A translation of a story by Dhruv Usgaonkar (Original story in Portuguese)

Suraiya turned off the television, set aside her empty container of strawberry yogurt. She had just seen one of her favourite movies, ‘Notting Hill’ on HBO. She just loved Romantic Comedies, particularly ‘Bridget Jones Diary’ in English and Jab We Met’ in Hindi. She reclined on the sofa, the taste of strawberry yogurt still on her tongue. She stroked her long, straight hair, hazily glancing at a Leonardo di Caprio poster pasted on the wall of her room, with her large and round eyes, but her mind was lost elsewhere as it was on many an occasion. She lifted her Nokia 3110c, decorated with stickers and hearts (she was on the lookout for a red tail) and dialled an extremely familiar number.
Prafful was in the midst of an extremely important task. He looked into the mirror on his table, opened his left eye with the fingers of his left hand. He got the start of his life. An old man, behind him, was shouting in Saxtti Concanim “Ê Bhau, arê fone aila tuca, ghé maré begin...!” The contact lens fell off his finger. Very irritated, he looked at his LG Shine to see who it was who had called him and sighed.
Since he and Suraiya had met in the First Year at college 2 years ago, they were soul mates, although they were completely different in every aspect: looks, personality, likes. Prafful was short, fair, with almost mongoloid eyes and she was taller, browner and beautiful. Prafful said she resembled a Tollywood actress. Even their personalities were different; he had his feet firmly rooted on earth, not an extrovert and ruled by his head. And that is why it was such a surprise that they were such friends, without any romantic sentiments. They spoke at least twice a day.
Prafful slid his Shine and barked without any ‘Hello’
- ‘I was putting the lenses in my eyes!’
- ‘Oh I am sorry! I wanted to know about your project for the year. Because tomorrow we are going to be divided in groups, depending on the topics of the projects isn’t it?’
- ‘Yes. I know. You are not going to be in my group, because I already have mine’. ‘Check out tomorrow who has chosen your topic’
- ‘Ok, till tomorrow then’
But all of a sudden, Prafful felt playful and smiled to himself, blushing.
-‘Wait. Do you remember, that you have not returned the favour you owe me from last year?’
- ‘What favour’
- ‘Do you remember how you convinced me to go with you for ‘Confessions of a Shopaholic’? I got out of the theatre with a headache! And that is why you have to go with me to a movie of my choice!’
- ‘ Ha! I am not going for your action and sci-fi movies! And talking about that, do you remember what happened? You reached late for the movie, and that is why I had to pay for your ticket and after the movie, you said you detested the movie and you refused to pay for your ticket! You still owe Rs 120, Mr Prafful!’
- ‘He he! I notice that your memory is still sharp. Till tomorrow then. Tchau.
Suraiya wasn’t very happy when she left college with Prafful after classes.
- ‘Did you see who is in my group?’
- ‘Yes, Pankaj. I don’t know him very well.’
- ‘But tell me what you know about him. Wasn’t he in the Higher Secondary with you?’
- ‘Suraiya, it does not matter for how long you know a person. Well, Pankaj was always..... how do I say it….the ‘different’ one in the class. He thinks laterally and does everything that others do not. He is radical.’
- ‘Xi saibá, it is going to be a bit difficult. He has invited the group to his house this evening to discuss the project’
Suraiya spent an anxious evening. The description of Pankaj made her nervous, because she would have to work with him an entire year. Even if there were three other people in the group, Pankaj was the leader, which meant that he would conceive odd plans, difficult plans, which would make the work of others more difficult. She started her Honda Dio and followed the directions that Pankaj had given to the group to reach his house. She needed a while to reach the apartment block and to find the apartment. She rang the bell and the door opened. For the next few seconds Suraiya was rooted to the spot. She thought that Cupid had opened the door for her. He was the most beautiful boy that she had seen in her life. His skin was so fair, nearly as white as milk and looked as soft as a baby’s skin. His eyes were a clear and green. She could see her reflection in those eyes. His hair was brown and smooth like silk.
- ‘Sohan who is at the door?’ And it was as if Pankaj had broken a glass plate on her head. Pankaj’s voice broke that special moment. Suraiya felt a balloon expanding in her; she had never felt so light in her life.’
- ‘Dada, its one of your colleagues’
- ‘Ah, come in Suraiya. The others are just reaching’
But Suraiya’s mind was on that boy.
- ‘Pankaj, is it your brother? He is very beautiful.’
- ‘Ah yes, he is. His name is Sohan. He is 12 years old and studies in the seventh grade. Sohan this is Suraiya, my colleague in college.’
Suraiya, could not concentrate on the project discussion that day. Soon after reaching home, she told Prafful about it.
- ‘Suraiya, are you mad!? You fancy a child of 12 years? Do you know that makes you a paedophile?’
- ‘Yes Prafful, I know, but I am completely in love. I am going to wait till he turns 18 years. I do not care what others say or believe. I am going to win his love even if it takes me years. I am going to win Pankaj’s approval too.’
Prafful, hung up in great anger. That night, Suraiya could not concentrate on anything; not films, not television neither her favourite fried chips for dinner.

