Half a Life

  We put on our clothes, wet as we were. We went down the wide, regal steps to the burnt-out sandy remains of the garden, very nervous there of the snakes that could blind from many feet. We finished dressing in the Land Rover and drove away in silence. After a while I said to Graça, “I am smelling you on my body as I drive.” I don't know how the courage came to me; but it seemed an easy and natural thing to say. She said, “And I'm smelling you.” I loved her for that reply. I rested my right hand on her thigh for as long as I could, and I thought with sorrow—and now without personal shame—of my poor father and mother who had known nothing like this moment.

  I began to arrange my life around my meetings with Graça, and I didn't care who noticed. With one part of my mind I was amazed at myself, amazed at the person I had become. A memory came to me of something that had happened at home, in the ashram, about twenty-five years before. I would have been about ten. A merchant of the town came to see my father. This merchant was rich and gave to religious charities, but people were nervous of him because he was said to be shameless in his private life. I didn't know what that meant but—together with the revolutionary teaching of my mother's uncle—it tainted the man and his riches for me. The merchant must have reached some crisis in his life; and, as a devout man, he had come to my father for advice and comfort. After the usual salutations and small talk, the merchant said, “Master, I find myself in a difficult situation.” The merchant paused; my father waited. The merchant said, “Master, I am like King Dasaratha.” Dasaratha was a sacred name; he was the ruler of the ancient kingdom of Kosala, and the father of the hero-divinity Rama. The merchant smiled, pleased at what he had said, pleased at easing himself with piety into his story; but my father was not pleased at all. He said in his severe way, “How are you like King Dasaratha?” The merchant should have been warned by my father's tone, but he continued to smile, and said, “Perhaps I am not quite like Dasaratha. He had three wives. I have two. And that, Master, is at the root of my troubles—” He was not allowed to say any more. My father said, “How dare you compare yourself to gods? Dasaratha was a man of honour. His reign was of unparalleled righteousness. His later life was a life of sacrifice. How dare you compare yourself and your squalid bazaar lusts with such a man? If I were not a man of peace I would have you whipped out of my ashram.” The episode added to my father's reputation, and when, as now happened, we children found out about the shamelessness of the merchant's life, we were as appalled as my father. To have two wives and two families was to violate nature. To duplicate arrangements and affections was to be perpetually false. It was to dishonour everyone; it was to leave everyone standing in quicksand.

  That was how it had looked to me when I was ten. Yet now every day I faced Ana without shame, and whenever I saw Luis, Graça's husband, I dealt with him with a friendship that was quite genuine, since it was offered out of gratitude for Graça's love.

  I soon discovered that he was a drinking man, that the impression he had given at our first meeting of being a violent man who was holding himself in check had to do with his affliction. He drank right through the day, Graça told me, as though he had always to top up the energy that kept him going. He drank in small, undetectable quantities, a quick shot or two of rum or whisky, never more; and he never looked drunk or out of control. In fact, in company his drinking style made him seem almost abstemious. All Graça's married life had been dictated by this drinking of her husband's. They had moved from town to town, house to house, job to job.

  She blamed the nuns for her marriage. At a certain stage in the convent school they had begun to talk to her about becoming a nun. They did that with girls who were poor; and Graça's family was poor. Her mother was a mixed-race person of no fortune; her father was second-rank Portuguese, born in the colony, who did a small job in the civil service. A religious charity had paid to send Graça to the convent, and it seemed to Graça that the nuns were now looking for some return. She was shy with them; she had always been an obedient child, at home and at school. She didn't say no; she didn't want to appear ungrateful. For months they tried to break her down. They praised her. They said, “Graça, you are not a common person. You have special qualities. We need people like you to help lift the order up.” They frightened her, and when she went home for the holidays she was unhappier than she had ever been.

  Her family had a small plot of land, perhaps two acres, with fruit trees and flowers and chickens and animals. Graça loved all of these things. They were things she had known since childhood. She loved seeing the hens sitting patiently on their eggs, seeing the fluffy little yellow chicks hatching out, cheeping, all of the brood being able to find shelter below the spread-out wings of the fierce, clucking mother hen, following the mother hen everywhere, and gradually, over a few weeks, growing up, each with its own colour and character. She loved having her cats follow her about in the field, and seeing them run very fast out of joy and not fear. The thought of cooping up these little creatures, cats or chickens, gave her great pain. The thought now of giving them all up for ever and being locked away herself was too much for her. She became frightened that the nuns would go behind her back to her mother, and her mother, religious and obedient, would give her away to them. That was when she decided to marry Luis, a neighbour's son. Her mother recognised her panic and agreed.

  He had been after her for some time, and he was handsome. She was sixteen, he was twenty-one. Socially they were matched. She was more at ease with him than with the convent girls, most of whom were well-to-do. He worked as a mechanic for a local firm that dealt in cars and trucks and agricultural machinery, and he talked of setting up on his own. He was already a drinker; but at this stage it seemed only stylish, part of his go-ahead ways.

