The Sword and the Spear Page 19

  36

  SERGEANT GERMANO DE MELO’S TWELFTH LETTER

  Fear those who have always felt fear. Beware of those who think themselves insignificant. When they come to power, they will punish us with the same fear they themselves felt and they will avenge themselves with their false grandeur.

  —THE WORDS OF KATINI NSAMBE

  Chicomo, November 5, 1895

  Dear Lieutenant Ayres de Ornelas,

  I do not know, sir, whether our Swiss guest got a moment of sleep that night. Throughout the night, he wandered among the sick, taking them their medicines, water, and words of comfort.

  I woke up in the morning and there was the Swiss, on his knees, praying. I served him some hot coffee and the man started telling me about himself, his life, and above all about his extraordinary adventures on the African continent.

  The passions of Georges Liengme (or just Georges, as he insisted I call him) were many and paradoxical: he was a clock maker, missionary, doctor, hypnotist, photographer, husband, and father of two delightful children. The clock maker observed Life, seeking within it the precision of machines. The missionary was looking for what no photographer could capture. The doctor knew how much the body is made of spirit. And finally, the hypnotist knew the secrets that dwell in the depths of sleep.

  Allow me at this point, sir, to record my astonishment: How well this European knows Africa! Forget José Silveira, forget Sanches de Miranda! None of our officers can rival this Swiss in his familiarity with Africa and its people. You and the others will argue that it is because of his command of African languages. But the origin of the problem is much older. Why do we Portuguese suffer from this age-old laziness when it comes to learning these languages? Why is it that we only want to learn the languages of those people we consider superior? I listened to the stories of Georges Liengme, and they weren’t tales of lion hunters. They were stories of people, of encounters between people who overcame historical barriers and prejudices. And they confirmed a bitter truth: whether inside or outside the garrison, we Portuguese live surrounded by walls, afraid of everything that we are unable to recognize.

  Suddenly, Dr. Rodrigues Braga approached, nervous and hurried. His state of mind was completely different from that of the previous day, and he was gruff in his manner. The missionary should be on his way immediately. He had received instructions that Liengme was to leave. It was only then that the Swiss confessed that he had come in the hope of being able to take away with him any extra medical supplies we might have in our stores.

  Extra? There is no such word in Portuguese, my friend. And I’ll tell you quite frankly that even if we did have supplies, I couldn’t give them to you …

  Georges Liengme was already heading into the bush when Braga warned him he was going in the wrong direction.

  Here, any direction is the wrong one, the Swiss commented with irony. He explained that he wasn’t going straight home. He was taking another path in order to visit a patient he had operated upon a week before. It was a brother-in-law of the king of Gaza, who suffered from cataracts and who lived in a village near Chicomo.

  He invited us to accompany him, encouraging his colleague with a professional argument: They could provide a joint clinical assessment of Gungunhane’s relative.

  Come with me. No one will know.

  Rodrigues Braga refused. I asked permission to accompany the foreigner. I needed to stretch my legs and a period away from the garrison would do me good. Rodrigues Braga acquiesced. But make sure it’s not for long, he said. And so off we went into the bush, led by the guide the missionary had brought from Manjacaze. Instead of following the well-trodden tracks, the young man led us through endless detours in the bush.

  It was I who asked him to avoid the usual routes, the Swiss explained. Blacks, he added, think foreigners should always stop to visit their chiefs. By avoiding villages, we save a great deal of time.

  All of a sudden we heard footsteps behind us. It was Rodrigues Braga. He was hurrying along furtively, as if he were being followed. And he smiled at us like a teenager flaunting the rules:

  No one must know I’m here!

  When, at last, we reached our destination, we were surrounded by a crowd of children, leaping and frolicking, and laughing contagiously, while always carefully keeping their distance. A skinny elderly man emerged from his house, a large bandage covering half his face. Once we had been introduced, Braga helped his colleague with the treatment.

