Chapter Text
She had a deep, pitch-black complexion, the color of those whose skin, truly, that characteristic blackness, takes on another hue under the sun, as though it reflected light, and in the shade resembled a shadow even darker than itself. She had delicate features, almost of a gentle lineage, warm and slender hands, small ones, and wide-open eyes, fitting to her person, with eyelashes and hair blacker than her own skin. This hair was straight, cut short to the nape of her neck, and her eyes, striking amber, seemed to take on a golden hue under certain plays of light.
Ever since she was a young lady, Mrs. Freitas had always wanted one of those little creatures—not out of compassion (although she was, here and there, charitable), but rather so she could have a constant reflection of her own personality.
Let’s consider this: Nina was orphaned at the age of seven. Her mother was black, partly Mozambican, partly mulatto, and her father was of Indigenous descent; hence this unique specimen, with her meek eyes, like a little doll. Mrs. Freitas brought her home—or rather, allowed her to come—in order to make her a servant and maid, so that she might learn her place within the household.
And so, now Nina was sixteen and was her mistress’s little maid, as she called her. She was the darling, the thing who belonged to her. Throughout her childhood, she helped the other enslaved women of the house, within the house itself, with little space for the old and suppressed childhood hopes or longings. But she did not truly need them anymore, because, for as the years passed, she began to forget everything, as the mind often plays tricks, and everything was replaced by the concerns of the present, which then became her only memories. Her mistress came to occupy a large part of those memories.
"Nina!" she would then call. And when the black girl came, the mistress would speak—that is, with another mistress whom Nina already knew: a fatter woman, of such a spiteful nature that her own mistress could never be like that…
"You see, this is how you’ll learn the true characteristics of the black race. Now look here: Nina, come here, girl."
Nina went over quickly, careful not to trip over the dress her mistress had made her wear; as restless and as miserable like a puppy, caught between the joy of being called and the anxiety of fearing she might ruin something right then.
"This little colored girl is one of my household servants. Her name is Nina. She has never run away, nor has she ever had such ideas. Isn’t that right, Nina? Have you ever had the idea of running away from me? You'll see what I mean. So, would you run away or not, Nina?"
Nina felt her eyes welling up: run away, what do you mean, run away? Run away from what? Oh, God, what a question… her eyes were getting smaller and teary!
Fear of her mistress, what fear! Fear of the coat hanger cracking in her hands, from that time when she had been younger! And what kind of question was that? Of course she had never thought of running away, never, but it was such a simple question that Nina could not understand it: never think of running away?
She had thought about running away: that is, considering the term and the context, about the fact, about the act. But of course she had never actually thought about running away herself. What was the question about…?
Nina never lied to her mistress! She was her mistress's black pet! She liked being her mistress's pet, just as her mistress herself would say, because it earned her more food, more affection, and a better bed; so she was her mistress's darkie; how could she be anything else?
And now, what was she to say...?
Her mistress was making a face. A face! Speak, you damned nigger, speak!
And, stumbling over her words, clutching tightly at the dress her mistress had made her wear (which, white, made such a lovely contrast, as her mistress always said), she said.
"M-Mistress... I-I'd never run away from you, Mistress... you know that, Mistress! I love you very much, Mistress..."
Oh, what a stupid wench!, Mrs. Freitas thought. So frightened, over such a simple question. All she had to do was answer no. But now Mistress Vasconcelos would think, look, that Mistress Freitas had been flaying Nina alive: that would be the only explanation for why Nina was so timid, such a weepy as she was. (And then Mrs. Freitas wouldn’t be able to make her point.)
But of course that wasn't true.
Her mistress had never beaten Nina—that is, nothing that would leave really ugly scars. Nina's body remained unblemished in case she ever needed to be sold. She simply wasn't sold because Mrs. Freitas had raised her and was hers.
But, being of her race, she was timid and rather stupid, and so she committed these little absurdities. Freitas would have laughed if she had not been in company. The foolishness of the race amused her! So amusing.
The mistress let her expression soften, much to Nina's relief, and turned back to the older woman before her, who smiled sweetly.
