Jean-Marie Blas De Robles - Where Tigers Are at Home

Led by Mariazinha, the gathering saluted its god:

He’s come back from the Sudan,

The one who respects his mother alone …

He’s limping, he’s stumbling with fatigue

The one who haunts the graveyard bones …

A tôtô Obaluaê!

A tôtô Obaluaê!

A tôtô Bubá!

A tôtô Alogibá!

Omulú bajé, Jamboro!

He was there, the god they had begged to come, he was dancing, jerkily, alternating little leaps with his feet together and octopus-like undulations. A trance descended like a mist over all his devotees. Some ran over to Omulú to receive his blessing — a tap on the shoulders with the xaxará— others collapsed where they stood, bellowing, jiggling. The women undid their hair and shook their heads furiously, their faces veiled by their hair. Everyone was dancing to the rhythm of the drums that had been released. A kind of savage epilepsy swept through the terreiro .

Loredana was still observing all this as a spectator. She was also following the rhythm of the drums, swaying forward and back, cradling her own isolation, invisible at the heart of this company of the blind. Even Soledade, frenzied, no longer saw her. She found it almost amusing to observe the strange commotion — abrupt regroupings of cockroaches on a patch of grease — which suddenly began to spread: a woman threw herself on a man, lifted up her skirt and took him there, in front of everyone. They were caught up in an orgiastic wave that broke over the night. The god himself interrupted his dance, joined the crowd for a swift coupling, then returned to the arena to continue his ponderous dance. The bulbs were no longer lit, but someone must have been feeding the fires, for the bacchanal was gilded by high, desolate flames. An unknown man took Soledade. And as their bodies touched her thigh, Loredana saw their faces, strangely calm, strangely empty, in the vigorous embrace; a lascivious solemnity, which she observed, without judging it, with the sense of having gone beyond the limits of intoxication, of being out of her depth. The remnants of reason were sounding the alarm in her head, but she forced herself to drink in order to free herself from the control of that authority, impatient to catch up with the frenzy at work all around her. Something fundamental was moving over this mass of humans, something she desperately wanted to receive but that filled her every fiber with a twilight dread. There was a stirring of organic matter, a ferment of worm-ridden compost — a presence — and Omulú was there in front of her, unmoving, frightening, his penis sticking out through the raffia strands. Like a stained-glass window exposed to the fury of a fire, her mind flew into a thousand fragments. For a few seconds she made every effort to gather them together, stricken by a sense of absolute urgency, sheer animal panic. Then she lay down, half on Soledade, half on someone else, not even on the ground, her eyes staring up at the sky. Hands tore away her skirt, a body weighed down on her with the dry crackle of a straw mattress. The god penetrated her, giving off a smell of candle wax and crumbly soil.

She came to again a few minutes later. As she stood up, a sticky fluid dripped down from between her legs.

“He’s going to leave,” Soledade kept repeating in desperation, “he’s going to leave. Come on, quick!”

She dragged her into the arena, where the congregation was gathered round to see the last convulsions of the god. Mariazinha had taken back the xaxará and was making strange signs above him:

He’s going back to where he came from

To Luanda,

To Luanda,

May he take the sheaf of our prayers,

May he grant them before he returns.

Finally the man possessed by the god lay motionless, stretched out on his back, a Christ without his cross, a dervish released from his vertigo. They lifted up his body so that the mother of saints could remove his garb. And under the mask there was another mask, that of a man, jaw hanging loose, a blank expression on his face — the face of Alfredo.

Gilda awoke with a start at around three in the morning and listened to the noises of the house. The baby seemed to be whimpering. She waited a little, hoping it would go back to sleep. A persistent wail, the kind that comes with a sudden release after someone has held their breath for a long time, made her sit up in bed.

“What is it?” Nicanor grunted without opening his eyes.

“Nothing,” Gilda said affectionately. “I’ll go see.”

Reassured by his wife’s reply, Nicanor Carneiro immediately went back to sleep. He had been working hard for months without finding the time to rest and the birth of their first child hadn’t helped.

Fully awake now, Gilda disentangled her nightdress and trotted off to the other room. She was worried, Egon had never cried like that before, he must be ill. As she switched on the light, a hand was placed over her mouth, stifling her cry: a man, his face distorted by a nylon stocking, was beside the cradle, facing her, the baby under his arm and a razor in his right hand.

“Not a sound, bitch,” the one who was holding her from behind whispered. “Do what you’re told and nothing’ll happen to him.”

She started crying with terror and at the sense of her own powerlessness. Her legs gave way. The point of a knife was pressed against her throat: “You understand? Call your husband. Just tell him to come, nothing else.”

She couldn’t utter a sound. The baby, purple, retching, was choking with terror. The man grasped her breast and tightened his grip. “Get on with it, you cunt, or I’ll stick this into you!”

Carneiro came running at his wife’s second scream. He stood there, hair tousled, his nakedness emphasising how skinny he was, looking as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.

“No time for sleeping,” the man in the hood who was holding his wife said, “we’re in a hurry. You’ve ten seconds to put your name to this piece of paper.” His glance indicated the pen and sheet of paper on the table. “You sign and we go; any quibbling and your fucking brat gets it first. Is that clear?”

“Leave them alone,” Nicanor said, his voice hoarse with anger, “I’ll sign.”

The man checked the signature: Nicanor Carneiro, folded the bill of sale and put it in his pocket.

“There, that wasn’t difficult, was it?” he said in satisfied tones. “All right then,” he went on, pushing Gilda toward him, “you can have your old woman back. She’s got terrific tits, you must have a great time, you lucky bugger. C’mon, Pablo, put the kid down, we’re off.”

The silence following this command seemed to stretch on and on. All eyes turned toward the cradle, where the man with the razor was clumsily shaking the inert body of the baby, as if trying to make it work again.

“Frankly, Carlotta,” the Colonel said as he put down his napkin beside his plate, “you’re worrying about nothing.”

They were finishing their breakfast out on the patio. There was a flush of sunlight behind the still-wet foliage of the bougainvillea. Carlotta had hardly slept all night, her pale, bleary face was that of an old woman.

“Mauro’s a big boy now,” Moreira went on, “and from what I understand, he’s with people who know the area. They must have found what they’re looking for and it’s made them forget the rest of the world. You know what they’re like. So no news is good news. If something had happened to them — and I really can’t see what — we’d know by now.” He poured the rest of the coffee into his cup.