Chronicler Of The Winds

Dawn

I will never forget that morning.

When I left the bakery, I stepped out into a dawn light that I had never witnessed before. Or was it my eyes that had changed, so that they could now take in the secrets of the light, the blush of dawn, coloured by Nelio's invisible spirit, which was floating free in its own space? I stood motionless on the street; the insight that Nelio had given me up there on the roof, that a human being is always at the centre of the world, no matter where he finds himself, now seemed to me quite self-evident.

A rat was sitting beside a cracked manhole cover, watching me with nervous eyes.

A slight tremor passed through the earth. I had never experienced such a thing before, but I knew what it was. The old people who had survived it in Dom Joaquim's first years as governor had recounted how the earth began to shake, how the ground had opened up, and how houses had collapsed. Those who had lived so long that they could remember that time had been waiting ever since for the tremors to come back one day, and for the earth to crack open again. I knew that was why so many old people refused to set foot on stairs or to have their beds on the first or second floor of buildings in the city of stone. They wanted to live on the ground, close to the earth, even though the fissure might open up right at their feet. They would rather be swallowed up by the warm earth than be crushed under a collapsing building.

The tremors were brief, barely more than ten seconds. Flakes of cement fell from the bakery walls, a window pane rattled. The rat disappeared underground. That was all. Then it was quiet once more. The early-morning people out on the streets – the drowsy street kids, workers and empregados on their way to various jobs – stopped in their tracks. It seemed as if the quake didn't really register in their bodies; it was more like a sound they seemed to hear, a feeling that something unusual was about to happen. When it was over, there was a vast silence. The city held its breath. Then a great turmoil erupted. People came rushing out of the buildings, many still in their night-clothes. Some carried small boxes containing their valuables, others seemed to have grabbed the nearest object without thinking. I saw people holding little mirrors, fans, a frying pan. The panic was palpable. Everyone stood in small, anxious groups in the middle of the street so as not to risk being struck by toppling buildings.

It was then that I noticed something quite strange. Everyone was looking up, to the sky and the sun, even though the tremors had come from below, an invisible shaking inside the earth. I still don't understand why they did that, although I've thought about it a great deal during the past year.

I must have been the only person who wasn't afraid.

Not because I'm so brave or fearless, but because I was the only one who knew what had happened. The trembling we heard or felt, as if it were some extraordinary portent, was Nelio's spirit breaking free from the last bonds that tied him to this world and, with violent force, slinging itself through the transparent barrier that forms the border to the other world, where his ancestors and those who once lived in the burned village were waiting for him. Alfredo Bomba would be there too, and this life was already a distant memory, like some mysterious dream only partly remembered. I looked at the people huddled together and thought that I ought to climb up on the roof of a car and explain what had happened. But I didn't. I simply left and went down to the shore, where I sat down in the shade of a tree with roots almost completely exposed by the shifting sand. I sat there looking out to the sea, at the small fishing boats with their triangular sails that were heading into the wide band of sunshine.

My sorrow was heavy. The dignity with which Nelio had left this world could only partially ease my pain of being left behind. At the same time I didn't know whether I could fully trust my own judgement. I was worn out after the long nights, I was exhausted in a way that I had never before experienced in all my life.

And I fell asleep sitting there next to the tree in the sand. My dreams were troubled. Nelio was alive, he had been transformed into a dog that I was trying to find as I dashed through the city. When I woke up I was soaked with sweat and extremely thirsty. From the sun I could tell that I had been asleep for hours. I walked down to the water's edge and rinsed my face. When I went back to the city, I saw that the commotion of the morning had subsided. Here and there people stood talking about the strange shaking inside the earth, but already it seemed a distant memory. They were now waiting for the next time, maybe in a hundred years, when it would happen again.

