The Saci and I
The tiny one-legged man hops around the room, smoke trailing from his pipe. If he sees me, he does not show it. He hops from chair to table, from table to lamp, from lamp to ceiling. He hops upside down on the ceiling. He hops down onto a rose in a vase, and he is so light that the rose does not bend, not even slightly.
They tell me he does not exist. A creature of legend. But I believe, and there he is. Hop, hop, hop. What does he want? They say he makes things disappear, plays tricks on humans. I stand as quietly as I can in the doorway – I do not want to frighten him away.
His little red cap bobs up and down as he goes about on his leg. I want to reach out and touch his soft brown skin, I want him to hop onto the palm of my hand, but I keep still. And then, as suddenly as he appeared, he is gone.
*
Our farm crouches on the edge of a thick and lush forest. I was not allowed to set foot in it when I was a little girl, and even now, they will not allow me to venture in unless I am escorted by the gardener or a farmhand. The trees are so close together that it is hard to see in some places. Vines droop from the branches up high as if they want to reach me. Leaves squelch under my feet as I walk, and sometimes I sink inches into the mud, darkening the hem of my skirt.
I sit at my window at night and listen to the sounds from the forest. The crickets, the cicadas, the owls, with their secret languages. Other creatures too, which I have never seen, neither animal nor human. I long to slip into the thickness of the dark and be among these creatures who live free.
I know they will not believe I saw the Saci, but I tell them anyway at lunch. I wait until Maria has brought in the bean stew, the rice and the meat.
‘What would you say, father, if I told you I’d seen the Saci?’
My father smiles and wipes his beard with a linen napkin. ‘I would say you’ve been reading too many stories again.’
‘But I did see him, father. As you are here next to me, flesh and blood, so was he.’
My mother sits with her lips pursed, cutting the fat off a slice of meat.
My father finishes chewing and turns to face me. ‘And where was this?’
‘He was in the study. He was hopping everywhere, on the desk, on the chair, even on the ceiling. But he didn’t hide anything.’
‘Clarice likes to make up little stories,’ my mother says. ‘Always with her head in the clouds.’
My father studies me. ‘It is time you left behind these childish thoughts, Clarice. It is not becoming in a young woman. Soon it will be time for you to marry. Your husband won’t like to hear such silly fantasies.’
My dress feels tight; I cannot breathe as thoughts of the Saci enter my mind. The sound of my mother’s bell shocks me back to the present.
‘This meat is not cooked enough,’ says my mother.
Maria comes hurrying out of the kitchen.
*
When I was a child, I sat on Maria’s ample lap and she wrapped her arms around me. I did not mind that she smelled of garlic and onions. I only wanted to rest my head on her breast and listen to her stories.
My favourite story was about the Saci. Maria told me he was no bigger than a corn cob. He had only one leg. He wore nothing except a red cap on his head, and he smoked a pipe. He was a mischievous creature: if something disappeared, you could bet the Saci had hidden it. If a horse was acting strange or the chickens were nervous, it was because the Saci was chasing them. And if he were in a very naughty mood, he would burn food and turn milk sour.
I used to think that if I were the Saci, I would get up to mischief too. He was so small and powerless. He was different from everyone: an outcast. How else could he defend himself?
*
My mother is upset a lot of the time. The food is too hot, too cold, too salty, not salty enough. The clothes have not been ironed properly. The rooms are too draughty or not airy enough. And then there is the frequent disappearance of her things, or so she believes.
She thinks her pearl necklace is gone and has everyone in the house in a state of uproar. My father is out working on the farm, but everyone else has to listen to her high-pitched orders to search high and low. Maria, the gardener, my brothers and I search under sofas, cushions, at the back of drawers, inside pockets and even hats. Eventually she accuses Maria of stealing the necklace. I find Maria crying in the kitchen, being comforted by a maid.
As is always the case, the necklace turns up. My mother has hidden it on the top shelf of her wardrobe and forgotten about it. My eldest brother finds it when he climbs on a chair and searches every nook of that wardrobe.
‘It was the Saci,’ I tell Maria, and she smiles and rubs her eyes dry.
*
There was a brief period when I did not believe in the Saci or in any other of the non-animal, non-human beings who live in the forest and are free. I was fifteen, and my father had allowed me to visit his library, although not all books were permitted. He sat at his desk, going through his papers, and I had to show him the books I had selected from the shelves. ‘Not this one,’ he sometimes said, putting a book aside. ‘Nor this one. This one you can take.’
Among the books I felt I had entered another forest. I would smell the dusty pages and rub the leather covers with my fingers. In one of the books I was allowed to read, I found stories about Brazilian folklore. I learned the origin of the story of the Saci. It began as an indigenous legend, where he was a little boy with one leg, then the African slaves made him their own and gave him a pipe and a red cap.
Back then, I let the adults convince me it was only a story, but looking back now, I know I never believed that in my heart.
*
The Saci travels inside a dust whirlwind, Maria tells me. If you want to capture him, you must throw a sieve with a wooden cross on it inside the whirlwind. Once you have trapped the Saci, you carefully transfer him into a bottle and cork it. You must make sure you carve a cross on the top of the cork so he cannot escape.
Watching the Saci dance around the room, as if he is dancing for me, I cannot imagine wanting to trap such a being. He is a perfect figment of impudence and rebellion. He is freedom in a red cap.
*
One day, not long after the first sighting, I see the Saci again. I am looking out of my window on a moonlit night, and I see a cloud of dust move out of the forest. At first it is a conical silhouette, then the moonlight bathes it and I see that it is a small whirlwind. The whirlwind grows until it is as high as the trees. It moves towards my window and swirls and swirls under my eyes, as if inviting me.
I throw my robe over my nightgown and go down the winding wooden stairs and out the back door to our garden. The whirlwind is swirling, a tall cone of silver. It slows down as I approach, and the figure of a man begins to take shape. The dust settles around his feet in a luminous circle. The Saci’s dark eyes are staring straight into mine. He is no longer small and frail; he is a tall, strong man. His face and body are of spellbinding beauty. He wears a robe of red and gold, and he puffs at his pipe, which leaves sparkling clouds of smoke around his head.
Feeling no fear, I take a step towards him, and in a single movement he scoops me up in his arms. Love surges within me and blows away all other thoughts and memories. We spin together, the Saci and I. We are one body, a spinning tornado of silver dust and love. Into the heart of the woods we spin, and the leaves on the ground will form my bridal bed, and the branches above our heads will shelter us from harm, and we will be free.
*
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