 |
| View of Macau |
Despite the fatigue, my blood seems to be flowing quicker and hotter,
because my heart is beating like a little drum, with a sound only my ears can
hear. Macau is already there, within sight, drawing ever nearer, a land I aim
to make my own, beneath the gaze of my soul, and, since I'm not getting any
younger, beneath the gaze of my Sony, colder and more objective, permanent.
I set down my camera and pick up O Corsário dos Sete Mares – the novel I've come to present to the citizens of Macau on invitation
from the Casa de Portugal – so that my fictional character might reconnect with
vestiges of his passage through this place, traces he would have left behind as
a real person, sailing through here more than 450 years ago. Still, the ferry bringing
me from Hong Kong on such a swift crossing of this little slice of the China
Seas has nothing at all in common with the ship, caravel, junk or galley that transported
the protagonist of my book.
Nor does my journey share anything
in common with his! The trip from Lisbon to Macau has taken some 24 hours thus far,
between flights and transfers through the airports of Amsterdam and Hong Kong –
the blink of an eye, despite the aching bones, swollen legs and head heavy with
lack of sleep. lt took my Pirate, clothed at the time in the skin of a Jesuit
novice, two years to travel half this distance, from Goa
to Malacca, Sancian, Lampacau and, finally, Macau, a trade outpost that had
only recently begun hearing the Portuguese language spoken in its streets.
The ferry pulls into the
terminal, and Macau welcomes me with a spectacle of lights and sounds a world
apart from mine. Then, amidst my shock at being the Other – a fo-lang-chi like my protagonist – I notice with a sigh of relief a friendly hand waving
to me from the other side of customs.
***
The ample
bay, that had
come into view from the ship's bulwark, sprawling at the mouths of the Sikiang
and the Chukiang, or Pearl River, offers itself like the beautiful body of a
woman, with its verdant hills, plains and forests. His eyes fixed on the
graceful silhouette of the temple that seemed to be keeping watch over the
harbour from its high vantage atop the mountain, he leaps from the dinghy with
an indescribable desire for conquest, only to blaspheme angrily as his boots
sink up to the knees in the thick mud of the Amaquao anchorage, at the Bay's
Entrance.
He raises
an embarrassed gaze to the heavens, begging God's pardon for that sin and the
many other vices of his past life as adventurer; a life still so recent that his
now respectable status of Jesuit novice had not yet been able to rid his soul
and tongue of such bad habits. Despite his many prayers, fasts, sacrifices and penances, not even a
thousand lives lived in the shoes of an honest man could redeem the misdeeds he
had committed during his eighteen years of wanderings in the East, as merchant,
pirate and mercenary.
With an
irritated gesture he refuses the help of the three freed slaves who want to carry
him to shore on their backs. Despite his having given them their freedom – as
he had all the other vassals of his substantial household when he had renounced
the world to take the Jesuit orders – these lads, crying on their knees, had begged
him to let them accompany him on the dangerous voyage to Japan. At last he had
agreed, moved both by their great dedication and by his need to bring with him
a retinue of servants, seeing as he was not travelling in the role of simple
missionary but rather as the envoy of the Viceroy, D. Afonso de Noronha, on a visit
to the Daimyo of Bungo.
He makes
his way to shore, crossing the slick mudflat to the dry land at the docks,
bringing the lads in tow laden with chests of baksheesh to appease the
mandarins, tribute the Viceroy intends for Otomo Yoshishige and the food and
remaining belongings, outward signs of a wealthy merchant, as he himself had
been only a short while ago. He would no longer return to Lampacau, where he
had fulfilled the mission entrusted to him by Novice Master Melchior Nunes
Barreto and had left behind a completed church.
His
superior must certainly have sent someone to greet him. He casts his gaze
around the harbour – if this huddle of rudimentary wood structures could really
be called a harbour – and doesn't recognise the place, despite his having been
one of the first Portuguese to set foot in the Land of the Lotus – name given by the locals to this sliver of
Chinese soil – until then, off-limits to the fo-lang-chi.
A pang of nostalgia grips his chest as he sees
the long lines of men of various races winding and intersecting between the anchorage
and the warehouses in a great to-and-fro of loading and unloading, His nostrils
take in the smell of sweating bodies mingled with essences and spices – an
odour so familiar it had penetrated his very skin – and the clamour of barked
orders in a mix of languages, of shouts and slaps, comes as music to his ears.
Half naked slaves and local workers race along, some toting baskets and
Martaban jars laden with Chinese silks and porcelain on their heads or broad
shoulders; others, their backs bent and stiff as the pillar of a balance scale,
sustain a great bamboo pole across their shoulders, from which hang, suspended
from ropes at each end in a miracle of equilibrium, heavy bundles of goods.
More
shocking, however, is the womanhood that throngs the place, females of every
colour, shape and age, their heads covered with shawls, veils or scarves and
their bodies wrapped to the toes in skirt-like sarongs. In far greater numbers
than he had seen in Lampacau, where five Jesuit fathers have been ministering for
some time now, persuading the men, with promises of heaven or threats of
excommunication and hellfire, to take just one of their consorts in marriage
and forcing them (very much against their will) to renounce the others. Amaquao,
on the other hand, is still a no-man's-land with neither law nor order a
paradise for the practise of plunder and piracy, in particular the purchase of slaves,
consorts and concubines.
Like that
group of girls, there, escorted by a woman and two armed Javanese guards, being
sent ashore from a captain's galley a little less than a stone's throw from
where he stands. A Portuguese merchant awaits them with his servants – who
scurry to shepherd the girls discreetly from the pier – and not a single townsman or local businessman
denounces him to the authorities for abducting the children, a crime punishable
by death. The new merchandise will not be sold on the open market, like the Javanese
and black women are, but rather in an under-the-table transaction in a warehouse
or at the seller's home. He had lost count of the times he had witnessed or
participated in such an exchange, and never without fear, since the mandarins,
with the aim of ending trade with the Portuguese, had circulated the rumour
that the barbaric fo-lang-chi were
stealing boys and girls to eat them, despite being well aware it was the local
businessmen who were selling the children to the foreigners.