She did not find Sohan on Facebook, and she knew that he did not have his own mobile phone. She spent the entire night tossing and turning in bed, thinking of how to meet Sohan, that meant going to Pankaj’s house. She was not happy when Pankaj announced to the group that the meetings for the project discussion would be in rotation, at the house of each member of the group. She turned morose and lost interest in everything. Prafful tried to distract her with various things but did not succeed.
- ‘Prafful, it does not matter ok. I have to be with him. Anyhow, you do understand what Sohan means don’t you?
‘Yes, I know that it means ‘lover’. Suraiya, come to your senses, please. Do you know that you can be jailed for paedophilia? Your family will throw you on the street. And then what will you do?’
This thought reached Suraiya’s heart. She decided to forget the boy.
However, the more she tried to forget Sohan, the more she thought of him. She began counting the days on the calendar until the next meeting at Pankaj’s. When the day at last arrived, she became very impatient. That evening, she took her bag, the scooter keys, and nearly swallowed the omelette that her mother had prepared. She fled from her house and obviously reached early at her destination. Sohan opened the door for her and she felt as though she was floating on air. She opened her mouth to speak, but did not succeed. It was Sohan who broke he silence.
- ‘You are Suraiya aren’t you? Dada has gone out for a while. Wait in the living room’
The apartment appeared empty to her
- ‘Sohan, isn’t anyone at home?’
- ‘No, Momma and Papa have still not come back from work. Dada will be back shortly.’

Suraiya’s blood ran faster at these words. She saw Sohan entering a room and followed him instinctively. She saw him reading some books on his study table.
- ‘Are you doing your homework, Sohan?’ She asked without realising what she was saying
- ‘Yes, it’s Maths. It is so difficult. Dada does not help me. Says I should do it myself, to improve my skills. But I find geometry difficult.’
- ‘Can I help you, I do it well.’
- ‘Oh, thank you very much’
She came nearer to him from behind and leaned over him. She felt his velvety hair and his baby skin, and was aroused.
Pankaj returned in 10 minutes and saw Suraiya seated in the living room
- ‘You reached early today. You seem very happy today, lady’
Ela conseguiu dar a sua atenção completa à discussão e dormiu muito bem àquela noite. Ela não disse a Prafful o que fizera mas ele reparou a mudança nela. Porém, Pankaj também reparou a mudança no seu irmão. Sohan não queria sair com os seus amigos e tinha medo das raparigas. Ele começou dormir no quarto de Pankaj e tinha medo da sua cama. Pankaj perdeu a paciência um dia quando uma prima abraçou Sohan e ele gritou e chorou. Pankaj levou Sohan ao seu quarto, fê-lo sentar na sua cama e falar. E finalmente Sohan contou-lhe como ele foi molestado por Suraiya quando Pankaj saíra por 10 minutos.
She gave her complete attention to the discussion and slept very well that night. She did not tell Prafful what she had done, but he perceived the change in her. But Pankaj too noticed the change in his brother. Sohan did not want to go out with his friends and was afraid of girls. He started sleeping in Pankaj’s room and was afraid of his bed. Pankaj lost his patience one day, when a cousin, hugged Sohan and he screamed and cried. Pankaj took Sohan to his room, made him sit on his bed and let him talk to him.
- “Por amor de Deus, Sohan, porque é não me disseste àquele dia mesmo?!”
- ‘For God’s sake Sohan, why didn’t you tell me on that very day’
- ‘Dada, I was very nervous and confused. It was only after some time that I understood what had happened.’
- ‘Don’t worry; she is going to pay for this. But first I will tell Momma and Papa, and then I will call the police.’
The next morning, Suraiya woke up to the sound of the police siren. She opened the door as her parents looked on in horror. A policeman approached her.
- ‘Are you Suraiya? Come with us to the police station. You are under arrest for the sexual abuse of a minor.’
Suraiya looked at the policeman and then at her parents.
- ‘I dont deny it, Sir. Yes I molested a boy of 12 years. I am obsessed by him. Come shall we go?’
And Prafful, who lived in the next building, could only look in despair when he saw his soul mate enter the police jeep.

