Hunting Midnight (21 page)

XIX

A
s the present danger to our secret community had passed, my father, mother, and I never talked again of boarding school in England, and Midnight and I began our weekly discussions of the Torah with Senhor Benjamin. The Bushman was enthralled from the very beginning, greatly pleased that the Lord of the Hebrews could be wrathful and even scheming, as well as occasionally indecisive.

And so our lives again returned to a happy routine, and we continued along this path largely without incident till October of 1806.

I was now fifteen and a half, and to my great joy, my upper lip bristled with a faint mustache. I was also nearly a hand taller than Midnight and Mama, fully five feet four inches, though I was still a year away from the growth spurt that would elevate me to nearly six feet in height. Unsurprisingly, young women figured most prominently in my thoughts at this time.

Midnight was more preoccupied than ever with his work and studies with Benjamin. Indeed, the apothecary’s basement had been turned into an alchemical laboratory of sorts, home to a dizzying combination of odd smells that often filtered out into the street.

Father had acquired seven more acres of land upriver, giving us a grand total of fourteen. He estimated that in just two more years he could begin planting vines for our very own vintage. Although my father had taken me upriver several times for lessons on wine growing and I had proved totally useless, we all agreed that the name Stewart & Son had a certain ring to it.

Mother had forsworn her allegiance to Mozart for the time being and been captured body and soul by Beethoven. She learned everything by him that she could order from London. New manuscripts were slow in arriving, however, due to
disruptions
in the postal service caused by Napoleon’s war,
currently
raging across most of Europe, though not yet in Portugal.

As for Fanny, she had given birth to four unplanned chubby puppies. While she was in heat, she had escaped from under my vigilant eye by launching herself like Pegasus out of the parlor window. Dashing up our street, she surrendered her maidenhood to the first passing suitor – a fawn-colored mutt raised in the sewers of Porto, judging from his matted hair and foul smell.

Of the four puppies, we succeeded in finding proper owners for three of them and kept the runt of the litter for ourselves. Midnight named her Zebra, owing to the white stripe that started at her nose and stretched across her black and brown back. She was the puppy my dearest Fanny loved the most. So much so that I feared her heart would break if we were to give her away.

In the world beyond the confines of our home, Napoleon had won his greatest victory at Austerlitz, leaving fifteen thousand Russians and Austrians to rot in the Moravian sun. On land he had proved himself supreme, and there were many who believed that he would soon be the master of all Europe. Except for the British. And not if the Emperor were foolish enough to attack at sea again: Off the coast of Cape Trafalgar, in southwest Spain, Lord Nelson and his fleet had won a decisive victory precisely one year earlier, on October the Twenty-First, 1805. British forces had multiplied in strength since, and Napoleon hadn’t dared to send his navy off again to battle.

Although we were nervous about Portugal getting involved in the war, we weren’t lacking in optimism. It was firmly believed that the British – our main trading partners – would never allow Porto to fall to the French.

In matters of the heart, I had become absolutely fascinated by a lass living on the Rua das Taipas. Maria Angelica was her name, and she was seventeen. I tend to hold Violeta responsible for instilling in me a liking for older girls with knowing eyes, and this young lady had the most stunning green eyes I had ever seen.

She was fair of complexion, and yet her hair was so thick and black that in one of my secret love poems I rhapsodized that it was
made
of
starless
night.
Her breasts were also of great interest to me, and I simply could not drag my covetous eyes away from them.

In those days, we were expected to behave as proper
gentlemen
and ladies, so I dared not even speak to Maria Angelica, although I watched her from afar, utterly charmed by her delicate movements. To catch glimpses of her, I walked by her sitting-room window up to a dozen times a day. I would invent endless excuses for pausing a moment, such as fastening the buckles on my shoes or doing up the buttons on my breeches, until her neighbors, giggling with mirth, began to make loud kissing noises every time I approached.

One afternoon I had the good fortune to pass beneath her window just as she was opening it. “Good day, sir,” she said, leaning out.

Before we could expand upon this promising start to our relationship, however, her mother yanked her inside and slammed the shutters closed. Yet I remained undaunted in my passion. Which was why, when I first learned of my father’s impending trip with Midnight to London, on the night of our commemoration of Lord Nelson’s victory, I failed to insist on being invited along. They were to be gone for six weeks.

“Am I to come?” I asked my father, desperately hoping that he would say no.

“No, son, I am afraid not.”

“Why are you going?”

“Well, John, you may recall that one of Midnight’s reasons for coming with me to Europe was to try to find a cure for smallpox. A few years ago, I learned of a physician named Jenner, who has been working in London, and of his theories on the inoculative effect of cowpox. And so …”

I must have looked confused, because he went on to explain, “John, all I know is that thousands of people have now been successfully inoculated against the disease. The good man
provides
this service to the poor free of charge – up to three hundred patients per day. So I wrote to the Royal Jennerian Society, requesting permission to witness the procedure, and they have graciously agreed.”

“If this cure is a good one, then will Midnight return to Africa?”

“Aye, he may, son. We shall only know after England.”

The possibility of him leaving us filled me with dread. “In that case,” I said, “I should like to come with you.”

“No, not this time, lad. You and I shall go to London one day soon, but not now.”

“But it would be good for me to – ”

“No,” he interrupted. “I’m sorry, but it’s completely
impossible
.”

I didn’t bring up the subject again until the following afternoon, when I was walking with Midnight by the dry docks along the river.

