BY RUI PERES

Little Serla could not understand why people stayed away from her and her mother. All she knew was the neighbours said her father was a “leper”.

SERLA WAS the only thing she had or could ever hope to have from life. A little angel of four. That was her girl-her ‘sherry’ daughter brought into this world of bitterness through no fault of her own. Yet, she was destined to suffer-most crushingly-not the lethal blows of the physique, which are far lighter than mental, but the tortures of her thinking mind.

“Mummy, what are you thinking?” asked Serla with that innocent look of hers.

“Nothing, my Serla! Nothing!” she sighed; saying to herself, within that vast reservoir where all her thoughts were stored, one superseding the other as the situation warranted, “Poor thing! She’s too little to know”. Then, all of a sudden, something-a newly refreshed idea-fluttered, and its fluttering sounds could be witnessed in the visible tracings of a broad smile. “Nothing my love. I was just thinking of the story I should tell you to­night in bed.”

Serla smiled childishly and giggled with joy. She was very fond of hearing stories where fairies were concerned-how they loved in their world and never died. She liked to hear her mother say every night at the end of the story. “And they lived happily “ever after.” But her mother would now-a-days end the story, with: “And that was the end of it all” or “And so it ends”, or “they end,” according to the number of fairies and princes and princesses taking part in the tale. And Serla would, sometimes, ask anxiously “But mummy, is the story over? You did not say that they lived happily and all that….

“Yes, my child. The fairies die every night.”

And then, when Serla’s face would record gloom, her mother would say quickly, “My child, Why are you sad?-Because they die?”

“Yes. They shouldn’t die!” She would reply.

“They shouldn’t; but they die.” And then, the mother would try to argue after the innocent ways of a child:

“Your name is Serla. How can I call you ‘Lisette’?”

“But you call me ‘love,’ ‘Sherry;’ ‘my child’ and so many things!”
This simplicity would evoke hearty laughter in the mother who would then bestow fond kisses on her flowery little angel. “Sleep, my child” she would say. “Forget the world….” Indeed! What a blessing it was to have this cherub near her bosom!

*****

“Mummy, are you still thinking? I know now! You’re thinking about this morning, when you took me to the church to hear the Sunday Mass….”

“Why….what happened this morning, my little one?” Luzia asked, trying to hide the concern in her face.

“Didn’t you see? While you were hearing the Pe. Vigario giving a sermon from the pulpit, Aunt Livia pointed you out to her sister, who has come from Panjim to spend a few days with her…”

“She isn’t your aunt, my child,” her mother corrected, “she is just our neighbour. Anyway, what did she say?” Luzia couldn’t help disguising her apprehensions.

“She pointed to you,” Serla resumed “and whispered to her sister saying ‘there’s the Regedor’s wife-I mean ex-Regedor who’s become a leper….’ And then her sister whispered back aloud, her face full of horror,-like the picture, mummy, of the devil you were showing me yesterday. She exclaimed ‘the leper’s wife! Oh God!….And who’s the smiling little tot by her side?’ I smiled,” continued Serla innocently, unaware of the silent tears flowing down Luzia’s face. “I smiled, mummy. And then, suddenly, Aunt Livia,-no, our neighbour Livia said something to her sister again….Her sister scowled at me, and made an ugly face, like when I do when I take castor oil.”

Luzia dared not make her stop. Her back turned upon the bed where her daughter lay, she looked at the dark sky outside the window. It seemed so dark, despite the numberless stars flickering upon its face; and although there was moon, it was but an almost wholly concealed ‘D’ emitting a dim glow over the distant Calangute beach. And the far away splashing of the waves, sometimes translating itself into an occasional roar, and the almost inaudible ‘Serenada’ and faint guitar much coming on from the gay merrymaking boys singing on the beach, seemed but a strange accompaniment to the innocent voice of the little angel relating the incident at the church, and the darkness outside another concomitant of it. “Yea, nature often joins in one’s sorrows!” She thought.