At that
precise moment, the girls' escort turns her head in his direction, and the
fleeting glimpse of her face stuns him so, that it nearly knocks him
unconscious. Meng? It cannot be! From that distance all Chinese women look
alike. This must be the Devil tempting him, bewildering his reason with a
mirage of forbidden fruit. To find her here, the bride he had lost, nearly a decade
ago, far away in China, would be the most improbable of all occurrences...
***
 |
| A-Má Temple |
My
very kind host from the Casa de Portugal drives me on a visit through the
historic city centre and on to the islands of Taipo and Coloane, now joined to
the peninsula by modern bridges and, like Macau, victims of runaway
construction, much of their forests having given way to concrete jungles, where
an unimaginable number of casinos proliferate.
The old neighbourhoods, built by
the Portuguese along the centuries, are the exception. A sight for sore eyes,
they emerge like oases of beauty in the stone desert. I feel my search for
times long past might be in vain. Only two names connect me to the life of my Pirate:
the A-Má Temple, which in those days was already being glimpsed on the Barra
hillside by the sailors on the merchant ships that came to anchor there, and
Mong Há, not because of its fort, which came much later, but because of the
original settlement, the residents of which did business with the first fo-lang-chi
who arrived here and gave the uninhabited anchorage the name of Amaquao.
We return home at sunset, and
the car seems to be navigating a sea of light, a dense, hot glow, almost
magical, that only the Orient has. Rounding the corner, the name on the pretty street
sign in blue and white tiles (so Portuguese) hits me like a fist: "Rua
Fernão Mendes Pinto"! Chance or premonition? My Pirate materialises before
my very eyes, and I bite my lips to keep from shouting.
***
"Brother
Fernão Mendes, did you have a nice trip? The Novice Master asked me to come and
wait for you, to take you to your lodging."
The voice
startles him, draws him out of his torment. A man, still young, has been
looking him over from head to toe with surprise. With difficulty he pulls
himself together and, to drown out the inner voice clamouring in his mind, he
greets the new arrival effusively:
"Brother
Gregório Gonçalves, God grant that I find you in good health! Have you
converted many of the Chinese?"
He had met him
in Goa, this secular priest, who had come and established himself in the
provisional Portuguese merchants' town to – in his words – put an end to the
disorder and chaos and to make Christians of the Chinese villagers of Mong Há.
"Forgive
my tardiness, but I didn't recognise you... Come with me."
"Don't
be shocked by my appearance, dear brother I come dressed not as a Jesuit novice
but as the Envoy Fernão Mendes Pinto," he explains, smiling at the man's
amazement.
"The
business that brings me and Father Melchior Nunes Barreto to these parts of China
and Japan must be conducted with great determination and prudence. If we want
the mandarins to welcome us and to help us, both here and in Canton, with the
release of the five Portuguese men held in captivity there, we must present
ourselves in high status roles as diplomats and scholars, officials respected
above all others, and not in priests' robes, for the mandarins detest religious
men of any order, branding them vile and ignorant people."
The colour
rises in the priest's cheeks, and Fernão understands he must have already
suffered first hand the disdain of the prideful Chinese officials. His smile
returns, as he changes the subject:
"The
Novice Master told me of your travels upon these seas, as well as your
captivity in Peking, during which you learned the language and customs. Skills
that served you well on your first visit to Canton and which were sorely missed
when he journeyed there of late without you."
Having now
forgot that image the Devil had hauled up from the inferno of his memory to
trouble him, Fernão burns with curiosity to know the results of Father
Melchior's suit on behalf of the captives but asks nothing of the priest, since
Jesuit matters are not the business of other orders.
"l
sailed for many years upon these seas, plundering the Moors and trading, on the
ships of rogue merchants, with a handful of fellow-Portuguese and entire crews
of Chinese sailors, who, as you know,
always bring their families with them, so I made a point of learning their
language. Later; in Peking, in the house of the captain under whom I served
until I left to complete my sentence of forced labour on the Great Wall, I
learnt the mandarin's speech, which is more difficult."
"Have
you been to Amaquao before?"
They were
crossing the lively Portuguese camp, a jumble of cabanas built of bamboo,
lumber and palm fronds, with rice straw roofs. The huts' appearance makes it
hard to fathom the immeasurable wealth that passes through the hands of the merchants
who do business and fill their coffers there, safe under the watchful eye of
the Viceroy, who deducts for the Crown a fifth of all the
revenue to which he feels entitled, despite not spending even one gold coin on
these private voyages.
When the
accord, reached last year by verbal agreement between the veteran Captain-Major
of the Goa-Japan Trade Route Leonel de Sousa and the Haitao Wang Po, the
highest-ranking mandarin in Canton, enters into effect here, as it already has
on Lampacau, the Portuguese will be able to conduct their business freely,
provided they pay tribute to China like other nations. Fernão believes that
Amaquao, with its magnificent bay sheltered from typhoons and situated in a
strategic location, at the entrance to Canton, will soon overshadow in wealth
and importance all other ports of call on the route to Japan.
"l
washed up on this shore, by accident," he answers laughing, without
sharing his thoughts. 'At a place called Ha Wan Kai, where there is a rock in
the shape of a frog that seems to croak at full tide. It was during my days as
a merchant, when I sailed in the service of the nobleman António Faria in
pursuit of the pirate Coja Acem, who had taken two ships from us carrying a
rich cargo belonging to the captain. We caught up with him near the Isle of
Thieves and defeated him in such a fierce fight that we were forced to land at
this peninsula with our ships in disarray and our goods soaked with all the
water we had taken on through the holes left by the bombardment. We thought it
was a desert island, but the colourful novelty of the silks and other fabrics
we brought out to dry, hanging from the trees or spread out on the rocks, attracted
a crowd of Chinese villagers from the only settlement that existed on the solid
ridge of the peninsula, and they were awestruck to see us and the Malays,
Indians and slaves we were carrying, people with clothing as strange as their faces,
above all the "black devils”, whose dark skin and white teeth frightened
them."
"The
people of Mong Há paint their teeth black, to distinguish themselves from the
animals," the priest interjects, smiling. "You ran another great
risk, since it was forbidden, under penalty of death, for the Portuguese to set
foot on Chinese soil and for the Chinese to help us or trade with us."
