Ama (59 page)

“Tell me,” she asked when she had recovered. “How long have your been doing this?”

“Oh, three, four years now.”

“But,” Ama looked at her, “you can't be more than seventeen?”

“I think I'm sixteen, but I'm not sure. I came with my mother. She was already sick when we got off the ship. She died soon after the master bought us. He said he had been cheated; that he had wasted his money and that he would make me pay back every Milréis he had spent on her. He used to take everything from me. It is only since last month that he has let me keep anything I earn above six Milréis a week. Now I am saving up to buy my freedom.”

* * *

During the week there was a constant coming and going of customers. Again and again she was examined and inspected. She dealt with the humiliation by blanking her mind or focusing her thoughts on something far away and pleasant.

The customers made their notes. Afterwards they sat and talked with Cardozo, drinking rum or coffee. Sometimes money changed hands.

On Friday morning when Ama woke up, Luiza was huddled by her side, her head under her cloth as usual, fast asleep.

Roberto summoned her. She rose and went to the master's table, expecting to be inspected by an early morning customer. Cardozo identified her from her number. He found her name and number and ticked if off in his ledger.

There were six of them. She was the only woman. A stranger was waiting for them, a black man, a slave judging by his bare feet, but dressed in neat, clean working clothes, trousers and shirt.

Cardozo wrote a waybill and the man made his mark at the bottom.

“You have been sold,” Roberto announced. “This is Josef Vellozo. He will take you to your new master.”

Then he spoke to Ama.

“You are lucky. He is a Fanti man. He will look after you.”

* * *

Every step required an effort. When Ama put a foot down, the heavy clay seemed to embrace it; when she tried to lift it the clay sucked it down; when she pulled it free it carried a sticky load. From time to time she found a small patch of grass and stopped. Balancing on one foot, she used the other to scrape off some of the accretion.

Josef slowed down to let her catch up.

“Massapé,” he said.

“Massapé?” she asked.

“That's what we call this clay. It's good for the cane, but the devil to walk through when it's wet; and worse still for carts.”

Massapé
. Ama concentrated on the word.

“Sister Ama,” Josef called back, disturbing her reverie, “do you know what this is?”

He was pointing to the plants on either side. They grew thick and green, twice as tall as a man. It was like walking through a green tunnel.

“Sugar cane?” she guessed.

She had interrogated Josef relentlessly during the journey across the bay.

“Clever! Right first time. You must have seen it before.”

“No, never. This is the first time. It looks so beautiful, swaying in the breeze.”

“Beautiful? Yes, perhaps, but you will soon learn to hate the sight of it. You see these, with the purple flowers and the seeds just beginning to form on top? That is the sign that it is ready for cutting. If they leave it much longer it will start to dry up and the juice will turn sour. That's why the
safra
is about to start. The big rains are over and the cane is ripe.

“Once the cane is cut they must take it to the mill and crush it without delay or it will spoil. That is why you will learn to hate it. Our lives are ruled by this beautiful cane: clear the land for it; hoe the massapé for it; plant it; weed it; cut it; send it to the mill; mill it; boil the juice; turn it into sugar; pack it; send it to Salvador and from Salvador to Portugal. And then start all over again. Day in day out; week in week out; year in year out. Sugar cane and sugar until the day you die.”

* * *

An ox cart blocked their passage.

It had overturned, depositing its load of firewood in the road. Josef stopped and he and his five men helped the carter and his mate to tip the vehicle back on to its wheels. They gave it a push to help the four oxen on their way. The carter cracked his whip.

Ahead of them three more carts, their axles creaking, lumbered slowly through the mud. The wheels were crudely fashioned out of solid wood. The oxen seemed to be fighting an unequal battle. Ama gave them a wide berth. She feared them but she pitied them too.

They look as if their hearts will break
, she thought.

The drivers greeted them with a crack of their whips.

“They are from one of our outgrower plantations,” Josef explained.

