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It was said that a man who kept names lived in those parts. The night before, she’d anxiously planned how she would stride into his house and take her seat before him. She imagined, her rosary woven between her fingers and her palms face down on her polka dot dress, getting straight to the point as she narrated the reason for her visit and her expectations of the name keeper; nothing more, nothing less. However, as she passed the threshold, an overwhelming, unfamiliar curiosity drove her to scrutinise the details of the foyer: the little patterned hardwood table, the three miniature key hooks on the wall, the old-fashioned jacket and hat, and the collection of thick hardcovers which regarded her sombrely from the other end of the drawing room. In front of those books sat the name keeper: he had whitish hair and a hunch that was too pronounced for his age. He sat before an enormous book, a fountain pen in his hand. He did not look up, indifferent to whoever had entered, looking exactly as they had described him. She eventually came forward, stepping cautiously as if afraid of being attacked, her gaze fixed on the name keeper. She scarcely believed she had arrived.
As she took a seat, she noticed her mouth was dry, her throat knotted and painful. She was startlingly close, close enough to make out the name giver’s nose, his skin, his hands. She squeezed the rosary between her fingers until they ached, then began to speak. Her voice emerged with difficulty, the words struggling to form on her tongue: she needed a sip of water but did not dare ask for one. She took a deep breath, pushing through the dryness, contracting her abdomen for support. Finally, she announced that she had come for a name, though not hers. She confessed the immense effort this required of her, the immense resignation, for she had heard a lot about him, and much had been said about that house. An immense love had brought her here, she clarified. An absolute love. A sacrificial love:
—I come here for a love like that of Christ, true Passion. I come here to answer His call—she crossed herself—Which of course means that I am here on a sacred mission.
She levelled her gaze, fixedly, confidently, onto the name giver, who still had not looked up. She paused for a reaction, and finding none—he really was an old sorcerer, or some such creature—began her story the same way she had rehearsed it. Compassion was the sentiment that defined her, the voice which guided her through the days. She cared for her children and her husband, and all their children and spouses who needed her help. They could depend on her on every holiday and festival; she was tireless, energetic, and even assisted at the parsonage. She was a catechist and also sold raffle tickets, eager to assist as much with funding as with the upkeep of the church. The neighbours all knew that if there was maintenance to be done, they could count on her. She had an ‘unrelenting compassion’; that was how the priest had described her on her birthday mass, and she never failed to smile whenever she recalled those words. Her compassion was indeed infinite: in her prayers, she asked for nothing save long and healthy lives for everyone else except her.
It was impossible for her to ignore the deacon’s urgent call to action in the community news. It was more exciting than challenging: the possibility of extending her compassion beyond the strict boundaries of her community. Despite her age, she was the first to volunteer, the first to put her name down for the group that was to travel by coach to the little town: fifteen hours on the road to assist with the catechism. The scenes the deacon described had moved her: a group of over two hundred naked Indians, cut off from the outside world. Nomads who didn’t even know how to plant crops. They lived subject to nature’s whims, the hostile climate, the wild animals, and now the loggers who were drawing threateningly close. Conflict was imminent. As a mother, wife, Christian and catechist, she was incapable of feeling anything that was not absolute compassion. People had told her she was exaggerating things, and that this wasn’t a mission for a woman of her age. It was a large village, and besides, there were others. She wouldn’t hear of it, even going so far as to imagine the two hundred Indians in her house, at her table with her bending over backwards to teach them everything she knew. They didn’t even know how to use the toilet, they said! She imagined herself caring for them all week to be able to march them single file to the church every Sunday, granting them space in the front pews. The deacon’s calling had moved her from the depths of her soul, and she felt that God had spoken to her at that moment. That village and those primitive people would bring out the best of her, the best of civilization.
She spent the entire two-day journey in prayer. The predicted fifteen-hour timeline was based on the deacon’s calculations rather than the bus driver’s. Dodging potholes and heading down backroads so as not to attract the attention of the Forestry Police, the journey became more of a challenge than the catechism itself. The toilets on the bus were unmaintained and not fit for human use. When the younger missionaries, so full of energy and determination at the beginning of the journey, wanted to give up and go home, she became more resolute. She did not falter; she prayed the whole time, grateful for the unshakeable conviction which the Lord had blessed her with. When they had finally reached the little town, which was surrounded on all sides by the jungle, the others breathed a sigh of relief while she crossed herself and prayed once more for strength and long life; for she knew in truth that the journey had only just begun. This was the great moment of her life. She had come to follow her calling.
