Treacherous Paradise (9780307961235) Page 22

  Teresa suddenly seemed totally abandoned. She looked from one of them to the other. But it was Isabel who progressed from words to action. Lying on the table was a knife that Pimenta used to carve small wooden sculptures, which he burnt when they were finished. She grabbed the knife and thrust it deep into Pimenta’s chest, pulled it out, then stabbed him again. Hanna thought she could count up to at least ten deep wounds before Pimenta’s body slowly slithered down onto the floor of the veranda. Isabel took her children and disappeared into the house. Teresa collapsed. For the first time the boy left the doorway. He squatted down beside his mother and put his arms round her. The girl started crying again, but quietly this time, almost silently.

  Many hours later, when Pimenta’s dead body had been sent to the mortuary and Isabel had been led away wearing handcuffs and with a chain round her right foot, Hanna went back home. She had also met once again Ana Dolores, the nurse who had helped her to become fit again, and tried to explain to her the difference between black and white people. Ana had taken care of Teresa and her children, but handed over Isabel’s children to the servants with instructions to take them to their mother’s sister. She lived in a slum whose name Hanna had failed to grasp. She was distressed to think that they would be taken away from the well-organized white world where they had grown up, and instead plunged into the chaos that reigned in the inaccessible black settlements.

  On the way back to town Hanna asked the chauffeur to stop the car by the side of the road. They were on the bank of the river, just before the old bridge that was so narrow, it could only cope with one-way traffic. An old African stood on duty there with a red and a green flag, directing the few cars that used it. The shock of what had happened was only now beginning to register with her.

  “What will happen to Isabel?” she asked.

  “She’ll be locked up in the fort,” said the chauffeur. There was no trace of doubt in his voice.

  “Who will pass judgement on her?”

  “She’s already condemned.”

  “But surely the fact that Pedro double-crossed her and let her down must be taken into account? Just as he let Teresa down.”

  “If Teresa had killed him, she would just have been sent back to Portugal with the children. But Isabel is a black woman. She has killed a white man. She will be punished for that. Besides, who would get upset over the fact that a white man had let down a black woman?”

  They spoke no more about the matter. Hanna noticed that the chauffeur didn’t want to reveal what he really thought.

  They continued their journey back to town when the man at the bridge raised his green flag. Hanna felt a surge of anger when she noticed that the flag was broken and frayed.

  She asked to be taken to the promenade to the north of the town. She took off her shoes and walked over the soft sand. It was low tide. Small single-masted fishing boats were bobbing up and down in the distance. Black children were playing on the part of the beach that wasn’t reserved for whites only.

  Saving Isabel will be identical with saving myself, she thought. I can’t leave here until I’ve made sure that she gets a fair trial. Only then will I be able to make up my mind what I’m going to do.

  She walked along the beach, watching the tide come slowly in. Just now Isabel was the most important person in her life. What happened to Isabel was inseparably linked with herself. She was surprised at how natural and convincing that feeling was. For once in her life, she had no doubts whatsoever.

  She was driven back home and paid the chauffeur. That evening she sat at her desk and counted up all the cash she had collected since Senhor Vaz’s death. She would now use some of the money to pay for a lawyer.

  Carlos was sitting on top of the wardrobe, observing what she was doing. He suddenly jumped down and sat beside her at the table. He picked up a bundle of notes and began counting them with his long, black fingers, bundle after bundle. Seriously, as if he actually understood what he was doing.

  57

  There was still a long way to go before dawn when the woman called Ana and usually referred to as Ana Branca was woken up by a man’s hand touching one of her breasts. For a moment she thought it was Lundmark who had returned from the dead, but when she switched on the light she saw that it was just Carlos who had touched her in his sleep, as if he were feeling for something he’d lost in his dreams. He was woken up by her violent movement. She didn’t know if it was disappointment or merely a feeling of shame at being touched up by an ape, but she pushed Carlos out of bed. He gathered that she was angry and jumped up onto the ceiling light. He sat there, looking at her—she could never decide if those eyes of his were sad or amused.

  “You confounded ape,” she yelled. “Don’t ever touch me again!”

  Then she switched the light off. She could hear that Carlos’s concern was gradually fading away, and he was able to relax on the lamp as it swayed back and forth over the bed. She immediately regretted what she had said and done. After all, Carlos was very close to her—like a dog, but cleverer, and just as affectionate. He wasn’t messing her about.

  She also thought it was remarkable that the tapeworm Carlos had swallowed didn’t seem to have harmed him at all. Perhaps the stomach juices of an ape are so acidic that a worm able to survive inside a human being can’t live inside an ape’s gut? She had promised Rumigo, who looked after her garden, some extra payment if he would examine Carlos’s excrement to see if there was any sign of a tapeworm. He hadn’t found anything yet, but she was sure he would continue to look—he didn’t dare not to.

  Ana used to be called Hanna. She had also lost her previous second name, Vaz. She lost it the same day as the peacock disappeared.