A white man approached them down the track, followed by an emaciated, mangy dog. Ama had never seen a white man like him before. He was dressed in ragged pants and a dirty shirt open at the front. He carried a half empty bottle and from his gait appeared drunk. Josef's party stepped aside to let him pass.

“Good afternoon, senhor,” Josef greeted him politely, but he paid no attention.

“Who is he?” Ama asked when he was out of earshot.

“I've never seen him before, but I know his kind. He probably owns a small engenho but has run it so badly that he has had to sell all his slaves. Now he has none left. He is too lazy and, like all the whites, too proud to do any physical labour himself. God knows how he lives. He probably begs from his neighbours or steals from the vegetable plots of the slaves on nearby plantations. But he has a white skin; so we must call him senhor.”

As the sun went down the track took them right through the yard of a ruined engenho. The buildings were dilapidated. The front wall of one had collapsed, bringing down the roof. An emaciated dog barked at them. Josef picked up a stone and it retreated. A scrawny hen scratched at the ground, surrounded by miserable chicks..

Josef saw Ama surveying the premises and laughed at her dismay.

“No,” he told her, “this is not our place. This is the Engenho do Meio. It's a
fogo morto
, a dead estate.”

Small black children, naked, with swollen bellies, came out of a shed and watched them shyly. A pot boiled on an open fire, unattended.

The door hung on fragile hinges. Josef pushed it open and, announcing himself, went inside.

“Ama, come,” he said.

She bent low to let the basket pass.

In the gloom a woman and several children of various ages were sitting around a pile of cassava tubers, scraping away the poisonous skin.

A man came out of the darkness. Josef greeted him as he helped Ama to put the basket down.

“I brought you some fish,” he said in Fanti as he selected two. “I am sorry that is all I can spare.”

The woman rose, wiping her hands on her torn cloth. She bent a knee and bowed her head. Then she took the fish.

“My brother, I don't know how to thank you,” the man said. “You never forget us. If it weren't for you . . .”

Josef stopped him.

“If I were in your place and you in mine, would you not do the same? Indeed it is little enough. How is the baby?”

The woman turned away. The man just shook his head.

“There was nothing we could do,” he said. “We buried him this morning.”

Josef put a hand on his arm.

“Perhaps it was for the best,” he said. “Now we must go. It is already dark. Please give us a torch to light our way.”

“There's not far to go now,” Josef told Ama as they made their way out the yard.

He waved to his friend who had come to see them off.

“Fifi and I were captured together. When we first came here, this was a rich farm. I was happy to have a friend so close by. Then his master died. He had many mulatto children but only one son by his white wife. The boy is a spoiled good-for-nothing. The first thing he did was to sell his own half brothers. Then, one by one, he sold the livestock and equipment and the other slaves. Now none remain except Fifi, whom he left to guard the place until he can sell the land and the buildings. They say that in Salvador he lives a grand life. Who knows what he will do when he has sold the plantation itself and finished spending the proceeds?

“What I fear most is that they will sell the woman and the children first, leaving Fifi alone. I know my friend. That would drive him mad.”

CHAPTER 31

Two dark bundles came hurtling out of the night and almost bowled Josef over.

“Papa, Papa,” Ama heard, but the rest of their talk was in Portuguese and beyond her.

“My boys,” Josef told her proudly. “They were lying in wait for me.”

She heard him speak her name. The two small boys came shyly to shake her hand and then to greet the other newcomers. Then they led their father, one at each hand, through the gate and into the yard.

“Well, here we are at last,” Josef told Ama. “I will take you to greet the Senhor and then we'll see if we can find something to eat.”

They had left the sticky massapé and were walking on sand. Ama paused to wipe away some of the mud. Somewhere in the darkness, dogs barked. There was no moon but she could see the outline of the double storied building silhouetted against the milky way. The rooms upstairs were dimly lit. By contrast, the downstairs veranda was ablaze with light.

