harvest
the greatness of the sea
,
and stormy winds did blow.
The heavens above closed, roared their anger
in dismal gloom.
Mother, weep for your cherished son.
Your wails carry across
blasting waves, trumpeting gales.
We must endure.
The old ways remain;
new hopes are crushed by jagged rocks
of the mind …
“Manuel. Wake up. Manuel.” Mateus’s thin mustache hovers over Manuel’s face. “We’re going to miss the parade.” He smiles, exposing the large gap between his teeth. He motions for Manuel to take a seat with him by the window.
Mateus has taken the liberty of setting up the space for a celebration. The nightstand has been dragged nextto the window. A boxed record player sits atop it. A black-and-white album cover of Amalia Rodrigues looking up to the sky leans against the crank. A few bottles of wine, two cups, and an ashtray sit on the sill. Manuel can hear the buzz of crowds gathered under the window.
“Come, Manuel.”
“I … I must have fallen asleep, Mateus.”
“It’s okay. Your head is filled with too many thoughts.”
“No, it’s not like that.”
“Manuel, I know … I can see.”
Mateus had stowed away in the hull of one of the White Fleet’s ships almost forty years ago. He had made a place for himself here. At first it had been difficult, a boy lost in an unknown, faraway place, not certain of what to do next. Repairing fishing nets had shredded his hands but fed his body. He had grown up on the docks, moved up in a world where there was promise of reward in hard work and perseverance. This was the dream of this land. Manuel wanted it to become his.
“You’re young, Manuel. At twenty-one you have everything ahead of you.”
“Then why do I feel I have nothing?” Manuel wants Mateus to turn and look his way, to answer the question. Instead, he turns the crank and places the album on the turntable. The record wobbles slightly. Amalia’s voice erupts as Mateus’s eyes urge Manuel to look out the window.
The thousands of men are moving up the street in step with Amalia’s painful cries. The long floral carpet winds through the city streets. Thousands more have lined the roads to see the pageantry and to catch a glimpseof “the gift.” Manuel is certain they have scrubbed themselves with cold seawater and large bars of glycerin soap. All of them—even those with curly and kinked hair—have their hair parted, greased flat, so that in the afternoon sun their heads look like glistening watermelon seeds. Manuel cannot help but grin.
“It’s nice to see you smile, Manuel … a man who truly has nothing doesn’t smile.
“Manuel. Listen to me …” It is his erect posture, straight like a mast, that tells Manuel he must listen. Mateus doesn’t want Manuel to look at him; they will have the conversation, side by side, looking out the window.
“Don’t let the
idea
,” his strained neck stresses this word, “of a dream conquer you, Manuel. If you are going to stay … if you are going to
fazer uma América
, as many of these men say,” he makes a tight ball with his fist. “Let this country shape
you.
”
“Can you mail some letters for me, Mateus?”
Mateus does not answer. He gets up, fills their glasses of wine to the brim, reaches to his side to crank the record player again and then leans out the window. His crisp white shirt billows in the spring breeze.
“Here she comes,” he smiles.
The wave of men are outside their window now, somberly walking in uniform step. Some of them look up to catch the bittersweet longing in Amalia’s voice. Some smile, others casually salute Mateus. Many have stayed with him before—their home away from home. In the near distance floats the four-foot-high statue of
Nossa Senhora do Fátima
, her floor-length veils topped witha silver crown. The twelve chosen carry her proudly on their shoulders. They move her slowly up the road, their steps soft. The statue is held tightly in place by wooden brackets covered with
the greatness of the sea
,
and stormy winds did blow.
The heavens above closed, roared their anger
in dismal gloom.
Mother, weep for your cherished son.
Your wails carry across
blasting waves, trumpeting gales.
We must endure.
The old ways remain;
new hopes are crushed by jagged rocks
of the mind …
“Manuel. Wake up. Manuel.” Mateus’s thin mustache hovers over Manuel’s face. “We’re going to miss the parade.” He smiles, exposing the large gap between his teeth. He motions for Manuel to take a seat with him by the window.
Mateus has taken the liberty of setting up the space for a celebration. The nightstand has been dragged nextto the window. A boxed record player sits atop it. A black-and-white album cover of Amalia Rodrigues looking up to the sky leans against the crank. A few bottles of wine, two cups, and an ashtray sit on the sill. Manuel can hear the buzz of crowds gathered under the window.
“Come, Manuel.”
“I … I must have fallen asleep, Mateus.”
“It’s okay. Your head is filled with too many thoughts.”
“No, it’s not like that.”
“Manuel, I know … I can see.”
Mateus had stowed away in the hull of one of the White Fleet’s ships almost forty years ago. He had made a place for himself here. At first it had been difficult, a boy lost in an unknown, faraway place, not certain of what to do next. Repairing fishing nets had shredded his hands but fed his body. He had grown up on the docks, moved up in a world where there was promise of reward in hard work and perseverance. This was the dream of this land. Manuel wanted it to become his.
“You’re young, Manuel. At twenty-one you have everything ahead of you.”
“Then why do I feel I have nothing?” Manuel wants Mateus to turn and look his way, to answer the question. Instead, he turns the crank and places the album on the turntable. The record wobbles slightly. Amalia’s voice erupts as Mateus’s eyes urge Manuel to look out the window.
The thousands of men are moving up the street in step with Amalia’s painful cries. The long floral carpet winds through the city streets. Thousands more have lined the roads to see the pageantry and to catch a glimpseof “the gift.” Manuel is certain they have scrubbed themselves with cold seawater and large bars of glycerin soap. All of them—even those with curly and kinked hair—have their hair parted, greased flat, so that in the afternoon sun their heads look like glistening watermelon seeds. Manuel cannot help but grin.
“It’s nice to see you smile, Manuel … a man who truly has nothing doesn’t smile.
“Manuel. Listen to me …” It is his erect posture, straight like a mast, that tells Manuel he must listen. Mateus doesn’t want Manuel to look at him; they will have the conversation, side by side, looking out the window.
“Don’t let the
idea
,” his strained neck stresses this word, “of a dream conquer you, Manuel. If you are going to stay … if you are going to
fazer uma América
, as many of these men say,” he makes a tight ball with his fist. “Let this country shape
you.
”
“Can you mail some letters for me, Mateus?”
Mateus does not answer. He gets up, fills their glasses of wine to the brim, reaches to his side to crank the record player again and then leans out the window. His crisp white shirt billows in the spring breeze.
“Here she comes,” he smiles.
The wave of men are outside their window now, somberly walking in uniform step. Some of them look up to catch the bittersweet longing in Amalia’s voice. Some smile, others casually salute Mateus. Many have stayed with him before—their home away from home. In the near distance floats the four-foot-high statue of
Nossa Senhora do Fátima
, her floor-length veils topped witha silver crown. The twelve chosen carry her proudly on their shoulders. They move her slowly up the road, their steps soft. The statue is held tightly in place by wooden brackets covered with
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