A conto by Dhruv Usgaonkar

Suraiya desligou a televisão e pousou a sua taça vazia de iogurte de morangos. Ela acabou de ver um dos seus filmes favoritos em HBO, ‘Notting Hill’. Ela adorava as Comédias Românticas, especialmente ‘Bridget Jones’ Diary’ em Inglês e ‘Jab We Met’ em Hindi. Ela deitou no sofá, o sabor do iogurte de morangos ainda demorando na sua língua. Ela acariciou os seus compridos, direitos cabelos pretos, os seus olhos grandes e redondos fitando vaziamente a um póster de Leonardo di Caprio no muro do seu quarto, mas a sua mente estava perdida num outro lugar, como estava muitas vezes. Ela levantou o seu Nokia 3110c que já estava decorado com autocolantes e corações (ela estava a procurar-lhe uma cauda vermelha) e ligou um número que conhecia muitíssimo bem.

Prafful estava no meio duma operação importantíssima. Ele olhou no seu espelho da mesa e abriu o seu olho esquerdo com os seus dedos da mão esquerda. E depois recebeu o choque da sua vida. Um velhote estava a gritar atrás dele em Concanim no sotaque de Saxtti: “Ê Bhau, arê fone aila tuca, ghé maré begin...!”. O lente de contacto caiu do seu dedo. Extremamente irritado, ele olhou ao seu LG Shine para ver quem ligara, e suspirou.

Desde que ele e Suraiya conheceram-se no Primeiro Ano do colégio há 2 anos, eram amigos de alma, mesmo que fossem completamente diferentes, em todas as maneiras: aparência, personalidade, gostos. Prafful era baixo, claro, com olhos quase Mongolóides, e ela era mais alta, morena e bonita. Prafful dizia que ela parecia como uma actriz de Tollywood. Também quanto à personalidades, eram diferentes: ele tinha os seus pés firmamente na terra, não muito extrovertido, e controlado pela cabeça. E por isso, era uma surpresa que eles eram tão amigos, sem qualquer sentimento amoroso. Eles ligavam-se pelo menos 2 vezes por dia.

Prafful abriu a escorrega do seu Shine e ladrou, sem qualquer ‘Hello’ ou ‘Está?’:
- “Eu estava a meter os lentes nos meus olhos!”
- “Oh, peço desculpa! Eu queria saber do teu projecto do ano. Porque amanhã vamos ser divididos em grupos, dependendo dos assuntos dos projectos, não é?
- “Sim, eu sei. Tu não vais estar no meu grupo, porque já tenho o meu. Vê amanhã quem escolheu o teu tópico.”
- “Tá bem. Até amanhã.”
Mas de repente, Prafful sentiu-se brincalhão e sorriu a ele mesmo, tornando cor-de-rosa.
- “Espera aí. Sabes, ainda não voltaste o favor do ano passado.”
- “Qual favor?”
- “Lembras-te como me convenceste ir contigo para ‘Confessions of a Shopaholic’? Eu saí do cinema com uma dor de cabeça! E por isso, agora tens que ir comigo para um filme que eu quero.”
- “Ha! Eu não vou para os teus filmes de acção e ficção científica! E falando daquele dia, lembras-te o que aconteceu? Tu chegaste tarde para o filme, e por isso eu pagara o teu bilhete. E após o filme, tu disseste que detestaste o filme tanto que não quiseste me pagar para o bilhete! Ainda me deves Rs 120, Sr Prafful!”
- “He he! Reparo que a tua memória ainda está aguda. Até amanhã. Tchau.”