  My eyes were dead, the old Negro said. This white man brought me out of my darkness.

  That kaffir’s gratitude was so intense that I could not help thinking: Apart from those few serving in the army, what other Portuguese doctors gave the Africans any assistance? As is now evident, you, sir, were correct; I have no aptitude to serve in the military. I ask too many questions, I have too much heart, I have committed too many transgressions.

  As we left the village, a new surprise awaited us. Some twenty kaffirs had queued up in a single line:

  We want to be seen too, the kaffirs said.

  What shall we do? Braga asked.

  We’ll do what doctors do: We’ll get to work, my Portuguese friend!

  For over an hour I watched Rodrigues Braga, listening, pummeling, touching, prescribing medicine. And all this he did with a smile that I had never seen before. At the end, the kaffirs and the Swiss laughed together as they bade farewell, with effusive guffaws and handshakes. Dr. Braga gazed, puzzled, at that unusual familiarity between a European and a group of Africans. Then we returned in silence to Chicomo.

  When we reached the garrison, Rodrigues Braga touchingly thanked Georges Liengme:

  I missed attending to the sick. Now all I see are the wounded.

  The doctors were already saying goodbye when Liengme realized he had forgotten his case. He must have left it in the infirmary, and I rushed to fetch it. As I picked it up, a photograph fell from it. My heart almost leaped from my chest while my few fingers touched the portrait. It was Imani posing, her breasts uncovered, a simple capulana tied around her waist. There was a strange glow behind her body, as if she were suspended in the light. Doubts gnawed away deep down inside me: Had the girl agreed to exhibit herself like that of her own free will? Had the Swiss attempted to seduce her?

  The arrival of the two doctors interrupted that wave of questions. Surprising me with the photograph in my hand, the Swiss commented with a pride verging on the paternal:

  Pretty, isn’t she?

  The three of us stood there, shoulder to shoulder, so as to share the photograph shaking in my trembling hands.

  So who is this beauty? Braga asked, unusually enthusiastic.

  It’s a Chope girl who turned up at our settlement. Her father is going to give her to the king of Gaza.

  What a waste! the Portuguese said with a sigh.

  I was the one who took this photo, Liengme announced with the pride of a hunter.

  And was she alone? I dared to ask.

  She was with her father, but he refused to pose. He was scared that his wife and sons would appear in the portrait.

  And what would be the problem if they did appear? Braga asked.

  It’s because they’re all dead.

  I summoned up courage and asked the Swiss if I could keep the portrait for myself.

  It would be better if you didn’t, argued the Swiss. What you do with that photo will only make you haggard and sinful.

  Rodrigues Braga unexpectedly took my side. And he did so with such fervor that after some dithering, the foreigner handed me the brazen picture. The Swiss doctor eventually left, straddled so delicately over his old packsaddle that it seemed as if the mule were more of a traveling companion than a beast of burden.

  I was seething with a mixture of rage and jealousy when I returned to my room. You will agree, sir, that there are better ways to conjure up the memory of someone one loves so much. I passed a flock of goats that were chewing sheets of paper, pages from reports, who knows, maybe letters from one sold
ier to another, or clandestine love messages? Scattered across the earth, the goats were chewing up Time itself. It’s what I felt like doing. To lie down on the ground as only animals do.

  In the half-light of my room, I looked at the photograph once again and, suddenly, it was no longer Imani posing there. It was a silhouette of light, the contours of which came and went as if they had their own pulse. Who knows, maybe it is impossible to take a photo of the one we love.

  37

  A BRIDE IN WAITING

  Married women invent stories; virgins hide secrets; widows pretend not to remember.

  —A PROVERB FROM NKOKOLANI

  They’ve brought me a woman! Do they think I lack women?

