Chapter 2
Manny rubbed his brown hands over his face and stared at the television screen. Lava covered half his village and still the people stood on the surrounding hills, watching. He wanted to shout at them. Couldn’t they see it was time to leave? He squinted at the tiny figures on the screen, searching for his mother, his sister, and his girlfriend. He hoped they’d had the sense to leave the village and go down to São Filipe. But he couldn’t know for sure. None of his phone calls and computer messages had gotten through in the past week. The whole island was in confusion.
The screen showed a satellite image of the caldera, the volcanic crater that held his village in its cup. Looking at it from the sky, he could see how the old magma chamber had collapsed in on itself, creating the giant depression of rich soil, where crops flourished. The trails of old lava flows led right to his village. How could anyone have thought it was safe to live there?
The video changed to show lava seeping over the tiny tourist shop down the street from his mother’s house. The sports stadium had already burned down, and smoke wafted from the roof of their schoolhouse.
The scene changed again. This time he saw his neighbors wailing as they learned that their homes had been destroyed.
Manny shook his head and turned from the screen. Now that he had lived on the bigger island of Santiago for over two years, he knew how much better life could be. If his neighbors would just come here and see all the food at the marketplace, they might not be so upset about losing their homes and moving somewhere new.
He had been trying to call his mother for a week now, but none of his calls got through. He hadn’t been able to reach Celia either. Like many people in the village, she had to borrow a phone to talk to him, but he couldn’t get a call through to anyone he knew from Fogo Island.
Deciding he’d have to go to the island himself and talk to his loved ones in person, he walked down to the docks. Once he got there, he learned that government officials had shut down all travel to Fogo Island. Even journalists had to receive special approval before they could purchase a ferry ticket. That wasn’t about to stop him, though. He wandered from boat to boat, offering a bribe of all his money for a passage to Fogo. He had a little more than the price of a ferry ticket—almost enough to pay the rent on his room—but none of the commercial boaters wanted to risk getting in trouble, even for such an amount.
Night was coming on, and he wasn’t about to give up. This was an island full of fishermen. Most of them probably weren’t accustomed to such a long journey, but surely, he could convince one of them to take him. He followed the paved streets down to the market. Most sellers had already left, but a few people lounged about, chatting. “I’m looking for a fisherman with a good boat,” he told them, “I’d like to hire him to go with me to Fogo and bring back my loved ones.”
A few people shook their heads. It was a four-hour passage on the Fast Ferry, and probably a ten or twelve-hour journey in a fishing boat. Many of the younger men claimed it would be too dangerous, but an old man with gray hair reached for Manny’s hand. “All I have is a small boat with an outboard motor, but I’ve made the journey before—in the old days before we had a good ferry. I can take you.” The man’s eyes were clouded with cataracts, and his hands bore the scars of a fisherman—a line where the fishing rope had dug into his skin. “My name is Zé.”
After discussing the plan, they agreed to meet on the shore in the morning. Manny hurried off to buy a few cans of gasoline and pack supplies for the journey.
He found his way back out to the beach before sunrise. The row of wooden fishing boats lay upside down on the sand. Each fisherman had painted his boat a unique combination of bright stripes, creating a vibrant pattern as the sun rose.
Though he had lived his entire life on the islands, Manny had spent only limited time on the water. The village where he grew up was an hour’s drive from the beach. His mother had only taken him there occasionally, and he hadn’t actually set foot in a boat until he left Fogo Island to come to college.
Manny paced the shoreline, watching one fisherman after another turn his boat over and launch it into the waves. Finally, only one boat remained, and he saw no sign of Zé. Just when he was beginning to wonder if the old guy had been lying to him, he saw a figure in the distance, hunched over with a motor on his back. Without hesitation, Manny ran to meet the old man, offering to carry the motor himself. The old man consented, and soon Manny had the boat upright with the gas cans inside.
After they pushed the boat into the water, Manny rowed it past the waves. The old man attached the motor and pulled its cord. With a puff of black smoke, little by little, they hummed away from the island of Santiago.
A bigger plume of smoke rose to the east, where the volcano was erupting on Fogo Island. The old man steered the small motor at the back of the boat, pointing it in the direction of the smoke.
Manny sat cross-legged in the center of the boat and remembered the last time he had picked mangoes with his beautiful Celia. He hadn’t seen a girl that looked like her in the entire island of Santiago—light brown skin, green eyes, and wavy hair that the sun had bleached blonde at the tips. Leaving her had been like losing the melody to all the songs he had ever sung.
