when he opened the box, his hands danced in the light of the room
they were delicate hands that, for the time being, fingered pages, rummaged in papers, examined little plastic bags
his fingers became attuned to the intensity of the light, later they looked for the glass, the glass close to his lips, the breathing-in of whisky, the return of the glass meeting the table again
the intense silence
it came from far away, farther than the city’s borders. a freak silence, a cloak that invited more silence.
the fingers didn’t acknowledge the wait. the last box had finally arrived. like a puzzle divided into parts. he had decided a long time ago to assemble the weapon only when he reached the last part of his secret.
his clean fingers, untrembling, did not betray the impatience of his gesture or the anxiousness of the wait. twelve boxes. now there was no escaping fate.
...
a man is made of what he plans and what he comes to feel. of chains that rivet him to the floor and chain verses that course like air through his body in echoes of poetry.
truth and urgency
[from the author’s notes]
for years now, Paulo Paused, the journalist, had nourished the habit of spending certain mornings alone, reviewing notes in his old diaries, revisiting and taking clippings from old magazines and newspapers from various parts of the world, listening to music, standing for hours on end at the window of his apartment, looking at the city
his girlfriend left early, because she was going to work or because she had her regular meetings with her boring mother or because Paulo was, on these mornings, a different person
buried in the fleeting immersion of his silences, his hands already thirsty for a pair of scissors that would clip the countless pages his eyes had run over days or months earlier
and his girlfriend thought that with the exception of herself and her mother, all Angolans were somehow paranoid about weapons or armaments, they all had a tale to tell that involved a weapon, a pistol, a grenade, or at least a lively tale that involved a shot or a burst of gunfire, some had scars on their bodies, others attributed to various sorts of scars the breathtaking episodes they concocted because they needed them,
to put it another way, a means of experiencing the war and its episodes at a profound level, the battles and their consequences, even if it were just from hearing about them, or listening to them on radio broadcasts, in the time before, in the days when the war, in fact, had been a cruel yet banal part of reality, and, even today, dissociating the war from daily life was almost a sin
from weapon to weapon, from shot to shot, from violent conversation to brutal description, the war remained on the loose—in every corner of Angola, at some moment, even if it were in the first flashes of the clearest morning light, someone would be willing to sacrifice his silence to speak, if only by implication, of a certain war, his own or his neighbour’s, that of his family or that of his stepson who came from a province that had suffered more, imbuing marriages, funerals, working hours, dances, the arts and even love, an almost innate ability to speak about that monstrous subject like someone who, smoothly and fearlessly, stroked the shoulder of a raging beast, tormented by a false peace masquerading as mere exhaustion
hence, in his way of acting, reacting, welcoming others, of setting out to tell in great detail the story of the national wound, the Angolan invested a large part of his imagination in memories that in most cases did not belong to him, or in projecting onto the past that which only might have occurred, or making all-too-clear allusions to a future which, fortunately, would not come to pass, and, all things considered, in the end, in dealing with such a societal scar on this scale, the truth is that anyone, without asking others for authorization, could fall back on the magic wand of words to open the gargantuan strongbox where the monster had decided to live
«the war» he said to himself, «is an eternally bleeding memory, and at some point you open your mouth or make a motion, and what comes out is the blood-red trail of things you didn’t know you knew»
all Angolans, therefore, had some sort of paranoia about weapons or armaments, they all had a tale to tell or an episode to invent
“i’m going out, love,” his girlfriend said, already at the door
the journalist held the scissors in his hand, mountains of magazines were piled on the living-room sofas, the doorbell sounded in a declarative double ring, making him freeze as though he’d been caught in some inappropriate activity
“open the door or i’ll break down this piece of shit”
followed by the deep, eccentric laughter of Colonel Hoffman
“isn’t it too early for a visit, Senhor Colonel?”
“there’s no such thing as early when you live life in a rush, boy! don’t you remember what that Brazilian dude used to say? time doesn’t stop passing... we have to celebrate while there’s time...”
