Vasco da Gama's Pigeons

Abstract

I sat at an outside table of the Hungarian Pastry Shop, 110th Street and Amsterdam. Dressed in my only suit, navy blue and the white shirt I'd retrieved from the cleaners earlier that afternoon (dropped off two months ago) I waited for Amauri Cardoso, the Mozambican playwright whom I was assigned to interview and review his new play opening at the New York Portuguese Society. He was late. I briefly looked at the press packet but thought it better to get my impressions face-to-face, the article's tone fresher, more genuine. I sipped water from the glass. The table wasn't level, a tad wobbly, with a clean white cloth. I had a tape recorder in my portfolio that I'd use if he spoke quickly or mumbled (as I did most of the time). When he called from Lisbon, I told the newspaper editor I'd never written an article, a review, or conducted an interview. "You've gotten a good recommendation. You're translating Cardoso's play. You will do a great job." I was nervous and felt a twitch in my back; I took another aspirin. "Are you Hollis Coleman?" "Yes. Have a seat." We shook hands. "This is my wife Donna." She kissed both sides of my face. "I will see you at the show," he said to her before hailing a cab, her long dark hair straight and even. He turned to me, "It's good to meet you. I'm looking forward to reading my play in English." He wore a silver tie which made him seem formal, polished. I was without a tie; my clothes were clean yet fairly frayed. "Yes. I'll be working closely with you. I'm excited about reading it. Your English is good." "It is a difficult language. I've studied it for five years." He looked younger than thirty-six. I didn't want to interview him but discuss playwriting, his life as would two friends. I wanted to know what Mozambique looked liked. Was it similar to Brazil, Angola, Cape Verde? I hoped he wasn't struggling, wasn't as poor as me. If he woke up after a night or several hours mimicking punctuation, a question mark or comma, the excruciating pain of those forms as I had, could he have called and paid for a chiropractor? I had no money, no insurance. When I got a cold or flu it was all taken care of through rest, vitamins, and if severe an over-the-counter drug. If run over by a car, well, that would be it. Forget about surgeries, casts, or rehabilitation. I lived forever careful, keenly aware of context. "So you're living in Lisbon now?" "My family moved there two years after independence. There wasn't any work in Mozambique. We were starving." "So would it have been better if independence never came?" I was testing him. [End Page 1041] "Of course not, independence is necessary. We still celebrate June 25, 1975. If they hadn't colonized us, if we developed on our own, had a say in our national boarders, we would all be healthier; at worst a bit sick, but everything would be different. If the Portuguese allowed us education, if they taught us how to use their Western machines the turn over would have been easier. If we had gone back to our own ways, if we hadn't forgotten them, it could have worked. But if you're starving, if you know life might be better somewhere else, then you uproot yourself and go to that place. Survival is our strongest instinct." "But Portugal? There is such a terrible history there." "I know. It was the only country my parents felt hopeful for. My father had been to Portugal once. We spoke the language. No matter how bad they were in our country, we knew them. I was seven when we left. If I were an adult during that time, I would have stayed in Maputo...