Sea Loves Me Read online

  Biblioasis International Translation Series

  General Editor: Stephen Henighan

  1 I Wrote Stone: The Selected Poetry of Ryszard Kapu´sci´nski (Poland)

  Translated by Diana Kuprel and Marek Kusiba

  2 Good Morning Comrades by Ondjaki (Angola)

  Translated by Stephen Henighan

  3 Kahn & Engelmann by Hans Eichner (Austria-Canada)

  Translated by Jean M. Snook

  4 Dance with Snakes by Horacio Castellanos Moya (El Salvador)

  Translated by Lee Paula Springer

  5 Black Alley by Mauricio Segura (Quebec)

  Translated by Dawn M. Cornelio

  6 The Accident by Mihail Sebastian (Romania)

  Translated by Stephen Henighan

  7 Love Poems by Jaime Sabines (Mexico)

  Translated by Colin Carberry

  8 The End of the Story by Liliana Heker (Argentina)

  Translated by Andrea G. Labinger

  9 The Tuner of Silences by Mia Couto (Mozambique)

  Translated by David Brookshaw

  10 For as Far as the Eye Can See by Robert Melançon (Quebec)

  Translated by Judith Cowan

  11 Eucalyptus by Mauricio Segura (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald Winkler

  12 Granma Nineteen and the Soviet’s Secret by Ondjaki (Angola)

  Translated by Stephen Henighan

  13 Montreal Before Spring by Robert Melançon (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald McGrath

  14 Pensativities: Essays and Provocations by Mia Couto (Mozambique)

  Translated by David Brookshaw

  15 Arvida by Samuel Archibald (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald Winkler

  16 The Orange Grove by Larry Tremblay (Quebec)

  Translated by Sheila Fischman

  17 The Party Wall by Catherine Leroux (Quebec)

  Translated by Lazer Lederhendler

  18 Black Bread by Emili Teixidor (Catalonia)

  Translated by Peter Bush

  19 Boundary by Andrée A. Michaud (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald Winkler

  20 Red, Yellow, Green by Alejandro Saravia (Bolivia-Canada)

  Translated by María José Giménez

  21 Bookshops: A Reader’s History by Jorge Carrión (Spain)

  Translated by Peter Bush

  22 Transparent City by Ondjaki (Angola)

  Translated by Stephen Henighan

  23 Oscar by Mauricio Segura (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald Winkler

  24 Madame Victoria by Catherine Leroux (Quebec)

  Translated by Lazer Lederhendler

  25 Rain and Other Stories by Mia Couto (Mozambique)

  Translated by Eric M. B. Becker

  26 The Dishwasher by Stéphane Larue (Quebec)

  Translated by Pablo Strauss

  27 Mostarghia by Maya Ombasic (Bosnia-Quebec)

  Translated by Donald Winkler

  28 If You Hear Me by Pascale Quiviger (Quebec)

  Translated by Lazer Lederhendler

  29 Dead Heat by Benedek Totth (Hungary)

  Translated by Ildikó Noémi Nagy

  30 The Unseen by Roy Jacobsen (Norway)

  Translated by Don Bartlett and Don Shaw

  31 You Will Love What You Have Killed by Kevin Lambert (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald Winkler

  32 Against Amazon and Other Essays by Jorge Carrión (Spain)

  Translated by Peter Bush

  33 Sea Loves Me: Selected Stories by Mia Couto (Mozambique)

  Translated by David Brookshaw with Eric M. B. Becker

  Copyright © Mia Couto, 2021, by arrangement with Literarische Agentur Mertin Inh. Nicole Witt E.K. Frankfurt am Main, Germany.

  “‘The Waters of Time’ and Other Stories” translation copyright © Eric M. B. Becker, 2021.

  All other translations copyright © David Brookshaw, 2021.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Stories in this volume first appeared in Portuguese in the collections Vozes Anoitecidas, published in Maputo, Mozambique, in 1986 by Associação dos Escritores Moçambicanos, Cada Homem É uma Raça, published in 1990, Estórias Abensonhadas, published in 1994, Contos do Nascer da Terra, published in 1997, Na Berma de Nenhuma Estrada, published in 2001, and O Fio das Missangas, published in 2004, all in Lisbon, Portugal, by Editorial Caminho, and in Mar Me Quer, co-published in 1998 by Parque EXPO, Lisbon, Portugal, and Editorial Njira, Maputo, Mozambique. Some of these stories first appeared in English in Voices Made Night, in 1990, and Every Man Is a Race, in 1994, both published in Oxford, U.K., by the Heinemann African Writers Series and translated by David Brookshaw, or in Rain and Other Stories, published in 2019 in Windsor, Ontario, Canada, by the Biblioasis International Translation Series and translated by Eric M. B. Becker.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Sea loves me : selected stories / Mia Couto ; [translated by] David Brookshaw, Eric M.B. Becker.