Suraiya não esteve muito contente quando saiu do colégio com Prafful depois das aulas.
- “Viste quem está no meu grupo?”
- “Sim, Pankaj. Não o conheço muito bem.”
- “Mas me diz o sabes dele. Ele esteve na Alta Secundária contigo, não é?”
- “Suraiya, não importa por quanto tempo conhece uma pessoa. Bem, Pankaj sempre era...como é que eu digo...o ‘diferente’ da aula. Ele pensa lateralmente e faz tudo que os outros não fazem. É um radical.
- “Xi saibá, será um pouco difícil. Ele convidou o grupo à sua casa esta tarde para discutirmos o projecto.”

Suraiya passou a tarde anciosa. A descrição de Pankaj fê-la nervosa, porque ela teria de trabalhar com ele por um ano inteiro. Mesmo que estivessem mais 3 pessoas no grupo, Pankaj foi o líder, que significou que ele conceberia planos extraordinários, e logo difícis, que faria o trabalho dos outros ainda mais difícil. Ela deu ignição ao seu Honda Dio e seguiu as direcções que Pankaj dera ao grupo chegar à sua casa. Ela precisou dum tempo encontrar o prédio, e depois, o apartamento. Ela tocou a campaínha, e a porta abriu. E pelos próximos segundos, Suraiya foi colada ao chão como uma estátua. Ela pensou que Cúpido abrira-lhe a porta. Foi o mais bonito rapaz que ela vira na sua vida. O seu pele era tão claro, quase tão branco como o leite, e parecia tão mole como o dum bebé. Os seus olhos eram vítreos, e verdes. Ela podia ver a sua reflecção naqueles olhos. O seu cabelo era castanho, e parecia tão liso como a seda.

“Sohan, quem está à porta?” E foi como se Pankaj partisse um painel de vidro na cabeça dela. A voz de Pankaj quebrou aquele momento especial. Suraiya sentiu um balão expandindo dentro dela; ela nunca sentiu tão leve na sua vida.
- “Dada, é uma das tuas colegas.”
- “Ah, entra, Suraiya. Os outros estão a chegar.”
Mas a mente de Suraiya estava naquele rapaz.
- “Pankaj, é teu irmão? Ele é muito bonito.”
- “Ah sim, pois é. Ele chama-se Sohan. Tem 12 anos e estuda a sétima aula. Sohan, esta é Suraiya, minha colega no colégio.”

Suraiya não conseguiu concentrar na discussão do projecto naquele dia. Logo depois de chegar à sua casa, ela informou Prafful.
- “Suraiya, tu estás louca!? Tu desejas um miúdo de 12 anos?! Sabes que te tornas uma pedofile?”
- “Sim Prafful, eu sei, mas estou completamente apaixonada. Eu vou esperar-lhe fazer 18 anos. Não me importo o que os outros dizem ou crêem. Eu vou ganhar o seu amor mesmo que me leve anos. E vou ganhar a aprovação de Pankaj também.”
Prafful desligou numa cólera. Àquela noite, Suraiya não conseguiu concentrar em qualquer coisa; nem televisão, nem filmes, nem as suas favoritas gambas fritas para jantar.