"The
Haitao-Fushi's powerful fleet gave chase as if we were the wokou, the sea
bandits who were ravaging their coasts! Nevertheless, since the people of Mong
Há had numerous grievances against Coja Acent for his frequent raids on their settlement,
the heads of the families Hoi, Cheong, Lam and Chan decided to convey their
gratitude to us for our having rid them of this terrible wokou, and, despite
the imperial decree prohibiting any dealings with the fo-lang-chi, they took us into their homes and fed us with rice and
fresh vegetables from their farms. The goods we gave them in exchange whetted
their appetite for more, and the elders guaranteed us that our countrymen would
always be welcome to trade there, because they intended to request permission
from the mandarins. This was much to our satisfaction, since Amaquao was closer
than Canton, was solid land and was inhabited by friendly people."
"Despite
their show of friendship, the villagers erected a heavy bamboo fence around the
settlement, just in case!" Gregório says ironically. "Nevertheless,
they must have reached some kind of agreement with the mandarins, since they
now have a market here, right out in the open, though the merchants also pay
them weighty sums to look the other way. Even so, when the monsoon comes, the
mandarins in charge force us to dismantle our houses and leave. Last monsoon, I
disobeyed and remained in a hut with some Christians.”
“And they
left you alone?" Fernão wondered, knowing the officials would not have
tolerated even the slightest defiance of their orders.
The priest
wrinkled his brow in disdain:
"They
tore down the hut and seized us, me and my little flock, dealing out lashes and
other abuse, whether for having dared some disobedience or for not belonging to
the group that bribes them. They freed us at the start of the monsoon, with the
arrival of the merchant ships," He adds, defiantly, "When they leave
again, I'll do the same once more, this time with all the more reason, since my
congregation now numbers 75 Christians, some of whom are Chinese, and we have
erected a church. It may be made of straw but it is the first ever built on
Chinese soil. Look, Brother Fernão Mendes, we have arrived at our
destination."
The rich
merchant's house, where the Novice Master had found lodging, is only
distinguished from its neighbours bf its size and by the throng of slaves and
servants that inhabits it.
***
 |
| Casa de Portugal |
We continue on at random: down tiny
streets, alleys and passageways, emerging at last onto Rua Pedro Nolasco da
Sílva, with its beautiful Portuguese cobblestones, extending out from the steps of the Consulate and
the Casa de Portugal with the nobility of a red carpet. A tranquil street (a
rare find in a Chinese city), its ochre and yellow façades reverberating in the
gentle heat of the sun, contrasts with the Rua de S. Domingos, where, after
visiting the church, we finish our tour at the charming Portuguese Bookstore, which
welcomes us like old friends.
I feel like neither tourist nor foreigner,
rather, like a character spirited away to a parallel universe by dint of some mischievous
yaojing or the Script Road organisation. I'm moved by this piece of Portugal on
the other side of the World, for centuries loved and protected from the winds
and waves of the profit pursued by mediocre governments. Living history, body
of Chinese stone and soil, nostalgic soul forged
from the iron and tiles of Portugal, woven from ancestral memories, steeped in
the essences and spices of blessed isles, moulded in the dreams, sweat and
blood of many races. It is this spirit of the Place and the Age of Discovery – of
lives lived long ago, so fleeting and, for the same reason, so volatile and imprecise
– that I seek to grasp with my writing.
A Space the size of the World
and an Age of adventure, violence, cruelty and suffering, but also of heroism,
generosity, knowledge and honour. Slights inflicted and suffered. Passion, death
and resurrection of man, belying his insignificance. A pilgrimage of
initiation, the greatest example of which is that of Fernâo Mendes Pinto:
merchant, mercenary, sailor, ambassador and writer, captured three times and betrayed
sixteen, during the 21 years he sailed to India, Ethiopia, Arabia, China, Japan,
Tartary, Makassar, Sumatra and numerous other locales on the "world's eyelash".
***
Melchior
Nunes Barreto looks ill, his face pale, eyes sunken, shoulders sagging under an
invisible but heavy load. Fernão fears the cleric may intend to follow in the
footsteps of the late Father Francis Xavier dead three years earlier on
Sancian, exhausted by travel and the dream of a Christian China, an impossible
mission from which he had tried, in vain, to dissuade him.
The Novice
Master's host is away, doing business with the captains of the ships anchored
in the harbour, and the priest, without entering the house, takes his leave
with a "peace be with you, my
brothers." The Novice Master takes a seat at the table, and the slaves
rush in to serve him a varied repast, complete with a good Portuguese wine.
"Do
you feel well, Father?" he asks, piously. As if the trials of the voyage
to Japan weren't enough, Melchior had sought new duties, dedicating himself body
and soul to the liberation of the Portuguese
captives.
"I'm
still here, for better or worse, God willing!" he laughs good-heartedly,
adding, "and you, my
son, how was Lampacau?"
"The church
has been completed, Father, just as you commanded."
"Oh,
Brother Fernão Mendes, that has been our worthiest accomplishment in nearly two
years of travel! We have done little more than sail at the mercy of the seas,
ever in mortal danger and with no way to reach Japan. Perhaps this mission does
not please the Lord, and He would rather we return to Malacca or Goa..."
Fernão
senses the priest's discouragement and fears he might decide to return to
India, indifferent to the harm it would do his mission. This was not the first
time he had regretted the voyage, and he had only persevered thus far for want
of a ship that would take him back. They had left Goa early in April of 1554. However,
owing to delays and impediments caused by the captains of Malacca,
they had only managed to disembark at Lampacau in June of the following year,
another monsoon gone and without a ship to take them on to their destination.
Forced to overwinter on the island, they dedicated themselves to the arduous
task of saving the souls of a large congregation of sinners, hearing
confession, celebrating weddings and building the church.
"How
could God withhold his blessing from our mission," he argues fervently, "when
the Daimyo of Bungo and all his people wait for us to come make them Christians?
We are nearly there, Father! The monsoon is never late, and there are plenty of
ships that will take us there, as they will profit in some way from our mission,
as well." Changing the topic, to distract him from thoughts of the
frustrated voyage, he adds, "How was your trip to Canton? Were you able to
liberate the captives? Did you learn the whole story of the junks?"
