The Discovery of America by the Turks (4 page)

She was, on the other hand, able to do quite a bit in the case of Fárida, Alfeu, and Ibrahim, there at hand and with no escape. She allowed them none. She put the house in order and demanded decorum in their habits. She obliged Fárida, poor cherub, to abandon her happy life and come help with the household chores—so many and so tedious!—starting with the care of her son (bottles, dirty diapers, wet clothes, crying, doo-doo, and vomit) instead of continuing her shameless behavior with Alfeu, exchanging kisses over the counter, pinches and pats in front of customers, as though they were still courting. It hadn’t been she, Adma, who’d wiggled her body at the garden gate, so why should she have to take care of the baby’s piss and shit?

But the main target of her challenge was Ibrahim, to rescue him from the disorder and perdition in which he had been wallowing from the beginning of his widowerhood, when he abandoned family matters completely. If Adma could bring him back to the righteous path, Sálua’s soul could finally reach paradise. It was a holy mission, and she set about bringing it off, no matter what the cost.

From Sálua Adma had inherited her strong character, her sternness, and her talent for command. It was a pity she hadn’t inherited her facial features or her figure. In those particulars she took after her father, rawboned and without the abundant breasts or hips, the sway in her walk, the large eyes, or the silken hair of her mother and sisters. The slight fuzz they all had on their upper lip, one more mark of beauty, in Adma’s case had grown into a thick mustache. Who is to blame for the injustices of heaven?

With age and dejection, the moral gifts she had inherited from
Sálua had turned into aggressiveness and intolerance. Raduan Murad, a student of human nature and cause and effect, didn’t call her a matriarch; lowering his voice, the worthy man declared her: a virago!

Examining the various facets of his problems during his threatened mornings of fishing, Ibrahim came to the conclusion that there was only one single outstanding solution capable of resolving the moral and financial crisis and freeing him simultaneously from the ineptitude of his son-in-law and the despotism of his oldest daughter—the others were delights, all three of them. He had to find some fellow countryman who was single and of small means to take over the management of the Bargain Shop and take Adma as his wife. The suitor’s Arab blood would be a guarantee of his vocation for business and readiness for work. His modest condition would facilitate bringing off the wedding. If it didn’t work out that way, how was he going to face up to ugliness instead of beauty and sourness in place of propriety?

Everybody knows, and it’s stated in books, that a woman’s true beauty doesn’t lie in her physical charms, nor do they come first. The true beauty of a woman rests, before anything else, in the virtues that adorn her heart and beautify her soul. Keeping in mind her undeniable and extraordinary virtues—her status of heiress, partnership in the profits of the store, and her spotless virginity—how could anyone say that Adma wasn’t beautiful?

Besides that, she wasn’t a show-off like her sister or crippled or weak in the head. Absolute purity, outstanding: She’d never known a suitor’s boldness, never watched the moon rise by the garden gate. With Adma decked out with lace and ribbons, and the profits from the Bargain Shop, who knows whether he might just find a candidate capable of leading her to the altar and doing him that great favor?

A difficult task, Ibrahim concluded, but a necessary, urgent, and vital one: Adma had reached the age of sourness and evil.

At the bar, Ibrahim sought out Raduan Murad’s advice and opinion over the backgammon board. He found an enthusiastic reception for his idea and concrete help for the success of the plan.

“You can count on me, friend Ibrahim. We’ll set out together in this hunt for the rara avis. Let’s begin by analyzing the matter in depth.”

That lark would be a gift from heaven, something tailor-made for filling idle time in that newly born city, so devoid of entertainment. Outside of gambling, the bar, the cabaret, and girlie houses, there was nothing to do. Caught up by his comrade’s story, Raduan Murad half-closed his eyes, content with life. He disagreed only with the concept of beauty put forth by Ibrahim, not denying, however, its standing as a commonplace taken from treatises on morality.

“Moral treatises, monuments of hypocrisy! Virtue might be excellent for getting into heaven after you’re dead, but in bed, my dear Ibrahim, what matters is the flesh, what is properly called ‘matter.’”

Putting the pieces into play, they had all of their countrymen in Itabuna pass in review. A lot of them, all well-disposed toward work, some of proven seriousness. One of the bachelors, Adib, the youngest of three brothers, orphaned on both sides, happened to be a waiter right there in that bar. Cheerful and sure of himself, he was manifestly expert in collecting money and making change, which was a prime indication. The bad part was his age. He was too young for Adma.

