This Translation Tuesday, dive into a short story from Jabuti Prize-winning author Nei Lopes that takes the reader a century back to Guanabara Bay in Brazil where a circus troupe disembarks. Drawn from a short story collection (Nas águas desta baía há muito tempo: Contos da Guanabara) that zooms in on complex and forgotten chapters in Brazilian history. Hear from translator Robert Smith how Lopes, in Smith’s own words, “undertook meticulous historical research to offer a sweeping view of the place and era, celebrating Afro-Brazilian culture and exploring the history of systemic racism.”
“In portraying a dynamic period of upheaval, the narrator Prodigy occasionally overwhelms readers with the feeling that too much is happening too fast. At the same pace that his story becomes entangled with that of the geographical region, two revolts, and the historical figure João Cândido Felisberto, his ebullient mood overlaps episodes of horrific violence. This translation took some liberties in altering punctuation to maintain this disorienting effect. When translating idiomatic expressions indicative of a past era, I looked to rough English equivalents that would sound similarly dated to contemporary readers. A challenge specific to this short story is the multivocal narrative, which leaves the question open as to whether we are facing a carnival storyteller who is cordially inviting us to suspend disbelief, a folktale with elements of magical realism, or an unreliable narrator whose traumatic experiences as a victim of abuse and a soldier have led him to rewrite his life story.”
—Robert Smith
This island has a lot of stories. They all do, I should say; the whole bay: land and sea. The day the first circus arrived, for example, was like the world was starting all over again.
When the barge docked and started unloading all that stuff, we had no idea what it might be. But a strange joy took hold of everybody, made us want to sing and dance to do something to please that gift that had fallen from the sky without saying what they had come for. Little by little, the colorful poles, the boards, the wheels, the iron braces, the motley flags appeared… Then the cages with the animals.
It was the Seventh of September¹, and, while we were watching everything in awe, the fireworks were going off. The ships, Tamandaré, Trajano, Liberdade², were sailing by in the bay, shooting their fireworks toward the city, way over on the other side. Right then and there, we knew that something truly beautiful had begun in all of our lives.
Disembarking in the quay, the caravan of oxcarts and wagons continued down the bumpy old road. The company was directed by the famous artist Benedito de Lima. And it arrived on our island, straight from Niterói, to save us from our isolation and change our daily routine. It popped up out of nowhere, the only attraction in our village, stirring up the hopes and daydreams of rich and poor, young and old, black and white; everybody.
No one had known the circus was going to come. But when it arrived, even without announcements or pamphlets or newspapers, word got round.
The place they chose for the big tent was the square in front of the little chapel of Our Lady the Patron Saint. They got a pole from the eucalyptus grove down by the stream, stuck it in the middle of the square and tied a thick, ten-meter rope to a nail on the tip. Using this as a compass, they drew out the main ring. Then, with a longer cord, they made a wider circle, where they stuck eight more stakes they got from the woods. Those formed the structure that would hold the bleachers. On top of the main column, they put a crossbeam to form a T and hung pulleys from it, and they suspended thick wire cables to hold up the canvas tent and the trapezes.
All this happened in the midst of children and adults bustling to know more about all those artists who appeared to be acrobats, actors, carpenters, musicians, cooks, tailors, ironers, sweepers, and dyers all at the same time.
When the structure was ready, up went the big canopy made of fine cotton waxed with paraffin. The middle fell into place. They tied it to the post and fastened the ends to sixteen stakes like the spikes of a bicycle wheel. It took three days to finish the job. Meanwhile—while they filled the island with joy—the fireworks in the bay never stopped.
Rumor had it the festival in the bay was being watched from the highest parts of the city too. Something big was happening, and it was a sight to see. A cousin of my father’s who lived in the city told me people would climb Santa Teresa every afternoon via Rua Taylor or the old road they used to call “Horse Killer,” nowadays known as Rua do Riachuelo. People came together up there with binoculars and all that, just to watch the fireworks. They say it was a beauty! The shots coming from the fortresses, Santa Cruz, São João, Laje, Vileganhão, the Military Academy, all aiming at the ships. And then the shots going from the ships to the fortresses (Bam! Boom! Bang! Pow! Fire! Hit! Sunk!). The days when there were no fireworks everyone went home out of sorts. Annoyed, discombobulated. And the kids… you can imagine. Then there was the searchlight at Glória. When night fell, it would sweep over the sea and cover the whole city with that wide beam of light.
