on Cabral Island, Camoens could only think of Belle, whose beauty on such a great night would have dimmed the stars. He no longer awoke with love-scratches on his body, and now that he could no longer cling to the forlorn hope that she might come back to him from beyond the grave, something holding him to life had come loose; there were days and nights when he could not bear to look at his daughter, because her mother’s presence in her was so strong. He even felt, at times, a kind of anger towards her, for possessing more of Belle than he would ever have again.
He stood alone on the jetty with a glass of pomegranate juice in his hand. A young woman, more than slightly drunk, with her hair in black ringlets and too much scarlet lipstick on her mouth, came leaning towards him in a billowing puff-sleeved frock. ‘Snow White!’ she declared tipsily.
Camoens, his thoughts far away, failed to reply.
‘You didn’t see that picture?’ the young woman angrily slurred. ‘It finally came out in town, I saw it eleven-twelve times.’ Then, indicating her dress, ‘Just like in the fillum! I made my tailor make her outfit, same to same. I can name the seven dwarfs,’ she went on without stopping for a response. ‘Sneezysleepyhappydopeygrumpybashfuldoc. You are which one, please?’
Miserable Camoens could find no answer; simply shook his head.
Boozy Snow White was undaunted by his silence. ‘Not Sneezy, not Happy, not Doc,’ she said. ‘So Sleepydopeygrumpybashful which? – You don’t admit so I am guessing. Sleepy no, Dopey don’t think so, Grumpy maybe, but Bashful yes. Hi-ho, Bashful! Whistle while you work!’
‘Miss,’ Camoens attempted, ‘perhaps it would be better if you rejoined the party. I, sorry to say, am not in party mood.’
Snow White stiffened, disappointed. ‘Mr Big Shot Jailbird Camoens da Gama,’ she snapped. ‘Can’t keep a civil tongue for any lady, still pining for your late wife, isn’t it, and never mind that she fooled with half the town, rich man poor man beggar man thief. O God listen to me I am not supposed to say.’ She turned to go; Camoens caught her by the upper arm. ‘God, men, let off, you are leaving a bruise!’ Snow White exclaimed. But the demand in Camoens’s face could not be denied. ‘You are scaring,’ Snow White said, wrenching her arm away. ‘You look raving mad or what. Are you drunk? Maybe you are too much drunk. So. I am sorry I said but everybody knows, and some time it had to come out, isn’t it? Now enough, tata-bata, you are not Bashful but Grumpy and I think so there must be some other dwarf for me.’
The next morning Snow White with a murderous headache was visited by two police officers and asked to reconstruct the above scene. ‘What are you talking, men, I left him on the jetty and that’s it, finish, nothing more to add.’ She was the last person ever to see my grandfather alive.
Water claims us. It claimed Francisco and Camoens, father and son. They dove into the black night-harbour and swam out to the mother-ocean. Her rip-tide bore them away.
6
I N AUGUST 1939 AURORA da Gama saw the cargo vessel Marco Polo still at anchor in Cochin harbour and flew into a rage at this sign that, in the interregnum between the deaths of her parents and her own arrival at full adulthood, her unbusinesslike uncle Aires was letting the reins of commerce slip through his indolent fingers. She directed her driver to ‘go like clappers’ to C-50 (Pvt) Ltd Godown No. 1 at Ernakulam dock, and stormed into that cavernous storehouse; where she momentarily stalled, unnerved by the cool serenity of its light-shafted darkness, and by its blasphemous atmosphere of a gunny-sack cathedral, in which the scents of patchouli oil and cloves, of turmeric and fenugreek, of cumin and cardamom hung like the memory of music, while the narrow passages vanishing into the gloom between the high stacks of export-ready produce could have been roads to hell and back, or even to
He stood alone on the jetty with a glass of pomegranate juice in his hand. A young woman, more than slightly drunk, with her hair in black ringlets and too much scarlet lipstick on her mouth, came leaning towards him in a billowing puff-sleeved frock. ‘Snow White!’ she declared tipsily.
Camoens, his thoughts far away, failed to reply.
‘You didn’t see that picture?’ the young woman angrily slurred. ‘It finally came out in town, I saw it eleven-twelve times.’ Then, indicating her dress, ‘Just like in the fillum! I made my tailor make her outfit, same to same. I can name the seven dwarfs,’ she went on without stopping for a response. ‘Sneezysleepyhappydopeygrumpybashfuldoc. You are which one, please?’
Miserable Camoens could find no answer; simply shook his head.
Boozy Snow White was undaunted by his silence. ‘Not Sneezy, not Happy, not Doc,’ she said. ‘So Sleepydopeygrumpybashful which? – You don’t admit so I am guessing. Sleepy no, Dopey don’t think so, Grumpy maybe, but Bashful yes. Hi-ho, Bashful! Whistle while you work!’
‘Miss,’ Camoens attempted, ‘perhaps it would be better if you rejoined the party. I, sorry to say, am not in party mood.’
Snow White stiffened, disappointed. ‘Mr Big Shot Jailbird Camoens da Gama,’ she snapped. ‘Can’t keep a civil tongue for any lady, still pining for your late wife, isn’t it, and never mind that she fooled with half the town, rich man poor man beggar man thief. O God listen to me I am not supposed to say.’ She turned to go; Camoens caught her by the upper arm. ‘God, men, let off, you are leaving a bruise!’ Snow White exclaimed. But the demand in Camoens’s face could not be denied. ‘You are scaring,’ Snow White said, wrenching her arm away. ‘You look raving mad or what. Are you drunk? Maybe you are too much drunk. So. I am sorry I said but everybody knows, and some time it had to come out, isn’t it? Now enough, tata-bata, you are not Bashful but Grumpy and I think so there must be some other dwarf for me.’
The next morning Snow White with a murderous headache was visited by two police officers and asked to reconstruct the above scene. ‘What are you talking, men, I left him on the jetty and that’s it, finish, nothing more to add.’ She was the last person ever to see my grandfather alive.
Water claims us. It claimed Francisco and Camoens, father and son. They dove into the black night-harbour and swam out to the mother-ocean. Her rip-tide bore them away.
6
I N AUGUST 1939 AURORA da Gama saw the cargo vessel Marco Polo still at anchor in Cochin harbour and flew into a rage at this sign that, in the interregnum between the deaths of her parents and her own arrival at full adulthood, her unbusinesslike uncle Aires was letting the reins of commerce slip through his indolent fingers. She directed her driver to ‘go like clappers’ to C-50 (Pvt) Ltd Godown No. 1 at Ernakulam dock, and stormed into that cavernous storehouse; where she momentarily stalled, unnerved by the cool serenity of its light-shafted darkness, and by its blasphemous atmosphere of a gunny-sack cathedral, in which the scents of patchouli oil and cloves, of turmeric and fenugreek, of cumin and cardamom hung like the memory of music, while the narrow passages vanishing into the gloom between the high stacks of export-ready produce could have been roads to hell and back, or even to
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