When,
months earlier, he had accompanied the priest on his first trip to Canton, to
serve as his jurubaça, or interpreter, he had been able to unravel the mystery
of the junks that had vanished off the shores of Fujian, since they had not had
the opportunity to speak with the captives.
"They
had not released them, at least not while I was there,"the priest laments,
'but the presiding mandarin – thanks to that piece of amber we gave him when
you were there with me – demanded
Mateus de Brito be brought from Fujian to Canton, and I was able to speak with
him. His appearance pained me deeply. He looked nothing like the nobleman he
is: dirty, barefoot, chained at the ankles, head uncovered, hands and neck
clamped into holes in a board, upon which was written his alleged crime."
Fernão
shuddered with a vivid sensation of the weight of the cangue on his neck, the
pillory on his hands, the chains on his feet, cruel torments he had endured
during his own imprisonment in Peking along with eight others, all sentenced to
death. It was on his last campaign as a pirate in the fleet of Captain António
Faria that his ship had sunk in the Bay of Nanking, and nine Portuguese survivors,
castaways on an inhospitable beach, had thanked God for their lives, unaware of
the torturous pilgrimage through China that awaited them, a via sacra so
painful it might even surpass the sufferings of Mateus de Brito or Galiote
Pereira.
"l
entered the promised land as a spy, to bring back news, and I left Father
Estevão de Góis behind to learn the language and clear a path for our brothers,
that they might stay on in the cities and spread
Christianity.”
Impatient,
Fernão interrupted him almost forgetting the deference owed his superior:
"There
is no greater delusion than the belief that one day there might be Chinese
Christians! Only if God creates new ones, because those present on this earth
today are not even worth mentioning. For our efforts among the Chinese to bear
any fruit, it is necessary to thoroughly master their language, laws and customs,
to arrive with a great delegation in the name of the King of Portugal bearing
fine gifts for the Emperor and to pay large sums to the tyrannical and covetous
mandarins, in order to establish treaties and entitlements with them, that they
might allow us to live there for years, rather than the single month they have
conceded to the merchants."
"We
should be going,” Melchior says, raising himself from the bench with a tired
sigh. “l promised the priest Gregório I would recite mass at his church, the
first ever to be erected on the Continent!”
Fernão senses the offended tone in the voice of the priest, who changes the
subject as if ashamed of his own resentment: "0n the way I will tell you
about the terrible ordeal our countrymen endured and a strange case that
connects to you, as well."
 |
| Shark's Finn |
They go out
into the chaos of the camp, crossing paths with people of various races, a
large number of which are Chinese merchants from the mainland, who enter the
isthmus to conduct their trade with the Portuguese, with the mandarins'
permission. They make their way to the cluster of warehouses that surrounds the
immense market for the trade, purchase and sale of products, products that
compete there having been shipped in by the Portuguese from all over the world
- from Europe, Africa, Arabia, India, the four corners of Asia, the islands and
archipelagos of every ocean and even Brazil, a recently discovered new world.
And the
holds of the Portuguese ships bring not only goods but new ideas, new customs,
new knowledge to be traded among the most diverse peoples on the planet.
Despite having committed some misdeeds in the past, of which he is ashamed and
repentant, Fernão feels great pride at having participated in this exchange of knowledge.
In fact, he had cured the Lord of Satsuma's gout and had performed surgery on
the wounds of the son of the Daimyo of Bungo, feats that had earned him the
recognition, admiration and friendship of these powerful Japanese rulers,
creating bonds that were now bearing fruit for the Jesuit fathers.
Melchior's
voice draws him out of reminiscences belonging to a life he forsook when he
donned the novice's cassock and took the orders, but which, when he least
expected it, would haunt him with temptations.
"The
settlement has grown large enough to merit construction of its own church, as
in Lampacau, but only when the mandarins agree to allow the Portuguese to stay
on here as long as they like, without expelling them or tearing down their houses".
"So it
must come to pass one day, because Amaquao is a better port than the island."
Fernão concluded, impatient to learn the truth behind the disappearance of two
junks in the fleet of his friend Diogo Pereira with 32 Portuguese souls on
board. "Reverend Father, wouldn't you like to tell me the news you heard in
Canton?"
"l had
almost forgot, and you play a part in them! Mateus de Brito revealed the
mystery of the junks to me. They were coming from Siam with a rich cargo bound
for sale in China, when, arriving on the shores of Fujian, they were attacked
by a Chinese squadron, which gave pursuit and was able to capture them after fierce
fighting. Desirous of the ship's contents, the Naval Admiral and Provincial
Governor had accused them of piracy, seizing the cargo for their own profit
without declaring the spoils to the Emperor. To eliminate any testimony of
their misdeeds, they killed most of the Portuguese, their slaves and both Chinese
crews, whose families were not even spared, in total, 90 men, women and
children."
"Good God!
And did no one on land learn of the cruel massacre?"
"The mandarins
were careful to leave alive just some of the Portuguese who couldn't speak the
language and who therefore couldn't denounce them, parading them shamelessly
around the Province – clapped in irons and pent up in cages as trophies of their
war on piracy without hope of rescue. But God does not sleep. Among the Chinese
that the Admiral and Governor had slaughtered were natives of Fujian. Their
relatives reported the crime to the Emperor, who then ordered an inquiry. Following
the investigation, the mandarins were punished with the utmost severity, and
the surviving Portuguese, acquitted of piracy, were convicted solely for
trading without a license, and sentenced to a much lighter prison term to be
served out in the jails of various other cities."
"If
the case was ruled to be other than murder; why not release them?"
"The crime
of murder was pinned on Mateus de Brito, for his having killed Chinese soldiers
during the battle of the junks." Fernão
heard the disappointment in Melchior's voice. "l paid the presiding
authority a bribe of 1,500 gold coins, reminded him of the pact that Leonel de
Sousa - whom they call Chou Luen – made with Haitao Wang Po granting freedom of commerce to the Portuguese, but I was only able to
persuade him, as a sign of good will, to
commute the death sentences to prison terms and to place all of the captives together in the Canton jail, so that they might help each other and be easier to free.