From the island, we watched from afar, really far. But that didn’t interest us much. We had the circus setting up camp right on our doorstep.
Then came opening night. About four in the afternoon the village got all riled up and the kids went wild. The clown Gororoba, who was none other than the famous Benedito de Lima himself, went down the road on a bony old toothless mule, leading the parade. Two muscular scapegraces at his side held up signs announcing the attractions: Antonio Hugo the fire breather; Captain Adolfo and his trained horses; Elizanfan on the Rola Bola; monsieur Girunda on the Globe of Death…
A few hours before the show started, there was already a long line at the entrance. People from destitute houses, servants, and sharecroppers with chairs and clay water jugs grabbed the spots between the ring and the high seats, where families could sit more comfortably. When night fell, the circus lit up with kerosene lamps, and the light brought out the bright colors of the decoration even more. Food vendors were there with their polished boards, white tablecloths full of cakes, bolinhos, broas, cocadas, all kinds of juice…
While the circus was on our island I didn’t miss a show. I practically went to live there, working, helping, trying to learn all those marvelous things. I only went home to sleep. Till one day the circus gave its final number. They started to tear the tent down so they could move on. And I went with, thus fulfilling this fantastic destiny.
In no time flat, I’d learned the basics of circus arts, sciences, and techniques: aerial cartwheels, pantomime, gymnastics, mimicking, juggling, balancing tricks, illusionism, horse shows… Perfecting my knowledge with each presentation, I performed everywhere the circus stopped, on all the islands: Paquetá, Governor’s, d’Água, Boqueirão, Laranjeira… Even on tiny islands whose owners hired the circus, we set up camp and people came by canoe to watch. I even performed on Ilha dos Ratos and Ilha das Cobras.
But one day, a long way from home, on Ilha de Jurubaíba, way over by São Gonçalo, my father showed up in the audience, arm in arm with a strange woman. I was on the trapeze, and I fell out of fright. And then he recognized me:
—You sneaky shameless little scamp! So this is where you’ve been this whole time?
—You, sir, are the one who’s sneaking, here with that woman on your arm. And what if Mom’s at home in need of something?
—Where’d you learn to talk like that? You respect me, you impudent little urchin!
It was the biggest scandal you ever saw. There I was hurt from my fall, and he grabbed me by the ear and dragged me home.
When I’d recovered from my injuries and I got to feeling better, my father enlisted me in the Marines, at Ilha das Cobras, which was, far as he could see, the only way to straighten me up and teach me some responsibility. He left me there alone, like I was nothing. And went away.
*
My friends at the circus had given me the nickname Kid Prodigy, which I’d donned as a stage name too. Since I didn’t have any papers, when they signed me up in the Marines, that was the name I gave them: Prodigy of the Holy Spirit. A pretty name. Chose it myself.
Life on board the Tamandaré was rough. All the officers were white and all the crewmembers were black, mulato, or caboclo. But I soon started to distinguish myself with my arts, even during service hours. I walked the rigging cables, did acrobatics on the yardarms and the poop deck. I danced maxixe with the mop when it was time to clean… I raised Cain alright!
But, as it couldn’t be any other way, there came the day I was set to be whipped “into behaving like a human being,” as the officer who caught me at my misdeed put it. The moment the whip was coming down, I closed my eyes, cleared my mind, and the whip turned into a snake right there in the soldier’s hands. He jumped and let go of the animal, and it slithered off with a sly little grin and dove right into the ocean.
Then there was the time when the sailor who—believe it or not—didn’t know how to swim fell overboard. People were running all over the place, screaming and panicking, but no one thought to jump in and save the poor fellow. So, to everyone’s alarm, I went after him. Thing was, I climbed down the gangway ladder, walked a little over a mile, picked him up, slung him over my shoulder and brought him back to the ship strolling on top of the water while smoking a cigarette, serene as all get out. The sea was calm that day. That made things easier.
Word started to spread. I started to receive special treatment and people respected me, even the officers. They didn’t know those things I did were only illusions, prestidigitation, simple tricks I’d learned during my circus years.
But my big number had yet to come. It happened one night when the commander was hosting a delegation from a foreign ship. Just when things were getting good, they ran out of wine. Just imagine the disappointment. The shame. I told them:
—Leave it to me!
The ship’s storeroom had ten barrels where we kept the drinking water. Six of them were empty. So I told them to take those barrels to where the commander and his foreign guests were eating and drinking. They did what I asked, and I told them to fill the barrels with clean water.