“what are we going to celebrate?” the journalist made his way to the refrigerator
“we’re just going to celebrate!... i mean life itself, we don’t know which of us will still be here tomorrow, boy... bring them on, the blessed beers and the unsampled whisky... today is to-daily!”
it was one of those days when the city had woken up more chaotic than it really was, uniformed and duly-equipped men had begun to excavate Luanda’s arteries and street corners at the crack of dawn, few streets escaped the screaming pulse of the machines, surrounded in some cases—if not in others—by improvised enclosures constructed in such a way that everything seemed to be taking place in the public eye, It’s no secret!, a newspaper announced, The latest excavation technology has reached the capital! announced another, and it was this, the sudden, absurd effectiveness, that had excited Scratch Man, or Colonel Hoffman, so much that he sought out his friend this early in the morning
“for some people the end of the world is coming... for others the beginning of paradise... may there be bank accounts to receive the rivers of money that are going to flow,” the colonel got started with two well-chilled beers, his glance suggested to Paulo Paused that he make an omelette in the way Paulo liked, three well-beaten eggs with spicy sausage, lots of onion, dark powdered curry and ginger cut into slender yet visible slices, “a rising tide lifts all boats, hahaha!”
“what about the people who aren’t on the inside track?”
“that’s how life’s always been, boy, ever since they strung up Jesus Christ on the cross: those who can, can, those who can’t, wriggle and writhe on the line if you let them”
“so the highroller cirollers are moving full-steam ahead?”
“it’s Kinaxixi, it’s the Workers’ District, it’s Alvalade, it’s Maianga, nobody’s escaped, there’s drilling everywhere you look,” Hoffman had brought an odiferous Jornal de Angola, hot off the press, “you can read it aloud, too, because that way i save my eyes and my voice”
“the headlines?”
“what headlines! that’s to put the masses to sleep, the truest news is tiny and discreet, take a look at page seven...”
a brief text, solemn and concise, spoke openly of the role of the Crystal-Clear Waters Company, responsible for the distribution of safe drinking water in certain areas, and also, in a discreet mention near the end of the document, signed by members of the government and of the Party, which ceded to this very non-public company the right, and the duty, to ensure the installation of a new network of pipes “at a recognized international level of quality,” for the transportation and supply of potable water in Luanda
implemented by ministerial decree, and approved by the highest-ranking member of the Angolan government, particularly during the period of intense excavations connected to the CIROL project, but with the possibility of being maintained “for a number of years” thereafter, the respective and above-cited authorization, the document reiterated, permitted the transportation and distribution of potable water to the great majority of the population resident in the capital city
“that, for example, sounds to me like an unpublished briefing document”
“unpublished? like hell... i’d already heard about this, and the business’s name? did you notice?”
“it’s our friend Crystal-Clear!”
“in the flesh”
“now the plot thickens,” the journalist sat down to rest his body, breathe deeply, and refuse the offer of a final, small piece of omelette
“it would be discourteous of you to accept the final piece... furthermore, as you’re in your own home, and i’m a guest of long standing...”
“that part’s certainly true,” the journalist’s smile was sad, muffled
“don’t be like that, comrade,” Hoffman smacked him hard on the back, “action... reaction!”
“what reaction?”
“waiting, observing, and then acting”
“it’s the excessive calm that distresses me”
“but are there more eggs?”
“in reality, it’s apathy... instead of attacking the enemy, everyone looks for a hole in the ground... or an imaginary heaven...”
“cool it with the poetry this early in the morning, bring on our whisky for a few moments of intense reflection and close the newspaper, i already regret showing you that shit”
“all right, cool it, cool it...” Paulo took the plate to the kitchen and put away the newspaper clippings that were spread over the veranda table
the noise of the jackhammers, mixed with various technical idioms spoken in Portuguese, English, and Chinese, reached his window
he peered out
the Mailman was trying to deliver his letters in the entrance of a private clinic, pestering the doctors as they arrived in their jeeps
“hey, man, go do your job,” a bad-tempered doctor replied
“that’s exactly the problem, Senhor Doctor, that’s exactly what i want... to work like a professional, deliver all the letters, all of them, today’s and the ones that are behind schedule, but to do that and get to the end of the day content with my profession and my working conditions...”