Ela não encontrou Sohan em Facebook, e sabia que ele não tem o seu telemóvel próprio. Ela passou toda a noite dando voltas na cama pensando como é que ela podia encontrar com Sohan, que significava ir à casa de Pankaj. Ela não ficou contente quando Pankaj anunciou ao grupo que as reuniões para discussão do projecto seriam em rotação na casa de cada membro do grupo. Ela começou ficar melancólica e perdeu interesse em tudo. Prafful tentou distrai-la com várias coisas, mas não conseguiu.
- “Prafful, não vale a pena, ‘tá bem? Eu tenho que estar com ele. De qualquer maneira, sabes o que significa ‘Sohan’, não é?”
- “Sim, eu sei que significa ‘namorado’. Suraiya, regressa à terra, se faz favor. Sabes que podes ser presa para pedofília? A tua família vai mandar-te à rua. E depois o que farás?”
A provocação atingiu o coração de Suraiya. Ela resolveu tentar esquecer-se do rapaz.

Contudo, o mais que ela tentou esquecer-se de Sohan, aconteceu o contrário. Ela começou contar os dias no calendário até a próxima reunião na casa de Pankaj. Quando o dia chegou finalmente, tornou-se impacientíssima. À tarde, levou o saco, as chaves da mota, e quase engoliu o omelette que a sua mãe lhe preparara. Ela fugiu da casa, e obviamente chegou cedo à sua destinação. Sohan abriu-lhe a porta, e ela sentiu-se voando no ar. Ela abriu a boca falar, mas não conseguiu. Foi Sohan que quebrou o silêncio.
- “Tu és Suraiya, não és? Dada saiu por um bocado. Espera na sala.”
O apartamento pareceu-lhe vazio.
- “Sohan, não está ninguém na casa?”
- “Não. Momma e Papa ainda não voltaram do trabalho. Dada vai regressar logo.”
O sangue de Suraiya começou circular depressa a estas palavras. Ela viu Sohan entrar no quarto, e seguiu-o instinctivamente. Ela viu-o lendo alguns livros na sua mesa de estudar.
- “Tu estás a fazer o trabalho de casa, Sohan?” Ela perguntou sem se aperceber o que dissera.
- “Sim, é Matemática. É tão difícil. Dada não me ajuda. Diz que eu devo fazê-lo eu mesmo, para eu aperfeiçoar. Mas acho Geometria difícil.”
- “Posso te ajudar. Eu faço o bem.”
- “Oh, muito obrigado!”
Ela aproximou-o de atrás e encostou sobre ele. Ela sentiu o seu cabelo veludo e pele de bebé, e salivou.

Pankaj regressou em 10 minutos, e viu Suraiya sentada na sala.
- “Chegaste cedo hoje. Estás muito contente, menina.”
Ela conseguiu dar a sua atenção completa à discussão e dormiu muito bem àquela noite. Ela não disse a Prafful o que fizera mas ele reparou a mudança nela. Porém, Pankaj também reparou a mudança no seu irmão. Sohan não queria sair com os seus amigos e tinha medo das raparigas. Ele começou dormir no quarto de Pankaj e tinha medo da sua cama. Pankaj perdeu a paciência um dia quando uma prima abraçou Sohan e ele gritou e chorou. Pankaj levou Sohan ao seu quarto, fê-lo sentar na sua cama e falar. E finalmente Sohan contou-lhe como ele foi molestado por Suraiya quando Pankaj saíra por 10 minutos.
- “Por amor de Deus, Sohan, porque é não me disseste àquele dia mesmo?!”
- “Dada, eu estava muito nervoso e confuso. Só depois dalgum tempo eu percebi o que acontecera.”
- “Não te preocupes, ela há-de pagar para isso. Mas primeiro, vou informar Momma e Papa. E após, ligarei a polícia.”

Suraiya acordou ao som do sirene da polícia a manhã seguinte. Ela abriu a porta quando os seus pais olharam em horror. Um polícia aproximou-a.
- “Tu és Suraiya? Vem connosco à esquadra. Tu estás presa pelo abuso sexual duma criança.”
Suraiya olhou ao polícia, e depois aos pais.
- “Não o nego, Sr Polícia. Sim, molestei um rapaz de 12 anos. Eu estou apaixonada com ele. Vamos?”
E Prafful, que morava no prédio vizinho, só pôde olhar desamparadamente quando ele viu a sua amiga de alma entrar o jipe de polícia.

