Jan Slauerhoff - The Forbidden Kingdom

Camões was left alone, sad at learning of a truth that left no room for any more hope. He stayed in the room, sometimes dizzy as if his life were about to explode and plunge into events that were unconnected with that life. When it was dark the nurse came in, motioned him to follow her and took him to the wall where he was to keep watch. The old woman put wine and fruit down beside him and left him alone. He kept a sharp watch over the bay; though some sails slid past, they never came close. The town was still in darkness, with only a faint beam from the lighthouse. In the middle of the night it was extinguished, and shortly afterwards a fire flared up in the same place on the dark cliffs which stayed alight all night. At sunrise, before he got a clear view of the town, the Chinese woman came to relieve him.

SO IT CONTINUED for many days and nights. Sometimes the moonlight was so clear in his thoughts, so calm that he started writing, but he never got very far, and it was as if Diana and Pilar were looking down mockingly at him from each side. He had kept watch twelve times perhaps — the moon was on the wane — when one night the wind had turned and was blowing from the town to the island. He thought he could hear a commotion; the bonfire had not been lit, but on the other side of the town a wide column of smoke rose up, which gradually turned to flame. Should he warn Pilar? It occurred to him that he might find her with her eyes closed. He walked round the house, saw a faint light and pulled open the closed blinds. Pilar was lying undressed under a mosquito screen but was not asleep; she was not alarmed by his arrival, but got up calmly and wrapped a cloak around her.

“Are they close by?”

“They’re not coming.”

“So why have you disturbed me?”

“There’s a big fire in town.”

Without saying another word she went with him to the shore. At first she saw nothing; had the blaze been extinguished? Camões pointed in the direction of the smoke: at that very moment the fire reappeared and flames flared up. Pilar grabbed his arm.

“It’s the monastery. The Dominicans are being driven out. That must be because of me. Go across and see what’s happening.”

“Must I leave you unprotected then?”

“No one will come tonight and you can be back before morning.”

Camões took the sampan that was moored by the wall and in an hour and a half had crossed the bay; on the way back, with a following wind, it would be quicker. He forced his craft among a huddle of junks, so that it would be hidden, and committed the location to memory; then he climbed ashore. All the streets were empty. He hurried along, sometimes losing his way, but then he saw the smoke and fire rising above the houses again.

The monastery was situated in a wide open square; both wings were on fire, but the central section was still untouched. In front of the heavy locked gate he saw a hole with earth beside it, as if it had been freshly dug. A detachment of troops kept back a throng of ordinary Chinese. Amid the cries of mourning that rose from their midst, he heard the call for revenge and torture. Gradually Camões was able to make out from the conversations of the colonialists around him that the Dominicans had been accused of a murder for ritual purposes; the bodies of two children had been found in the monastery garden, and had been recognized as the children of a Chinese merchant. The people were yelling for revenge. If the Dominicans went unpunished, it would mean the end of the colony. The authorities had put a guard on all approaches to the monastery; tonight it had nevertheless been set on fire, and the rabble were waiting until the Dominicans had been smoked out in order to vent their anger on them. It was doubtful whether the weak guard would suffice to keep them in check.

Camões had carelessly asked a few questions, not realizing that the Portuguese in Macao, four hundred at the time, all knew each other, so that he was bound to call attention to himself. They asked in return who he was, and he did not know what to say; fortunately he was saved by the surging crowd. The fire had also spread to the centre of the monastery and the gate opened. The soldiers formed a double hedge, turning their lances outward against the thronging mass; some were run through and fell with a roar of pain, while the monks came calmly out. The last of them, a tall man with white waving hair, was going to close the gate behind him, as if wanting to protect the monastery for as long as possible, but two men plunged through the cordon and grabbed him.

“Are you going to let my daughter burn to death?” yelled one of them and yanked at his arms.

“She has never been here.”

“So where is she?”

“Safe. God will protect her.”

The soldiers surrounded the monks in a cordon three-deep and escorted them to where three Chinese in the robes of supreme judges were waiting. Ronquilho gave an order: the cordon opened and let the prior through. The Chinese judges seemed to question him briefly. Another order from Ronquilho: the soldiers withdrew and a Chinese force surrounded the monks and took them away.

The Procurador and the Hao Ting had agreed to satisfy the will of the people publicly by transferring them from Portuguese authority into the hands of Chinese justice. For the immediate safety of the monks this seemed preferable, though its effectiveness in saving their lives was doubtful. They would be lucky to die untortured. But Campos had justified himself to his compatriots and would be honoured for his strict justice among the Chinese people. For the second time after all the setbacks he had suffered, he had a good night’s sleep: on both occasions he had eliminated a powerful adversary, and on both occasions the expected booty had eluded him. First Velho, now the Dominicans. But on both occasions his lust for revenge had been satisfied. The monastery was slowly burning down. People were throwing books from one of the windows: the library was saved because Campos hoped to find compromising documents or clues to Pilar’s whereabouts.

As he stood there enjoying the fire, Ronquilho ran in through the gate, although stumbling badly, and disappeared into the monastery. No one expected to see him again, but he seemed to be fireproof, or perhaps his boots and cuirass offered some protection. Smouldering and giving off a pungent stench, he once again stood before Campos.

“She’s not there. They let her burn to death.”

The people gradually retreated back to the alleyways. It was dangerous to hang about for too long and Camões too slunk away, without realizing that he was being followed. Considering whether he should tell Pilar everything or keep back the fact that a man had gone into the burning building for her sake, he reached the place where the junks had been moored. But the junks had set sail. He stared along the empty harbour, and was grabbed from behind without having a chance to resist. He allowed himself to be carried off: he was beginning to resign himself to his fate, which henceforth would consist of nothing but transferring from one prison to another.

IN THE AUTUMN OF 19… I was living half sick and completely destitute in a room on the top floor of a village hotel. If the shipwreck on the Trafalgar had not intervened, I could have remained all my life what I was: a radio operator, that is, a creature neither fish nor fowl, sailor nor landlubber, officer nor subordinate. I was not satisfied with my life that was no life, where you feel like a human toadstool if you spend all your time in a clammy, stinking cabin hunched on a worn-out office chair. But I was resigned to the fact that it would be like this to the end of my days or until my pension, from which even a frugal, sober man, such as I have become over those years of sedentary wandering, cannot live on shore, unless it be in some place of exile. Everything had remained as it was. My days were divided into a six-hour watch of listening, sometimes drowsily, sometimes intently, and six hours of dull, restless sleep.