I reached the bakery and saw that the bakers were hard at work pulling the baking pans out of the ovens. Next to one of the ovens I noticed a scrap of the bandage that Nelio had worn around his chest on the last night. It must have come loose when I shoved his body into the fire. I glanced around and then snatched up the scrap of cloth and tossed it into the flames. Then I went out to the back courtyard and washed my whole body. I thought that now I ought to go back to the home I shared with my brother and his family. My life would now return to the way it was before I heard the shots fired in the deserted theatre that night. Nelio was gone. But Maria was still here, with her smile, along with all the bread that we had yet to bake during the countless nights that lay ahead of us.

But it was still too early. I went up to the roof, almost expecting to find Nelio there, his face pale with fever. But there was only the mattress, hollowed by the impress of his thin body. I shook it and then leaned it against the chimney to air. I folded the blanket, which I had to return to the nightwatchman. There was nothing else. I stuffed the cup that had held Senhora Muwulene's herbs into my pocket. Just as I was about to leave, I noticed the cat, which had come to visit on several nights, curling up at Nelio's feet or by his head. I tried to entice it to come closer, but without success. The cat kept its wary distance. When I stood up to go, it was still sitting there, staring at me. That was the last time I saw it. During all the nights I have since spent up here on the roof, the cat has never once come back.

Sometimes I think that the cat must have followed Nelio across to the other world. Maybe cats can keep on living in the land of the dead.

When I came down from the roof, Dona Esmeralda had arrived. She had brought along a bag of money – God knows where she got it – and she sat down on her stool and paid out the wages with her thin, wizened fingers. Although she was not miserly, it always seemed hard for her to let the money go. I think I understood why. There was so much she needed to do for her theatre, so many other things she would have liked to use the money for. Not for herself. Dona Esmeralda never bought anything for herself. The hat she wore was at least fifty years old, as were her clothes and the shabby shoes on her feet.

'Did you feel the earthquake?' she asked me.

'Yes,' I replied. 'The earth shook. Twice – like in a dream when you shudder from something unexpected.'

'I remember when it happened before,' she said. 'It was during my father's time. The priests thought it was an omen that the world was about to end.'

We said nothing more. I repaid the money I had borrowed from the girls at the bread counter and then left the bakery. The street kids were scavenging for food in the rubbish bins, the Indian shopkeepers were pushing up the heavy iron gratings on their windows and doors; the air was filled with the smell of corn gruel cooking; and no one, not one person, knew that Nelio was dead.

Without knowing why, I stopped outside one of the Indian shops and walked into the dim interior. Everything was the same as always. Behind the cash register sat a fat Indian woman, keeping an eye on her black sales clerks. A very old man bowed and asked me what I wanted.

What I wanted?

'I want Nelio back,' I said. 'I want him to be alive again.'

The old man gave me a meditative look.

'We don't have that,' he said softly. 'But if senhor would like to try the shop across the street… They have unusual items. They import directly from those countries where people have slanting eyes.'

I thanked him. Then I bought a hat. There were some hanging on the wall behind him, and I pointed to the one in the middle.

'A hat is nice in the heat,' said the old man, unhooking it with a long stick that had a claw on the end.

The hat was white, with a black band around the crown. He wrote out an order, which I took to the woman at the cash register. As I was taking out my money, I realised that it cost more than half my month's wages. I picked up my new hat, set it on my head and went back out into the sunlight.

I walked to a café and had some food. My mind was empty.

In the evening I returned to the bakery. Maria was already there.

Her dress was gauzy and thin, her smile was broad.

'Did you feel the earthquake?' I asked.

'No,' she said and smiled. 'I was asleep.' Then we began working. At midnight I followed her out to the street. I touched her arm as we parted. She smiled.

That night I did not go up to the roof. When I needed some air, I went out to the street and sat on the steps.

The following day I returned home to my brother and his family. They were very glad to see me. My sister-in-law wondered whether I was ill.

'A man who buys a new hat isn't ill,' said my brother. 'A man does as he pleases. He goes home if he wants to, or he stays away.'

