A Costa dos Murmúrios (Colecção Mil Folhas, #10)
by Lídia Jorge
With a flick of a pen, Lidia Jorge, transports you to the battlefield of the colonial war in Mozambique, where she
and her husband, a Portuguese soldier lived for six years.
‘A Costa dos Murmúrios’ seems to be an echo of those terrible years of sadness, frustration and most of all of
disillusionment. Narrated in a dead pan voice of Evita, we are taken back to Mozambique, to a war which did not
help anyone, a war that destroyed a country and turned ‘normal’ men into inhuman beings.
But let’s get back to the hauntingly beautiful book, ‘A Costa dos Murmúrios’, let Evita narrate her strange tale of
life as the wife of a soldier fighting a war so far away from home, in surroundings totally alien to him, a war that
had nothing romantic about it, as had those battles fought in the arena of the Second World war.
Evita, full of love and hope as any young bride should be, travels to Mozambique to marry her college sweetheart
Luis, now a soldier posted in Mozambique fighting the Colonial War.
The wedding held at the Stella Maris hotel, where the Officers are billeted, is very good, all the guests have a
lovely time, food and champagne flow- the highlight of the evening is when the Commandant graces the occasion
and as a mark of respect to Luis dances with the bride. As on any honeymoon, things are good, lots of laughter,
lots of sex. But although Evita does not want to admit it even to herself, she does notice subtle changes in her
Luis, why does he worship the Commandant, who struts around in fine muslin shirts, a scar on his chest to be seen
and envied? Or why does Luis get so angry when reminded of his days at the University which she, Evita, had
shared with him with so much joy? Why does he act so strange in their bedroom recreating ambushes, jumping
out of the cupboard, playing cat and mouse games? So amusing really. But the worst thing, something that leaves
her utterly bewildered and to some extent sad, is his utter disdain for his beloved Mathematics, small things no
doubt, Evita the new bride ignores all this but…..come on now, no cause for alarm, it is their honeymoon and most
importantly it is her beloved Luis that we are talking about.
There are other strange happenings too, in the place where they are billeted, some days ago huge numbers of
Blacks had died of Methyl Alcohol poisoning, but everyone had said, ‘You know how these Blacks are, crazy, plain
crazy for Alcohol, they will do anything for a drink’ ‘Did you see any Whites dying? Did you see any Whites dying
There are other strange happenings too, in the place where they are billeted, some days ago huge numbers of
Blacks had died of Methyl Alcohol poisoning, but everyone had said, ‘You know how these Blacks are, crazy, plain
crazy for Alcohol, they will do anything for a drink’ ‘Did you see any Whites dying? Did you see any Whites dying
of Methyl Alcohol poisoning’ ‘No chance, after all we are not like those Blacks, we have superior intelligence,
animals they are, plain animals’. And truly so many Blacks had died, that they were carried away in dumpers and
dumped in mass graves. The Officer’s wives at the Stella Maris crowded the railings watching the movement of the
dumpers carrying the dead bodies of those stupid, animalesque, Blacks who will do anything for a drop of alcohol.
Chattering, laughing, preening swinging their well ironed hair from shoulder to shoulder, the ladies truly a gay
bunch of lovely women shared in the unusual excitement of dead people being carried away in dumpers, even if
strictly speaking Blacks cannot be termed as people.
And then one fine day….. the brave Portuguese soldiers, prepare to vanquish those Blacks, rout them forever from
their territory, from their Mozambique, a total decimation of Blacks, it would be an All-White Victory…..
The battalion moves to the front, after all since times immemorial men have fought battles to protect their
territory, the women as always stay at home, are left alone at the Hotel Stella Maris. The women do what women
are best equipped to do- they wait for their brave men to come home from War, of victory they have no doubt.
Meanwhile there is always something to do, hair to be ironed and straightened, clothes to be given to the
washerwoman, children if any, to be looked after. Gossip about distorted fragments of War, reaching very
infrequently to strike the walls of the Hotel Stella Maris, but never fear, one thing they are very, very, sure about is
that it will be an All-White Victory with total annihilation of the Blacks. They know it, they have heard it so often,
there are no doubts about it at all, an All-White Victory it will be with total decimation of the Blacks.
And what does Evita do amongst this gaggle of ladies, Evita too waits, leads a serene life, walks on the seashore,
swimming in the beautiful warm waters, conversation with the other ladies.
Waiting can be pleasant when you wait for your loved one…..