“let me past, i don’t have any money to give you”
“you don’t understand, Doctor”
“how?”
“you don’t understand, because i haven’t even asked you for any money, or am i mistaken?”
“yes, but then...”
“then i’m asking for two different things, since people are used to hearing requests for money, they don’t understand my request for attention... please forgive the simple chatter of a poor Mailman”
“i can’t help you, man”
“but if you can’t help, can’t you at least understand, or isn’t that possible? i’m going around asking for two very simple things, one is attention, or rather people’s understanding, the other is that everyone make a small effort, just this one time, as i do every day of my life: deliver one of my letters, Senhor Doctor! just one!”
“that’s it? a letter? but isn’t that your job?”
“mine, yes, that’s true, i’m a carrier, and on foot, on top of it all, but anybody in this life can suddenly be required to carry or deliver a letter, you understanding me, Senhor Doctor?”
“i guess so”
“and i ask one very simple thing of you, deliver a letter, this letter,” he pressed the letter into his hands, “to whomever you can, i need motorized locomotion, Senhor Doctor, each of us has the tools of his profession, you, sir, have this stethoscope, your car, your clinic,” the Mailman’s seriousness was utterly convincing, “given that it is so, is this asking too much?”
the doctor put the letter in his briefcase
the security guards were already on their way to ask whether the doctor needed help, whether this was a madman disguised as a Mailman or a nagging drunk, but then they recognized the Mailman and, smiling, stood back
“life is made up of understandings, comrades, to each his labour, i’m going to deliver more letters”
as he was so close, he decided to go to the building
he fulfilled the ritual of his smiles, greeted Strong Maria, who had already processed more than forty-some Motorola sandwiches, as her oblong bread slices with sausage inside were known, recalling in their design Angola’s first cellphones
“a Motorola, Comrade Mailman?”
“i had breakfast this morning, Dona Strong Maria, but thanks anyway”
“you’re welcome...”
“i’m on my way upstairs”
“then do me a favour, Comrade Mailman”
“yes?”
“tell Comrade Mute that he can start to peel it all off, at lunchtime we’re going to have a special session”
“so what’s a ‘session’?”
“ah, you don’t know? i’m going to invite you, if you’re nearby, to go up to our terrace right away, my husband is organizing a completely new kind of cinema”
“so he’s doing it after all?”
“yes”
“thank you”
the Mailman was about to slowly climb the stairs
he stopped
there, among the strange waters, a dance of a forgotten flavour sprang up from inside his body
“i tell them this building is bewitched...”
his feet stirred like notes on an epileptic piano, his knees trembled, muscle spasms gripped his neck, and the sudden swelling in his pants gave clear evidence of an exercise unsuitable for the hour
the Mailman stood still, in the sudden coolness that washed over his intoxicated but abstemious soul, closed his eyes, and listened to the building’s orchestra of soft sounds
voices of people waking up, feet that dragged across the upper floors, stray phrases in Umbundu that descended slowly through the vertical corridor once used by the elevator, sounds of water splattering onto the floor, the sharp sound of a rooster pecking the floor of the neighbouring building, the abrasive but smooth sloshing of the Maianga leaves, the noise of Little Daddy’s pails on the third floor, Nga Nelucha’s voice as she scolded her husband Edú that he couldn’t always use his gigantic mbumbi as an excuse for not taking a bath
the Mailman opened his eyes and began to climb to the fifth floor where a polished vinyl record relayed Ruy Mingas’s suffering voice as he intoned a song that the Mailman hadn’t heard for years
mother of mine, you taught me to wait, as you waited patiently in the most difficult hours
Little Daddy saw the hypnotized Mailman pass by without greeting him and also felt the call of the music, but it was too early to go up top and also too late, because he was behind in his car washes and water-pail deliveries
but in me life killed that mystical hoping, i don’t wait... i’m the one whose arrival they’re awaiting...