I lay awake in my bed for a long time, listening to all the sounds coming through the thin walls.

I knew that something was happening inside me, but I did not know what it was.

Not yet.

Several weeks passed. I baked my bread, touched Maria's arm, and hung my hat on the hook next to the ovens. On a few occasions when I didn't feel like going home in the morning, I crawled through the ventilation shafts and watched Dona Esmeralda's rehearsals of the play about the revolutionary elephants. Different actors tried out for the role of Dom Joaquim, but none of them in Dona Esmeralda's eyes was suitable. The actors seemed more and more confused about the meaning of the drama. They tried playing it in various ways: as a tragedy a comedy and a farce. But no matter what they did, the elephant trunks got in the way. One time the beautiful, young and pampered Elena started to cry onstage. It looked so odd to see her trying to wipe her tears behind the trunk. That was the only time I laughed during those days after Nelio's death. A single laugh that floated weightless in the space where I no longer felt at home.

One night I followed Maria out to the street, saw her smile and watched her leave. I went back into the bakery, shoved the baking pan into the oven, and closed the door.

I knew then that this would be the last night I worked for Dona Esmeralda.

I would finish up everything. In the morning I would wash myself at the back of the bakery; I would take my hat and leave, never to return.

I had come to the realisation that I could no longer be a baker. I had a different mission for the rest of the days that were allotted to my life. I had to tell Nelio's story. The world could not get along without it. I would not allow his story to be forgotten.

After more than a year I can still remember that moment quite clearly. I didn't actually make a decision. The decision already existed inside me, but it wasn't until that moment that I knew what I had to do. I thought about how I would miss the fragrance of fresh bread. I would miss Maria and her gauzy dresses. Maybe I would even miss Dona Esmeralda and her theatre.

And yet that moment was not a difficult one. I think it would be more truthful to say that it was a relief.

In the morning, after I had washed and then taken my hat from its hook, I waited for Dona Esmeralda to tell her of my decision. But she didn't come. Finally I turned to one of the enticing girls at the bread counter.

'I'm quitting today,' I said, tipping my hat. 'Tell Dona Esmeralda that José Antonio Maria Vaz will not be working here any more. Tell her that I've enjoyed the time I've worked here. And tell her that I will never, for as long as I live, bake bread for any other baker.'

Was it Rosa I spoke to? I remember her surprised look. Who would be so stupid as to voluntarily quit working for Dona Esmeralda? With thousands of people already out of work, with no money and no food?

'You heard me right,' I told her, tipping my hat again. 'I'm leaving now, and I won't be back.'

But that was not entirely true. I had already decided to wait for Maria that evening. I wanted to see her because I wanted to say goodbye and wish her good luck in the future. Maybe deep inside I hoped that she would come with me? I don't know. But where would she have followed me? Where was I actually going?

My answer was: I didn't know. I was carrying out an important mission, but I didn't know which way to go.

After I left the bakery on that last morning, I felt a great sense of freedom. I couldn't even see why I should grieve for Nelio.

Maybe it would be better to grieve for Alfredo Bomba, who probably would not be happy where he was now. For a long time he would no doubt be yearning for his life on the street, for the group of street kids, for the rubbish bins and the cardboard boxes outside the Ministry of Justice.

That's the way it is. A person can yearn for a rubbish bin or for life eternal. It all depends.

I went over to the plaza where Nelio's equestrian statue stood. When I got there, I saw to my astonishment that it had fallen over. There was a great crowd in the plaza. The Indian shopkeepers had not opened their shops, but Manuel Oliveira, on the other hand, had thrown wide the doors of his church.

The equestrian statue had fallen.

I realised that the tremors of the day before had been strong enough to crack the foundation of the heavy statue. The bronze horse and rider lay on their side; the man's helmet was crushed. The last remnant of a bygone era had been toppled. Reporters from the city's newspapers scribbled notes, a photographer took pictures, and children had already started playing and jumping on Dom Joaquim's last monument.