During these proceedings I relied on
the precious assistance of a Portuguese gentleman who lives as a wealthy local merchant with
his Chinese wife and his sons. His name is Jorge Mendes..."
"Jorge Mendes?"
Fernão exclaims, incredulously, "My brother in arms, in prison and in exile in China?
It can't be, Reverend Father;
the world is just not that small! He remained in the service of the Tartars who freed us, rather than
return with us to Malacca."
"Well, it is the
very same Jorge, my son! Didn't I tell you this was a strange case? He was also
dumbstruck to learn you had joined the Jesuits. He told me how you sailed together as
pirates in the
fleet of Captain António de Faria, how you were marooned with seven other Portuguese at the bay of
Nanking and were all prisoners
in the same Peking jail, condemned to labour on the Great Wall…' The priest laughs, adding:
"He assured me he would easier
believe Satan had repented of his sins and become a priest than had Fernão Mendes Pinto, the jack of all trades!"
"lt is easier to see the mote in your neighbour's eye than the beam in your own!" Fernão exclaims, wounded by the proverb and the priest's laughter. "The nerve of that scoundrel! I can tell it is him by the sense of humour, without a doubt."
"It was after he learnt you were in Amaquao that he decided to come here in person, with a cargo junk, and take us to Japan. He told me you are in for a big surprise,
for he has found the treasure you lost in
Quansy."
Fernão had a lump in his throat that threatened to strangle him, a cold sweat drenched his body as if
he had been seized by ague, and
he was unable to utter a word.
"lt was he who brought me back," Melchior adds, taking no notice of his fit. "He could not
find a priest in Canton who would marry him
and his companion – she wants to be baptised, as well – so he asked me to celebrate their
wedding here, where you could be
his witness. The bride is the daughter of a Portuguese man exiled to the Great Wall and a
Chinese woman. What is this treasure
you lost, brother Mendes?"
Fernão tries to overcome the swoon that was robbing him of his balance, as it had hours earlier
at the pier when the woman had glanced his way. Had Jorge Mendes found, at last, the two long lost
daughters of Vasco Calvo? If Jorge's wife was Lijie, Vasco Calvo's beautiful younger daughter then the lost treasure had to be the other girl, sweet Meng, his
bride...
***
I fell ill on arrival. Not with the terrible scurvy, pleurisy or tropical fever that
threatened the daily lives of my
Pirate and other sailors, exposed for months on end to all kinds of bad weather and the sub-human conditions of the "prisons of the sea" in which they sailed across the oceans.
Whether really a virus or just
a stuffy nose
caused by the
shock of moving
between the frigid air conditioning of the hotel and the spring warmth
of March in Macau, it was an
insignificant
ailment that
nevertheless forced me to miss my first writer's talk on the human condition. Proof positive that the
Portuguese of today are no longer
like those of yesteryear – strong, ugly, daring! They remain presumptuous and envious, retaining that curious and clever spirit that makes them masters of the
last-minute improvised solution and of adaptation
to new worlds each time the incompetence of rulers and lack of opportunities compel them to emigrate.
I congratulate myself, nonetheless, that
the status of a woman, in the
West, is no longer what it was, that of mere object in the service of
men, slave, consort, concubine or even wife, bought, sold or given, used and abused by her owners, be they slaveholders or fathers, husbands and brothers, as is the case in the many nations where islamic fundamentalism is practised, as well as in India, among other countries. Without rights or a life of their own,
they nevertheless
take their destiny into their own hands and set sail on voyages of adventure, incognito at first, disguised as men, with the same courage and
same indomitable spirit, in search of a better life.
It is thanks to that
centuries-long struggle that I am able to write novels and that I am here, in Macau, attending a talk among Portuguese-language authors from various continents, listening to a Mozambican writer whom I admire greatly for her work's denunciation of the conditions endured by African
women. "l
write stories of their humiliation, pain and sacrifice," she says, adding, "l speak of
feelings, but not of
sex and eroticism, because it's the men
who know how to write about those things."
I'm stunned. The feminine erotic has been, throughout time, a force that
moves mountains. A woman, real or fictional, is not complete without her sexuality.
The Book of Genesis, in the Old Testament, is the best example, and it has furnished me with material for a score of erotic stories on the inferior status of women, in the biblical temples, their lives,
thoughts and feelings and the repercussions today.
Definitely written in a language different from that of a man, since male perception is a complete other. But who could know better than a woman how to describe the sensations in her body when she loves and offers
herself? Or her
revulsion when violated?
The exact measure of the piloerection in her skin, the sigh clutched
in her throat, the roar of the blood in her ears, the intensity of the wave, the vertigo in the spasm?
***
 |
| Portuguese ship (Nau) - Macau´s Maritime Museum |
The novice Fernão Mendes is making an effort to apply himself with devotion to the ritual of the mass, serving as acolyte for the novice master and priest before the decorated cabana's rustic altar. The church is full of believers. After all, he who goes to sea learns to pray, instructed by the fear of death, every sailor's most loyal and constant companion.
He lacks the strength to contain the windstorm of memories Melchior had inadvertently whipped up
with his news, opening a "Pandora's
box" filled with the secrets of a still so recent, morbid past. His body goes through the motions,
his gestures puppetlike, his
thoughts and feelings having long since flown away to that distant purgatory of penitence,
guilt and remorse that was his
Chinese prison.
In the absence of evidence and testimony, the death sentence that had loomed over the nine
Portuguese captives for the
practice of piracy was commuted to months of forced labour on the portion of the Great Wall
in Quansy. There, in that backwater, they had suffered the pains of hell,
more keenly as a result of the hatred and contempt they piled on one another (product of the arrogance and envy that flows in Portuguese veins) than of that hurled at them by their tormentors, and at last they surrendered any hope of freedom and returning home.
Nevertheless, no matter the infamy of the portuguese people, they always carry the name of God
on their lips and in
their hearts, so
that, though He bring down the worst of punishments upon them for their sins, the Lord never
abandons them to a wicked fate in the lands of
savages, idolaters or pagans, resorting often to His mysterious ways for their
salvation.