on the fourth floor, Nga Nelucha left home dressed as though for a beauty contest, and even though he didn’t want to look, the Mailman couldn’t help but notice her purple shoes, her tight skirt, her breasts sticking out like verandas over the top of a bra too small for her, the strong fragrance of her perfume and the way her body took advantage of the stairs’ uneven terrain to simulate little dancing oscillations that contrasted with her powerful legs
we the naked children... the kids without a school, playing with a cloth ball...
when he reached the fifth floor, Comrade Mute was smiling patiently, almost inside his head, guardian of the secrets of his vinyl music, a perpetual soundtrack—even when silenced—of life rambling in celebration through that mysterious, broken, poor building
on the midday sands, we, the cheap labour...
the sharpened knife swung back and forth in rapid cutting movements, the peelings fell at his feet as though laughing, the open door danced in the occasional gusts, the gramophone needle read the disk as the oracle’s voice reads life
we’re your children, from the poor neighbourhoods, hungry and thirsty
ashamed of calling you mother
afraid to cross the streets, afraid of men
it’s us, hope in search of life...
with a sluggish step, the Mailman finally approached Comrade Mute, who separated the knife from the damp potato, leaving his thick fingers to tap across the morning’s silence, when the music stopped
“excuse me, elder, but this music is too much,” the Mailman wiped tears from his face, embarrassed
“leave our worries behind, son, i cry a lot, too... it’s just that we’re more used to crying alone... you used to know this music, right?”
“i knew it, but i hadn’t come across it for a long time”
“hmm... the thing about music is that it follows us,” Comrade Mute returned to his rhythmic peeling of innumerable potatoes, insinuating with a discreet series of signs that the Mailman should come inside, serve himself water, and turn over the record to the B-side.
up top, teasing out new furniture arrangements, João Slowly rehearsed his controlled nervousness in the service of the event scheduled for around lunchtime on that splendorous day: the inaugural special session of the mysterious performances of the Rooster Camões Cinema, at the peak of the building among the holes drilled in the streets of the Maianga neighbourhood, at the heart of his beloved city
“if this sunlight weren’t so strong, we’d have a beautiful session here!”
João Slowly had already spread the word, scorning the strong light of day with rushed efforts to overcome his lack of professional preparation
it would be obvious to other open-air cinema professionals that the lunch hour wasn’t the ideal time to inaugurate a project of this nature, but João Slowly frequently rode roughshod over his own plans, the truth is that he was equally good at the art of social improvisation, he had summoned his wife to make snacks and stock up on drinks, he had invited neighbours and people of influence in the Luandan art of indolent amusement, including some friends from distant neighbourhoods, and even some professional journalists, securing in this way the media coverage that the event deserved, even the journalist Paulo Paused had received an invitation transmitted via his third-floor neighbour, who regularly grilled fish in the building’s corridor, and, as he was in a solitary conversation with Colonel Hoffman, this person, perhaps due to quantity of whisky he’d drunk, would end up attending the event too
the crowd was led to the spacious terrace by Little Daddy, who was able to lend only a few water-hauling services that morning, given the number of new commitments he had in this regard, carrying chairs, cleaning grills for the snacks that Strong Maria would cook on skewers with lemon and red peppers for the more resilient customers, and with mustard or olive oil for those condemned to certain heartburn
as always happens in Luanda, many of those present joined spontaneous entourages without knowing the reason for the social gathering, but rather because they learned there would be food and drink in a ventilated spot at lunch-hour, in a singular makeshift venue, the terrace of a famous Luandan building bursting with tales of a first floor with mysteriously cool waters which, as those who had passed through them confirmed, produced a special, revivifying glow that turned out, they now knew, to be very difficult to explain to anyone who had never been there
the men who usually frequented Noah’s Barque were summoned, including potbellied Noah, who, in order not to feel out of place, arrived in the company of the friend known as the Leftist, who came with his old attaché case and its respective notes, groups of curious young people were also allowed to attend, the singer Paulo Flores was passing through Maianga and was welcomed with an ovation, the building’s residents also attended, Edú brought his tiny stool and, assisted by Little Daddy, seated himself in a strategic corner where he could alternately observe the smiling gathering, João Slowly’s verbal and gesticular activities, and even the shifting, now vertically, now diagonally, of the rooster’s head from the building next door, as though the bird were trying to participate, though he had not been invited, by listening to the voices and music that surrounded him
close to the bench with the food, which emerged at a steady clip, beers of all sizes and brands stood in ice-packed styrofoam coolers, Strong Maria smiled happily at the pace of sales, continually requesting that Little Daddy replenish the stock, Odonato’s daughter Amarelinha set up a small bench at the entrance where she sold bead necklaces and wristbands decorated with tiny pieces of wood, or shells she’d bought from Seashell Seller who, at that instant, daunted by the size of the crowd, arrived in the company of his elder friend, Blind Man
“Amarelinha... you’re here?” Seashell Seller didn’t know which words to speak to the girl
“yeah... lots of people, i came here to sell, i don’t know if it’s going to be like this every day”
“is your father in the building? or is he not coming?”