“Mummy” she could hear her little Sherry say in that meek and guiltless voice of a child, “Why do people make ugly faces at us? Why do they call you ‘Leper’s wife’ and me his daughter?”

“Shut up!” Luzia screamed turning back, and then when she saw the startled look of her little Serla, she embraced her passionately, and flooded her smooth innocent face with kisses.

*****

“My lovely Serla,” she said “You must sleep now. It is ten….First say your prayers, my child.”

“But mummy? What about the story?”

“OK. I’ll tell it afterwards.” The prayers said, the small offering was made as usual. It consisted in lighting and adding more oil to the oil lamp, and covering it up by a red container, open at the top, and then placing it before the big frame of Sacred Heart of Jesus. And a final prayer for the deliverance from sin said aloud by both.

“What is sin? Is it a big cruel giant ready to eat every one up, or is it the evil deeds of the Bad Fairy?”

“No, my child. It is both. It is damnation on earth and deliverance in Heaven.”

“I don’t want to be damned, mummy! I want to be delivered like my dead father.”

Luzia smiled sadly; controlling what was rising to her throat. “Poor little cherub!” she thought “She’s still a raw fruit. How can she know the ravages of tempest? How can she know that the root that is hollow is supposed to be dead? How can she know the secrets that are concealed in each of the crevices, until the final showdown when they shall all be scattered by the winds and revealed? And what immediately will follow but a stark acknowledgement of FACT! Perhaps the jolt may be felt too hard-too startling for the existent sober normality. Indeed! It is the falling tree that has to bear the strains of concealment-not the tiny little leaves or branches, that are allowed to flap for the present without the fear of suspense. Anyway, won’t the shock thereupon be shattering for those that never expected the tree to fall?… Suspense, perhaps, is better, because it prepares….it leads to expectancy, it makes one see as probably existent what was thought ‘not to be’. But, Luzia thought and here her spirit revolted against herself. How can I have the courage to tell her that her father is alive-that he is rotting away in that hospital at Macasana; waiting for death to have some mercy on him, by freeing him from the chains of that dreadful sort of death! How can I tell my little Serla that her father is damned forever from the society of men-that we are quarantined by the pangs of segregation for the rest of our lives-that she, my little lily of innocence… Just a few days back I heard my neighbour Estefira order her child not to play with Serla, not even to talk to her… Brutish, isn’t it! To say this in front of my own child! Yet, I don’t blame her. Wouldn’t I have done the same were my own child concerned? It is hard, but we must live according to the vicissitudes of time! Certainly we must….

“Mummy.” her daughter interrupted “is there a ghost on that dark coconut tree outside?”

“Why, my child?”

“Because I saw you looking at it just now. Your face seemed so sad and serious, that I was frightened. I even forgot that you promised to tell me a story after I’d said my prayers. You’ll tell me now, won’t you mummy.”

“Well,” Luzia hesitated, “I shall tell you a nice story, a real one. Do you want to hear?”

“Yes, yes,” Serla repeated with joy “Is it about fairies and princesses?”

“You will know….” she said. And presently, in a feverish manner, she started in the usual way children love to hear a story

“Once upon a time there was a beautiful valley. In it lived a prince. He was tall, strong and, though a little dark, he was handsome. Everyone liked him because he was intelligent. Yes, he was very important in the valley. And all came to him to get their papers signed or to seek advice.

“This prince sometimes went to distant lands to carry out some of his work. On one of these occasions he saw a lonely princess, who had neither father nor mother….”

“Mummy, mummy,” Serla cut in anxiously, “was the princess lovely?”

“I guess so,” Luzia replied with a smile, “otherwise the prince wouldn’t have fallen in love with her.” ‘

“Afterwards what, mummy? A Bad Fairy did her harm?”