And then one fine day, whilst swimming lazily, she finds a bottle, a bottle in the ocean- could it have a message
for her? Strangely it did, the bottle of wine encased in straw, tasted of Methyl Alcohol. It strikes Evita, sadly
realization dawns, Evita now is sure, the blacks had not been drinking Methyl Alcohol, the wine they had been
drinking had been poisoned.
A dash to the local newspaper yields no results, the reporters are tired, they have no time for controversial stories,
or so it seems to Evita. It is then that Evita befriends the Commandant's wife, Helena, a lady she never really had
time for, a lady who lives alone in a bungalow.
Their friendship progresses, and then Helena, shows Evita things which make her flesh crawl, her heart stop, her
mind reel with disgust and disbelief, her beloved Luis, her mathematician husband whose only preoccupation had
been Mathematics, is a man who kills Blacks for pleasure with no remorse, just sheer unadulterated pleasure.
Pictures of Luis atop a straw hut, machamba, the head of a Black skewered on to a lance, Luis setting fire to straw
huts with women and children inside, Luis shooting off the cloaca of hens with extreme accuracy. Isn’t he now
called Luis Galex?
The photographs are proof of their loyalty to the White Regime- an All White Supremacy that would rule
Mozambique after the Blacks had been decimated.
And then the battalion returns, their men return………..no, no, not victorious, not covered with laurels as imagined,
but well and truly beaten.
Luis, the destroyer of the Blacks is a totally dejected, crushed, hollow figure who has nothing to live for, dreams of
an All-White-Supremacy well and truly shattered.
Now for some cleaning up, mopping up of all the evidence, the Commandant and Luis, obliterate all evidence,
burn their dreams and those incriminating photographs of their efforts to exterminate the Blacks, out with that
desire and dream of an all White Supremacy.
Destroy those huge barrels of Methyl Alcohol, who will understand that the black scum were not people but
vermin to be eliminated at any cost. Did anyone force those Blacks to drink that wine? Vermin that they were, they
lapped it, brain dead illiterates, who could call such vermin humans, pity we could not wipe the entire population
of scum, make it a white country
And then, Luis comes to know that Evita has taken up a lover, much like his beloved Commandant had behaved,
when Helena had taken up a lover, Luis goes in search of the lover, he wants to crush this lover, salvage some
pride, be a Man once again, retrieve some part of his lost soul, but the lover forewarned, escapes and the sad and
empty thing that Luis has turned, commits suicide.
Eva or Evita, who had come to Mozambique in search of her beloved Luis, ready to live a life with him, finds
nothing but disillusionment, terrible loneliness and wonderment at how things could have gone so wrong.
And Luis, when did he change from that intense Mathematician into a killing machine, when did he change into
Luis Galex?
And Luis, when did he change from that intense Mathematician into a killing machine, when did he change into
Luis Galex?
Yes, the Officers wives lead pathetic and lonely lives, with nothing to do, nowhere to go. In their little capsule,
Stella Maris, they exist for the time that their husbands will return, and they will be a part of the White Supremacy.
Of course, they deserve to be rewarded for their sacrifices- they deserve to benefit from the spoils of war.|Estamos
em África, nos princípios dos anos 70 e com a guerra colonial como pano de fundo. No centro da trama, estão
dois casais, Eva Lopo e o alferes Luís Alex, e Helena de Tróia e marido Capitão Forza Leal. Cabe à primeira a
responsabilidade de narrar as suas histórias. Quando os maridos eram destacados para partir em missões que os
obrigavam a deslocar-se para o mato, o Hotel Stella Maris tornava-se na residência temporária das esposas. E é aí
que Lídia Jorge tece a vida de um grupo de pessoas peculiares que tentam sobreviver num continente em guerra
e, acima de tudo, num continente onde reina a incerteza no amanhã.
"África é amarela, minha senhora – disse o comandante, apertando pelo carpo a mão de Evita – "As pessoas têm
de África ideias loucas. As pessoas pensam, minha senhora, que África é uma floresta virgem, impenetrável, onde
um leão come um preto, um preto come um rato assado, o rato come as colheitas verdes, e tudo é verde e preto.
Mas é falso, minha senhora, África, como terá oportunidade de ver, é amarela. Amarela-clara, da cor do whisky!"
Enquanto escrevo esta review, tento decidir se gostei ou não da leitura. Ainda não sei e está cada vez mais
complicado. A história é estranha ou pelo menos eu achei-a estranha.
Gosto de ler sobre África e gosto ainda mais de ler sobre a África doutros tempos. O choque cultural e a forma de
vida fascinam-me.