  Despite its clipped wings, Judas swore that he had seen it flying away over the rooftops. Hanna refused to believe him, and in a fit of rage threatened to have him beaten if he didn’t tell her the truth. Had he killed the bird and eaten it? Had he plucked off its feathers and sold them as adornments for women’s hats? But Judas was adamant: the bird really had flown away.

  It was only when one of the harbour guards on his way home from work swore that he had seen the peacock flying out over the sea that Hanna was forced to accept that it really was the truth. She was living in a part of the world where birds whose wings had been clipped could suddenly recover their ability to fly. It was no more peculiar than the claims about ghostly dogs with no legs or paws roaming the streets at night. Or that tapeworms inside a human being’s stomach could grow to be five metres long.

  Hanna thought that it was a premonition. If she wanted to achieve the impossible, she must do the impossible. She must become somebody else.

  And so she was now called Ana Branca, nothing else. Ana Branca is a lonely person, she thought. She was losing the respect that Hanna Vaz had enjoyed. Her decision to try to get Isabel absolved from the murder of her husband Pedro had aroused widespread indignation on the grounds that she had failed in her foremost duty—upholding the solidarity of the white race. Defending the status of her own race at all costs.

  Ana was unable to go back to sleep. When the first light of dawn illuminated her window, she got out of bed. This was the morning when she was due to meet Senhor Andrade and talk to him about what was likely to happen to Isabel.

  Her first thought that morning was the same as the last one she had the day before. It was the image of Isabel in her underground cell in the fort, where a tiny window at ground level was the only way in for the same light of day that Ana could see was now lighting up the sea and the town, the palm trees along the promenade, and the hills marking the border with the African interior. Isabel slept on a bunk with a single blanket and a mattress stuffed with grass. The cell was either freezing cold or so hot that the damp dripped down from the ceiling. During her first weeks in the cell she had a shackle round one of her ankles, but Ana had succeeded in persuading Lima, the commanding officer of the military prison, to have it removed.

  Ana intended to visit Isabel later that day. Every t
ime she had to humiliate herself by asking permission from Lima, who usually kept her waiting inordinately long before making a decision. Sometimes he wasn’t even there—or pretended not to be there. Ana always took some food with her, the only thing she was permitted to give Isabel. Only twice had she been allowed to take her clothes. Isabel had been in jail now for two months. She smelled of sweat and dirt every time Ana met her, but Isabel couldn’t use the small amount of water she was given in order to wash herself: she had to drink it. Ana knew that two white men who were imprisoned after beating up and killing a third were treated quite differently. But when she complained to Lima about this, it was as if he didn’t hear what she said. He would look past her, or through her, while absent-mindedly polishing the stripes on his uniform.

  Ana Branca is a lonely person, she thought as she stood by the window. She had rebelled against her own race by standing up for Isabel, who was wasting away in the bowels of the fort.

  It was nine o’clock when Andrade arrived and handed his white hat and walking stick to Julietta, who made a fuss of him and bowed after escorting him to Ana’s study. Ana and Andrade no longer shook hands: that gesture, which had never been a mark of friendship but had signified respect, was a thing of the past. He sat down opposite her at her desk.

  What she wanted to know first of all was if there was a risk that Isabel might be decapitated or hanged. She had asked her solicitor that question several times, but never received a satisfactory answer.

  “The death penalty was abolished in Portugal in 1867,” said Andrade. “In other words, I can’t see any risk of her being executed. I’ve tried to explain that before.”

  Ana felt relieved. But could she be absolutely sure?

  “I’ve consulted all the law books,” said Andrade, “and the fact is that nobody is condemned to death any more apart from those found guilty of treason. I’ve also written a letter to the Ministry of Justice in Lisbon, but I haven’t had a reply yet. But I don’t hesitate to say that there are a lot of us who think that the death penalty ought to be reinstated, especially in the Portuguese colonies in Africa. That would force the blacks to refrain from even thinking about committing crimes against white people.”

  “Who will pass judgement on her?” she asked.

  Andrade was surprised by the question, possibly even annoyed.

  “Pass judgement on her? Surely she has already condemned herself.”

  “Where will the trial take place? Who will be the judges? Who will defend her?”

  “This isn’t Europe. We don’t need a judge in order to lock up a black woman who has committed murder.”

  “So there won’t be a trial?”

  “No.”

  “How long will she be locked up in the fort?”

  “Until she dies.”

  “But won’t she be given a chance to defend herself?”

  Andrade shook his head in irritation. Her questions were annoying him.

  “Portugal’s relationship with this black country is still not legally regulated. We are here because we want to be here. We send our own criminals back to Lisbon or Oporto. We don’t bother about blacks who commit crimes involving other blacks. They have their own laws and traditions, and we don’t poke our noses into that. But in this unique case, we lock her up in the fort. End of story.”

  “But surely she has the right to a lawyer? Somebody who can argue her case?”

  Andrade leaned forward.

  “Isn’t there somebody who is now known as Ana Branca who is looking after that side of things?”

  “I’m not a lawyer. I need advice. There’s nobody here in Lourenço Marques who is willing to help me.”

  “It might be possible to find an Indian lawyer in Johannesburg or Pretoria who would be prepared to take on the case.”