“No, my child, not then but afterwards-they both got married and were very happy for a long time. They were especially overjoyed because a beautiful princess was born to them-much lovelier than her mother. But a dark fairy who was peeping into their house one day, was filled with jealousy because she didn’t like to see anyone happy. This fairy had a powerful spell-that whoever she spoke to would have a swollen face… and his body would rot. And this spell would again be transmitted to anyone that touched him. In this way, everyone would be forced to flee from him.”

“Mummy, was the fairy so bad?”

“Yes, my child. So one day she spoke to the prince.”

“And then mummy….did no one stop the Bad Fairy? Didn’t anyone warn the prince not to speak to the Bad Fairy?”

“No, my innocent angel. Thus, one dark night when the prince was sleeping with his wife and child, the Fairy came and touched the left hand of the prince….. The next morning, when he woke up, he was driven away-far away to a ravine; and his wife and child left….”

“But mummy, it wasn’t his fault,” the child protested.

“Yes, but everyone thought he was to blame. You see, Serla, that was the spell.”

“I understand now,” she said lowly, pretending she’d really understood “and I pity the princess and her lovely little daughter. Poor things! How bitterly they must have cried!”

*****

Luzia’s voice hardened “Yes, they wept, and those tears evaporated bringing down nothing….Every servant in the house refused to stay, and so the lonely ones had to live alone, doing as much they could of the little money the Prince had kept behind for them. You know, Serla, even all those that had once been so friendly to the Prince and his wife, during the time of ‘butter and cheese’ never again entered the house, because the spell had a greater strength on them than gratitude-Even the relatives… just think of that! And it is fortunate that the house they lived in belonged to them; otherwise they’d have been driven out.”

“Mummy, this story is very sad!” Serla lamented, “I don’t want to hear it, mummy. But tell me….Did the princess never go to see her husband?”

“Why, my Serla, she went just once. She took her two-year-old daughter with her….this was one-and-a-half year after the Prince had been sent to the Ravine. And there they met.

“The face of the Prince was all swollen up and his right eye was red, and his whole face had a reddish kind of complexion - (colour, my child, due to the spell). And he looked sad and dreadful. But when he saw his wife coming; bringing the little one with her, he laughed aloud with sorrow and wept soon afterwards. ‘Is this my little apple?’ he said jokingly. Yet his face looked so sad, frightful that nothing coming from those swollen lips could seem like a joke. ‘Oh God!’ he exclaimed suddenly ‘why have I disgraced the little apple? Why have I disgraced you?”

“And then the princess reminded him that it wasn’t his fault — that it was due to the spell set forth by the Bad Fairy. But he only kept staring at the child, or its mother weeping now and then, aloud from the place which separated him from his dear ones-outside the wire wall. Finally, he said ‘Goodbye’ in a touching voice. And when he saw his wife trying to come closer, he said ‘No, don’t come nearer.’ And he poured flying kisses on both of them; and seeing the little child stare at him, as if trying to recollect something that was long over, he said affectionately ‘God bless you, my little doll’. And, sobbing, he ran inside and joined the others, who were also under the same spell.”

“Mummy,” Serla said suddenly “Wasn’t there any good fairy to make him well again? There should be a good person among the bad, isn’t it mummy? You’ve always said that in your stories…”

“No, my child. In real life there are only bad fairies-those that live to do evil, and like to do it.”

The child heard her mother with a blank face. She was a lily yet. “Good night, mummy” she prattled.

Luzia kissed her daughter goodnight. She had just closed her eyes and was treading down the smooth depths of the valley where innocence found its sleep. Nevertheless, when she felt the warmth of her mother’s lips on her cheeks, she opened her little brown eyes unsteadily and smiled, extending her delicate hands and holding her mother’s neck so as to return the kiss on the natural red of her lips. But the long dark hair her mother had fell profusely on her olive face and eyes, making everything seem black. She kissed the hair, and immediately afterwards let her head fall back on the soft pillow again.

The mother blew off the candle, which was stuck on to a metal stand on the table, beside the bed… A dim red of the lamp was the only light in the room. There was no electricity.