A escrita é, sem dúvida, a mais valia do livro. O enredo dos personagens não cativou-me e talvez seja essa a razão
que faz com que seja complicado ter uma opinião sobre este livro. Terei de ler outro livro da Lídia, antes de
colocá-la totalmente de lado.|É raro que aquilo a que somos obrigados nos encante da mesma forma que aquilo
que encontramos no exercício pleno do nosso livre-arbítrio. Porém, nos meus anos de estudante universitária tive
a oportunidade de ser encontrada por um conjunto considerável de textos que, com a orientação de excelentes
professores, me mudaram a mim e às minhas matrizes de pensamento.
A Costa dos Murmúrios é um destes casos – até agora não o tinha lido na íntegra (porque há sempre tanto que
nos ocupe nos anos de universidade), mas a memória da sua ironia mantinha-se palpável e quase com existência
física no meu catálogo mental. Finalmente, tentando colmatar a falha de uma leitura incompleta, dirigi-me à
biblioteca e trouxe este livro para casa.
É ainda melhor do que me lembrava. Se a linguagem de Lídia Jorge fosse um objeto, seria uma faca longa e fina,
de traços delicados mas extremamente eficientes. E se a minha imagem é gasta (há dias assim), as de Lídia Jorge
nunca o são. A simbologia estende-se sobre a narrativa como uma renda perfeita, por entre a qual sobressai um
fundo escuro e sinistro que, na sua brutalidade, revela a verdade da Guerra Colonial, e também a verdade violenta
de qualquer guerra.
O capítulo inicial “Os Gafanhotos” é tão descaradamente irónico que, com o que fica por dizer, constitui um dos
textos mais memoráveis que já li. O ridículo pleno aí exposto vai marcar o compasso para o sobrante da narrativa.
É a cifra a que vai ser dirigido o restante livro, sob a forma de lupa social implacável.
Apesar de o livro se debruçar sobre a guerra, esta permanece como um acontecimento à distância, mediado por
relatos, fotografias, notícias e alterações comportamentais dos envolvidos. Esta não é a história dos soldados que
regressam com as meias rotas até aos tornozelos – é a história das mulheres prisioneiras de uma espera, não
Penélopes mas Evitas e Helenas de Tróia. Elas podem tornar-se uma ou outra, dependendo se se conseguem
manter inteiras, donas de si, da sua voz e desejo sexual, ou se perdem na categoria de bem comercial,
abandonando-se aos caprichos de um ego tornado ultra-masculino (conforme a normatividade social) pela
guerra.
Deste modo, é nas leituras da sexualidade e violência enquanto elementos equiparáveis que este texto mais brilha.
É na luz desta irmandade que as mulheres se tornam vítimas irrecuperáveis da guerra – (view spoiler)[não
deixando opção às Helenas se não excluírem os homens da sua sexualidade, para se resgatarem a si mesmas de
É na luz desta irmandade que as mulheres se tornam vítimas irrecuperáveis da guerra – (view spoiler)[não
deixando opção às Helenas se não excluírem os homens da sua sexualidade, para se resgatarem a si mesmas de
uma relação manchada pela iniquidade. Já as Evitas podem emancipar-se e transformarem-se em Evas Lopo,
revoltando-se através do exercício da sua sexualidade com homens que se distinguem pela sua inofensividade ou
crítica velada à guerra. (hide spoiler)]
Como de costume, temo que esta review não consiga cobrir sequer um ínfimo da infinidade contida nestas 260
páginas. Nunca haverá tinta que chegue para decifrar as grandes e pequenas violências despoletadas por uma
guerra. Resta-nos ler e olhar mais longe. A vida existe para além d’"Os Gafanhotos". Desafio-vos a procurá-la.
|Sendo uma autora tão apreciada e tratando de um tema que me agrada (Guerra Colonial), estava com bastantes
expectativas. Só que o livro é estranho, não que a escrita seja complicada ou o enredo demasiado confuso, mas é
simplesmente estranho, acho que não tenho outra palavra para o descrever. De resto, lê-se bem, a escrita é boa,
simpatizei com a personagem principal, as coisas resolveram-se, não ficaram muitas pontas soltas. Enfim, não
consigo decidir se gostei ou não, pois, por um motivo que não consigo explicar, o livro é esquisito, sem ser
mau.|This is one of the most difficult books I've ever read, but also one of the most fascinating. History, narrative
deconstruction, time, violence, love -- the neuroses of the world encapsulated into a magnificent but woefully
underappreciated novel.