Instead of resting and recovering from the journey, or preparing food and waiting for mass as the others were doing, she demanded she go straight to the village. She was there to serve; she had rested, eaten and prayed enough in her lifetime. She was the right person for the task: she wanted the neighbours, the priest and the whole community to see her there, radiating her enthusiasm. She was rejuvenated! They were going to be the happiest days of her life! For the three-hour truck ride into the jungle, she kept on craning her neck, anxious to see the settlements as she had imagined them. She smiled as she talked of how she saw herself as her very own kind of missionary, holding the cross aloft in the midst of all those naked Indians who observed the scene with awe. She was anxious to give herself over, to educate. She wanted to bring salvation to their souls, even if it meant her ultimate sacrifice. She was ready to give it all up, if that was required of her. When she finally arrived, it was very different from how she had imagined it, but this made her feel even more confident. She scolded the driver, who kept close to the truck, his hand on his gun. She was here to love them as Christ loved them. Ignoring all his warnings, she entered the village with open arms in prayer, inviting them all to give themselves over to faith. The Lord was behind her. Of the two hundred Indians they had described, she only found some twenty.
With tears in her eyes, she recounted to the name keeper the emotion she felt upon being accepted, seeing those people with their trinkets—such simple people who didn’t even own jewellery—gesticulating curiously at her clothes and her skin colour. As she taught them how to bring their hands together and directed the oration that Jesus had preached, she felt as if she were completing her life’s mission. They were so pure. They touched her hair, and if something drew her attention, they simply gave it to her. Death was everywhere, yet they were gentle. They were fertile ground to sow the seed: there she was, honoured to bring them the word of God for the first time. She felt nothing but gratitude! They lived like animals, ignorant of everything. The driver had told her how they didn’t plant anything, how they died early, how they loved a certain kind of tree, how they didn’t understand family structures, how couples swapped freely, how the women gave themselves to multiple husbands. Nobody taught the children anything, they did not know how to read nor write, not a single word. For her, the driver’s criticism only turned this into an even more incredible opportunity. She would be the one to bring them to the world, to civilization, to the coming of Christ. Did the name keeper understand what that meant? It was up to her to deliver the good news that the son of God had come to earth and died for them!
The name giver met her gaze but said nothing.
—I knew they were cannibals. The deacon and the driver had both warned me. They also told me they buried invalids and twins alive, just to scare me. If they did that to children, what would they do to me? Of course, it was scary, it was unimaginable—she shook her head and crossed herself—but it was my unrelenting compassion that moved me to act. They were alone, abandoned to their own fate, beyond the end of the world. It was up to me to save them.
A young Indian in particular had caught her attention. She knew the priest would disapprove of such ideas, but she confessed in a low voice that even so, she still had them: this girl was like her daughter from a previous life, so strong and direct was the connection they shared. She was there for everyone, but for her especially—she had sensed this at once. She was fourteen years old and was always flanked by two men. She asked if they were her brothers and found out that both were her husbands! She was beautiful, delicate, purer than pure. She linked arms with her the whole time, she touched her possessions. She was adorable. What happened next was as if she had planned it, but it would not have worked out nearly as well if that were true: she brought the little girl over to the truck to see how it worked, then exchanged a glance with the driver. The girl was allowed to fiddle with the mirrors and turn on the radio, enchanted by the little display. Suddenly, the doors slammed shut. Startled, she screamed for help, which alarmed the others; they hurled things at the truck as they fled. With the girl in her arms, she kept whispering ‘daughter, daughter’ into her ear, comforting her like a mother who had just taken her child to the doctors for a painful treatment. ‘Daughter, daughter’, she repeated lovingly while the driver sped towards the town, to safety.