She returned to the window….the distant swashing of the waves and the occasional roar continued. The music of the guitars could be heard more audibly, she strained her ears and could distinguish faintly the soft notes of the song “Tudo acabou, tudo morreu” (All is over, nothing is left) which was being sung. Oh yes! Today was the 30th of April-the last day of the month for many busy holiday-goers, who didn’t intend visiting the Calangute beach, until the April of next year….As she tried to hear, she could see the indistinct outlines of the many coconut trees, standing tall of the soft sands of the beach. And then suddenly she heard the muffled thud of a falling coconut. The unexpected sound startled her and she felt afraid of something she knew not….It was believed through out the village that a coconut falling out at night meant the coming of some disaster to anyone who heard it.

Luzia closed the window, applied the latch to its protecting door and returned to the bed where she slept with her daughter. It was a double bed, the same bed where she used to sleep with her husband….What joys had they shared during those days in each other’s company! ….But what was the use of lingering now over those faded, dreamy days? They were great no doubt, but now they were over-brought to an abrupt curb by he who permits. Yes, they were over like that song.

…Over for her and for her little angel. Yea, they were doomed… Anyhow, the mother at least, had had her initial joys… The little angel would have none! She would never have the pleasure of joining a group singing at the beach. She would never experience a dalliance from any boy… Indeed! It would be better if she were dead!

Luzia sat by her daughter and said her prayers. The little girl was fast asleep, yet now and then scratching her neck….Perhaps a mosquito bite.

She got up, put on her old silk night gown and sat again on the bed….The girl was breathing lightly….Her hand was still scratching….

“Serla,” she whispered lovingly, “You shouldn’t scratch the whole time. Otherwise your skin will be irritated and you’ll have a ‘bub’.” And slowly, without disturbing her, she put aside the hand that had been scratching; saying in her usual motherly manner. “Sleep, my….” What she saw started her. She got up hurriedly, lit the candle again, because the dim redness of the lamp wasn’t enough to distinguish and returned to the bed. The little one was still sleeping, and her hands were as they had been after she’d put them aside-resting freely on the pillow. Luzia brought her face nearer and looked fixedly. There was a dark spot on her neck-a roundish dot about the size of a plum, a little reddish in tint. Just like the one her father had had six months before the other symptoms followed. The child was hardly one then.

She cursed within her breath as she gasped “God Again!…. Permits!!…. How stupid! Serla,” she screamed in an urgent and broken voice “When did you have this?” The child woke up with a start. “What mu….?” And then she saw her mother biting her lips in an effort to control pointing to the dark spot on the front side of her neck. “It’s nothing, mummy,” she said innocently, “It’s just scratching and burning….For many days I’ve had this, mummy”. And to suggest duration she pushed back her head and pointed vacantly above her head, saying “I don’t remember… Why, mummy, are you going to give me medicine?”

“Yes, my little angel. I shall give you the tears of a mother.” The child did not comprehend, poor thing! Suddenly, looking at the grave eyes of her mother, she said “Am I going to die, mummy?”

Luzia stared blankly at the innocence of those words. Yet, silly though they were they had some deep meaning. At least to a mother.

“Yes, my child” she replied “You’re going to die, but not alone!”

“If I’m going to die, then I’ll meet my dead father in Heaven, no mummy?”

So apparently foolish the words seemed, yet how philosophic. Really! “Yes, my love,” she responded. And then a smile came to her lips, a smile of triumph, of that which was fading, crumbling under their-no, her feet, because she ‘wanted’ it so. She did not mind what she was letting fade behind her.

“My lovely, sherry” she said at last, kissing passionately the spot on her neck. “You will meet your dead father there-in the Land of the Dead…And among the dead, we shall live….”

The child did not understand, “Are you going to die too mummy?” she asked anxiously.
Luzia kissed her daughter again. “Yes, my child. Among the living, I shall die….”

“I don’t understand….”

“You shall, my child….” She blew off the candle. And they slept-by the dimness of the red light of the lamp….

Courtesy: Modern Goan Short Stories