Josef led them to the bottom of the steps and had them stand in line.

“Senhor, good evening,” he said and then helped Ama to set the basket down.

The Senhor was a large, untidy man. On his forehead his white hair was receding, but at the back and sides it was long, uncut and unkempt. His shirt was open at the front, exposing a large belly, fat breasts and a hairy chest. He sat in a rocking chair which he kept constantly in motion. On a table before him there was a chess board with a game half played. The player who sat opposite him in an upright chair was much younger. He was dressed in a severe soutane and his dark hair was sleeked back. A chandelier bathed them in candle light.

A mulatto boy sat on a stool behind the table. He had been watching the game but now he rose, took the three steps in a single jump and shook Josef's hand.

At the Senhor's feet three small children, two black and one mulatto, played with discarded chess pieces. In the gloom behind the circle of light Ama glimpsed a young black woman in a long skirt, apron and cap.

“My move,” Ama understood the Senhor to tell the priest before he gave his attention to Josef.

Josef made his report.

“Narciza,” called the Senhor.

“Senhor?”

The maid stepped forward. She was barefooted.

The smallest child, the mulatto, intercepted her at the top of the stairs.

“Mama,” he said and embraced her leg.

She lifted him to her hip. He grasped her ample breast and groped for her nipple; but before she had reached the bottom of the short flight of steps, he had fallen asleep. She shifted him onto her back and took the two largest fish from Josef. She held them by their tails and showed them to the Senhor. He grunted his approval without looking. His attention was back on the game. Ama craned her neck and saw him triumphantly capture a pawn with his white bishop. He picked up a glass and took a deep draught of the brown liquid.

Josef asked for permission to leave. The Senhor grunted again. The audience was over.

* * *

Ama was woken by a loud continuous clanging.

She heard people moving nearby but it was still dark and she could see nothing. She had no idea where she was. She rubbed her eye and sat up. It was chilly. She pulled the cloth around her shoulders. Now she had a dim recollection of the previous evening. She had already been half asleep as she ate the bowl of corn porridge which Josef had given her. He had put her in the care of an old woman who had led her into a room and spread a sleeping mat on the earth floor for her.

She rose and found her way to the door. Fires had been lit. Several small boys sat around the nearest, hugging themselves and shivering. The old woman was nowhere to be seen. In the first light of dawn Ama saw that the hut she had slept in was the last of a row built on the side of a hill. There was a bustle of activity on the rough roadway. Beneath them, on a lower terrace, there was another row of huts, and beneath that a third.

A harsh male voice shouted orders. Ama wondered what to do. She was relieved when Josef appeared.

“Where is the old woman?” he asked directly.

“I haven't seen her this morning,” Ama replied.

“Do you want to go somewhere?”

She nodded.

“I'll get one of the girls to take you.”

When she returned, Josef was waiting for her.

“Good morning,” he greeted her, “did you sleep all right? Good. This morning you can take your time. The field workers are going off now but there will be no work for you today. I've spoken to the General Manager and he's allowed me to take the morning off to show you over the plantation.”

Ama squatted by the fire. The small boys stared at her empty socket and whispered amongst themselves. Josef spoke a single word to them and they got to their feet and ran off.

“Ah, there's the old lady now,” he said.

Ama rose to her feet.

“Her name is Esperança,” Josef explained. “She was born in this country and she has seen many generations come and go. She was retired long before I got here. You will sleep in her
senzala
at least for the time being. She speaks only Portuguese but since she lost the last of her teeth many years ago no one can understand much of what she says anyway.”

“Maame Esperança,” he shouted into her ear, “this is the new woman who has come. Her name is Ama. She will be staying with you.”

Ama bent a knee and shook the old woman's knarled hand. She was rewarded with a toothless smile.

“She is deaf. You will have to shout at her.”

Esperança's white hair was cropped close to her skull.

“How old is she?” Ama asked.

“Maybe eighty, maybe more.”

“And she was born here?”