A costa dos murmúrios ……Lídia Jorge

With a flick of a pen, Lidia Jorge, transports you to the battlefield of the colonial war in Mozambique, where she and her husband, a Portuguese soldier lived for six years.
‘A Costa dos Murmúrios’ seems to be an echo of those terrible years of sadness, frustration and most of all of disillusionment. Narrated in a dead pan voice of Evita, we are taken back to Mozambique, to a war which did not help anyone, a war that destroyed a country and turned ‘normal’ men into inhuman beings.
But let’s get back to the hauntingly beautiful book, ‘A Costa dos Murmúrios’, let Evita narrate her strange tale of life as the wife of a soldier fighting a war so far away from home, in surroundings totally alien to him, a war that had nothing romantic about it, as had those battles fought in the arena of the Second World war.
Evita, full of love and hope as any young bride should be, travels to Mozambique to marry her college sweetheart Luis, now a soldier posted in Mozambique fighting the Colonial War.
The wedding held at the Stella Maris hotel, where the Officers are billeted, is very good, all the guests have a lovely time, food and champagne flow; the highlight of the evening is when the Commandant graces the occasion and as a mark of respect to Luis dances with the bride. As on any honeymoon, things are good, lots of laughter, lots of sex. But although Evita does not want to admit it even to herself, she does notice subtle changes in her Luis, why does he worship the Commandant, who struts around in fine muslin shirts, a scar on his chest to be seen and envied? Or why does Luis get so angry when reminded of his days at the University which she, Evita, had shared with him with so much joy? Why does he act so strange in their bedroom recreating ambushes, jumping out of the cupboard, playing cat and mouse games? So amusing really. But the worst thing, something that leaves her utterly bewildered and to some extent sad, is his utter disdain for his beloved Mathematics, small things no doubt, Evita the new bride ignores all this but…..come on now, no cause for alarm, it is their honeymoon and most importantly it is her beloved Luis that we are talking about.
There are other strange happenings too, in the place where they are billeted, some days ago huge numbers of Blacks had died of Methyl Alcohol poisoning, but everyone had said, ‘You know how these Blacks are, crazy, plain crazy for Alcohol, they will do anything for a drink’ ‘Did you see any Whites dying? Did you see any Whites dying of Methyl Alcohol poisoning’ ‘No chance, after all we are not like those Blacks, we have superior intelligence, animals they are, plain animals’. And truly so many Blacks had died, that they were carried away in dumpers and dumped in mass graves. The Officer’s wives at the Stella Maris crowded the railings watching the movement of the dumpers carrying the dead bodies of those stupid, animalesque, Blacks who will do anything for a drop of alcohol. Chattering, laughing, preening swinging their well ironed hair from shoulder to shoulder, the ladies truly a gay bunch of lovely women shared in the unusual excitement of dead people being carried away in dumpers, even if strictly speaking Blacks cannot be termed as people.
And then one fine day….. the brave Portuguese soldiers, prepare to vanquish those Blacks, rout them forever from their territory, from their Mozambique, a total decimation of Blacks, it would be an All-White Victory…..
The battalion moves to the front, after all since times immemorial men have fought battles to protect their territory, the women as always stay at home, are left alone at the Hotel Stella Maris. The women do what women are best equipped to do; they wait for their brave men to come home from War, of victory they have no doubt. Meanwhile there is always something to do, hair to be ironed and straightened, clothes to be given to the washerwoman, children if any, to be looked after. Gossip about distorted fragments of War, reaching very infrequently to strike the walls of the Hotel Stella Maris, but never fear, one thing they are very, very, sure about is that it will be an All-White Victory with total annihilation of the Blacks. They know it, they have heard it so often, there are no doubts about it at all, an All-White Victory it will be with total decimation of the Blacks.