The first miracle to befall them in Quansy had been the unlikely presence of Vasco Calvo in that
godforsaken place. A Portuguese merchant, he was
once a fellow prisoner and fellow
exile of Tomé Pires, the ill-fated ambassador sent by King D. Manuel to the Chinese Emperor! With no
way to return to Portugal, the Alcochete native
had married a Chinese woman, who had
borne him four children, and was leading a tranquil life, accepted by all as a local citizen.
He had welcomed them into his home as though they were family, easing their hunger desperation and loneliness. And, in the certainty they would remain there for
the rest of their lives, he had
offered the hands in marriage of his daughters Meng and Lijie, his most prized possessions, to
Fernão Mendes Pinto and Cristóvão
Borralho, the two friends he liked best, as they were the only prudent, level-headed men among
their band of rabblerousers.
From the moment he saw her,
Cristóvão was deeply in love and was
loved by Isabel, the secret name with which
her father had baptised Lijie, in the
absence of a priest (just as he had Meng, whom he had called Ana) in the house's
secret chapel, where they prayed
every day with a fervour that had moved even the stoniest of hearts in the band of convicts.
The older daughter was not as beautiful as her sister, but she had known how to captivate him with her sweetness and understanding. She had opened her heart to his most intimate confidences, and he had confessed to her his inordinate desire for a captive Cochin-Chinese girl, a bride abducted by António Faria as she went in search of her groom. He
had paid her weight in gold for
her and had loved her like a queen, but he was never able to soften the hatred and revulsion she
felt towards him. Huyen had preferred death to his love, leaving
him with a wound in his chest that festered and would not heal. The girl consoled him with tender words and loved him, asking
nothing in return. Full of gratitude,
he had agreed to their marriage, begging God to let him forget the unconquerable Huyen in the
arms of this submissive Meng,
sealing thus his fate in exile.
But man proposes and God disposes... They were busy preparing for the wedding when the threat
of the Tartars became more real
and the fear of death or a fate even worse took hold of everyone,
like an outbreak of the plague,
perverting their reason and their
lives while robbing them of hope for the future. In an act of desperation or of love, Meng had
offered him her chaste body, since she
had already given him her soul, opening like a blossom in his hands, and he had accepted her as
a gift from heaven.
He had loved Meng, but that love had not been able to extinguish the blind passion he felt for
Huyen, the abducted bride, whose
passive body shivered with disgust when he caressed her searching for silken lips that recoiled
in revulsion or sombre eyes that
seemed to pierce him without seeing, afflicting him with pain and vexation. Burning with spite, he took
her with the fury of a rapist, repeatedly, to hurt and humiliate
her in return, yet without ever satiating the hunger that consumed
him and all the while making her detest him even more. Meng was
his refuge from the war, the maternal lap on which he would lay
his tired head and, eyes
closed, feel the passage of tender
fingers through his hair.
The relentless ringing of a bell hauls him up from a well of memories, returning him to the
sacrament of the mass at the moment the
Novice Master consecrates the host. The novice shudders in expectation of God's wrath,
perhaps a bolt of lightning – deserved punishment for his wicked thoughts,
the base emotions that, upon his
remembering the women he loved, had filled
his soul, displacing from it the love of God.
Melchior had made that same gesture of consecration at Our Lady of Grace Chapel, in Goa, on the
fourth Sunday of Easter the eighth
day of April in the year of our Lord 1554, before they would leave on this voyage to Japan, as the priests who were to set sail knelt and renewed their vows to God. In a faith-fuelled rapture brought on by the death of Father Francis
Xavier – of whom he had been a
friend – and the miracle of his body's
incorruptibility, Fernão had determined to enter
the Jesuit order by force and had thrown himself on the floor, before the
host, declaring the same vows of
perpetual chastity, poverty and obedience he had
heard the other brothers take,
swearing to the Novice Master that he was firm
and fast in the life of sacrifice he had chosen. Melchior had dressed him in the novice's cassock,
and he had listened, in
ecstasy, to the wailing of his friends, had received his parting embraces, and, making a public gesture of
the renouncement of his
worldly possessions, had pulled the jewelled rings from his fingers and hung them on the image of the
Baby Jesus.
In the end, staying true to his vows had not been as easy as he had imagined. He continued to
commit the sin of pride, incapable
of suffering offences and turning the other cheek. In Panane, when the Moors had provoked them,
he had unsheathed his sword and, had it not been
for the Novice Master's scandalised imperative,
he would have sent one of those
scoundrels to hell; Melchior
had forced him into a prudent retreat, and Fernão was left lingering on the shame of having
run from the fight, overcome with
resentment towards his superior. Now all it
had taken was Meng's name to fill his body and soul with the flames of desire, fuelled by the memory of the sweetness of her skin, of her breast like a fruit nestled in the palm of his hand, of the flavour of a kiss, forbidden pleasures he had believed
extinct.
The second miracle at Quansy had
brought the nine Portuguese captives their
freedom, come to them with the horsemen
of the apocalypse embodied in the horde of Tartars who had begun their assault on the Great
Wall, attacking the city with
the scourge of God, burning and levelling everything in their wake, leaving behind them a trail
of blood, rape and murder. Retreat
had been impossible, because the gates in the Wall were shut.
A frenzied crowd was running amok through the streets: men, women and children, lords and
vassals, spurred on by fear, pursued by
the red horde that hunted them mercilessly. Shoving, pushing,
fighting over an unlikely refuge or hiding place that might save them from the mob, throwing themselves from the tops of the ramparts to avoid falling into the clutches of the
enemy.
Fernão had rushed to Vasco Calvo's aid but had found the house empty with no hope of saving his bride, he had taken an inconsolable Cristóvão and the others to the Quansy jail where a few Tartar prisoners were being held. By their side, and being foreigners to boot, they just might have a chance. The scheme worked, and the captain of the invaders,
after watching them fight skirmishes
with swords and halberds, rather than kill them, offered them positions of command within
his troops.
At the encampment of the "red devils" they had searched for their brides for days on end, in every
stockade,
particularly in the
tents where they kept girls for the enjoyment and pleasure of the victors. Meng and Lijie had disappeared without a trace, caught up in the tide of war.
Awakened once again from his brooding by the sound of the Novice Master blessing the
faithful and still out of touch with where
he is, he stands watching the parishioners' frenzied vociferous exit. A couple approaches him,
and Fernão, tears in his eyes,
recognises Jorge Mendes and Meng smiling at him.
