Mariamar gesticulates, pointing at her notebook. Her mumbling reminds me of Roland, my poor brother, who had such an intimate relationship with words throughout his life, and now doesn’t even have access to the most basic vocabulary. The girl with the honey eyes waves her arms, her capulana opens like a pair of wings, and her mother translates:
She says the only clothes she has are this notebook.
* * *
I give them some time, and withdraw so that the two of them, Hanifa and Mariamar, can say their goodbyes. But there is no leave-taking. A hand that lingers on a hand: That’s the only exchange of words between mother and daughter. But the delay has a purpose that I almost fail to notice: The mother discreetly passes a kind of necklace to her daughter.
I like to give necklaces too, I say.
It’s not a necklace, Hanifa corrects me. What I’m giving Mariamar is our ancient thread of time. All the women in the family counted the months of their pregnancy on this long string.
Mariamar is moved by this gift. A shadow passes over her eyes and she drops the notebook. As it lies half open on the ground, I read the first of its pages. These are the words: “God was once a woman…” I smile. At that moment, I’m surrounded by goddesses. From both sides of that farewell, in that rupturing of worlds, it’s women who stitch together my own ruptured story. I contemplate the clouds as they advance with the ponderous, contorted step of pregnancy. It won’t be long before it rains. In Palma, the woman I’ve been waiting for all my life awaits me.
* * *
Once in the jeep, with Mariamar sitting beside me, I utter a clumsy goodbye.
Goodbye, Hanifa.
Did you count the lions?
I’ve known how many there were ever since the day I arrived.
You know how many. But you don’t know who they are.
You’re right. That’s a skill I’ll never learn.
You know very well: There were three lions. There’s still one left.
I look around as if surveying the landscape. It’s the last time I shall see Kulumani. It’s the last time I shall hear this woman. With due respect for final goodbyes, Hanifa Assulua whispers:
I am the last lioness. That’s the secret only you know, Archangel Bullseye.
Why are you telling me this, Dona Hanifa?
This is my confession. This is the thread of time I place in your hands.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mia Couto, born in Beira, Mozambique, in 1955, is one of the most prominent writers in Portuguese-speaking Africa. After studying medicine and biology in Maputo, he worked as a journalist and headed the AIM news agency. Couto has been awarded several important literary prizes, including the Vergílio Ferreira Prize and the Latin Union Award for Romance Literatures, among others, and he is a finalist for the 2015 Man Booker International Prize. He lives in Maputo, where he works as a biologist. You can sign up for email updates here.
Also by Mia Couto
ENGLISH
Voices Made Night
Every Man Is a Race
Sleepwalking Land
Under the Frangipani
The Last Flight of the Flamingo
A River Called Time
The Blind Fisherman
The Tuner of Silences
PORTUGUESE
Cada Homem É uma Raça
Cronicando
Estórias Abensonhadas
Contos do Nascer da Terra
Mar Me Quer
Vinte e Zinco
Raiz de orvalho e outros poemas
Mar me quer
O Gato e o Escuro
Na Berma de Nenhuma Estrada e Outros Contos
Um Rio Chamado Tempo, uma Casa Chamada Terra
Contos do Nascer da Terra
O País do Queixa Andar
O Fio das Missangas
A chuva pasmada
Pensatempos: Textos de opinião
O Outro Pé da Sereia
Venenos de Deus, Remédios do Diabo
O Beijo da Palavrinha
Jesusalém
Tradutor de Chuvas
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Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Mariamar’s Version: One
The News
The Hunter’s Diary: One
The Advertisement
Mariamar’s Version: Two
Return from the River
The Hunter’s Diary: Two
The Journey
Mariamar’s Version: Three
An Unreadable Memory
The Hunter’s Diary: Three
A Long, Unfinished Letter
Mariamar’s Version: Four
The Blind Road
The Hunter’s Diary: Four
Rituals and Ambushes
Mariamar’s Version: Five
Some Honey Eyes
The Hunter’s Diary: Five
The Living Bone of a Dead Hyena
Mariamar’s Version: Six
A River Without Sea
The Hunter’s Diary: Six
The Reencounter
Mariamar’s Version: Seven
The Ambush
The Hunter’s Diary: Seven
The Demon Saint
Mariamar’s Version: Eight
The Hunter’s Diary: Eight
Flowers for the Living
A Note About the Author
Also by Mia Couto
Copyright
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
18 West 18th Street, New York 10011
Copyright © 2012 by Editorial Caminho
Translation copyright © 2015 by David Brookshaw
All rights reserved
Originally published in 2012 by Editorial Caminho, Portugal, as A Confissão da Leoa
English translation published in the United States by Farrar, Straus and Giroux
First American edition, 2015
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Couto, Mia, 1955–
[Confissão da leoa. English]
Confession of the lioness / Mia Couto; translated from the Portuguese / by David Brookshaw. — First American edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-374-12923-1 (hardcover) — ISBN 978-0-374-71095-8 (e-book)
I. Brookshaw, David, translator. II. Title.
PQ9939.C68 C6613 2015
869.3’42—dc23
2014039381
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