spoke with his whole body. And Sardinha pressed on, mixing his languages: Ngungunyane thought I could help him. He wanted to die and to kill. And all because of love—he had a forbidden love. Beautiful, isn’t it?
What’s beautiful? I don’t understand.
A man like him, who has all the women he wants, ends up not having the only one he really wants.
Tell me, Sardinha—is there something you want to tell me?
He didn’t answer, just returned home, and when he reached the door, he waved to me. Whether it was in farewell or an order to hasten my departure, I don’t know.
I hadn’t taken more than half a dozen steps when I heard the shot. From behind the curtains, I was aware of a sudden movement of shadows and low voices. I turned back and found Francelino Sardinha dying in a pool of blood. The storekeeper was in his death throes, still clutching his old musket. He died hugging his shotgun, lying in the same position as when he was asleep.
Aroused by the gunshot, my brother Mwanatu appeared from the part of the building where he was quartered. Without uttering a word, he helped the sergeant to drag the body around to the back of the building, and then ran to the store to get shovels so they could dig a grave. When he got back, he found the sergeant on his knees, his head bowed. Germano de Melo’s eyes were so blue that we feared he would go permanently blind if he were to cry. There were no tears. The white man was merely praying for the dead storekeeper. Fragata reminded him that he should pull himself together and cease his prayers. People who commit suicide have no soul. One doesn’t pray for them. These were Fragata’s words.
The soldier got to his feet and grabbed one of the shovels Mwanatu had brought from the store. He began to dig frantically among the hard clods of earth. As I watched the men toiling, I couldn’t help noticing the two Portuguese men’s lack of skill. And this set me thinking: We blacks know how to handle a shovel far better than any other race. We are born with this skill, the same that makes us dance when we need to laugh, pray, or weep. Maybe because, for centuries, we have had to bury our dead ourselves—our dead, who are more important than the stars. And perhaps there was another reason: Europeans were bound to have black slaves in their own countries who would do this kind of work. Who knows, maybe there was a man of my own race waiting for me in Portugal? Who knows whether love didn’t await me there, where only ships and gulls can reach?