***
 |
| Chinese Opera in a street of Macau |
The lamps are lit on the yellow and crimson decorative arch at the entrance to the tiny street near the hotel, and it's pulling me towards it, like a magnet, on a search for times long gone. Fernão Mendes Pinto called it a pailou in his Peregrinação, and I'm passing beneath it, content to have encountered some vestiges of the past. I feel as if I've crossed the threshold of a magic portal to re-enter that parallel universe, where, in a world created anew with each step, I am one more among the cast of characters with whom I cross paths.
The street, covered overhead
with canopies, glows with the lights of
a dozen half-arches suspended from above like dossals or small theatrical curtains, in those same
tones of red and yellow adorned with elegant Chinese characters the meaning of which is unknown to me. A crimson curtain
decorated with colourful dragons
and birds, whose symbols I must remember to investigate, hides a stage built next to a temple, a house like any
other, now distinguished
by one of the half-arches, by the continuous flow, of people and by the smoke emanating from its joss sticks.
To my delight, there will be a
theatrical presentation, of drama and
music with ancestral roots, and so I thank Buddha and the
tutelary gods for having led me here. I love Chinese Opera as well as Japan's
Noh Theatre, so attending this event on a street in
Macau seems like a dream.
Along three rows of benches
laid end to end are some fifty old folks, men and women from an activity centre or senior home. Their caretakers are distributing
meals to them, and they eye me suspiciously, as they eat. There is not one other Westerner in the audience, and the man who had refused me
the last empty space beside him
now makes room and waves at me to sit down. I bow my thanks and accept.
An altercation erupts between
two women in the audience, one of
whom wants to sit in the space being reserved with a bottle of water by the other. I don't understand
what she is saying, but the tone
of voice and gestures are universal,
The intensity
of her voice and
quantity of her words increase in direct proportion to the length
of silence
maintained by
the other woman, who turns her head
the other way as if the scene had nothing to do with her. Exasperated, the claimant goes to the
temple to pick up a wooden stool,
which she sets right in front of her mute opposition, sitting down with the triumphant air of someone
who has routed an enemy. Her
"adversary" lifts the corners of her mouth in an enigmatic smile, at the same time moving the bottle to let
a well-groomed old-timer sit down
beside her, to whom she offers a bun, with an effusive smile.
In this unreal atmosphere I feel as if I'm in the Other's shoes, the fo-lang-chi, glared
at with
surprise and suspicion, who travels to the ends of the earth eager to "discover" this universe so new and incomprehensible, yet wonderful, to
him. I connect with Fernão Mendes
Pinto in that same fascination with the Orient that I read in his impassioned descriptions of the
ceremonies and pastimes of the people he met along his wanderings. I imagine him absorbed in watching a performance, perhaps at the
A-Má Temple, so alien in the
eyes of the shocked and curious villagers of Mong Há, the fishermen of Haojing or the pilgrims from Mainland
China come to worship
Guanyn, the goddess of mercy.
***
 |
| A-Má Temple |
He had sought refuge at the temple of Guanyn, in the certainty that he wouldn't find any of the Portuguese there and that the Chinese, despite their shock at his presence, would leave him be, upon seeing him perform his own rituals with equal devotion. During his long travels, Fern had learnt to pray to the Christian God in the temple of any divinity from any religion, whether in China, Japan, Java, Sumatra or Siam, because his wandering life and his knowledge of other men and other worlds had taught him that there was but one God, no matter which name was used to invoke him in the hour of need.
Today he does not wish to pray. He needs only to be alone, to think, to rid his soul of his
resentment towards the ungrateful God that
had abandoned him. He had divested himself of all his possessions to follow Him, as a soldier
of Faith in the conquest of heathen
souls, had erected churches to Him that he might be worshipped in the lands of idolaters,
had renounced earthly reward in
exchange for the salvation of his soul, humbly placed in His service. But the Lord, desiring greater
sacrifice, had also taken from
him all he cared for, from the women he had loved to the brothers he had called to India while
he grew rich, whom He had
rewarded with martyrdom at the hands of the Moors. And still unsatisfied, He had gone even
further.
At this very moment he is expected at the church of brother Gregório Gonçalves, to serve as
acolyte to Father Melchior
for the
celebration of the marriage of Jorge
Mendes to the daughter of Vasco
Calvo, baptised at dawn with the name Ana, which her father had given her in secret. Ana is
Meng, his betrothed, who had vanished
amidst the Tartar onslaught. The bride of his brother in exile is
Meng and not Lijie, the younger daughter, as he had at first thought.
He wipes his eyes with his sleeve,
so that the Chinese, so guarded
with their emotions, will not be taken aback at the spectacle of the tears streaming down his
face, but he cannot avoid them. God
had mocked his feelings pitilessly, spit disdainfully in his face by calling Meng back from the
shadows of his past, had stolen
from him a hope to which he had clung despite its being forbidden by the sacred vows he had taken
upon entering the Society of Jesus. Now there was nothing left to
take.
The Novice Master, aware of
his feelings, had demanded as
punishment that he be present, to purge his soul of the carnal desire and to fulfil the vows of
obedience, poverty and chastity he had taken,
but Fernão had refused to obey defying his
superior's command. Perhaps they will
expel him from the Society – Melchior has every
right to do so – because in a fit of rage, without heeding his explanations, he had nearly killed
Jorge Mendes inside the church.
When he had first seen Jorge and Meng standing there, smiling at him, he hadn't even noticed the absence of Lijie. He only had eyes for his beloved, stunned by the wave of
emotions stirred in him by seeing her after so many years, as if
her absence had intensified his desire and
made him love her all the more. Not even when his old comrade had embraced him,
moved with joy, had he been able to take his
eyes off of her. Time had been kind to her, had preserved the delicate lines of her face while
moulding her svelte, girlish figure into
the voluptuous body of a woman he craved to
hold in his arms.
In Meng's dark eyes he could see the tenderness with which she had always gazed upon him, but also
an infinite sadness that put a lump
in his throat. Did she love him still? Was
she tormented, seeing him clad in priestly
garb, thinking she had lost him before they had even been reunited?