The name keeper would never be able to imagine the immensity of the challenge of caring for a young Indian girl. From the first few hours she had learned how mad it was to dream of having the whole village in her house: that wild soul alone gave her more work than every spouse and child of any community! She imagined teaching her the catechism, guiding her in prayer, explaining anything she found hard to understand. However, during the first few days, all she did was insist the girl use the toilet, eat, sit and sleep properly. She left the bathroom in a filthy state every time, except for the toilet which she never touched. She ate with her hands, slept on the floor; it was impossible to get her to break her habits. She was unable to sit on chairs and pronounce the simplest of words. She was utterly incapable of calling her ‘mother’. How difficult was it just to say ma-ma? But still, she was unable to do it… One day, she finally learnt that the girl’s name was Zoeh, and soon thereafter went about changing that; perhaps things would be easier then. She christened her Maria, like the mother of God, and beside her she recited the rosary every day, hoping, by way of imitation, the Holy Spirit would reach her. Her unrelenting compassion, which she took pride in, appeared to be tested to the limit with this one single conversion. But she didn’t give up. God bore witness to the immense difficulty of that one conversion.
The victories were small and the objectives modest, but they were still encouraging. Within a few weeks, her little daughter had learned how to use the toilet and eat properly, even if she still squatted and only used a fork. She still slept and woke very early and still preferred the floor, although by now she had learnt to prepare for her prayers: she would take her place, bring her palms together and close her eyes while the Ave Maria and Our Father resonated around the hostel room. She never let the girl out, seeing as dressing her was an especially difficult challenge to overcome: she only wore underwear and a large t-shirt which made her feel very uncomfortable. And the shoes! The victories were modest, attained by nothing save her faith which was renewed every day by feverous prayers, always intense, in which she asked for her daughter Maria to accept God into her heart. He was the centre of all, couldn’t the name keeper see? It looked to her as if all the children which she had taught how to pray, all the banners she had made for events, all her fasting and novenas, the record numbers of raffle tickets she sold, the women’s group meetings she organised, it would all have meant nothing if she was unable to save her soul. That poor soul. Now she understood the episode of Christ and the devil in the desert: she tried to warn the little girl that if she resisted, she would have to go back to the village. She wanted to declare that she had done her best and the decision was ultimately the girl’s. She knew, however, that these ideas were not her own: it was the other one that told her to give up. She was unrelenting compassion.
She asked her husband for a money order and arranged for the driver to take them to her hometown in the truck, along the same back roads, abandoning the other missionaries. As she packed her bag with the few possessions she had, she explained to her daughter Maria that they were about to set off on a long journey, an important journey, and that they would have to pray more than ever before, pray until their knees hurt for everything to go well. She was driven by unrelenting compassion, a quality which had no place in the world: the driver charged a lot of money and warned her that they could be arrested for kidnapping. Nobody understood. The girl was her daughter, her daughter Maria, and she’d rescued her from a life of barbarism. What wouldn’t a mother do for her daughter? Mothers and mothers alone are sacred. The little girl Maria was only fourteen years old: she dreamt of taking her home and organising a dance for her next birthday. A beautiful dress, the Fifteen Waltzes… before this, she would have to convince her daughter to wear a single outfit, but, as mothers do, she could only dream.
When she’d received news of the payment order, she thanked the Holy One effusively. She asked her daughter to stay in the room for an hour at most. She explained with gestures and sweet words, as if talking to a baby, that mummy would be back shortly, that she should wait for her on her knees, praying to Our Lady of Navigators that they would have a safe journey. She delicately closed the door, watching her until the doorway became a crack: an angel, totally naked, with her hands together and her eyes closed, on her knees. She spun round and trotted off, determined to complete her tasks and come back as quickly as possible, fearing that her daughter would hurt herself, or start crying, for it was the first time she was left alone.
While out in the little town to pay the driver at the bank and buy supplies for the long journey ahead, she prayed, repeating the Our Father, the Ave Maria and various hymns to ask that the Lord look after her lonely daughter, for the little soul’s departure and salvation was so close, just a few more minutes, for she would be on her way back.
When she returned, the receptionist gave her a look, and her heart began to race. She ran up the stairs as quickly as her knees allowed her, breathless, hopeless. The look in the receptionist’s eyes had been enough to tell her that her prayers were insufficient. The door to her room was wide open. Her legs buckled. When she entered, she was horrified to find the room completely destroyed: clothes and curtains torn to shreds, the radio shattered to pieces against the wall, faeces and urine everywhere, the suitcase flung out of the window and onto the courtyard, the toilet bowl cracked—how did she have the strength?!—pieces of the Holy Bible torn up and strewn across that apocalyptic scene. No sign of her daughter. She felt her skin freeze, her breath failing, and after that, nothing… She woke to the receptionist shaking her and calling her name as she slurred, ‘daughter, daughter’, suffering the girl’s loss more than any other in her life.