It seemed a lifetime ago now—the moment she had dropped straight down into his arms from the branches of the mango tree, telling him that she would miss him but that going to the university would be the best thing for him. When she reached to kiss his cheek that day, he finally dared to turn his lips to hers. After all the time he had spent imagining how it would be to kiss her, the reality was so much more—so full of softness and warmth and the sweet taste of fruit on her lips. Her touch opened up his longing, making him wish all the more that he could always stay by her side.
“I won’t have the money to come back here while I’m at school,” he had whispered to her, tracing the outline of her lips with his finger, “but after I finish my degree, and I have a good job, I will come back for you. I promise. Then, if you like, you can go to the university while I teach school.”
She was only sixteen years old, but already determined. She shook her head, holding him tight. “I would rather go to America. By that time, you will know English, and I will have saved my money. We can take our mothers too, and your sister.”
He pulled back to look into her beautiful face. “If you will wait for me, I’ll do whatever you want.”
She embraced him again. “I promise I’ll wait for you.”
I promise I’ll wait for you. The words echoed in his head as the little fishing boat rolled over one wave and then another. That same seasick feeling he’d felt on his first boat ride two and a half years earlier was returning. He had skipped this morning’s breakfast so he wouldn’t have to deal with it. Still, the sea was rough, and with each swell of the ocean, his stomach lurched.
The island of Santiago faded into the distance as, hour by hour, the little boat fought against the sea. The sun was high in the sky now, and the plume of smoke seemed just as far away as it had when they began. Manny estimated that they had already used half the gasoline in one can, and he hoped the old man was correct that they had only needed ten gallons.
If only he had thought to bring his family and Celia to the island of Santiago earlier.
In all the times he had called his mother’s phone to talk to them, he couldn’t remember ever telling them about the modern apartments and paved streets. He wasn’t sure he had told them about the enormous market, either, where his mother could be busy all day sewing dresses and pants and tote bags to order. There was also a good school for his sister, Flora.
He had told Celia about the beautiful trees and flowers, but he hadn’t mentioned the jobs—there were so many ways to earn money here. She could wait tables at the restaurant where he worked or sell items at the market or work in manufacturing.
They buzzed along for another hour before the motor let out a high pitched beeeeep. By now the sun had passed the center of the sky and dark clouds obscured their view of smoke over Fogo. Zé switched off the motor. “Looks like she’s overheated,” he explained.
Manny swallowed hard, knowing that an overheated motor might never work again. “Has this happened before?”
The old man wiped his sweaty brow and shook his head. “No. We’ll have to wait and see if it’ll recover. Give it some time to cool off.”
Manny judged it was about two o’clock in the afternoon. He looked around as they bobbed on the ocean with nothing to see but the clear blue ocean, an old man, and a plume of smoke.
“Might as well row,” Zé said, gesturing toward the oars on the sides of the boat.
Manny sat himself on the middle seat, facing Zé, the way he had seen the fishermen sit. Swiveling the oars into the water, he pulled against the water. He hadn’t done much physical labor since becoming a student at the university, but he was determined to row all the way to Fogo Island if he had to.
“Let the edge of the wood cut down into the water, so it won’t splash,” Zé coached. “Push against the water with the wide side.”
Manny did his best, pulling the oars against the water, willing the boat to get to Fogo as fast as possible. It took all the strength he had in his arms, shoulders, chest, and back. The wind started kicking up, and the waves grew higher as rain clouds hovered in the distance. Those other fishermen at the marketplace had been right. This was more dangerous than he realized. Still, what choice did he have now? He rowed as hard as he could, trusting that Zé knew what he was doing.
After an hour, Zé pulled the cord on the motor again. Nothing. He pulled again. Still nothing. “I’m afraid it’s dead.”
“How far from Fogo are we?” Manny asked, trying not to sound exhausted. The pain in his arms was a small price if it meant he could hold Celia again.
The old man shrugged and glanced up at the sun. It looked to be about three o’clock in the afternoon. “We’re not yet halfway. We’d best turn back.”
Turn back? “We can’t turn back.” He had his mother, his sister, and Celia to rescue.
“It’s my turn to row,” the old man said, standing up from the back of the boat and walking forward to trade places with Manny. He sat down, circling the oars a few times to turn the boat back toward the island of Santiago.
Manny watched the muscles ripple in the old man’s arms. He looked capable of rowing all the way around the world, but as if he could read Manny’s mind, he shook his head. “The winds are kicking up,” he yelled. “We’ll be lucky to make it back to Santiago by morning. You won’t do your mother and girlfriend any good if you’re dead.”
As much as he didn’t want to, Manny recognized the wisdom of this blind old man, who knew the strength of the waters. It didn’t matter how much he wanted to get to Fogo—or how much he needed to get there. Nature had decided against him.