  Other titles: Short stories. Selections (2021). English

  Names: Couto, Mia, 1955– author. | Brookshaw, David, translator. | Becker, Eric M. B., translator.

  Series: Biblioasis international translation series ; no. 33.

  Description: Series statement: Biblioasis international translation series ; 33 | Short stories in English; translated from the Portuguese.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200372645 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200372696 | ISBN 9781771963886 (softcover) | ISBN 9781771963893 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PQ9939.C68 A2 2021 | DDC 869.3/42—dc23

  Selected and Edited by Stephen Henighan

  Copyedited by Sarah Terry

  Cover designed by Zoe Norvell

  Print and eBooks designed by Tetragon, London. Illustrations taken from a series of Mozambican postage stamps from the 1980s.

  Funded by the Direção Geral do Livro, dos Arquivos e das Bibliotecas

  Contents

  The Fire and Other Stories

  The Fire

  The Day Mabata-Bata Exploded

  How Ascolino do Perpétuo Socorro Lost His Spouse

  So You Haven’t Flown Yet, Carlota Gentina?

  The Whales of Quissico

  The Tale of the Two Who Returned from the Dead

  Patanhoca, the Lovesick Snake Catcher

  The Barber’s Most Famous Customer

  Rosa Caramela

  The Bird-Dreaming Baobab

  The Russian Princess

  The Blind Fisherman

  Woman of Me

  The Flagpoles of Beyondwards

  The Waters of Time and Other Stories

  The Waters of Time

  Novidade’s Flowers

  Blind Estrelinho

  The Perfume

  Rain

  Felizbento’s Pipe

  Jorojão’s Cradle of Memories

  Lamentations of a Coconut Tree

  Beyond the River Bend

  High-Heel Shoes

  Joãotónio, for Now

  That Devil of an Advocate

  The Deaf Father

  Square of the Gods

  Sea Loves Me and Other Stories

  The Tearful Cook’s Journey

  The Daughter of Solitude

  The Widower

  A Girl Without Words

  The Very Last Eclipse

  The Indian with the Golden Crot
ch

  The Marine House

  Rungo Alberto at Fantasy’s Whim

  The Dribbler

  Sentenced to Burn

  The Child’s Heart and the Heart’s Child

  Bartolominha and the Pelican

  Isaura, Forever Within Me

  Dona Elisa’s Belch

  The Blessing

  A Last Look at Love

  The Dead Man’s Revelations

  Ezequiela, Humanity

  The Captain’s Lover

  The Assault

  Bereavement

  Stop the Dance!

  Rosita

  The Falling Man

  The Basket

  The Deferred Grandfather

  On that Special Night

  Isidorangela’s Fat Name

  The String and the Beads

  Entry into Heaven

  Beggar Friday Playing in the World Cup

  The Owner of the Man’s Dog

  The Tearful Males

  The Grandmother, the City, and the Traffic Lights

  A Fish for Eulália

  Sea Loves Me

  Notes

  About the Author

  About the Translators

  ‌The Fire

  and other stories

  Translated by David Brookshaw

  These stories originally appeared in Voices Made Night (1990) and Every Man Is a Race (1994), published in Oxford, UK, as part of the Heinemann African Writers Series.

  ‌The Fire

  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.

  ‌The Day Mabata-Bata Exploded

  Suddenly, the ox exploded. It burst without so much as a moo. In the surrounding grass a rain of chunks and slices fell, as if they were the fruit and leaves of the ox. Its flesh turned into red butterflies. Its bones were scattered coins. Its horns were caught in some branches, swinging to and fro, imitating life in the invisibility of the wind.

  Azarias, the little cowherd, could not contain his astonishment. Only a moment before, he had been admiring the great speckled ox, Mabata-bata. The creature grazed more slowly than laziness itself. It was the largest in the herd, ruler of the horned fraternity, and it was being kept aside as a bride price for its owner, Uncle Raul. Azarias had been working for him ever since he had been left an orphan. He would get up when it was still dark so that the cattle might graze in the early-morning mist.

  He surveyed the disaster: the ox turned to dust, like an echo of silence, a shadow of nothingness. It must have been a lightning flash, he thought.

  But it couldn’t have been lightning. The sky was clear, blue without the slightest smudge. Where could the bolt have come from? Or was it the earth which had flashed?

  He questioned the horizon beyond the trees. Perhaps the ndlati, the bird of lightning, was still circling the skies. He turned his gaze towards the mountain in front of him. It was there that the ndlati dwelt, there where all the rivers are one, born from the same desire to be water. The ndlati lives concealed in its four colours and only takes to the air when the clouds bellow and the sky grates. Then it is that the ndlati rises into the heavens on the wings of its madness. High in the air, it dons its clothes of flame and casts its burning flight upon the creatures of the earth. Sometimes it throws itself to the ground, making a hole. It remains in the cavity and urinates there.