—My little daughter… I can still see her there, praying with her little hands together, a little angel, a gift from God which I let escape…
The driver helped clean the room and salvage what was possible. He negotiated the damages with the hostel owner then took her to the edge of the jungle. There the missionaries took her in, always so gentle, and wept along with her as they listened to her story. She had done all she could to save that soul, but she had free will, they said in an attempt to console her. It was not meant to be, she must trust in the ways of God, they repeated to her, she who had attended every mass and novena like clockwork. She asked herself where she had gone wrong, whether she had forced things at some point, condemning herself for having left her daughter alone. She was so close… she just had to bring her back.
News had arrived from the jungle: the Indian Zoeh, the witch Zoeh, was organising shamanistic ceremonies. She had taken the shaman’s place after the smallpox had incapacitated him, and had taken on two more husbands when their respective wives had died. She took the survivors to the depths of the jungle, where the wild animals lived, urging them to find their common ancestor—the one which had taught them which fruit they could eat—and to live in commune with him. She watched over them as they went through their ceremonies, she unearthed the dead so they could eat their remains, she initiated the boys by plunging their hands into anthills. She forbade the tribe approach and interact with any white person, to watch them from afar and not ward them off or kill them. The missionaries’ guides went in pursuit of them, but only one came back, with a mutilated nose and driven permanently insane. The missionaries insisted on abandoning the project and going home, terrified they were planning an attack. She resisted as much as she could, seeking refuge in her prayers. Finally, she gave up and returned with the other missionaries, in the sorriest state she had ever been in, weeping for her daughter, her fugitive angel.
Once she had returned to her hometown, her house, her chapel, her husband and her children, she did all she could to return to her usual activities with the same passion and intensity as before, but something had broken inside of her. She confessed her pains to the priest, wept on the deacon’s shoulder, asked the women in her prayer group to dedicate an Ave Maria to her every night. She fasted, though her weight loss worried everyone. She promised the Holy One she would walk a thousand kilometres if her daughter returned, to no avail. One morning, now devoid of all hope, the idea came to her to find the name keeper, and her first reaction was to make the sign of the cross. She daren’t! She would never give herself to such heresy! Lord forbid the name keeper judge her, but she’d heard stories which haunted her, certainly he knew of what she spoke. However, her relentless compassion was greater than her fear: here he was, the one who still gave her hope. In order to save her daughter, she was willing to do anything, even commit a sin. Finally, she drew her hands together in supplication and affirmed the reason for her visit:
—I need for sir to write the name of my little daughter in that book, register her Christian name. It’s my last hope for her to come home, back to Christianity, back to me…—she dried her tears with the backs of her hands and brought them back together—Please…
The name keeper looked at her for a long time, his upper lip ever so slightly curled upwards. He smoothed the page he was on, picked up his fountain pen with a fluid motion and positioned his hand to inscribe her name, deliberately, unequivocally. Accompanying his movements, she gave a mirthless smile of satisfaction, grateful for her success in dealing with this wizard. Suddenly, however, her expression changed, became one of horror: he hadn’t inscribed her Christian name, the name she herself had chosen for her daughter, but her indigenous name! The scoundrel had written Zoeh in his record book instead of her proper name! How could he?! The audacity! It made a mockery of her motherly instincts! He’d disregarded the determination she had shown to save her daughter and had condemned her to live forever lost in the depths of the jungle!
Now panting, he raised her glare and her index finger ready to protest, but she saw the name keeper staring at her fixedly, his fountain pen in his hand. She felt her stomach drop. Had he stolen her name? She shot up onto her feet and fled the house, heading home in floods of tears, ranting all the way for her daughter who was lost forever. She realised that she had dropped her wooden rosary: let it stay there, at that sorcerer’s.
Once alone, the name keeper observed the recently-inscribed name and caressed it delicately, once he’d made sure the ink had dried. Then he closed the enormous book.
Translated by Emyr Humphreys
From the novel O Guardião de Nomes