∞∞∞
The sun was starting to peek up from behind the horizon, shining orange through the smoky haze, as Manny and Zé reached the shores of Santiago. Other fishermen were just arriving, launching their striped boats into the surf to make today’s catch. Manny’s arms felt like noodles, but he jumped out of the boat and waded alongside it in the frigid waves, pulling it in as the old man rowed. He felt no relief to be back, only exhaustion and a longing to change out of his cold, wet clothes. As soon as he could, he would go again, and this time, he would make it to Fogo.
After dragging the boat up the sandy shore and paying Zé the promised sum, he plodded back through the quiet streets, usually so busy with people walking back and forth. Here and there, feathery-leafed trees cast long shadows in the tangerine light of the sunrise. His legs wobbled, as if they still felt the movement of water beneath them, but at least they were stronger than his arms.
He made his way past homes, some professionally built with terracotta tiled roofs in the Portuguese style and others built of cement by the people who occupied them. His mind went over his plans for the day. He would change his clothes and shower before he went back down to the docks. Then he would need more money. Perhaps he could convince the government that he was a journalist.
Arriving back in his neighborhood of apartment buildings, he navigated the maze of streets. Usually he would greet his neighbors and friends with a friendly bom dia, but today, he could hardly lift his eyes to meet their gaze. His apartment building was three stories tall, with only the façade painted a bright lemon yellow. The rest of the building remained gray cement. Women emerged from the other buildings along the narrow street, carrying plastic buckets to fetch water for their morning needs. Few of the homes in this part of town had running water.
He climbed the steps to the third-floor apartment he shared with five other men. He slept in the back bedroom, where he kept his foam pad on the left side, his spare pair of pants and shirt hanging on a hook above him. His roommate was still asleep, so he popped into his room only long enough to reach for his clothes. That’s when he saw them—two women, asleep on his foam pad. For a second, he thought he might be in the wrong place. But as his eyes adjusted, he recognized his mother. He would have recognized her anywhere in her traditional African dress, but his sister—she no longer wore her dark brown hair in braids. It was straight and smooth and reached almost to the shoulder seam of her tight American T-shirt. Seeing them there, he could not speak, but merely crouched down, pulling them into his arms and kissing their cheeks.
His mother’s eyes flew open, and she grinned, sitting up to kiss him back. “All is well, Manny. All is well.” She embraced him, rocking back and forth.
“How did you get here?”
“On the Fast Ferry. I had to spend every escudo in my coin purse to buy our passage.” She heaved a sigh. “And we have lost our home.” She shook her head and then forced a smile. “But all is well. We are going to America now. I still have my sewing machine, and that is all I need to get us there.”
He nodded his head. He had seen the tailors sewing clothes to order at the big city market. His mother might have been the best seamstress on Fogo, but she would have much more competition here on Santiago.
She went on. “We have nothing now, but it won’t take long to earn enough to get us to America. Flora can help me sew after school and you will earn more after you graduate.”
He’d heard it was nearly impossible to get an immigrant visa to America anymore. Of course, it might help that their village had been destroyed. He had never wanted to go to America, but it was what Celia had always wanted—Celia. She hadn’t come with them. “When is Celia coming?”
His mother closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the ceiling. “She’s not. When they lost the farm, Lidia went a little crazy.” She shook her head and wiped her eyes. “She was watering tomato plants and grapevines that only she could see. Celia has to be the mama now . . . until Lidia gets better.”
“Why couldn’t she bring her mother here?”
“Because the doctor doesn’t want Lidia living in the city.” Mama pressed her lips together. “He wants her to live somewhere quiet and soothing. Last I heard, he was going to try to get them a free passage to Brava Island.”
“Brava Island?” His words erupted from his mouth almost as forcefully as lava from the volcano. He’d never been to Brava Island, though it was close enough to Fogo Island that he had viewed its green hills from across the sea. It was a smaller, quieter place with no volcano to worry its inhabitants, but it was no better than the island of Santiago. “I could find a place in the country for them here. I can call and talk to Celia about it.”
“Now, Manny, you know yourself they don’t have a phone.” His mother patted his hand. She stood up from the mattress and looked around the apartment. “You look tired. Let me make you some warm milk for breakfast.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Do you know where Celia’s staying today?”
She walked out of the bedroom, probably in search of the kitchen. “I have no idea. The last time I saw her, we were all in a temporary shelter, but don’t you worry. I gave her your phone number and address. Things are all turned upside down on Fogo right now, but she’ll call just as soon as she can.”
His mother, as smart as she was, had never been off the island of Fogo. She had no idea how difficult it would be to stay in touch with someone who had no phone or computer.