Manuel's church was crowded with people. They were rattling off their prayers as a safeguard and incantation that the tremors would not return. Old Manuel stood under the tall black cross at the far end of the church, looking at the miracle that had occurred. He might have been crying; I was so far away that I couldn't tell for sure. I left the plaza, thinking that Nelio's spirit was hovering above my head. His suffering was over, the bullets in his body could no longer poison him. As one last salute, he had made the horse in whose belly he had lived topple to the ground. For hours I sat on a bench near the hospital, where there's a view of the whole city. From there, if I squinted, I could even see the rooftop where Nelio had lain for the nine nights he told me his story.

I had much to think about. Where would I live? What would I live on? Who would give a man who has only a story to tell the food that he needs? I sat there on the bench in the shade, growing more uneasy.

Then I thought about the children who live on the streets; I thought about Nelio, Alfredo Bomba, Pecado and the others. They found their food in rubbish bins, the free meals of the poor. That food was there for me too. I could live anywhere. Like a lizard I would seek out a crack in the wall that was wide enough for me. There were cardboard boxes, rusting cars. The city was full of places to live that cost nothing.

I knew that I could no longer live with my brother and his family. That was a home that belonged to the life I had left behind. I got up from the bench feeling strangely elated. I had been worrying for no reason. I was a rich man. I had Nelio's story to tell. I needed nothing else.

That evening I waited in the dark outside the bakery for Maria. When I saw her coming, I suddenly didn't dare approach her. I tried to hide in the dark, but she had already seen me. Her dress was gauzy, and she was smiling. I stepped out of the shadows; I felt almost like an actor emerging from the wings on to the illuminated stage. I hastily ran my hand over my face to make sure there was no elephant trunk stuck to my nose. Then I tipped my hat.

'Maria,' I said. 'How could I ever forget a woman who sleeps so soundly that an earthquake can't wake her? What were you dreaming about?'

She laughed and tossed back her long black tranças.

'My dreams are my own concern,' she said. 'But I like your hat. It suits you.'

'I bought it so that I could tip it for you,' I said.

Her expression was suddenly sombre. 'Why are you standing out here?'

I had taken off my hat and was holding it to my chest, as if I were at a funeral. I told her the truth. That everything was over. That I had quit.

'Why?'

'I have a story that I have to tell,' I said.

To my astonishment, she seemed to understand me. She didn't seem surprised like the girl at the bread counter had been.

'You must do what you have to do,' she said.

Then we parted. She hurried to the bakery. She didn't want to be late. I didn't even have time to touch her arm. That was the last time she stood so close to me.

Maria, the woman I will never forget, is close at my side. The Maria I sometimes see on the streets, from a distance, is someone else.

I watched her leave. She turned round once, waved and smiled. I took off my hat and held it in my hand until she was gone. I never put that hat on again. I didn't need it any more. I set it on top of a rubbish bin that was nearby. Later I thought I saw what was left of my hat on a street kid's head. It seemed to me that the hat liked being where it was.

A year has passed since Nelio died.

I watched Maria disappear, and then I walked into my new life. I started living as a beggar, looking for food in rubbish bins, sleeping in the crannies of buildings and walls. And I started telling my story.

Nelio's group disbanded. I sometimes saw Nascimento, who had joined a group of the wildest kids, the ones who lived outside the central marketplace. He seemed the same as usual. He took his cardboard box with him wherever he went. I wondered whether he would ever manage to kill the monsters inside him. Although now he had a knife, which he often sat and sharpened.

I found Pecado one day when I was wandering around the rich people's district of the city. He was selling flowers on a street corner. I wondered whether he had grown them in his own pockets the way Mandioca did. He must have been doing good business, because he was wearing clean clothes with no holes in them.