  At the court of Mandhlakazi, known as the Indaba, the counselors laughed. Without any great enthusiasm, but with considerable display so that the king would see what pleasure he was giving them. None of the indunas was absent. They were far more interested in the matter of the king’s love life than they were in war. For this reason, dozens of elders, nobles, and military chiefs had gathered together. Seated in a prominent position was Impibekezane, the king’s mother. And it was she who ordered that I should step forward slowly and exhibit myself. As I walked barefoot around the chamber, I felt the men’s looks shredding my clothes like blades.

  The Nkosi caressed his belly as if his hands were meandering over the breadth of his empire. As he gazed at my feet, he recalled the words of his predecessor by way of a joke: Women arrive more quickly because they attract the places they are making for. The comment was greeted with applause and laughter.

  Ngungunyane knew that most of it was forced laughter, each burst a kowtowing of false subjection. Then Ngungunyane vociferated in an atmosphere of growing tension:

  What use is it to have millions of subjects if they are not loyal? What use is it to have hundreds of women if none of them are really ours? What use is it to be crowned emperor if those who salute you today will venerate with even greater devotion those who will bring you down?

  The nobles of the court cowered in embarrassment. They thought the matter merely involved the selection of a new virgin girl. The emperor raised his voice as he warmed to his subject:

  One cannot lift a stone without finding a scorpion hiding under it. There isn’t a shadow that doesn’t conceal another shadow. There isn’t an impediment that is not a trap. How I wish I could sleep, sleep completely, my eyelids shutting me away from top to toe. How I wish I could believe I still had a clear night, without the threat of knives or ambushes.

  A chorus of protests rang through the court. His older uncles glanced at each other suspiciously. Was their nephew sober?

  I have lost count of the number of times I have got married and I am more alone than ever, the king continued with growing verve. I need a new wife. And this girl here—and he gestured to me to approach so that he could touch me with his fingertips—this girl has not been burned.

  How do you know, dear Nkosi? How do you know she’s still a virgin?

  I know what no one else knows about her. And waving me toward the center of the circle, he uttered a raucous command: Tell these people your name.

  Vuiaze. My name is Vuiaze.

  A deathly hush descended over the Indaba. The counselors sat staring at the ground. And a suspicion of some conspiracy hovered over the assembly. For a long time now, the Zulu and VaNguni elders complained that Ngungunyane was losing his sense of judgment and justice. One example of his lack of forethought was the way he favored representatives of the tribes he had conquered, including the hated VaChopi and Valengue. Even most of the army of Gaza was composed of men from the so-called weak races. And now was he taking an impure bride from an enemy nation, a woman who brought back memories of the forbidden name of Vuiaze?

  The family adviser and relative Queto, who had so much influence over the king, begged him to ponder on his decision. He suggested that I, Imani Nsambe, was not just one more spouse.

  This girl knows the language of the Portuguese, the VaChopi, the Mabinguela, and our own. And the door is open for her to enter the territory of our enemies.

  Then another adviser, with equal vigor, mounted a counterargument:

  My question, brothers, is how she learned all this. And how can we trust a woman who knows so much?

  We know this girl’s story, she was educated by a priest, Queto contested. A brother of hers fought alongside us, against those of his race. I propose the young woman stays with us so that she may be tested, under the control of Impibekezane, far from our king’s appetites.

  I’m not sure, I’m not sure, his opponent reasoned. How can we be sure it wasn’t the Portuguese who sent her to spy on us?

  The danger of welcoming me, as they all knew, lay elsewhere. And it was enshrined in the name that I had just announced as being mine. There could be nothing more serious, in the midst of a military crisis, than to repeat what had already happened with Vuiaze: if the emperor were to fall madly in love and distance himself from the affairs of the VaNguni nation.

  At this point, they ordered me to withdraw from the chamber so that they could discuss the matter more at their leisure. Outside, the mist had fallen and the night was cold. The light emanating from the grand assembly flickered on the dew. I sat down on the grass and stared at my unshod feet. Where had my sergeant gotten to?

