Counternarratives (9 page)

Throughout the day messengers to the monastery brought notice of
the approach of the Dutch fleet, the preparations in town, the lack of response from
Olinda and Bahia, or Heaven forfend, distant Rio de Janeiro, the unlikelihood of
reaching either Lisbon or Madrid, or, as some fancied, London. D'Azevedo wrote out
an appeal to the mother house, but having heard nothing from them in over a month
tore it up, and tried to busy himself with other preparations. He checked the food
rations again, and requested that all the ovens be fired for extra loaves in
preparation for the first waves of refugees and soldiers; explored the feasibility
of fortifications, and ordered cordons of rope tied around the perimeter of the
various fields to prevent them from being trampled; conducted a tally of candles,
lamps and palm oil, and had new candles fashioned out of the latter so that the
house would have sufficient light; and, just before the day plunged into the unquiet
evening, climbed onto the roof himself to roll a white sheet to be unfurled, if
needed, along the house's façade as a sign of neutrality. The visits from the
outside world ceased completely. D'Azevedo returned to his office to await the
brethren. Only Dom Gaspar appeared at his door.

“Where are Padres Pero and Barbosa Pires?” D'Azevedo asked. He peered
around Dom Gaspar into the dark, open hallway.

“There has been an incident, my Lord—”

“Dom Gaspar, we are facing an imminent attack—”

“—at the slave quarters. Indeed I came to fetch you. . . .” D'Azevedo
noted how the light from the lantern Dom Gaspar brandished before him contorted the
deputy's features into a mask of fright. The provost set down his quill and followed
his charge outside.

During the time D'Azevedo had led the professed house, he had often
ventured near the shacks where the slaves made their homes, usually during the early
morning, usually to conduct a quick inspection to ensure that things were as they
should be. Not once had he noticed anything amiss. Nevertheless, as he now trod the
hard, hot soil trail behind Dom Gaspar, it was as if he were stepping into a
completely different world. Behind one of the shacks, straight ahead, he saw Padre
Pero, shirtless and wearing only a bandanna around his neck, soiled work britches,
and shoeless, dressed in the manner of a slave himself, holding a black woman by her
neck, her wrists bound behind her back. Her wild hair cascaded about her narrow
shoulders, covering her face, down almost to the waist of the gossamer linen frock
that stopped just above her ankles, which D'Azevedo could see were also bound
tightly with rope. She was slender, slight almost, and appeared to be standing only
because Pero held her up. Before her, up to her knees, rose a pile of wood, and
beside it several urns, smelling of palm oil, and several long coils of rope.
D'Azevedo tried to piece all these clues together but they made no sense. It was
only then that he noticed that there were only two other adult male slaves present,
also apparently bound by their wrists, behind Padre Pero. Three, he realized,
instead of the eight that should have been there, though little Filhinho stood
almost within the prodigious beard of Padre Barbosa Pires, who wore only his cassock
and no doublet, he grasped that the other child, who had served his students and
whom he had seen quite recently, also was missing.

“Padre Pero, for heaven's mercy,” he called out to the older priest, who
maintained his tight grip on the slavewoman's neck, “what is the source of this
commotion?”

Pero released his grip on the slavewoman, and raised his other hand, in
which he held a large hunting knife. “These creatures were going to burn us all to
ashes in preparation for the heathens' arrival, led by this beast, isn't that
right?” He cuffed the woman hard on the side of her head, knocking her to the
ground. One of the black men stumbled forward to assist her, but Pero brandished the
knife and the man froze. The fallen woman struggled to her knees, before Pero pushed
her back down with his foot, holding her there. “I have a mind to take care of it
myself right now.”

“Padre Pero,” D'Azevedo said again, “in the name of Our Father, and the
Holy Bible, and the Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church, and the Captaincy of
this Province, and in my capacity as the Provost and head of this Professed House of
the Second Order of the Discalced Brothers of the Holy Ghost, I command you to
desist. If this person, these persons, have been engaged in any mischief, such as a
plot to harm this house, especially at this fraught moment, we will address it
according to the laws and rules already set down.” D'Azevedo took two steps toward
the woman, who continued to writhe about until she rose to kneel, and then was again
standing.

