he was white. But he hadnât needed to; she could see that easily enough for herself. He was blind and, knowing he was blind, she had lied to him. She had tricked him into gratitude to her; no, more, letâs be honest, into friendship with her. Maybe love.
He cringed when he remembered that heâd had fantasies of marrying her and taking her back to Spain with him. He had imagined the joy of his mother, discovering he was still alive, and her pride in his coming back with his lovely bride, the daughter she had dreamed of. They would have a big church wedding and invite the whole village and afterwards they would live with his mother, who would help with their children. Though sightless, he could still work for his brothers mending nets and maintaining boats, gutting and cleaning fish. He and Aissata would live a long and happy life together. That he had planned this phantom future with a miserable black slave made him sick to his stomach. His mother would doubtless prefer that he died here than come home with a woman like that!
But maybe Aissata didnât think of herself as âblackâ just as he didnât think of himself as âwhite.â Colour was something other people saw. To herself, she was Aissata, his dear Aissata, as she had been to him until this moment. When he thought about her, who she was in herself, the words âblackâ and âslaveâ were meaningless. He had never been closer to anyone in his life than he had been to her.
He â who had prided himself on not thinking, but doing â thought something so new it made him shiver. Could it be that skin colour was meaningless? Perhaps it was no more significant than the colour of oneâs hair or eyes. His heart told him Aissata was as good as he was, even better. He knew she didnât deserve to be a slave and, if she didnât, maybe nobody did.
Joaquin sat in silence, the wind whipping at him, the salt spray rasping his skin, oblivious to the rest of the world. His mind grappled with ideas it had failed to confront through many wasted years of religious and secular instruction. What was the soul? Did it have anything to do with the body it was trapped in? If a person was truly good, did it really matter what race or religion they were? Only when someone offered him a skin of water and he spilled some, absentmindedly, all over his lap, was he roused from his meditations. Full of remorse, he called out for wildly for Aissata, declaring that he would save her, that he loved her, but the soldiers told him to shut up. When he wouldnât, they cuffed him on the ear and threatened to throw him overboard to the sharks. Only when they disembarked did Aissataâs voice, her silvery voice, drift back to him, exhorting him to be free and enjoy his freedom for her sake. To remember her forever.
And then she was gone.
The officers took Joaquin back to their barracks where they insisted he don proper âEuropeanâ clothes. Then they got him drunk. Until that day he had avoided alcohol, repulsed by the witless behaviour of his shipmates once they uncorked a bottle. But he now understood that there were things in life that would force a man to seek oblivion. Sometimes consciousness itself was unendurable.
The Spanish-speaking soldier thought he was drinking to celebrate his freedom and that he had finally come to his senses. He prophesied that in future, Joaquin would celebrate this as the day of his miraculous preservation. He would write a song about it. He could add another verse to the famous madrigal about Fogo: a tune Joaquin suddenly remembered having heard back home but hadnât connected with this Fogo, his Fogo, at the edge of the world. Where heâd been reborn.
The Andalusian merchant who returns
Laden with cochineal and china dishes,
Reports in Spain how strangely Fogo burns
Amidst an ocean full of flying fishes.
FIVE
âLa hambre y el frio traen a la puerta del enemigo.â
(Cold
He cringed when he remembered that heâd had fantasies of marrying her and taking her back to Spain with him. He had imagined the joy of his mother, discovering he was still alive, and her pride in his coming back with his lovely bride, the daughter she had dreamed of. They would have a big church wedding and invite the whole village and afterwards they would live with his mother, who would help with their children. Though sightless, he could still work for his brothers mending nets and maintaining boats, gutting and cleaning fish. He and Aissata would live a long and happy life together. That he had planned this phantom future with a miserable black slave made him sick to his stomach. His mother would doubtless prefer that he died here than come home with a woman like that!
But maybe Aissata didnât think of herself as âblackâ just as he didnât think of himself as âwhite.â Colour was something other people saw. To herself, she was Aissata, his dear Aissata, as she had been to him until this moment. When he thought about her, who she was in herself, the words âblackâ and âslaveâ were meaningless. He had never been closer to anyone in his life than he had been to her.
He â who had prided himself on not thinking, but doing â thought something so new it made him shiver. Could it be that skin colour was meaningless? Perhaps it was no more significant than the colour of oneâs hair or eyes. His heart told him Aissata was as good as he was, even better. He knew she didnât deserve to be a slave and, if she didnât, maybe nobody did.
Joaquin sat in silence, the wind whipping at him, the salt spray rasping his skin, oblivious to the rest of the world. His mind grappled with ideas it had failed to confront through many wasted years of religious and secular instruction. What was the soul? Did it have anything to do with the body it was trapped in? If a person was truly good, did it really matter what race or religion they were? Only when someone offered him a skin of water and he spilled some, absentmindedly, all over his lap, was he roused from his meditations. Full of remorse, he called out for wildly for Aissata, declaring that he would save her, that he loved her, but the soldiers told him to shut up. When he wouldnât, they cuffed him on the ear and threatened to throw him overboard to the sharks. Only when they disembarked did Aissataâs voice, her silvery voice, drift back to him, exhorting him to be free and enjoy his freedom for her sake. To remember her forever.
And then she was gone.
The officers took Joaquin back to their barracks where they insisted he don proper âEuropeanâ clothes. Then they got him drunk. Until that day he had avoided alcohol, repulsed by the witless behaviour of his shipmates once they uncorked a bottle. But he now understood that there were things in life that would force a man to seek oblivion. Sometimes consciousness itself was unendurable.
The Spanish-speaking soldier thought he was drinking to celebrate his freedom and that he had finally come to his senses. He prophesied that in future, Joaquin would celebrate this as the day of his miraculous preservation. He would write a song about it. He could add another verse to the famous madrigal about Fogo: a tune Joaquin suddenly remembered having heard back home but hadnât connected with this Fogo, his Fogo, at the edge of the world. Where heâd been reborn.
The Andalusian merchant who returns
Laden with cochineal and china dishes,
Reports in Spain how strangely Fogo burns
Amidst an ocean full of flying fishes.
FIVE
âLa hambre y el frio traen a la puerta del enemigo.â
(Cold
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