And what does Evita do amongst this gaggle of ladies, Evita too waits, leads a serene life, walks on the seashore, swimming in the beautiful warm waters, conversation with the other ladies.
Waiting can be pleasant when you wait for your loved one…..
And then one fine day, whilst swimming lazily, she finds a bottle, a bottle in the ocean; could it have a message for her? Strangely it did, the bottle of wine encased in straw, tasted of Methyl Alcohol. It strikes Evita, sadly realization dawns, Evita now is sure, the blacks had not been drinking Methyl Alcohol, the wine they had been drinking had been poisoned.
A dash to the local newspaper yields no results, the reporters are tired, they have no time for controversial stories, or so it seems to Evita. It is then that Evita befriends the Commandant's wife, Helena, a lady she never really had time for, a lady who lives alone in a bungalow.
Their friendship progresses, and then Helena, shows Evita things which make her flesh crawl, her heart stop, her mind reel with disgust and disbelief, her beloved Luis, her mathematician husband whose only preoccupation had been Mathematics, is a man who kills Blacks for pleasure with no remorse, just sheer unadulterated pleasure. Pictures of Luis atop a straw hut, machamba, the head of a Black skewered on to a lance, Luis setting fire to straw huts with women and children inside, Luis shooting off the cloaca of hens with extreme accuracy. Isn’t he now called Luis Galex?
The photographs are proof of their loyalty to the White Regime; an All White Supremacy that would rule Mozambique after the Blacks had been decimated.
And then the battalion returns, their men return………..no, no, not victorious, not covered with laurels as imagined, but well and truly beaten.
Luis, the destroyer of the Blacks is a totally dejected, crushed, hollow figure who has nothing to live for, dreams of an All-White-Supremacy well and truly shattered.
Now for some cleaning up, mopping up of all the evidence, the Commandant and Luis, obliterate all evidence, burn their dreams and those incriminating photographs of their efforts to exterminate the Blacks, out with that desire and dream of an all White Supremacy.
Destroy those huge barrels of Methyl Alcohol, who will understand that the black scum were not people but vermin to be eliminated at any cost. Did anyone force those Blacks to drink that wine? Vermin that they were, they lapped it, brain dead illiterates, who could call such vermin humans, pity we could not wipe the entire population of scum, make it a white country
And then, Luis comes to know that Evita has taken up a lover, much like his beloved Commandant had behaved, when Helena had taken up a lover, Luis goes in search of the lover, he wants to crush this lover, salvage some pride, be a Man once again, retrieve some part of his lost soul, but the lover forewarned, escapes and the sad and empty thing that Luis has turned, commits suicide.
Eva or Evita, who had come to Mozambique in search of her beloved Luis, ready to live a life with him, finds nothing but disillusionment, terrible loneliness and wonderment at how things could have gone so wrong.
And Luis, when did he change from that intense Mathematician into a killing machine, when did he change into Luis Galex?
Yes, the Officers wives lead pathetic and lonely lives, with nothing to do, nowhere to go. In their little capsule, Stella Maris, they exist for the time that their husbands will return, and they will be a part of the White Supremacy. Of course, they deserve to be rewarded for their sacrifices; they deserve to benefit from the spoils of war.