Tristeza I stumbled upon one time outside one of the big cafés where tourists and cooperantes tend to gather. He was sleeping in the middle of the pavement, and his trainers were gone. He was barefoot again. He was the filthiest street kid I've ever seen. He stank. He had permanent sores from fleas and scabies, and he was itching and scratching in his sleep. He was terribly skinny, and I thought that Nelio had been right. He wouldn't last long in this world, which didn't need people who were slow-witted. I left without waking him, and I never saw him again.

Mandioca was gone. For a long time I wondered whether some accident had befallen him, or whether he was dead. By chance, much later on, I found out that he had voluntarily gone to one of the big buildings where white-clad nuns give children clothing and food. He had decided to stay. And I don't think he ever did go back to the streets.

I even saw Deolinda again.

That's one of the darkest memories I have from the year that has passed since Nelio lay on the rooftop and died.

It was late one night, on one of the main streets that leads past the area where the pavement restaurants are, near the rich district of town where a lot of cooperantes have their houses. I don't remember where I was going, since I'm seldom on my way to anywhere except where my feet happen to take me. Girls were always standing at the intersections, offering themselves. I found it embarrassing to walk past them, and I usually fixed my gaze on the pavement or in some other direction. But on a street corner, late one night, I saw Deolinda. She was heavily made up, almost unrecognisable; she was wearing provocative clothes, and she was tapping her foot impatiently. After I had walked past, I stopped and turned. I hoped that one day Cosmos would come back from his long journey and take care of his sister.

I hoped that it wouldn't be too late.

At night, when I'm on my way to my rooftop, I sometimes stop outside a restaurant to listen to the music. Whenever I hear the monotonous but lovely notes of timbila, I'm drawn back in my mind to the nights that I spent with Nelio. I could stand there for hours, listening. From the music rise voices, forgotten long ago by everyone except me.

One time I went out to the big cemetery when Nelio spent a night in Senhor Castigo's tomb. I found my way over to the section reserved for the graves of the poor. Somewhere lay the remains of Alfredo Bomba's body. His bones had already become mixed with others in the earth; they lay there, packed together, one person's jawbone next to someone else's hand, and they cried out like a choir, in utter despair at their desolation. I seemed to sense the restless dance of all the spirits that cannot find peace, and as long as the spirits are not content, the war will continue to ravage this land.

My story is drawing to a close. I have told everything, and now I will start over again.

I know that I am called the Chronicler of the Winds because no one has yet made the effort to listen to what I have to say.

But I know the day will come.

It will come because it has to come.

A year has passed since the shots were fired.

I spend my nights on the roof of the theatre.

That's where I still belong.

The baker who works during the quiet hours of the night, the man who replaced me, will never tell anyone that I'm there. Sometimes he shares his food with me.

I need the silence of the roof after the long days under the searing sun. I still have my mattress. Here I can lie and look up at the stars before I fall asleep. Here I can think about everything that Nelio told me before he died. I know that I have to keep telling his story even if only the winds from the sea listen to what I have to say. I have to keep talking about this earth, which is sinking farther and farther into unconsciousness, where people must live to forget and not to remember. I have to keep speaking so that the dreams will not grow hot with fever, then cool and finally die. It's as if Nelio wants to place his hand on the earth's forehead and mix Senhora Muwulene's herbs into the rivers and oceans of the world. The earth is sinking farther and farther, the groups of street children are more numerous and grow larger – the street children who live in the poorest of countries, the lands of street children.

My story is done, but it keeps on starting over. In the end it will hover like an invisible note, embedded in the wind that ceaselessly blows from the sea. It will exist in the raindrops falling on the parched earth, and in the end it will exist in the air we breathe. I know that it's true, what Nelio told me, that our last hope is to remember who we are, that we are human beings who will never be able to control the warm winds from the sea, but maybe one day we will understand why the winds must always continue to blow.

I, José Antonio Maria Vaz, a lonely man on a rooftop under the starry tropical sky, have a story to tell…