Lizards and Mules

Donkey, ass, or Equus africanus asinus, if you prefer, are names given to the same animal. Mule, on the other hand, is a completely different type of beast. Mules are the offspring of a male donkey and a female horse. They are more common and a lot easier to obtain than hinnies, which are their reciprocal cross, being the product of a female donkey and a stallion. Formerly, I did not care about these small things. I spent my life not knowing, and not wanting to know, about the bloodline of mules. Formerly, I did not care. But you see, sir? This animal, this hybrid and mostly infertile creature, was my father’s best friend.

* * *

The place we lived at that time was a very stony and dry valley, near the city of Cabrobó, in Pernambuco, Brazil. On the burning days, over the scalding ground, Pa walked in the mule’s tracks. Ôa! Ôa! he would chant, with a tone surprisingly strong for someone so silent. If you saw them, you would never guess it, but each of their actions had a precise intent.

Marching, thirsty and hot, they were scouting the caatinga, their hooves and feet engraving the esplanade along the dry riverbed. Beast in front, man behind. The mule’s black snout leading the way, working, sniffing, kissing the stones, inquiring, searching for any bush that had survived that scorching sun.

Pa knew the animal was on a quest. And he knew that eventually the beast would pound its front hooves firmly, rhythmically, fiercely, as many times as needed, with all his strength, digging the earth.

* * *

Those who believe animals are intelligent beings would say the creature was digging a grave for Pa, since the man seemed almost dead anyway, as he stood there, light-headed from hunger, panting like a lizard on a hot rock. Yes, I remember my father. His harsh, white tongue, thickened by everlasting thirst. His old leather sandals, bearing the mark of each of his toes. His hair, darting like flames, stroking his eyes with the wind.

But the hole the animal was digging was not a grave for a corpse: the mule hammers the earth to move the soil that sucks the water. Isn’t it amazing? Isn’t it wit? Isn’t it artful to find water where no one can see it? What about you, sir? Tell me. Have you ever seen a mule finding water in the hell of an afternoon? It is a beautiful scene indeed. The mule puts on the airs of a horse, violent and focused like a warrior.

When the hole is done, the miracle follows: a minuscule amount of hope starts flowing, a wee pool of almost nothing, trembling, glimmering. After allowing the beast a few gulps, Pa would drive the mule away with shouts and menacing waves of his hands and hat. Of course, the beast couldn’t know about chivalry and all the potential dangers implied in the movements of hats, and yet, big and strong as it was, it would yield. After all, it is always this way: the master harshly drives the animal away and yet firmly holds the rope tied to its neck. It is so, isn’t it?

Crouched by the springhead, Pa would carve the soil a bit more and collect the water with an old half gourd given to him by Seu Manuelzão Leite. It was a good year that one, not long ago, right after the war against the Germans, when the calabash trees in Dona Cotinha Menezes’ farms produced many gourds, big and strong enough to make good bowls. And dreaming of good years, Pa would drink. He would drink until his stomach ached, loading his body. After drinking, he would fill two big, old tin cans. Washed, dented, and faded, like memories, the barrels still spelled their original content: “Querozene Jacaré.”

With the cans full of water and fastened with ropes, one on each side of the mule, they would climb up the riverbanks.

On their way back home, the beast’s face would tell tales of sadness and servility. Its attitude had nothing more of that soldier over the sand, now with its imaginary wars over. It was unavoidably returning home, ragged, duty-bound, forsaken. And yet it went on, swaying.

* * *

On other days, when the problem was hunger, it was also the mule my father would count on. Pa would grab the animal, some sacks, some ropes, and hit the road.

If he had money, which was rare, he and the mule would go straight to Ingazeira’s market. Pa would come back a hero, approaching the house noisily, shouting our names, opening the gates, calling, “Josefa! I’m home!” And we would all come running, gathering around the mule, anticipating the near future: lots of manioc flour, a bit of rapadura ground in the mortar, some chopped peanuts. All together! It was so good! From this point on, it was full belly, fresh water from the bottom of the clay pot, and a delicious nap under the shade of the algaroba tree. What a happy life!

But if Pa didn’t have money, even so, the mule would come in handy, blessed creature! Pa and the mule would go again through the caatinga, in search of macambira. Do you know macambira, the wild plant used to feed livestock? Yes, macambira. What else could he do? Was there any other way? My father was never ashamed that we had to eat macambira. No one should be ashamed. I am not.

* * *

I don’t know if out of hunger or despair, but Pa didn’t outlast the drought of 1955. Ma and my older sisters went to work in different houses, and Dona Cotinha adopted me.

When I started going to school, I realized that other children had no idea what macambira was. I won’t say it was delicious. No, I won’t. This forage, roasted . . . eaten right off the fire . . . no need for utensils . . . I will just say it was the best we had to eat those days . . .

Picture this: I’ve heard that some people had to eat lizards in their hard days. Yes, they did. Does it matter if one had to eat a lizard or two? God is the One who gave us the animals, and also the One who gave us hunger. Who can tell His intentions? If it wasn’t God’s plan, right from the start, He would have created lizards with tougher meat or worse taste. He could have given them some defense, like venom, perhaps. Since He made things as they are, the man bigger than the reptiles and more intelligent than the beasts, it was probably His plan that man and animal would find each other in a moment of need. Some men gauge their superiority, others pity the creatures, maybe they are even grateful. But they eat and use them anyway.

Every man knows his mules and lizards.

NINA FERRAZ

Nina Ferraz has recently been accepted to the MFA Creative Writing Program at New York University, where she was awarded the Goldwater Fellowship. She is a Brazilian gynecologist who holds a master’s degree in Literature and teaches at the ELI, WCC/SUNY. Her previous works, including the book Bulls Without Feathers, were published in Portuguese. “Lizards and Mules” is her fictional debut in the English language.