And I say to my Christ ........what have they done to you?

As I rush out of the Casa de Cinco Bicas, the wind tugs at my skirt, pulls at my hair, in Aveiro the wind is very mischievous never misses out a chance to play with you. I turn left, then right, which side should I go, my sense of direction is terrible, yes I realise it is on the left, Jumbo the Mecca of the shoppers is on the right.
With uneven steps, I do love cobbles, but they are so tricky to negotiate, how does Prof. Eugenia manage to walk so fast without tripping; she practically flies all over them. The cobbles are laid out in such elegance, how do they handle all those intricate designs, those wonderful calçadas; circles, lozenges, diamonds, spirals you name it, it is there for you in stone, always in austere black and white, such precision, so beautiful in its stark simplicity. But I had no time to admire the calçada, I was in a hurry, I was on my way to the Museu Princesa Santa Joana, my outing on Sundays
Museu Princesa Santa Joana, the name evokes royalty and Princesa Joana is royalty, daughter of Afonso V, she is a princess who entered the Convento de Jesus da Ordem Dominicana femina.
The first thing that strikes me when I look at her painting is her innocence; her beautiful young face, radiating serenity; what made you become a cloistered nun Princesa? Was it because you lacked suitors? Was it because you lacked political clout? Or did you really want to dedicate your life to the Lord Jesus?
Whatever her reasons, the Princesa Joana, lived an exemplary life, dedicating herself to works of charity. She was held in such high esteem that she was beatified and is now the much beloved Saint of Aveiro, but our Dourado was not satisfied, beatified and a Saint? How could it be questioned his ever vigilant knowledgeable mind, you have to be canonised to be a Saint!
She is our Saint insisted Sr. Santos our cultured guide.
But beatification is not sainthood, quoted our theologian.
Come on dear friend Dourado, she is a Saint to the people of Aveiro; they just love her, who cares about all that theology. Saints are all about simplicity, all about faith.
We watch the tomb of the simple Princesa who dedicated her life to the work of Christ, nothing exceptional I think, you see I am biased I love the tomb of our resident saint, St. Francisco Xavier.
The museum is dedicated to the life and works of the Princesa, housed in the old Convento de Jesus, the Convento is now denuded of its old grandeur, you understand that it fell into disrepair after a decree by the Minister Joaquim António de Aguiar expelling all religious orders from the kingdom.
So you do not see any cells where the nuns rested their weary bodies after a long day of work and prayer, gone is the infirmary, of the pharmacy we see only a huge, black cupboard that housed the medicines, most probably herbal concoctions, no offices where a stern Mother Superior took stock of every thing that went on in the Convent, and the cellars so full of provisions for those long winter months are long gone.
But we do see vestiges of the kitchen and refectory. What did they eat? Did they gossip like we do all the time? Did the cook know how to cook or did she dish out unpalatable stuff that the Princesa was forced to eat without complaining? Did the cook know about our very own recipe for bebinca?
Our guide Sr. Santos, a person who really knows the place and its history very well, shows us where the religious chapter met, so this is where all important discussions take place, such austere simplicity. Sr. Santos explains to us an amazing fact, tucked just close to the door is the figure of a tiny dog etched in the stone wall. We are told, that it is the emblem of the Order of the Dominicans, Domini canis, “Dog of the Lord" faithful to the Lord as a dog is to man. How beautiful, how simply touching. I touch the little dog and think ‘how precious you are little one, there is an entire Order named after you’
We do see parts of the old, now extinct convent; the Sala de Lavor and the Capela do Senhor dos Passos. Huge paintings of the life of the Santa Princesa, adorn the walls, pictures of the Princesa entering the Convent, the Princesa welcoming her father Afonso V from the battle of Arzila and many more episodes from the life of the Royal inmate.
We move to the High Choir and that’s when I stand rooted to the spot, my heart stands still, amidst the beautiful stalls for the nuns, stands a tall crucifix with a figure crucified, yes it is Christ all right, but He is not the Christ I know, He has no crown of thorns, has it fallen off? Or did he never have one? His body is not emaciated like the Christ I know, he seems just a Man, a normal Man, a poor Man, a short Man whose back must have carried heavy weights. He has the most human face. I see with a sense of shock and pity that His hair has been hacked off in clumps. And I say to my Christ, ‘what have they done to you?’
Sr. Santos calls us to move rapidly in front of this Christ and you see so many expressions mirrored on His serene face.
And I say to my Christ, what have they done to you? Why have they hacked off Your hair? Is it to humiliate You? For I realise that nothing humiliates or disfigures a person so much as cutting off their hair in careless clumps. In a flash I remember a young woman crying out to my aunt,
‘Veja D. Elsa meu marido cortou meu cabelo’.
I remember her hair chopped out in clumps, disfiguring her face completely.
We move to the Museu, with its many exhibits, mostly statues from the now defunct convents. So many statues of saints and angels, relics of saints once so revered, touched so often.
I see the Blessed Virgin cradling the body of her dead Son and she cries out to us, ‘What have you done to my Son? Such pain on her face, such bewilderment, such incomprehension, she is just a Mother after all……