“Adma’s already past thirty,” Ibrahim confessed.

Raduan pushed that objection aside, however. A difference in age means little or nothing in the success of a marriage. What a young lad starting out in life needs beside him is a judicious wife who can show him the way. In a marriage between an old man and a young woman the husband runs the risk of cuckoldry, but in the opposite situation there’s nothing to fear. A woman doesn’t grow horns, isn’t that so? An irrefutable argument.

Determined not to waste any time, they immediately set about with their soundings. Didn’t Adib feel like getting married, having a home, a nice home, a wife and children? Surprised at the question, the waiter thought a bit before answering that right now he had no wish to get married, no sir. Not yet twenty, he felt too young to tie himself down. Especially under those circumstances, because he was head over heels in love with Procópia.

“Procópia?” Raduan became interested. “The civil judge’s woman?”

Adib smacked his lips with an obscene sound of satisfaction.

“The very same, yes, sir.”

This was news of little bearing, even though it was of interest. An encyclopedia of urban and rural life, Raduan Murad kept abreast of everything that went on in Itabuna and its surroundings, including apparently irrelevant facts. An incomparable well of information, if he didn’t know a detail of some intrigue, he would invent it, and it so happened that most of the time he was right. When required he would foresee the course of events, leaving his audience dumbfounded. Life, after all, was nothing but a game of poker: All you had to do was substitute events and people for the cards and chips. In either case, at the gambling table or in the lottery of life, Raduan wasn’t averse to bluffing; quite the opposite. He wasn’t infallible, but he didn’t miss very often. He gave a deep sigh as he remembered Procópia’s breasts. She was crazy mad.

“Congratulations, lad, but watch out for the judge.
Dr. Gracindo is like a feudal lord. If he gets an inkling of that illicit agreement he’ll put you in jail and take a scabbard to you to teach you some respect for somebody else’s woman.”

They were ready to consider Adib a cast-off card when they heard that surprised individual laugh and say, “I can tell you, though, that if the daughter of some plantation owner loaded down with dough should show up on my doorstep, I wouldn’t tell her to get lost….”

The friends exchanged glances: cacao farm or commercial establishment; very little difference. Adib remained inscribed on the list of candidates, the only one up till now. They’d have another chat with him if Ibrahim couldn’t find a better prospect in Ilhéus.

An inspiration came to Raduan Murad as he moved his pieces with scant attention and, interrupting a move, patted his partner on the shoulder and announced, “Great news, my friend Ibrahim. I’ve found the man we’re looking for. Ideal as both a partner and a son-in-law. It came to me just now. His name is Jamil Bichara. Do you know him?”

Ibrahim knew who he was. He knew him by sight and had heard of him. A fellow countryman with a huge build and a powerful voice. Glorinha Goldass, that adorable plague of a woman, never let his name leave her delicious lips: It was Jamil here, Jamil there; she’d tell funny stories and mourn the fellow’s prolonged absence. He’d disappeared lately from the streets of Itabuna, where he was missed.

“He stopped working for Anuar Maron,” Raduan explained, “and he opened a business in one of those depots lost out in the woods. Where, I don’t know. He told me the name, but I’ve forgotten it. Glorinha’s the one who should know. When he shows up here he never goes to a hotel; he sets himself up in her room just like he was a plantation owner with a two-ton crop and the hooker was part of his account.”

Raduan couldn’t add much more concerning the whereabouts and the plans of the Sultan (he’d given Jamil that nickname because his fellow countryman was so crazy about women). The last time he’d seen him was quite awhile ago, precisely in that same bar and in the company of Glorinha Goldass. He was complaining about his heavy workload and
the awful quality of the whores in that end of the earth where he’d got himself stuck. If all those problems were still there, then Jamil would certainly be open to Ibrahim’s proposition. Raduan didn’t know of anyone else so well-disposed to work and eager to make money. As a partner, perfect. As a son-in-law, all they had to know was whether Jamil would accept the challenge.

“Because, just between us, my friend Ibrahim, our dear Adma…I can’t deny her virtues—I’m a sinner; I don’t understand those things. But her looks…”

“I know, old man. She took after me. It was her misfortune.”

