her to change her mind, not because we were thinking of her, but because—as often after a death—we were thinking of ourselves. We were jealous and worried. Carla's going away, the disappearance of the Correias, felt like the beginning of the breakdown of our special world. It touched new fears we didn't want to think about; it lessened our idea of the life we were leading. Even Ana, never envious of anyone, said with something like spite, “Carla says she's leaving because she can't bear to be alone in the house, but I happen to know that she's only doing what Jacinto told her to do.”
Soon enough the new manager was found. He was the husband of a convent-school friend of Carla's; and the story spread by Carla to win sympathy for the couple, was that life had not treated them well. They were not going to live in the manager's house; Alvaro and his family had left that (and the huts they had added on) in a great mess. They were going to live in the estate house. Ana said, “Carla talks about charity to a friend who has fallen on hard times. But that friend is going to have to keep the house in good order. Carla came back from Europe to a house that had begun to fall apart. I feel it in my bones that Carla is going to sell in a couple of years, when the market rises.”
There was a special Sunday lunch at the house, to say goodbye to Carla, and to meet the new manager. Even if I didn't know about his circumstances I would have noticed him. There was about him a quality of suppressed violence; he was like a man holding himself in check. He was in his forties, of mixed ancestry, more Portuguese than African, broad but soft-looking. He was polite to everybody, even formal, anxious in one way to make a good impression, yet different in manner and style from everyone, a man apart. His eyes were distant; they seemed a little bit removed from what he was doing. The bumps on his top lip were pronounced; the lower lip was full and smooth, with a shine; it was the mouth of a sensual man.
Mrs. Noronha, hunched up in her chair, head to one side, said in her way, “A bad time. A bad decision. Much sorrow awaits you in Portugal. Your children will bring you much sorrow there.” But Carla, who two years before would have jumped with fright at such a message from the spirits, paid no attention; and she paid no attention when Mrs. Noronha said it all a second time. The rest of us took our cue from Carla. We didn't interfere; we thought that what had happened or was happening between Carla and Mrs. Noronha was a private matter. Mrs. Noronha seemed to understand that she had overplayed her hand. She pressed her head into her neck, and in the beginning it looked as though anger and shame were going to send her away in a huff, as though at any moment she might make a gesture to her thin, sour-faced husband, the man of birth, and be wheeled out in disdainful style from the company of the half-and-half people. It didn't work out like that. Rather, over the hour and a half that remained of the lunch, Mrs. Noronha sought to play herself back into the general conversation, making neutral or encouraging comments about many things, and in the end even appearing to take an interest in Carla's arrangements in Portugal. It was the beginning of the end for her as a soothsayer—though she continued to appear among us for a few more years. And it had been so easy to puncture her. It might have been that, with the half-news and rumours that kept on coming from the besieged frontiers, the racial and social heights that the Noronhas represented no longer mattered as much as they had.
It was only after we had left the lunch table that I came face to face with Graca, the new manager's wife, Carla's friend from the convent school. The first thing I noticed about her were her light-coloured eyes—disturbed eyes: they made me think again about her husband. And the second thing I noticed was that, for a second or two, no more, those eyes had looked at me in a way that no woman had looked at me before. I had the absolute certainty, in that second, that those eyes had taken me in not as Ana's husband or a man of unusual origin, but as a man who had spent many hours in the warm cubicles of the places of pleasure. Sex comes to us in different ways; it alters us; and I suppose in the end we carry the nature of our experience on our faces. The moment lasted a second. It might have been fantasy, that reading of the woman's eyes, but it was a discovery for me, something about women, something to be added to my sensual education.
I met her again two weeks later, at a patriotic occasion in the town, which began with a military parade in honour of a visiting general in the main square. It was a strange occasion, full of pomp and splendour, in which at the same time no one believed. It was an open secret that this conscript army, assembled here at such cost, no longer wanted to fight a war in Africa; it had become more concerned with conditions at home. And while at one time there was praise for the general who had devised the strategy of the wide sweep to the borders, now (when, from what we heard, it was already too late) it was said that the better strategy would have been to deploy the army on the border, in a chain of fortified areas, each fortified area with a strong mobile force that could combine with others at any given point. But on that Saturday morning all was still well with the army in the town. There were flags and speeches. The band played and the parade went on, and we all, young and old, Portuguese and Africans and people of the half-and-half world, merchants and loafers and beggar children, stood and watched and were carried away by the uniforms and the swords and the ceremonial, the music and the marching, the shouted orders and the complicated parade evolutions.
Afterwards there was the reception for the visiting general in the little governor's house in the town, opened up for the occasion. The governor's house was the oldest building in the town and one of the oldest in the colony. Some people said it was two hundred and fifty years old; but no one knew precisely. It was a stone-and-rubble building on two floors, square and plain, and from the outside it was perfectly ordinary. Perhaps in the old days governors had lived there or stayed there when they visited; but nobody lived in the governor's house now. It was a mixture of museum and historical monument, and the lower floor was open to the public one day a week. The two or three times I had been I hadn't seen anybody else, and there wasn't much to look at: a bleached but newish rowing boat that was said to be like the one Vasco da Gama had used when he came ashore here; and after that an assortment of old anchors, sometimes quite small, unexpectedly tall wooden rudders, put together from great planks and showing the skill of carpenters working with rough and heavy tools, winches, lengths of old rope: historical naval debris, like forgotten family junk, which no one wanted to throw away but which no one could identify and truly understand and honour.
It was different upstairs. I had never been there before. It was a grand dark room. The wide old floorboards, dark and rich with age, had a deep shine. The shutters, set far back in the thick walls, softened the light of sea and sky. On the faded, dark-painted ceiling there was some half-effaced decoration. All around the room were portraits of old governors, all the same size and all done in the same way—simple outlines, flat colours, with the name of each governor painted in mock old lettering at the top—suggesting a recent commission by some government cultural department; but somehow, perhaps because of the confidence and completeness of the arrangement, the idea worked; there was an effect of grandeur. The glory of the room, though, was the furniture. It was of ebony or some black wood and it was intricately carved, so intricately that each piece of wood seemed to have been hollowed out first and then carved on the front and the back. It was not furniture to sit on; it was furniture to look at, to see wood turned to lace, the furniture of the governor, a mark of his power. It was said to be as old as the house, and it all came, or so a Portuguese official standing beside me said, from Goa in Portuguese India. That was where all that pointless carving had been done.
So unexpectedly I found myself very close to home. I had been trying to take myself back two hundred and fifty years to the building of the governor's house, trying to find some footing in that unimaginable stretch of time, the sky always clear, the sea always blue and transparent except during the rains, the strange small ships appearing and then rocking at anchor some way out, the town hardly a settlement, the merest toehold on the coast, with no road inland to the rock cones, the local people there untouched—though it wouldn't have been like that: there would always have been some disturbance, something to send people to the fetish-man. I had been thinking like that, and then instead of Africa there had come India and Goa, and the cruel thought of those hands working for months or years on those extravagant chairs and settees for the governor here. It was like being given a new glimpse of our own history. Two hundred and fifty years: in certain parts of London that time would have been within reach, and romantic to re-create; in India, too, in the shadow of the great temple of our town; but here, in the governor's house, so far from everything, so far from history, it was terrible.
