It was only when one of the harbour guards on his way home from work swore that he had seen the peacock flying out over the sea that Hanna was forced to accept that it really was the truth. She was living in a part of the world where birds whose wings had been clipped could suddenly recover their ability to fly. It was no more peculiar than the claims about ghostly dogs with no legs or paws roaming the streets at night. Or that tapeworms inside a human being’s stomach could grow to be five metres long.
Hanna thought that it was a premonition. If she wanted to achieve the impossible, she must do the impossible. She must become somebody else.
And so she was now called Ana Branca, nothing else. Ana Branca is a lonely person, she thought. She was losing the respect that Hanna Vaz had enjoyed. Her decision to try to get Isabel absolved from the murder of her husband Pedro had aroused widespread indignation on the grounds that she had failed in her foremost duty — upholding the solidarity of the white race. Defending the status of her own race at all costs.
Ana was unable to go back to sleep. When the first light of dawn illuminated her window, she got out of bed. This was the morning when she was due to meet Senhor Andrade and talk to him about what was likely to happen to Isabel.
Her first thought that morning was the same as the last one she had the day before. It was the image of Isabel in her underground cell in the fort, where a tiny window at ground level was the only way in for the same light of day that Ana could see was now lighting up the sea and the town, the palm trees along the promenade, and the hills marking the border with the African interior. Isabel slept on a bunk with a single blanket and a mattress stuffed with grass. The cell was either freezing cold or so hot that the damp dripped down from the ceiling. During her first weeks in the cell she had a shackle round one of her ankles, but Ana had succeeded in persuading Lima, the commanding officer of the military prison, to have it removed.
Ana intended to visit Isabel later that day. Every time she had to humiliate herself by asking permission from Lima, who usually kept her waiting inordinately long before making a decision. Sometimes he wasn’t even there — or pretended not to be there. Ana always took some food with her, the only thing she was permitted to give Isabel. Only twice had she been allowed to take her clothes. Isabel had been in jail now for two months. She smelled of sweat and dirt every time Ana met her, but Isabel couldn’t use the small amount of water she was given in order to wash herself: she had to drink it. Ana knew that two white men who were imprisoned after beating up and killing a third were treated quite differently. But when she complained to Lima about this, it was as if he didn’t hear what she said. He would look past her, or through her, while absent-mindedly polishing the stripes on his uniform.
Ana Branca is a lonely person, she thought as she stood by the window. She had rebelled against her own race by standing up for Isabel, who was wasting away in the bowels of the fort.
It was nine o’clock when Andrade arrived and handed his white hat and walking stick to Julietta, who made a fuss of him and bowed after escorting him to Ana’s study. Ana and Andrade no longer shook hands: that gesture, which had never been a mark of friendship but had signified respect, was a thing of the past. He sat down opposite her at her desk.
What she wanted to know first of all was if there was a risk that Isabel might be decapitated or hanged. She had asked her solicitor that question several times, but never received a satisfactory answer.
‘The death penalty was abolished in Portugal in 1867,’ said Andrade. ‘In other words, I can’t see any risk of her being executed. I’ve tried to explain that before.’
Ana felt relieved. But could she be absolutely sure?
‘I’ve consulted all the law books,’ said Andrade, ‘and the fact is that nobody is condemned to death any more apart from those found guilty of treason. I’ve also written a letter to the Ministry of Justice in Lisbon, but I haven’t had a reply yet. But I don’t hesitate to say that there are a lot of us who think that the death penalty ought to be reinstated, especially in the Portuguese colonies in Africa. That would force the blacks to refrain from even thinking about committing crimes against white people.’
‘Who will pass judgement on her?’ she asked.
Andrade was surprised by the question, possibly even annoyed.
‘Pass judgement on her? Surely she has already condemned herself.’
‘Where will the trial take place? Who will be the judges? Who will defend her?’
‘This isn’t Europe. We don’t need a judge in order to lock up a black woman who has committed murder.’
‘So there won’t be a trial?’
‘No.’
‘How long will she be locked up in the fort?’
‘Until she dies.’
‘But won’t she be given a chance to defend herself?’
Andrade shook his head in irritation. Her questions were annoying him.
‘Portugal’s relationship with this black country is still not legally regulated. We are here because we want to be here. We send our own criminals back to Lisbon or Oporto. We don’t bother about blacks who commit crimes involving other blacks. They have their own laws and traditions, and we don’t poke our noses into that. But in this unique case, we lock her up in the fort. End of story.’
‘But surely she has the right to a lawyer? Somebody who can argue her case?’
Andrade leaned forward.
‘Isn’t there somebody who is now known as Ana Branca who is looking after that side of things?’
‘I’m not a lawyer. I need advice. There’s nobody here in Lourenço Marques who is willing to help me.’
‘It might be possible to find an Indian lawyer in Johannesburg or Pretoria who would be prepared to take on the case.’
Andrade took a gold pen from his breast pocket and wrote a name and address on the back of a business card.
‘I’ve heard about somebody who might do it,’ he said as he put the business card on the table. ‘He’s called Pandre and comes from Bengal. For some strange reason I don’t understand he has learnt Shangana, which is no doubt the language Isabel speaks when she’s not babbling on in Portuguese. He might be able to help you.’
Andrade stood up and bowed. When Ana offered to pay him, he shook his head in disdain.
‘I don’t accept payment for when I’m not working,’ he said. ‘I’ll find my own way out.’
He paused in the doorway.
‘If you decide to leave our town, I’m prepared to offer you a good price for this house. Can we say that I’m first in the queue if that’s the way things go? As a reward for the bit of help I’ve given you this morning?’
He didn’t wait for a reply, but left the building. She could hear his car starting in the street outside.
Carlos had crept into the room unnoticed, and was now sitting in his usual spot on top of the dark brown wardrobe that still contained Senhor Vaz’s clothes.
What exactly does he understand? Ana thought. Nothing? Or everything?
58
Ana took a horse-drawn cab down to the brothel. There she picked up Judas who accompanied her to the fort when the worst of the midday heat was over. She was always a little worried when she walked past the armed guards: perhaps the doors to the fort would close behind her? Judas was carrying the basket containing the food for Isabel. Judas suddenly began talking — a very rare occurrence.