As D'Azevedo asked, “Can someone tell me whence this African woman
came?” Pero reached out and yanked the curtain of hair from her head, revealing the
slave João Baptista, whom, D'Azevedo could see, was also gagged. Lacking words to
express his astonishment, D'Azevedo staggered backward, until he felt Dom Gaspar's
arms bracing him.

“This João Baptista, or Quimbanda as they call it,” Pero said, “has long
been a source of mischief, well before you arrived. It—she—he sent away a number of
the slaves, as you can see, as part of his, its mischief, and was planning to
dispatch the rest of us to that blackest place, well before the Dutch could.”

“T-t-t-throw him on the w-w-woodpile,” Barbosa Pires shrieked, startling
D'Azevedo, who was just regaining his composure. “T-t-t-there may be more p-p-plots
afoot in town given w-w-what this one is capable of.”

“I concur with Padre Barbosa,” Padre Pero continued, “that we hurl this
pillar of evil on the very woodpile it was assembling”—and as he uttered these words
he approached the bound slave and whispered something D'Azevedo could not hear, the
knife in his hand grazing the back of João Baptista's neck—“then put all the rest of
them on there, lest those filthy Dutch or anyone else get their hands on them.”

“T-t-there is a plot afoot,” Barbosa Pires screamed.

“Padre Pero,” D'Azevedo said again, “Padre Barbosa Pires, we will not
and cannot proceed in this manner. We have laws and rules and will deal with this
person, these persons, as they compel us to, and we shall follow them.” After saying
this, D'Azevedo stood silently, neither he nor Dom Gaspar nor Padre Barbosa Pires
nor Padre Pero nor any of the enslaved men, save João Baptista, stirring at all,
until he finally said, “Dom Gaspar, I want you to bring this person to my office,
immediately.” He turned to Padre Pero, who was still holding the knife and glowering
at João Baptista as he was led away, and Padre Barbosa Pires, who was holding
tightly onto the boy in front of him, and, collecting his words before he spoke,
D'Azevedo said, “My blessed brothers, I want you to untie these men and take them
and the boy to the barn. Order them to stay there. Then I want you to get dressed,
and prepare yourselves so that we might discuss not just this matter, but the far
graver threats we face. We shall meet in the chapel in one hour.”

D'Azevedo did not move until he had watched Padre Pero cut the manacles
of rope off the two men, before guiding them, with Padre Barbosa Pires following
him, Filhinho in tow, toward the barn. If it came down to the Dutch offering these
men their freedom he would emancipate them all on the spot. He decided to draft a
document to this effect as soon as he was done with his initial interrogation of
João Baptista. When Dom Gaspar returned, he asked the brother to collect the wig,
the rope and the oil; the first two he should bring to the chapel for the meeting
and discussion, the second he should deposit in the kitchen. D'Azevedo went straight
to his office.

The slave João Baptista stood waiting outside the door. D'Azevedo led
him inside and, taking a rare step, locked the door behind him. At first sight, the
slave looked wretched and forlorn. The thin linen shift was smeared with dirt and
grass, and a large patch of soil, where Padre Pero had pushed him down, covered part
of his neck and cheek. Down the white back of his shift rilled a thin band of blood.
There was also blood on his lips, and on his slender arms. D'Azevedo removed the gag
and untied the rope binding João Baptista's hands and feet, guiding him to the stool
facing D'Azevedo's desk. Into one small glazed bowl he poured well water and into a
second coconut water from the very urns that João Baptista brought to him several
times a day, then handed both, with a rag that sat on his table, to the servant so
that he could refresh and clean himself.

Now that he was looking João Baptista in the eyes, he considered that he
had never really observed him, never seen him before. The face was crystalline in
its familiarity, but not from regular viewing; it was if he had glimpsed this face
somewhere else, on an inner mirror, and what he had seen for nearly his entire stay
at the house had been merely an outline, a mask, a shadow. João Baptista's face was
very dark, like ebony bark with numerous threads of navy woven through it, the
ageless features full but at the same time delicate, the contours sharp but pleasing
to the eye. As woman or man he was, D'Azevedo considered, striking. The eyes seemed
to blossom from their pupils outward, fixing D'Azevedo's own. He had to look away,
toward his books, to settle his thoughts.