Talk was of no use because the indicated party wasn’t around to discuss the commercial status, balance, and promissory notes, or concepts of beauty and physical and moral values. He’d disappeared with no indication of when he might return to Itabuna. Still, Raduan advised Ibrahim to be patient. But that proposal was turned down immediately. No, old friend, he couldn’t wait another day for that crisis to be resolved, before his son-in-law Alfeu and the cherub made a complete shambles of the store, before his daughter Adma—daughter? governess, a marabout!—took complete control, reducing him to the status of a slave, a eunuch.

With tears in his eyes and in a tremulous, stammering voice, Ibrahim opened the last floodgates of shame, abandoning any trace of self-respect. He laid out the horrors of his tragedy:

“My dear friend Raduan. I’m going to confess everything to you, the disgrace that’s overtaken me. My daughter Adma’s virtues are to blame….”

“I never trusted them…. Virtue is so sad and bossy.” Avid to learn the details of this story, Raduan encouraged the confidences. “Don’t be ashamed, Ibrahim; open up your heart. We’re like family.”

Ready to chain him to the counter all morning and afternoon, to condemn him to abstinence at night besides, Adma was turning her father’s life into a hell, every day more
tyrannical and violent. “An implacable fury, my friend.” Scandal upon scandal, to the delight of the neighborhood. On his mornings for fishing she would accuse him of indolence and of abandoning the business to go off and lounge by the river; of irresponsibility in the afternoon during his siestas in the hammock strung up in the yard between two trees, and his time for bar and backgammon. It got even worse at night, when, right after dinner, he would leave to have a little fun. Tearing her hair, screaming, Adma would shout to high heaven. People would cluster in the street listening to her. In the early morning she’d wait for him, clutching four stones in her hands. That’s how it was….

“I know quite well, Ibrahim. I was a witness. I’ll never forget.”

Ibrahim felt his capacity for resistance diminishing, his soul weakening. He’d reduced his daily fishing to twice a week, shortened his siestas, worked harder in the store. It was the life of a black slave, a sad affair. But there were worse things, much worse.

“I have to tell you everything, my friend! It isn’t just my character I’m losing.…” He lowered his voice and his eyes. “My hard-on, too.…”

“Hard-on, Ibrahim? How can that be possible?”

“Witchcraft!” In the end he’d become the victim of some fearsome witchcraft. It had happened when he was all tight into a whore and, all of a sudden, during the best part of his goody-gooey, he heard Adma’s evil voice and in the darkness caught sight of her grim face, and he immediately went limp, right then and there. That wasn’t the end of it. The curse persisted for the rest of the night. It was of no avail for the whore to make any effort; there was no trick capable of getting his dick up.

“She’s gelding me, Raduan, my friend.”

“It’s more serious than I thought, Ibrahim. We really can’t wait for Jamil Bichara or whoever it’s going to be. You go to Ilhéus right away, tomorrow, while I go have a talk with Adib. The way things stand, in a little while not even marriage will save our Adma.”

At the very moment when Ibrahim was confiding his miseries to his friend and counselor, an extraordinary coincidence was taking place, one worthy of inclusion in this faithful account of Adma’s nuptials, in which coincidences and magical moments keep running into each other. In that peaceful late afternoon, having dropped off his suitcase in Glorinha Goldass’s room and taken a bath to rid himself of the dust of his trip, Jamil Bichara was all prepared to give his body some nourishment, which was why he’d come to Itabuna. To replenish the stock of the Emporium and to feed his little dovey-doo, to dance at the cabaret, bat the breeze with Raduan Murad, attending to the necessities of both body and spirit.

None of the characters gathered at the bar, at the whorehouse, on the upper floor of the living quarters could have guessed that all that talking and activity was part of the scheme put together by Shaitan, the Islamic devil. On his chessboard lay the fate of Jamil and, in the bargain, the souls of the other figures.

While Jamil Bichara, in Glorinha Goldass’s room at Afonsina’s happy house, was giving abundant and varied nourishment to his dovey-doo, while Ibrahim Jafet, bent down under the weight of his shame, was deciding to dine at home and confront the wrath of his daughter Adma, Raduan Murad, at a table in Sante’s bar, empty of customers at that hour, was reflecting on the catastrophic situation in which his old friend and companion found himself.