  * * *

  Some time later, Impibekezane came and sat down next to me. The lamps coming from the Indaba bathed us in an intermittent light.

  I pity my son, she remarked. They all obey him, but none of them is loyal. Umundungazi has gone mad and those around him applaud him for his madness.

  So what have they decided with regard to me?

  They have accepted you. But not as a wife.

  I don’t understand.

  You are a bride-in-waiting. It is better for you like that, for you will be free of the other wives’ envy. Even if you have to carry out other tasks …

  What tasks?

  They want to use you as an informer.

  They knew about my relationship with the sergeant. They had found out about the correspondence between Germano and the lieutenant through the messengers. No one better than me to infiltrate the heart of the Portuguese army. And the queen mother continued:

  They want me to look after you and to keep you away from my son. Tomorrow we leave here in order to spend a few days at the Swiss doctor’s hospital.

  The sound of raised voices emerged from the Indaba. There was considerable excitement among the counselors. They were debating military matters and discussing the war, which had reached the gates of Mandhlakazi. Oaths could be heard, death threats, promises of bloodshed. My case had been merely a fleeting moment of diversion.

  Nights like these are not for people to be out and about, Ngungunyane’s mother commented, as we listened to the hyenas in the distance. Noticing me flinch on hearing the cries of these sinister creatures, the queen affirmed: Don’t worry, there are more hyenas among the counselors at that meeting than there are in the whole of the bush.

  She pulled her seating mat up closer and adopted a more intimate tone. She wanted to give me advice concerning nights I would eventually spend with her son. I thought at first she was going to give me recommendations concerning my sexual conduct. She wasn’t. It was a strange warning: On many nights we would be sleeping with others in the same marital bed. Others? And she laughed. The king suffered from terrible repetitive nightmares. On such troubled nights, his murdered brothers would appear.

  There was no blood. These brothers died from poisoning. That is why I give you this advice, my dear girl: Take more care in hiring a cook than in choosing a husband.

  We don’t choose, we are chosen. This was what I felt like saying, but I abandoned the idea when I heard the chants coming from the Indaba. The meeting was coming to an end, and the dignitaries would soon begin to leave. At that point, no woman could be found outside the house. The queen didn’t seem worried, and held me warmly by the arm.

/>   You lied to the counselors about your name. Now I want you to lie when you call for me.

  I’ll do whatever you tell me to do.

  Forget my name. Call me Yosio.

  Before she had become a widow, that was what she had been called: Yosio. When Muzila died, they changed her name. By whispering the name to her like this, in a confidential tone, she would be transported back to that other time.

  In those days, I didn’t just have a husband. I had my children. And above all, I had my Ngungunyane.

  Don’t you have him any longer?

  No one keeps a son, she insisted.

  * * *

  It was not, however, just the nightmares that made Ngungunyane unrecognizable. There were other, more deranged moments when no one, not even she, had the courage to divert him from his delirium. And there were even occasions when the emperor really did journey to the sea. What did he do on such wanderings? Ngungunyane sat on a dune, at a cautious distance from the breaking waves. For the VaNguni, the ocean is a dangerous, nameless territory. The king ordered his bowmen to line up along the wet sand and prepare to launch their arrows. Then he himself led by example: He pulled back the bowstring, and with a vigorous cry fired the first arrow over the ocean. The arrow cut through the air like a demented, featherless bird, before dropping and ripping the water with a hollow sound. A warlike clamor immediately filled the air and hundreds of bowmen shot a rainstorm of arrows that darkened the skies and spattered the surface of the ocean with foam. Then there followed a dense silence until Ngungunyane bellowed:

  See the blood! It’s bleeding, it is bleeding.

  He chose the term it to avoid calling it by its name. The sea was prohibited, even as a word. The lips of those who named it would forever be caked with salt. In an undertone, the emperor of Gaza muttered:

  It will soon be dead!

  And he sat down and waited for the sea to die.