Africa, with its immensity and its lassitude, magnified distances and deadened memories. The newspapers reported that in Austria Chancellor Dollfuss had been assassinated, that in America there were seventeen million unemployed, that in Germany the Reichstag burned. My father wrote me informative, verbose letters: my brother was thinking about taking holy orders, they had installed a telephone in the villa at Cascais, the monarchists’ cause had suffered a hard blow with the loss of Don Manuel. His death left the claim to the throne to an unknown young foreigner tied to the Miguelist faction, while my family belonged to the liberal aristocracy. The new Portuguese constitution, a copy of which was wide-open in front of me, defined my country as “a cooperative, united state,” and a government dispatch ordered the photograph of a young professor from Coimbra, with a scornful and presumptuous face, who had become Cabinet Minister — Antonio de Oliveira Salazar — to be hung up in public offices. I had hung it behind my back with a vague sense of uneasiness. But on my table I kept the portrait of Don Manuel, to whom I was bound by an almost familial affection. It was a contradiction, but Africa let contradictions live with perfect tolerance.
The last English steamer had brought me a novel popular in Europe that took place on the Côte d’ Azur, but it lay uncut on the table. The nights of Inhambane were too far from the lights of Antibes of which popular novels spoke. Apparently the life was similar. There were palm trees, the moon was spectacular, there was lobster for supper at the Club, people loved with intense, voluble passion, the orchestra ventured upon jazz, the women accepted courtship with disarming ease. But everything was lived as if it were different and far away. Africa was a space in the spirit, unanticipated, hazardous. In Africa everyone had the sensation of being far away, even from himself.
The trip had not, in fact, gone very well. I had lied to the captain. It had turned out to be uncomfortable and studded with incidents, including getting bogged down in the mud, which had stolen an entire morning. Fortunately, Joaquim was a first-rate mechanic and had a perfect knowledge of the road. He was an elderly mulatto, kind and pleasant, used to adversity and resigned to misfortune, who faced life as an obligation and the inconveniences of the roads as a diversion from the tedium of the trip.
Lying down on the berth of the truck, while the African forest passed by above, I thought about the Vice-Governor’s rod that had moved over the map hung on the wall in his office in Inhambane pointing out to me the most favorable route. It was hot, the fan hummed loudly, from the wide-open window came the afternoon light and the buzz of a market deadened by the trees in the garden. The pointer moved slowly along Tete’s heavy-duty road, then swerved toward the northeast. The route on the map at that point was a slender white thread across the dark green of the forest, with no city within the radius of three hundred kilometers. The first large center was Kaniemba. Then there were two days by truck, if no breakdowns occurred. Now I was pursuing the course of the pointer, carrying out that incomprehensible, possibly rather absurd, order. A census at the boundary of the region of Kaniemba, five hundred kilometers away from my seat, work that in theory could last ten months, had the taste of punishment, together with a threatening warning. I wondered about the reasons why I had been able to induce my superior to entrust me with this task. I saw again the photograph of Don Manuel on my desk, I thought of the trial of a rich colonist for bullying his employees, at which I acted as plaintiff, I remembered the threats of a most excellent personage whose trafficking I indiscreetly set out to investigate. Perhaps something of all this entered into it, or something that I was unable to imagine. But by this time even to know did not change things much.
The “sepoy” brought me the note while we were having coffee. The captain had been telling me a very Portuguese story of misery and nobility. It was a printed invitation, one of those used on ceremonious occasions among persons who have a certain place in society. It was slightly wrinkled and looked frankly old. It said in English that Sir Wilfred Cotton had the honor to invite for supper (a blank space followed filled in by pen with my name) for Thursday, October 24, at seven o’clock. Evening dress would be preferred. R.S.V.P.
I turned the note around between my fingers. I must have looked as perplexed as the situation was perplexing. A barracks inhabited by an officer and two old “sepoys,” the city of Kaniemba — granted that it could be called a city — two days away by road, the deepest forest within kilometers, and an invitation to dine in evening dress and would I please respond. I asked the captain who Sir Wilfred was. An Englishman — well, of course, that I had supposed. But what kind of Englishman? Who was he? What did he do? He had arrived a few months earlier, he may have come from Salisbury — at least it was believed so — he lived in a little cottage at the edge of the village, who he was no one had the slightest idea, he always looked after his own affairs, he was an elderly gentleman — well, let’s say fifty, maybe a little more — he had an elegant appearance, he seemed to be a refined person.
I was about to put the invitation into my pocket, but the “sepoy” looked at me with an aggrieved expression without leaving the room. I asked him what more there was. Mr. Cotton’s servant was at the kitchen door, Excellency, was what it was, maybe he should send him away? Sent to tell His Excellency that he took the liberty of reminding him that tomorrow was Thursday, he said exactly that.
Wilfred Cotton’s cottage had belonged to the administration of the lumber company before the factory had moved two kilometers to the south toward the Zambezi. On the wooden colonnade at the entrance, under a recent paint job, you could still see an axe with a swallow-tail blade, the company trademark. A small uncultivated banana plantation separated it from the village. In the background, in the direction of the river, the heavy-duty road for Tete passed by. The rest was overhung with forest tentacles.
It was exactly seven o’clock. Cotton was standing on the veranda waiting for me. He was wearing a white jacket with a silk bow tie. He said welcome, supper was almost ready, would I please sit down, my chauffeur could eat in the kitchen — he sent a servant to call him — would I care for an aperitif? A boy in black trousers and a white shirt was waiting near a sideboard with a bottle of wine in his hand. On the table there was a meat pie spread with currant jelly. It was a short supper, pleasant, relaxing, with neutral, formal conversation. Would I remain here for long? Perhaps a year. Oh, really? He hoped that this prospect did not frighten me. Did I like the place? Moderately? Oh, certainly, he found it understandable, but the climate was not too bad, didn’t I think? The humidity was bearable. A phonograph in the living room softly played Haydn.
At tea we talked about tea. What we were drinking, so dark and aromatic, was a mixture of his: leaves of Li-Cungo, those tiny ones, that give an intense color and contain a high percentage of theine, mixed with some quality Niassa, very light and fragrant. A carillon clock struck eight, and Wilfred Colton asked me if I liked the theatre. I liked it very much, I admitted with a certain regret. In Lisbon I had liked it very much. Perhaps it was the artistic expression which I had liked the best. My host stood up with a certain haste, it seemed to me. Very well, he said. In that case I believe that this evening there is a performance. If you will come this way, I will have the pleasure to invite you. We should hurry.