  They moved after their marriage to the capital. He felt he was getting nowhere in the local town; he would never be able to start up on his own; the local rich people controlled everything and didn't allow the poor man to live. For a while in the capital they stayed with a relation of Luis's. Luis got a job as a mechanic in the railways, and then they were allocated a railway house that matched Luis's official grade. It was a small three-roomed house, one of a line, and built only to fit into that line. It was not built for the climate. It faced west; it baked every afternoon and cooled down only at about nine or ten in the evening. It was a wretched place to be in, day after day; it stretched everyone's nerves. Graça had her two children there. Just after the birth of her second child something happened in her head, and she found herself walking in a part of the capital she didn't know. At about the same time Luis was sacked for his drinking. That was when they started on their wandering life. Luis's skill as a mechanic kept them afloat, and there were times when they did very well. He still could charm people. He took up estate work and quickly became a manager. He was like that, always starting well and picking things up fast. But always, in every job, his resolve wore thin; some darkness covered his mind; there was a crisis, and a crash.

  As much as by the life she had had with Luis, she was fatigued by the lies she had had to tell about him, almost from the beginning, to cover up his drinking. It had made her another kind of person. One afternoon she came back with the children from some excursion and they found him drinking home-made banana spirit with the African gardener, a terrible old drunk. The children were frightened; Graça had given them a horror of drinking. Now she had to think fast and say something different. She told them that what their father was doing was all right; times were changing, and it was socially just in Africa for an estate manager to drink with his African gardener. Then she found that the children were beginning to lie too. They had caught the habit from her. That was why, in spite of her own unhappiness at the convent, she had sent them to a boarding school.

  For years she had dreamt of coming back to the countryside she knew as a child, where on her family's two-acre plot simple things, chickens and animals and flowers and fruit trees, had made her so happy in the school holidays. She had come back now; she
was living as the manager's wife in an estate house with antique colonial furniture. It was a sham grandeur; things were as uncertain as they had ever been. It was as though the moods and stresses of the past would always be with her, as though her life had been decided long before.

  This was what Graça told me about herself over many months. She had had a few lovers on the way. She didn't make them part of the main story. They occurred outside of that, so to speak, as though in her memory her sexual life was separate from her other life. And in this oblique way I learned that there had been people before me, usually friends of them both, and once even an employer of Luis's, who had read her eyes as I had read them, and spotted her need. I was jealous of all of these lovers. I had never known jealousy before. And thinking of all these people who had seen her weakness and pressed home their attack, I remembered some words of Percy Cato's in London, and for the first time had my own sense of the brutality of the sexual life.

  I was deep in that brutality now with Graça. Sexual pictures of her played in my head when I was not with her. With her guidance, since she was the more experienced, our love-making had taken forms that had astonished, worried and then delighted me. Graça would say, “The nuns wouldn't approve of this.” Or she would say, “I suppose if I went to confession tomorrow I would have to say, ‘Father, I've been immodest.'” And it was hard to forget what she had taught, to unlearn the opening up of new senses; it was hard to go back to the sexual simplicities of earlier days. And I thought, as I often did on such occasions, of the puerility of my father's desires.

  The months passed. Even after two years I felt myself helpless in this life of sensation. At the same time now some half-feeling of the inanity of my life grew within me, and with it there came the beginning of respect for the religious outlawing of sexual extremes.

  Ana said to me one day, “People are talking about you and Graça. You know that, don't you?”

  I said, “It's true.”

  She said, “You can't talk to me like this, Willie.”

  I said, “I wish you could be in the room when we make love. Then you would understand.”

  “You shouldn't do this, Willie. I thought you at least had manners.”

  I said, “I'm talking to you like a friend, Ana. I have no one else to tell.”

  She said, “I think you've gone mad.”

  And later I thought that perhaps she was right. I had talked out of a moment of sexual madness.

  The next day she said, “You know that Graça is a very simple person, don't you?”

  I didn't know what she meant. Did she mean that Graça was poor, of no social standing, or did she mean that Graça was simple-minded?

  She said, “She's simple. You know what I mean.”

  A little later she came back to me and said, “I have a half-brother. Did you know that?”

  “You never told me.”

  “I would like to take you to see him. If you agree, I'll arrange it. I would like you to have some idea of what I've had to live with here, and why when I met you I thought I had met someone from another world.”

  I felt a great pity for her, and also some worry about being punished for what I had done. I agreed to go and see her half-brother.

  He lived in the African city on the edge of the town proper.

  Ana said, “You must remember he is a very angry man. He wouldn't express this by shouting at you. He will show off. He will try to let you know that he doesn't care for you at all, that he's done well on his own.”

  The African city had grown a lot with the coming of the army. It was now like a series of joined-up villages, with corrugated iron and concrete or concrete blocks taking the place of grass and cane. From a distance it looked wide and low and unnaturally level. Clumps of trees at the very edge marked the original shanty settlement, the city of cane, as people said. It was in that older African city that Ana's half-brother lived. Driving was not easy. The narrow lane we entered twisted all the time, and there was always a child carrying a tin of water on his head. In this dry season the dirt lane had been scuffed to red dust inches thick; and that dust billowed behind us and then around us like smoke. Runnels of dark waste from some yards were evaporating in the dust, and here and there were pools or dips of stagnant water. Some yards were fenced in with corrugated iron or cane. Everywhere there was green, shooting out of the dust, big, branching mango trees and slender paw-paw trees, with small plantings of maize and cassava and sugar cane in many yards, almost as in a village. Some yards were workshops, making concrete blocks or furniture, patching up old tyres or repairing cars and trucks. Ana's half-brother was a mechanic, and he lived next to his big mechanic's yard. It looked busy, with many old cars and minibuses, and three or four men in very greasy shorts and singlets. The ground was black with old engine oil.

