Ana and I would also have had our characters. And, since no one can really see himself, I am sure that we would have been surprised and perhaps even wounded—just as the Correias and Ricardo and the Noronhas would have been surprised and wounded—by what the others saw.
This style of estate life would have begun in the 1920s, after the wartime boom. It would have become well established during the Second World War. So it was comparatively new; it could have been contained within the lifetime or even adulthood of a man. It didn't have much longer to go now; and I wonder whether in our circle we hadn't all (and not only the theatrical Correias) been granted some unsettling intimation, which we might have brushed aside, that our bluff in Africa would one day be called. Though I don't think anyone could have guessed that the world of concrete was going to be so completely overwhelmed by the frail old world of straw.
Sometimes we went for Sunday lunch to the rough weekend restaurant on the coast. It offered fresh seafood simply done, and it began to do well. It became less rough. When we went one Sunday we found the floor being tiled, in a pretty blue and yellow arabesque pattern that made us exclaim. The tiler was a big light-eyed mulatto man. For some reason—perhaps for not finishing the job on time—he was being abused and shouted at by the Portuguese owner. With us, and his other customers, the owner was as civil as always; but then, switching character and mood, he went back to abusing the tiler. At every shout the big light-eyed man lowered his head, as though he had received a blow. He was sweating; it seemed to be with more than heat. He went on with his delicate work, laying out the thin, fast-drying mortar, and then pressing and lightly tapping each pretty Portuguese tile into place. The sweat rolled down his pale-brown forehead and from time to time he shook it like tears from his eyes. He was in shorts; they were tight over his muscular thighs as he squatted. Little springs and twists of coarse hair were on his thighs and on his face, where close shaving had pock-marked the skin. He never replied to the shouts of the owner, whom he could so easily have knocked down. He just kept on working.
Ana and I talked afterwards about what we had seen. Ana said, “The tiler is illegitimate. His mother would be African. His father was almost certainly a big Portuguese landowner. The restaurant man would know that. The rich Portuguese put their illegitimate mulatto children to learning certain trades. Electrician, mechanic, metal-worker, carpenter, tiler. Though most of the tilers here come from the north of Portugal.”
I said nothing more to Ana. But whenever I remembered the big sweating man with the abused light eyes, carrying the shame of his birth on his face like a brand, I would think, “Who will rescue that man? Who will avenge him?”
In time the emotion became mixed with other things. But the picture stayed. It was my own intimation of what was to come. And when, in my third year, the news began to leak into our controlled newspapers of big happenings on the other side of the continent, I was half ready for it.
The news was too big to suppress. The authorities might have wanted in the beginning to keep it quiet; but then they went the other way, and began to play up the horror. There had been an uprising in one region, and a mass killing of Portuguese in the countryside. Two hundred, three hundred, perhaps even four hundred, had died, and they had been done to death with machetes. I imagined a landscape like ours (though I knew this to be wrong), and Africans like ours, their huts and villages and cassava-and-corn plantings in the spaces between the big estates: the repeating neat acres of cashew and sisal, the great treeless cattle ranches looking like just-cleared wilderness, with the black trunks of big trees that had been felled or burnt to deny shelter to the poisonous flies that preyed on cattle. Order and logic; the land being made softer; but the picture I had had on my first day, of small-boned people always walking beside the road, had seemed dream-like and threatening, telling me that the place I had come to was very far away. Now it seemed prophetic.
But the Africans around us seemed not to have heard anything. There was no change in their manner. Not that day or the next, not the next week or the next month. Correia, the man with the bank accounts, said that the ordinariness was ominous; some terrible jacquerie was preparing here as well. But the ordinariness stayed with us for the rest of the year, and seemed likely to endure. And all the precautions we had been taking—having guns and clubs to hand in the bedroom: futile if there had been anything like a general insurrection, or even a revolt in the quarters—began to seem excessive.
That was when I learned to use a gun. Word came to us and our neighbours, discreetly, that we could get instruction at the police shooting range in the town. The little garrison didn't have that facility, so unready was it for a war. Our neighbours were eager, but I didn't particularly want to go to the police range. I had never wanted to handle guns. There hadn't been anything like a cadet corps at the mission school; and my worry—greater than my worry about Africans—was that I was going to make a fool of myself before important people. But then, to my great surprise, I was entranced the first time I looked down a gun-sight with a finger on the trigger. It seemed to me the most private, the most intense moment of conversation with oneself, so to speak, with that split-second of right decision coming and going all the time, almost answering the movements of one's mind. It wasn't at all what I was expecting. I feel that the religious excitement that is supposed to come to people who meditate on the flame of a single candle in an otherwise dark room was no greater than the pleasure I felt when I looked down a gun-sight and became very close to my own mind and consciousness. In a second the scale of things could alter and I could be lost in something like a private universe. It was strange, being on the shooting range in Africa and thinking in a new way of my father and his brahmin ancestors, starveling servants of the great temple. I bought a gun. I set up targets in the grounds of Ana's grandfather's house and practised whenever I could. Our neighbours began to look at me with a new regard.
The government took its time, but then things began to move. The garrison was increased. There were new barracks, three storeys high, in bright white concrete. The cantonment or military area spread, plain concrete on bare sand. A board with various military emblems said that we had become the headquarters of a new military command. The life of the town altered.
*
THE GOVERNMENT was authoritarian. But most of the time we didn't think of it like that. We felt the government to be far away, something in the capital, something in Lisbon. It sat lightly on us here. I worried about it only at sisal-cutting time, when we made our requisitions from the prisons, and they, for a consideration, sent convicts (properly guarded) to cut sisal. Cutting sisal was dangerous work. Village Africans didn't want to do it. Sisal is like a bigger aloe or pineapple plant, or like a giant spiky green rose, four or five feet high, with thick pulpy blades instead of petals. The blades have cutting serrated edges, frightful to run your hand down the wrong way, and are very thick at the base. They are awkward and dangerous to handle and hard to hack away. The long black point at the end of a sisal blade is needle-sharp and poisonous. Rats are plentiful in a sisal plantation; they like the shade and feed on sisal pulp; and venomous snakes come to feed on the rats, swallowing them whole, and very slowly. It is frightening to see half a rat, head or tail, sticking out of a snake's distended mouth and still apparently living. A sisal plantation is a terrible place, and it was a rule (or just our practice) that a medical nurse should be standing by with medicines and snake-bite serum when sisal was being cut. Such dangerous work; and only five per cent of sisal pulp became sisal fibre; and that fibre was cheap and was used in ordinary things like rope and baskets and sandal soles. Without the convicts it would have been hard to harvest our sisal. Even at that time synthetic fibre was beginning to replace it. I didn't mind at all.