"So, a priest?! You are Brother Fernão Mendes?
I cannot believe it!" Jorge exclaims, looking him over from head to
toe without releasing his embrace.
"But if you think you will be taking my confession, you have another thing
coming!"
"l am only a novice; I still have not taken my final vows," he had said, trying to supress the
emotion in his voice. "Let us sit together on that pew, and you can tell me
all that has happened since we
parted, down to the smallest detail. How did you find Meng and Lijie, when Cristóvão Borralho
and I could not, though we scoured
every nook and cranny of the barbarians' camp?
And Lijie, why
has she not come with you?"
"Let us sit then, for it is a long and extraordinary tale."
The church had emptied, and Fathers Melchior and Gregório were by the altar having a
lively conversation on matters pertaining
to the congregation of Amaquao, the difficulties of staying on in China and the voyage of the Jesuits to Japan. They sat together on the pew, and Meng slid
away from them, adopting the
withdrawn posture of those in prayer.
"You could not find Meng and Lijie,
because they were not in your
camp." Jorge began, and, seeing his surprise,
continued on, before he could interrupt:
"They were captured in the house of some of their mother's very wealthy
relatives, where Vasco Calvo had left them, making sure they were
safe, before going to hide in another
house with his wife and the two boys. The relatives had paid great sums to the enemy captain in
exchange for their lives and had
given him the two girls as a guarantee of their
fealty. Since, the rare daughters of a fo-lang-chi would make a dignified gift for the Tartar king, they were placed with the plunder destined for Altan Khan and did not travel with
us."
By conceiving a strategy for the siege of a Chinese fortress, leading the troops that stormed it and
being the first man to get
inside, Jorge Mendes had won the esteem of the Tartar
king, who made him a general and
heaped privileges upon him, even allowing
the return to Malacca of the eight other Portuguese men who had participated in the battle. It
was after the departure of those
comrades, during a feast at the camp, that he had
seen the two sisters again.
He could no longer remember the reason for Altan Khan's celebrations, but it might have been the
betrothal of his sister to an
allied monarch, because they had lasted several days, and, on the final evening, as was the custom in their land, the king had distributed fine gifts to his
officers: jewels of gold, silver and
stones, precious clothing and textiles, weapons, horses and women, which he had ordered brought from
the tents where the magnificent
spoils of his conquests were held. Among the captives the Khan had intended to offer were Meng
and Lijie.
Jorge had done everything to rescue
the two sisters, he had thrown
himself at the king's feet, begging him to release them to him, for they were the daughters of a
Portuguese exile in Quansy who had
promised them to him in marriage, a union that had not been consummated solely because his
troops had invaded the city. Since the Tartars
kept various wives and concubines, his argument had carried weight.
"They are yours," Altan Khan said, "if no one will
challenge you for them."
An older general had wanted them, a rival, envious of the favour the king had bestowed on the stranger and inclined toward anything that would see him lose face. He challenged him to hand-to-hand combat.
"Had I fought with him, I
would have had no difficulty defeating him, as he was old and had had too much to
drink", Jorge had concluded, his voice choked with
emotion. "The Khan understood
this and did not desire the humiliation of his valued general, so, with jokes and flattery he prevented the duel and divided the gift, offering Lijie to him
and granting Meng to me. And that
is how she became my bride."
Dumbstruck, Fernão had
gazed at Meng without hiding the tears
running down his cheeks or the stifled sobs that shook his frame.
"She was my bride, Jorge!” he had stammered. “We were about to marry…”
"You had left; you always spoke of
returning to Portugal. The two of us were there alone. With no hope of ever seeing you again, Meng agreed to live with me”.
"You are a traitor, Jorge Mendes! She is my wife.”
"What has got hold of you, man? You are a cleric, a priest!”
"You Judas! You scoundrel!”
He lunged at him with a sword a young acolyte had brought him after the mass had ended and was only
prevented from piercing his heart by Meng who had come
between them, giving the
priests time to seize and restrain them.
***
 |
| Lilau's fontain |
I won't be in Macau long; I’m headed for China, where I’ll wander for two weeks (it’ll be over before I know it) on what’s likely to be a fruitless search for traces of Fernão Mendes Pinto and other Portuguese adventurers.
I don't know if I’ll return, because I never drank from the Lilau Fountain; I was distracted by
the photo session of a
chinese bride and groom
clad in
western-style clothes including a dress
worn
by the beautiful bride-to-be – in white with wreaths of purple leaves – that seemed to have marched right out of a portuguese folk parade. l also missed seeing the Camões Grotto, one of the reasons I had wanted to come to Macau.
I certainly missed many other
sights I should
have seen, but I'm leaving immensely richer than I was when I arrived, albeit without having won the jackpot at the Casino de Lisboa. I’m taking with me a magic trunk, filled with images, sensations and impressions for future reminiscing.
I'll never forget my talk with the students and teachers at the Portuguese School and the warm
embrace of their applause; the
emotion as I listened, in a room full of friends from the Casa
de Portugal,
to one of the best ever presentations of my Corsário dos Sete Mares; the thrill at seeing my works on display at the
lovely Portuguese
Bookstore, refuge of our culture on Chinese soil; the new acquaintances mode at warm and intimate gatherings.
The gardens, the beaches, the
squares and cobblestones, the traditional
shops hidden down tiny streets and alleyways, the shark fin in the storefront window, the tastes, the smells, the mystery.
Forever after, Macau.
***
In the calm of the pagan temple caressed by wafts of perfumed smoke, Fernão's heart is
soothed, and he knows what he must do. Even if they do not expel him,
he will leave the Order of his own
volition, expressing a lack of inclination toward religious life. He will complete his mission as the
Viceroy's envoy to Japan and, upon returning, make arrangements
for continuing on to Portugal, as he had intended
to do before his spiritual epiphany, a moment
of madness for which he had paid dearly. He would return to his homeland nearly as poor as
when he had left, despite his having
been one of the richest merchants in India.
Before exiting the temple he burns some incense in honour of Guanyn, merciful divinity that she
might take pity on him.
Translated from the Portuguese by Ray Granlund
No comments:
Post a Comment