The Discovery of America by the Turks (9 page)

When the entanglement finally unwound, there was one enigma left to be solved, a mystery to decipher, one that brought on intricate controversies. Young Adib Barud, in charge of the store, still had not transformed it into the grandiose bazaar he had imagined and promised—he and Jamil before him—but he had straightened out the finances,
reestablished its credit, and brought back its clientele. If the results had not been extraordinary, neither had they been bad. As far as was known, Adib never complained, always smiling and affable behind the counter, chatty and gossipy as only he could be. He’d learned his skills in the bar. The lady customers adored him.

In spite of being young, he took complete charge, a competent and hardworking boss, accepted and esteemed by his relatives. In addition to this, he was happy in his marriage. He showed himself to be a serene and faithful husband, charmed by the bed of his better half. He didn’t get to be a singular example of monogamy, as Ibrahim had been in Sálua’s time. Every so often he would accompany his father-in-law to have some fun at night with no set time for their return. On the occasion of her husband’s first spree, Adma tried to go back to her old ways. She waited up, awake, gathering up wrath and venom. She turned into a viper and received him with sticks and stones, shrieks and sobs, a fine rowdy celebration. To begin the conversation Adib unloaded a potent pair of slaps on her, the prelude to a memorable thrashing, with which he made an example of her. He immediately mounted her with drive and devotion, leaving her finally calm and satisfied, purring. Whenever necessary and sometimes with no apparent need, he would repeat the treatment. That was how he tamed her, with beating and petting, in spite of being criticized by the male community and by a few ladies who held to the prevailing law—a citizen lies with his wife respectfully and for the purpose of making children in her, a sacred duty. For indecent things, dirty work, there are whores. Ibrahim’s faithfulness was explained by his being the husband of Sálua, the most beautiful of beauties, a body well endowed with curves, ample flesh, the face of a proper woman, the eyes of a sultana. But how could one explain Adib’s moderation? A hotheaded, husky fellow, formerly so welcomed by whores and concubines, he had become scarce and remote. What arts or artifices to keep him home at night were being used by Adma, an iron maiden, a dried codfish, an ironing board?

When Adib ran his hand over her body on that unforgettable
day of the donkey stampede, he discovered that was not the way she was. She had firm, sexy breasts. But was a good pair of tits enough to make up for all the rest? Or could Adma, perhaps, as some suggested and suspected in the heat of wild arguments, be one of those favored by God, who had awarded her the grace of a divine twat for a dick to dip into?

It was never known for sure. But Raduan Murad, as he recalled both the real and the magical limits of the story of Adma’s nuptials, called his listeners’ attention to the well-known circumstance that God is a Brazilian. Responsible for the future of Jamil Bichara, with that same efficiency he governed the fate of Adib Barud, both of them favored sons, both brought up with a love for business and money and with respect for the laws of southern Bahia. With the Muslim Allah using the bar boy to stop Jamil from running away from his destiny, Jehovah, the God of the Maronite Catholics, would do no less. He would not leave Adib in the lurch, stuck in a pile of shit. Adma hadn’t inherited Sálua’s facial features, her lovely body, but in recompense God had conceded her the best part of the inheritance, the principal part: that incomparable mystery that turns certain very rare women, pretty or ugly, irresistible. Sálua or Adma, it doesn’t matter—one miracle less, one miracle more; miracles happened at the drop of a hat in those good times of the discovery of America by the Turks.

BAHIA, JULY; PARIS, OCTOBER; 1991

At a certain time in Portugal, Jorge was writing a passage of
Showdown
in which he was telling about the marriage of Fadul Abdala, one of the heroes of the novel. I was quite taken with it. There were moments of great humor, and at the same time it was rather moving. One day I saw a huge pile of typewritten pages in the trash. I took a look and it was the whole chapter of the wedding. But Jorge, are you going to throw this away? He explained to me that it was too long—it was almost another novel inside the first one; the best place for it was the ash can. I couldn’t convince him to keep the chapter, but I did save the originals in a folder. Years later, when the celebration of the fifth centenary of the discovery of America came along and knowing that I’d kept the original of that chapter, Jorge picked up the writing again and this book was born.

ZÉLIA GATTAI AMADO