“Papa says that you will soon leave for England to find a cure for smallpox.”

He patted my back. “Yes, John, I am very, very pleased. You cannot know what this means to me. So many of my people have died. So many Zulu and Xhosa too.”

“If you find a proper medicine, will you leave for your homeland immediately?”

“No, I shall return to carry out experiments with Benjamin. I must be able to repeat the procedure or it will be of no help at all. If all goes well, then I shall indeed return to Africa.”

Seeing my sadness, he added, “I have an interesting
proposition
for you, however.”

I frowned at him, because I wished him to feel terrible about leaving me alone.

“Will you not even ask me what my proposition might be?” He winked. “I shall be cross with you if you don’t.”

“No,” I barked, which made him laugh.

“May you always ride between the toes of Eland,” he said.

“And just what does that mean?”

“May you always be you. And may you always go slowly.”

“Why slowly?”

“Because in the African desert one must always proceed with caution or risk stepping on something that might bite or sting.”

He linked his arm in mine, which he had started to do ever since I had grown taller than him. “John, when I return to Africa, I should like you to come with me. That is my
proposition
.”

“Me – in Africa?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes. I’d very much like you to stay with me for a time. We have birds there that are beautiful-beautiful, and they have been waiting for you to imitate them for many years. I should not like them to wait forever.”

“Have you suggested this to Mama and Papa?” I asked excitedly.

“Not yet. First we must see about England, then we shall talk to your parents.”

“My mother will not let me stay long. She probably won’t even let me go.”

“You will come for a few months every year or two. And I shall visit Porto every other year as well.”

“But it is very far to southern Africa.”

“No, not so far,” he laughed. “Just halfway around the world!”

“And dangerous.”

“Less dangerous than Europe. The French will shortly cross the mountains into Portugal.”

“Do you think so?”

“Napoleon is a hyena who thinks he is a lion. He will try to devour Portugal. I, for one, would prefer to be elsewhere when he comes. There will be much suffering and death. Perhaps I shall propose that your parents come to Africa as well. Your father might make a vineyard there, after all.”

He motioned for me to sit with him on a great log by the river. Once we were settled, he said, “There was a year, John, when a
drought fell over all the land. It was a very, very bad time.” He took out his wee clay pipe. “Mantis was away in a distant desert, for he grew ill from his life among men and women from time to time, and he needed the sweet nectar of the white flowers that grew there to replenish his spirit. But when Bee flew to him to tell him of the good people dying everywhere in his homeland, he risked his own life and didn’t hesitate to climb onto his friend’s wings.

“Discovering many already dead from hunger, Mantis
prevailed
upon Ostrich to give them some of her honey or at least lead them to her hives. But the great bird refused to do so. Mantis chided her, of course, but she just ruffled her tail feathers at him. And then that silly bird tucked all her honey under her wing and flew away. So Mantis began to consider how he might steal it so the First People might survive. But without his nectar he was growing weaker every day.”

Midnight leaned toward me and patted my leg. “One day he crawled slowly to Ostrich and said in his frail voice, ‘I have found a tree with the most scrumptious plums on it. You would like them very, very much.’

“The gullible bird asked to be taken to the fruit tree
quickly-quickly
. So Mantis led her to a tree heavy with yellow plums. Ostrich picked joyously at the bottom branches, for the fruit was delicious.

“But Mantis said, ‘The ones up higher are even better. If you coat them in your honey, no delicacy will ever be able to equal them.’ And so the bird strained its neck to reach further up.

“‘You silly thing,’ the insect told her. ‘Not there – right at the top!’” Midnight pointed with his pipe into the sky and squinted. “‘That big one there, on the crown, it’s the sweetest of all.’”

My friend stood now, shaping his thumb and forefingers into a greedy beak. “The bird stretched her neck as far as she could. And just as she snared the topmost plum” – here, Midnight snapped his fingers shut – “Mantis used the last of his strength and reached under her wing, stealing all but one of her honeycombs.

“Since that day, John, Ostrich has never flown again for fear of
losing her very last comb. As for men and women, as you know, we have the wisdom of honey to sustain us through all manner of misfortune.”

“But what happened to Mantis when he used up the last of his strength. Did he die?”

The African’s eyes shone with delight. “No, John, he did not die. For the moon, crying over him, shed her tears of softened light upon him, and when he licked them from his lips, he recovered. Having some of the moon’s eternity in him, he was never ill again.”

Midnight winked at me to signal the end of his tale and puffed contentedly on his pipe.

“But what does it mean?” I asked.

He kissed my brow. “There is nothing that Mantis and I might ever be doing in the distant desert that will prevent us from coming to you and stealing you a treasure if you ever need it.”

Three days before Father and Midnight were due to leave for England, I was awakened at dawn by a strange noise. At first, I thought it was Fanny whimpering. Wrapping my blanket around my shoulders, I followed the noise down to our sitting room. There, by the cold hearth, I found my father doubled over in his armchair, sobbing convulsively. I was just retracing my steps to spare his embarrassment when he called my name.

A candle flame illuminated his eyes. They were so full of misery that I thought he must have received some terrible news. Perhaps Aunt Fiona had died.

Starving for my touch, he held out his trembling hand to me and I rushed into his arms. His distress was overpowering. “Papa, what’s happened?” I asked.

“A dream,” he whispered. “I was all alone in an empty house. No heat. No light. Your mother was dead and you were gone – I had no idea where. I was all alone in the dark. And I would remain alone forever.”