also spoke in a whisper. The monster made a gesture
with his palms turned outward and stopped still.
‘On a boat,’ I said. ‘Ask him where, quickly, what boat?’
The boy put his ear to his brother’s whispering mouth. ‘He sees a lot of lights. He can’t see any more than that, it’s no good asking him.’
The fortune-teller had again assumed his initial position, his face hidden in his brother’s hair. I took out ten rupees and handed them over. I went out into the night and lit a cigarette.
I stopped to look at the sky and the dark bank of vegetation along the edge of the road. The bus for Mudabiri shouldn’t be far away now.
VIII
The custodian was a wrinkly, friendly-faced little old man with a circle of white hair that stood out against his olive skin. He spoke perfect Portuguese and when I told him my
name he smiled broadly nodding his head back and forth, apparently very pleased to see me. He explained that the prior was taking vespers and had asked me to please wait for him in the library. He
handed me a note which read:
Welcome to Goa. I’ll meet you in the library at 18.30. If you need something, you can ask Theotónio. Father Pimentel.
Theotónio led me up the stairs chattering away. He was a great talker and had no inhibitions; he had lived a long time in Portugal, in Vila do Conde, he said, where he had some relatives;
he liked Portuguese cakes, especially
pão de ló.
The staircase was made of dark wood and led up to a large, dimly lit gallery with a long table and a globe. On the wall were life-size paintings of serious-looking bearded figures, darkened by
time. Theotónio left me at the door to the library and hurried back downstairs as if he had a lot to do. The room was large and cool with a strong stale smell. The bookshelves had baroque
twirls and ivory inlays, but were in bad condition, I thought. There were two long central tables with big twisted candlestick legs and some smaller low tables near the walls with church-style pews
and old wicker armchairs. I took a look at the first shelf on the right. There were some books on patristics and some seventeenth-century Jesuit chronicles. I took out two books at random and sat
down on the armchair near the entrance. On the next table a book lay open, but I didn’t look at it; I leafed through one of the books I had taken, the
Relaçao do novo caminho que
fez por Terra e por Mar
,
vindo da India para Portugal
,
o Padre Manoel Godinho da Companhia de Iesu.
The colophon said:
Em Lisboa
,
na Officina de Henrique Valente
de Oliveira, Impressor del Rey N.S.
,
Anno 1665.
Manoel Godinho had a pragmatic vision of life, which didn’t clash in the slightest with his profession as guardian of the
Catholic faith in that enclave of counter-reform besieged by the Hindu pantheon. His narrative was exact and circumstantial, free of pomposity or rhetoric. He had no love of metaphors or similes,
this priest; he had a strategic eye, dividing the earth into promising and unpromising areas, and he thought of the Christian West as the centre of the world. I had got to the end of a long preface
dedicated to the King, when, without knowing in response to what signal, I had the sensation I was not alone. Perhaps I heard a slight squeak or sigh; or, more likely, I simply had the sensation
you get when you’re being watched. I raised my eyes and scanned the room. In an armchair between the two windows at the other end of the room, the dark mass, which when I came in I had
thought was a cloak carelessly thrown over the back of the chair, turned slowly round, exactly as if he had been waiting for the moment I would look at him, and stared at me. He was an old man with
a long hollow face, his head covered by some kind of hat whose shape I couldn’t make out.
‘Welcome to Goa,’ he grunted. ‘You have committed the imprudence of coming from Madras; the road is full of bandits.’
He had a very hoarse voice, and made occasional gurgling noises. I
with his palms turned outward and stopped still.
‘On a boat,’ I said. ‘Ask him where, quickly, what boat?’
The boy put his ear to his brother’s whispering mouth. ‘He sees a lot of lights. He can’t see any more than that, it’s no good asking him.’
The fortune-teller had again assumed his initial position, his face hidden in his brother’s hair. I took out ten rupees and handed them over. I went out into the night and lit a cigarette.
I stopped to look at the sky and the dark bank of vegetation along the edge of the road. The bus for Mudabiri shouldn’t be far away now.
VIII
The custodian was a wrinkly, friendly-faced little old man with a circle of white hair that stood out against his olive skin. He spoke perfect Portuguese and when I told him my
name he smiled broadly nodding his head back and forth, apparently very pleased to see me. He explained that the prior was taking vespers and had asked me to please wait for him in the library. He
handed me a note which read:
Welcome to Goa. I’ll meet you in the library at 18.30. If you need something, you can ask Theotónio. Father Pimentel.
Theotónio led me up the stairs chattering away. He was a great talker and had no inhibitions; he had lived a long time in Portugal, in Vila do Conde, he said, where he had some relatives;
he liked Portuguese cakes, especially
pão de ló.
The staircase was made of dark wood and led up to a large, dimly lit gallery with a long table and a globe. On the wall were life-size paintings of serious-looking bearded figures, darkened by
time. Theotónio left me at the door to the library and hurried back downstairs as if he had a lot to do. The room was large and cool with a strong stale smell. The bookshelves had baroque
twirls and ivory inlays, but were in bad condition, I thought. There were two long central tables with big twisted candlestick legs and some smaller low tables near the walls with church-style pews
and old wicker armchairs. I took a look at the first shelf on the right. There were some books on patristics and some seventeenth-century Jesuit chronicles. I took out two books at random and sat
down on the armchair near the entrance. On the next table a book lay open, but I didn’t look at it; I leafed through one of the books I had taken, the
Relaçao do novo caminho que
fez por Terra e por Mar
,
vindo da India para Portugal
,
o Padre Manoel Godinho da Companhia de Iesu.
The colophon said:
Em Lisboa
,
na Officina de Henrique Valente
de Oliveira, Impressor del Rey N.S.
,
Anno 1665.
Manoel Godinho had a pragmatic vision of life, which didn’t clash in the slightest with his profession as guardian of the
Catholic faith in that enclave of counter-reform besieged by the Hindu pantheon. His narrative was exact and circumstantial, free of pomposity or rhetoric. He had no love of metaphors or similes,
this priest; he had a strategic eye, dividing the earth into promising and unpromising areas, and he thought of the Christian West as the centre of the world. I had got to the end of a long preface
dedicated to the King, when, without knowing in response to what signal, I had the sensation I was not alone. Perhaps I heard a slight squeak or sigh; or, more likely, I simply had the sensation
you get when you’re being watched. I raised my eyes and scanned the room. In an armchair between the two windows at the other end of the room, the dark mass, which when I came in I had
thought was a cloak carelessly thrown over the back of the chair, turned slowly round, exactly as if he had been waiting for the moment I would look at him, and stared at me. He was an old man with
a long hollow face, his head covered by some kind of hat whose shape I couldn’t make out.
‘Welcome to Goa,’ he grunted. ‘You have committed the imprudence of coming from Madras; the road is full of bandits.’
He had a very hoarse voice, and made occasional gurgling noises. I
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