  His house was better than most in the African city. It had no fence; it was built right up against the lane. It was low, of concrete, and it was carefully painted in yellow and green oil paint. The entrance was at the side. A very old black man, perhaps a servant, perhaps a distant relative, let us in. A wide verandah ran along the main rooms, which were on two sides of the yard. On the other two sides were separate buildings, servants' or visitors' quarters, perhaps, and the kitchen. All the buildings were linked by concrete walkways that were six inches or so above the thick dust (which would also turn into mud with rain). People were looking at us from the kitchen and the quarters, but the man himself came out to the verandah of the main house only when we were led there by the servant.

  He was a dark man of medium height. He didn't look at Ana or at me. He was barefoot. He wore a singlet and very short and ragged shorts. Without looking at Ana he talked to her in a kind of mixed local language which was not easy for me to follow. She replied in the same language. Casually, dragging his soles on the concrete, he led us inside, into the formal room for visitors. A radio was going full blast; the radio was an important part of the furniture of this formal room. The windows were closed and the room was dark and very warm. I believe he offered to turn the air-conditioning on. Ana, as courteous as he was, told him he was not to bother. The room was stuffed with the formal furniture a room for visitors had to have: a set of upholstered chairs (these were covered in a shiny synthetic fabric), and a dining table with a full set of dining chairs (they were unpolished, raw-looking, and might have been made in one of the furniture workshops in the lane). There wasn't really room for everything; everything was jammed together. All the time he talked, showing Ana what he had, without looking at her, and all the time Ana was complimenting him. He invited us to sit on the upholstered chairs. Ana, matching his courtesy, said we would prefer to sit outside; and so, turning off the radio, he went back with us to the wide verandah, where there were everyday chairs and tables.

  He shouted, and a very small white woman came from one of the rooms. She had a blank, full face; she was not young. He introduced this woman, his wife, as I now understood, to Ana; and Ana was gracious. The small white woman—and she was very small indeed, not much taller than the glass-walled cabinet (with ornaments) against which she leaned—asked us to drink something. Immediately there was shouting in the kitchen. The man sat down in a low armchair. He used his feet to pull a stool towards him and he rested his feet on the stool, with his knees wide apart; his ragged shorts fell back almost to his crotch. All the time people in the yard, in the kitchen and the quarters, were looking at us; but he still didn't look at Ana or me. I saw now that, dark though he was, his eyes were light. He stroked the inside of his thighs slowly, as though he was caressing himself. Ana had prepared me for this kind of aggression; it would have been hard for me otherwise. And quite late I saw that, apart from his wife and the cabinet of ornaments, he had another treasure on the verandah: a big green-tinted bottle with a living snake, on an oilcloth-covered table just beside his chair.

  The snake was greenish. When the man tormented it or teased it the snake, tightly imprisoned though it was, lashed out with frightening a
brupt wide-mouthed rage against the side of the bottle, which was already discoloured with some kind of mucus from the snake's mouth. The man was pleased with the effect the snake had on me. He began to talk to me in Portuguese. For the first time he looked at me. He said, “It's a spitting cobra. They can blind you from fifteen feet. They aim for shiny things. They will aim for your watch or your glasses or your eyes. If you don't wash it off fast with sugar and water you are in trouble.”

  On the way back I said to Ana, “It was terrible. I was glad you told me about the showing off. I didn't mind that. But the snake—I wanted to break that bottle.”

  She said, “My own flesh and blood. To think of him there all the time. That's what I've had to live with. I wanted you to see him. It is what you might leave behind.”

  *

  I LET IT PASS. I had no wish to quarrel with her. She had been very good and delicate with her half-brother, very good in a bad situation; and old love and regard for her had welled up in me. Old love: it was still there, it could even be added to at moments like this, but it belonged now to another life, or a part of my life that had run its course. I no longer slept in her grandfather's big carved bed; but we lived easily in the same house, often ate together, and had many things to talk about. She no longer sought to rebuke me. Sometimes when we were talking she would pull herself up and say, “But I shouldn't be talking to you like this.” And a little while later she would start again. On estate matters and the doings of estate people I continued to trust her.

  And I wasn't surprised when news came that Carla Correia was selling her estate. Ana had always said that this was what Carla was going to do; that in spite of the talk of charity to a school friend, Luis and Graça had been put in the estate house only to keep it in good order until it could be sold. Carla had sold to a big property company in Portugal, and she had sold at the top. Estate prices, which had been falling because of the guerrilla war in the north and west, had risen again, in an irrational way, because certain influential people in Lisbon had begun to say that the government and the guerrillas were about to come to an agreement.