Aunt Maria’s marriage was set for St. Peter’s
Day. She had been to Recife to buy her shawl. She brought me back a bicycle and
a pretty little sailor suit. These presents made me want to go with her too.
On the plantation the preparations for the
feast took precedence over everything. The painters had already finished in the
main house. All the doors were freshly oiled. All the furniture had been
polished. A sweet smell came from the newly cleaned picture frames.
Generosa was deposed from her kingdom and
Master Galdino, a chef from the city, came to take charge of the banquet.
Children were banned from going in the kitchen. The chef, with his white hat
and his apron prepared the hams, isolated from all of us. With the kitchen door
barred to all, it seemed as if the house had lost half its life. The man had no
interest in chit-chat. Nobody knew what was going on, for it was from here, the
kitchen, that news spread around the plantation.
It is in the kitchens of the main houses that
white women and black women get together and in their conversations they are
equal. Now the white women had to lie down and give themselves over to being
coiffeured and to have their nits picked. And the black women had to go to
them, telling their stories, making their complaints, asking for favours.
For Aunt Maria’s wedding, old Galdino had shut
the kitchen.
People from other plantations began to arrive
for the great feast of Saint Peter; from Aurora, Fazendinha, Jardim, Cambão.
The ox-carts would stop in the yard and then there would be a feast of hugging.
The children came too, and the maidservants too. The chest containing the
wedding dress arrived.
People came on horseback, others on the train.
They came from further down the Paraiba and from Recife too. The piano that
belonged to Dona Nenen and Seu Lula was sent for. And when it arrived, carried
by men on their heads, it made me think of Recife, when I was little. In Recife
people were always singing.
I ran to hear the song the men were singing to
regulate their steps with its rhythm, so not to put the piano out of tune.
Joao Criolo
Maria Mulata
Joao Criolo
Maria Mulata
Ai pisa-pilhao
Pilhao gongue
Ai pisa pilhao
Pilao gongue
By the water’s edge the slaughter of the sheep
and the pigs began. I went to see the sacrifices. They were going to kill my
sheep too. They would give me another, but Jasmin was so plump now that she
waddled, just right for the butcher. The pigs squealed as they approached Zé
Guedes’s knife, and an arc of dark blood would appear on their necks as he slit
their throats.
“Children shouldn’t be allowed to see such
things. They’ll end up being murderers.”
The slaughtered animal would look wide eyed and
stare at the people.
My poor Jasmin waited patiently underneath the
trees for her turn to come. She was eating the grass that grew there with an
innocence that touched me. She knew nothing. I looked at my companion as I
looked at a friend who was sentenced to hang. Zé Guedes, machete in hand,
grabbed her by the scruff of her neck. He unleashed a blow on her head which
laid her out, panting for breath. He tied up my Jasmin by her legs and hung her
up upside down. Then he cut her throat.
Not even a groan from the poor thing! Silent,
the blood running, her eyes open, still alive. Two great tears welled up in her
suffering eyes. And they began to strip the hide, tearing it from her flesh,
white meat beginning to show.
“There’s a lot of fat.”
I went away from the slaughter, a soul in pain,
and I would have had a good weep if it were not for all the commotion going on
at the house. The maids had climbed up to clean the lattice windows. Visitors
were indoors full of conversation. Men stood outside in high spirits, laughing
and telling amusing stories. The plantation owners from these parts, wearing
stockings and their best shoes, talked about harvests, the price of sugar,
oxen, the winter, the planting of next year’s sugar crop. In the main house of
Santa Rosa there were not enough easy chairs for so many people. They rigged up
hammocks in the flour store and at the mill. Guests were still arriving on the
wedding day. My grandfather stood talking to the oldest ones. The plumpest
turkeys and the fattest capons were being slaughtered in the kitchen. A box of
ice arrived, and another with foreign fruits. The police band would be arriving
on the ten o’clock train. The terrace of the main house was crammed with people
talking. The black boys, at the ready, rode to and from Pilar carrying messages.
The bride’s dress would be arriving that afternoon from Recife. The tenants sat
at the side of the yard, open mouthed, listening and watching everything. Lica
da Ponte brought some carnations for the bride. Old Sinházinha let others share
in her privileges as lady of the house. Everyone was ordering everyone else
about. There were three or four tables for lunch and for dinner. The groom was
expected the following morning with his people from Gameleira.
When they arrived they filled the whole road. Everyone
ran to see them. It was a great rowdy reception. They took the groom inside
where he was introduced to everyone. But he didn’t get to see Aunt Maria. The
cousins from Maravalha were in her room, preparing for the wedding. There was
not a single carnation left in the garden. A matron prepared the bride’s posy
and the hour drew close. Father Severino was there with the judge. Aunt Maria
looked at the ground sadly. Music was being played on the porch.
The groom, looking happy, responded to the boys’
jokes. My grandfather was in black, with his gold chain in his waistcoat, and
Old Sinházinha, grinding her teeth, was wearing her ready- made silk dress from
Recife. The house was so full of people, so full of hustle and bustle that it
started to bother me.
“He’s going to be on his own now. It’s Old
Sinházinha who will be taking care of him.”
I didn’t want to see the wedding. I ran away
crying and threw myself down on my bed.
In the dining room they were banging the
plates. It was time for the banquet. Dr. Jurema was making a speech to the
bride and groom. They raised their cups when he finished. Aunt Maria, pale,
looked at no one. But the plantation owners were enraptured by the master of
ceremonies’ speech. It was an elegy to my grandfather, who heard nothing as he
was thinking about his daughter. Then came the second, the third, the fourth
and the fifth course. Then the dancing began in the visiting room. The dance
master was José Vicente from Pilar. The bride and the groom were sat on the
sofa in the middle of the room.
I went to sleep. Aunt Maria kissed me, weeping.
In the morning when I woke up the dance music was still playing. The bride and
the groom were about to go off in Seu Lula’s carriage. Everything was ready for
the departure. Miss Maria said her goodbyes with tears in her eyes. She kissed
the maids who were sobbing their hearts out. And she kissed me and she hugged
me I don’t know how many times, while I wept tears of desperation. The carriage
left, the bells on the harness ringing. And down the road soaked with the June
rains, went the second mother that I had lost.
In the yard the remains of the previous
evening’s bonfire still smouldered. Then they saddled up the horses so that the
visitors could go. Those who came from afar left the soonest. Others stayed for
lunch. The ox-carts left laden with people.
The next day at dawn the rain was falling and
Santa Rosa was the saddest place in the world. Everything was empty for me,
everything hollow, without the caresses, the kisses, the little games of my
Aunt Maria.
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