"Your little slave is indeed singular, Mrs. Freitas," Vasconcelos remarked, her eyes lingering attentively on the girl's features. After all, wasn't she worth some three to four hundred réis? She had no interest in bony slaves however, they worked sluggishly.
Freitas, ready to satisfy her curiosity and not the least bit offended, drew Nina closer, taking hold of her by the arm.
"Look, Vasconcelos. You can tell by her eyes that she is a singular specimen of a negro. You can see it. And the hair as well. It is not coarse."
Well-behaved, the girl allowed the gloved hand to cup her face beneath her corneas, pulling her cheek downward, stood as still as a mannequin. Her sclera could be seen, pink and healthy; as it should be, since her mistress spoiled her favorite dark one. That was how mistress herself would put it.
Vasconcelos’s finger withdrew from her face and turned toward a lock of hair, which she rubbed apart at the tip of her index finger. Then she returned to the teacup that Nina had, shortly before, brought with diligence.
"Would one not expect from niggers a dark eye, or one more inclined toward brown? Look; a clear caramel. Was her mother also your slave? And her hair is naturally straight, right, isn't that charming?"
Before dissecting Nina’s history, the mistress gave a light scoff, a little scattered chuckle. She explained the slave’s origins, as they have already been presented to the reader.
"...And so she has lived with me ever since. She was such a restless thing. Trembling at everything. But here she is. A white hand can mend even the most trembling and crippled ones," she said, smiling. "What would become of you without me, Nina?"
Caught off guard by the question (expecting, as her startled expression revealed, only to remain standing silently beside her mistress for a long while), the enslaved girl almost gave an insolent start.
Gathering her thoughts as best she could, she cast her mistress a sweetened, submissive glance, her lashes lowered.
"I would be nothing, mistress. Thank you, mistress."
This quality of an automaton-dog earned her an affectionate stroke on the cheek, pinched by the lady’s rosy hands. Nina smiled inwardly, like a flower turning toward the sun.
"See? They need us."
The woman sitting across the table nodded. Having slaves herself, she shared that conviction, though hers carried a more pragmatic angle.
"Of course they need us! They would still be sevages without us, beyond any doubt. And how attached yours has grown, don't she? Your little slave fascinates me... oh, even dressed! I noticed it immediately. Isn’t she a darling?"
"Fufuf! I made her wear it. Can you believe she has a little wardrobe all to herself?"
"Indeed? Or are you being funny?"
"Why, of course not! It's a adorable. And the fabric suits her well; look, here, the contrast between her complexion and the white cloth. She's nothing like those ugly, foul-smelling negroid women one sees everywhere."
"A little slave so thoroughly pampered! Well, that's certainly an entertaining jest!"
"And there's more. Did you happen to read what they wrote in last week's paper?"
"I didn't pay it any mind."
"Which is precisely why I called Nina. They laid out the factum. She has lived under my care for years. She serves me, pleases me, and, as you can plainly see, upon my word, I do with her whatever I please and see fit. She lives for me, and for me she shall live; she shall serve; I have offered her no other purpose, and yet she loves me. Why, exactly? There is something in the brain, in the blood, just as you yourself suggested, Mrs. Vasconcelos. A white person could endure such an existence? But look at Nina. She rejoices. Isn't that so, Nina?"
"Yes, Mistress!"
"Don't you see? It's the sheer incompetence and the blood of negroes that make them like that. She's happy, and she's a cutie. Hurrum! All right, now go, Nina. Go to your place."
She hurried back to her corner—period; her corner was right there in the drawing room, beside the partition screen.
Her mind was like water and salt; it retained nothing of what her mistress had said. Words and reading belonged to mistress, after all; mistress knew such things far better than a colored ever could. She understood only that she had been born to serve her mistress, and that filled her with a certain sense of pride and confidence.
Then Nina had heard that she rejoiced in and was devoted to her mistress, and it was so completely the truth that she smiled shyly before going to her corner, where she remained standing.
The neighboring mistress raised an eyebrow, only to lower it again with a slow shake of the head. Vasconcelos disliked falling behind on the newspapers, and so she gave a nod.