What he thought was: he had never conducted an inquiry of this sort
before, and although he had halted Padre Pero's savagery, supported as it now
appeared by Padre Barbosa Pires, he had no idea of how he should proceed. He had
immediately sought to question the slave to ascertain the depths of his mischief,
which included but was not limited, given the cross-dressing, to the alleged plot.
Were there time, D'Azevedo thought, he would seek the counsel and lead of the Olinda
House, appealing directly to you. But he had not heard from you in a month, for he,
like nearly everyone in that house, was unaware that the Dutch had already seized
Olinda and were on the verge of doing the very thing of which the person sitting
there was charged: burning most of it down.

D'Azevedo searched the shelves for any books that might provide
guidance, but his eyes landed upon none. Instead, after a few minutes, he sat down
at his desk, looking straight at João Baptista, whose return gaze induced a steady,
intensifying calm, and said:

“You, João Baptista, have been accused by Padre Pero of very serious
charges, do you understand?”

João Baptista, still in the process of self-cleansing, nodded.

“Can you speak?”

“Yes,” the slave said, his voice as soft and distinct as crumpling
vellum.

“Very well, please speak your answers, João Baptista,” D'Azevedo said.
“Padre Pero alleges that you were planning to burn down this monastery and all of us
in it. He also alleges that you sent some of the slaves, the property of this
monastery, like yourself, into flight. There is also the matter of your dressing in
the manner and likeness of a woman, and there may be other evils and vilenesses that
I shall learn about when I have further opportunity to speak with Padre Pero and
Padre Barbosa Pires.”

João Baptista set the rag on the edge of D'Azevedo's table, and smiled.
“Before we proceed, I would ask that you call me Burunbana, as that is my
name.”

The impudence of the black man took him aback. Not only was it not a
slave's station to challenge a white person, let alone a superior, but he had only
ever heard João Baptista, like all the slaves, respond in the most basic
fashion.

“João Baptista, I will not have you speak to me in that manner.” He
continued: “In this house we use Christian names. I have read the record by which
you came here, by acquisition via a lottery after the death of your owner, a lay
brother at a now shuttered Carmelite friary at Sirinhaém, north of here on the
Pernambucan coast, and there you were baptized João Baptista.”

“Your records do say such a thing occurred,” came the reply. “They may
baptize me a thousand times in that faith, with water or oil, no matter. The one who
died was named João Baptista dos Anjos, by his own hand, and they imposed his name
upon me as a penalty because he took his life, though that is another matter. I
would nevertheless ask again that you call me Burunbana, as that is my name.”

“Did you foment a plot to set fire to this monastery and kill all of us
in it, and did you assist in the escape of any persons bonded to this house?”

First laughter, then: “Fire? We could have slashed your throats with
daggers, we could have poisoned the stews or the wells; we have done none of these,
and not just because of the threats and brutality here, which you have closed your
eyes to, or because of the authorities in Alagoas or Lisbon who would hang us. Now I
ask one final time that you call me Burunbana, as that is my name.”

D'Azevedo slammed his palm on the tabletop. “I am the Provost of this
house, and you will not speak with me this way. When you speak with me you will use
your Christian name—”

“As you use yours, Manoel Aries ben Saúl?”

The priest shot up from his seat and retreated toward his wall of books.
“What did you say?”

“As you use yours, Manoel Aries? Or should I call you Joaquim D'Azevedo?
Which do you prefer?”

“How do you . . . where did you hear . . . that name?”

“I would ask that you take your seat, and call me as I have asked,
Burunbana, as that is my name.”

D'Azevedo returned slowly to his own stool, never removing his eyes from
Burunbana. “Buranbana,” he said.

“Thank you,” Burunbana replied. “I know that you are Manoel Aries
D'Azevedo, the son of Saúl, known as Paulo, and Miriam D'Azevedo Espinosa, known as
Maria. I know that they fled Portugal and settled among the secret community in the
city of São Luis, once belonging to the French and now under the aegis of the
Portuguese—”