  Andrade took a gold pen from his breast pocket and wrote a name and address on the back of a business card.

  “I’ve heard about somebody who might do it,” he said as he put the business card on the table. “He’s called Pandre and comes from Bengal. For some strange reason I don’t understand he has learnt Shangana, which is no doubt the language Isabel speaks when she’s not babbling on in Portuguese. He might be able to help you.”

  Andrade stood up and bowed. When Ana offered to pay him, he shook his head in disdain.

  “I don’t accept payment for when I’m not working,” he said. “I’ll find my own way out.”

  He paused in the doorway.

  “If you decide to leave our town, I’m prepared to offer you a good price for this house. Can we say that I’m first in the queue if that’s the way things go? As a reward for the bit of help I’ve given you this morning?”

  He didn’t wait for a reply, but left the building. She could hear his car starting in the street outside.

  Carlos had crept into the room unnoticed, and was now sitting in his usual spot on top of the dark brown wardrobe that still contained Senhor Vaz’s clothes.

  What exactly does he understand? Ana thought. Nothing? Or everything?

  58

  Ana took a horse-drawn cab down to the brothel. There she picked up Judas who accompanied her to the fort when the worst of the midday heat was over. She was always a little worried when she walked past the armed guards: perhaps the doors to the fort would close behind her? Judas was carrying the basket containing the food for Isabel. Judas suddenly began talking—a very rare occurrence.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why is Senhora Ana helping this woman who stabbed her husband?”

  “Because I know I might well have done the same thing myself.”

  “He should never have got involved with a black woman.”

  “Isn’t that what white men do every evening in my establishment?”

  “Not in the way that Senhor Pimenta did. He sired children with her, and recognized them as his own. That could only end in one way.”

  They walked in the shadow to the low building where Indian vendors sat at their stalls smelling of foreign spices.

  Ana paused and looked at Judas.

  “I’m going to keep on fighting until I’ve got Isabel out of prison,” she said. “You can tell that to everybody you talk to.”

  Commanding Officer Lima was standing on the steps to the building where the fort’s weapons were stored. He seemed to be bored stiff, and was rocking back and forth on his heels. On this occasion he simply waved her through without a word. Judas handed her the basket, then stood there motionless at the spot where she had left him. As usual, he waited for her in the scorching hot sunshine. Ana could hear that Lima was talking to one of the soldiers. About me, she thought. No doubt scornful comments about me.

  Isabel was sitting on her rickety bunk. She said nothing, didn’t even look at Ana when she stepped into the murky cell. Despite the fact that Isabel smelled awful, Ana sat down beside her and took hold of her hand, which was very thin and cold.

  Not a word was said. After a long silence, Ana took the empty basket from the previous day, and left the cell. As long as Isabel kept eating, there was still hope.

  Two days later Ana took the train to Johannesburg. It was a journey she had never made before, and she would have liked to have a companion: but there was nobody she could trust among the whites she knew—at least, not in connection with the matter she hoped to resolve.

  A horse-drawn cab took her to the house in the centre of town where the lawyer Pandre had his office. When she arrived, she was surprised to find that he was in—something she had hardly felt able to hope for. He even had time to speak to her, albeit for quite a short time before he had to attend a court proceeding.

  Pandre was a middle-aged man, wearing Western clothes but with a turban lying on his desk. He was addressed as munshi by his male secretary, who was also Indian. He invited her to sit down, and Ana could see that he was curious to find out why a white woman would want to come and consult him, so far away from Lourenço Marques. His Portuguese was not fluent, but significantly better than
Ana’s. When she asked if he spoke Shangana, he nodded—but gave no explanation of why he had bothered to learn one of the languages spoken by the blacks.

  He listened intently while she told him about Isabel, and how she had killed Pedro Pimenta.

  “I need advice,” she said in the end. “I need somebody to tell me how I can convince the Portuguese that she should be set free.”

  Pandre looked at her and nodded slowly.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why should a white woman want to help a black woman who has landed in the worst possible of situations?”

  “Because I have to.”

  “You speak broken Portuguese. May I ask where you come from?”

  “Sweden.”

  Pandre thought over her response for a while, then left the room and returned with a dented and stained globe in his hand.

  “The world’s a big place,” he said. “Where is the country that you come from?”

  “There.”

  “I’ve heard about something called the Northern Lights,” he said thoughtfully. “And that the sun never sets during the summer months.”

  “That’s true.”

  “We all come from somewhere,” said Pandre. “I’m not going to ask you why you have come to Africa, but please tell me what you are doing in Lourenço Marques.”

  During the long train journey she had made up her mind to tell the truth, no matter what questions were asked.

  “I run a brothel,” she said. “It’s very successful. I inherited it from my husband. A lot of my customers come from Johannesburg. Just now there are thirteen women of various ages and various degrees of beauty in my brothel, so I can afford to pay for your services.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Go to visit her. Get her to talk. And advise me what to do in order to have her set free.”

  Pandre sat there in silence, slowly rotating the globe and pondering what she had said.

  “I shall charge you one hundred English pounds for my visit,” he said eventually. “And I also have an extra request, bearing in mind the business you conduct.”