When they were full, I closed my eyes, stretched my hand out over the barrels and…
—Ready! You may taste!
The commander, mistrustful, wary, went first. He smelled, took a sip, closed his eyes, smelled the bouquet and…
—Hmmm… Ah! Superb! Fruity! Oaked…
—The best wine I have ever tasted in all my life, exclaimed the foreign commander. I even got a rise out of them:
—It’s Du Barry, sir… du barrel du Brazil.
I painted that ship red. To keep the company in good spirits, I set up a cabaret on the mess deck. Open every Friday. I sang my lundus, accompanied by me on guitar, and I danced maxixe with Mustache, one of the best artists on board, dressed as a woman for the occasion. And Mustache recited picaresque verses… The sailors loved it! But one day, a little lieutenant who knew the rules better than the guy who wrote the book reported us to the commander, and we had to close up shop. With a few whippings here and there, let it be said in passing. Me, no; they knew better than to do that to me.
So, thanks to everything I’d learned in the circus, in 1910 (a little over ten years after I enlisted in the Marines) I’d already been made commander, or better: lieutenant commander.
The young man, João Cândido, who we called Felisberto³, had been in the service only a little longer than me. But we didn’t cross paths, not at all. I even got word from a few people that he didn’t believe in me; said it was all folderol, hobo magic, cut-rate circus tricks. He was just jealous! Especially after he came back from England.
I could understand. After all, I enlisted after he did and I’d already been promoted. I had the privilege of being the first officer of color in the Brazilian Army, and I was ready to be promoted to captain and after that admiral. All that bothered him quite a bit, you can imagine. But the day of our meeting finally came.
After what happened and everyone knows, he and the others were thrown into a filthy cell where they had to relieve themselves in a barrel that got to be so full of waste it rolled over and soiled a corner of their prison. On the pretext of disinfecting the cell, the officers gave the order to throw water with lots of quicklime… Then, in the back of the dungeon, the liquid evaporated, leaving only the lime.
Soon as I heard the screams, I ran over. The smoke from the lime wafted from the ground and invaded our lungs, suffocating us. They were all dead, except for Felisberto, who was hardly breathing. In mortal agony. I couldn’t stand to see a brother, a Brazilian citizen of color like myself, in that situation. When I saw him there suffering within an inch of his life, I closed my eyes, concentrated, and told him to wake up, rise, and walk. And he got up, just like that, shook off that white dust and left with me.
*
No one ever found out. And I made a point not to tell anybody. Pure at heart as I am, this is the first time I’ve ever mentioned a word of this to anybody.
I’ve no idea what’s become of poor old Felisberto. He must be completely bombarded, God have mercy. They say he never straightened out.
But he’s never going to tell anyone about this, because even he doesn’t know it happened, how, if he was able to survive all he went through, it was thanks to me, Prodigy of the Holy Spirit, circus ragamuffin, a native of the Guanabara Bay, the first black officer to serve in our Navy.
[1] Brazilian Independence Day
[2] Tamandaré, Trajano, and Liberdade are names of ships that participated in the Brazilian Naval Revolts in 1893, when a group of insurgents within the Brazilian Navy rebelled against the unconstitutional military government.
[3] João Cândido Felisberto, born in 1880, was the son of people who had been enslaved. He enlisted in the Brazilian Navy at the age of 13. In 1910, he led the Revolt of the Lash against corporal punishment and brutal conditions. During the uprising, sailors commandeered four ships and demanded more just working conditions. The revolt ended with the federal government’s promise to abolish corporal punishment and extend amnesty to the sailors involved. The government later went back on its word. Felisberto was imprisoned, subjected to inhumane treatment, and subsequently discharged from the navy. Today a statue of João Cândido Felisberto, “The Black Admiral,” stands as a monument in Praça XV in Rio de Janeiro.
Translated from the Brazilian Portuguese by Robert Smith
Nei Lopes is an award-winning author, samba musician, composer, and scholar. Born in Rio de Janeiro in 1942, he has published more than twenty works of fiction and non-fiction, including seminal research on African and African Diaspora culture, history, and language. In 2009, Luiz Antônio Simas and Nei Lopes received the Jabuti Prize for their Dicionário da história social do samba. Lopes has received the title of Doctor Honoris Causa from multiple Brazilian universities, most recently the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro.
Robert Smith has published translations in Anomaly, Asymptote, Epiphany, InTranslation, Journal of Italian Translation, Los Angeles Review, New Poetry in Translation, Two Lines, Vestiges, and Washington Square Review.
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