“my dad left, he’s looking for Ciente, there’s no real news”
“hmm, oh well, and your granma’s well?”
“yes, thank you”
João Slowly asked the crowd for a minute’s attention, somebody shouted, “i doubt it’ll be just a minute,” they laughed, they drank more, but gradually they allowed silence to fall
João Slowly’s strategic pause caught the crowd’s attention, the smell of beer-breath mixed with the sweet smoke from the enormous grills, the noise of bottles being set down at the edges of the terrace, the shuffle of Blind Man’s feet, which was heard close to Edú, the not-very-discreet sound of Edú’s hand vehemently scratching his gigantic pet testicle, in addition to the nearly uniform aroma of collective body odour
João Slowly knew how to use these elements to call the crowd to order
he waited, drawing out the pause and, when it became unsettling, extended his arm in search of what some thought was the future, but was actually in the direction of the one-eyed rooster, Blind Man found out, without seeing the things others saw, that over there was a being who in his way saw things before they could actually be seen
“at times business... leisure... and our social obligations are very close to us,” João Slowly coughed deliberately, “the city’s fresh air, our country’s marvellous climate, and here in our city, particularly, this proximity to the sea and to the country’s modernity, and the simple vision of a rooster”
the crowd finally saw the rooster, and the rooster, smitten with the weight of so many gazes, lowered his head, stole away to a more remote corner, and the crowd laughed
“yes, let’s say a fearless performer of a rooster, with an aesthetic worthy of a major figure of the literatures of a certain Portuguese language... almost an actor, but on the other side of the wall... a rooster is what inspired and gave me this idea, ladies and gentlemen”
they clapped, they whistled, Colonel Hoffman ordered another beer, the tax inspectors This Time and Next Time crept into the vicinity, as did a young woman with fair hair and dark eyes
João Slowly did not allow himself to be disturbed
“it’s in this cultural... gastronomic context,” he pointed to his side, where Strong Maria acknowledged his words with a smile, “that we inaugurate a new locale in our own inimitable way here in Luanda, let’s say a cultural locale... with us today are members of our artistic community... journalistic community... socialistic community... peoples from our neighbourhood, from other neighbourhoods, and i believe even individuals from the international sphere, except maybe the UNs and NGOs,” he smiled in the direction of the young foreign woman who hadn’t understood that this was a reference to her, “nevertheless, it’s important to mention two points... this cultural space is going to receive the very illustrious name of Rooster Camões,” the crowd sighed in unison, “out of the highest respect for our little mascot who will remain over there in the far-off neighbourhood... because we know that in these times... in some emergency of appetite, we know that certain elements of our society,” João Slowly regarded Little Daddy, who tried to feign innocence, “are prone to roostering, er, roasting tendencies with regard to any living animal wandering around the neighbourhood...”
“cut to the chase, man, the beer’s getting warm!” somebody shouted
João Slowly didn’t like this, but as the crowd burst out laughing, he judged it better to go along with them
“our hurried and ethylic friend is right... we shall move on to the finallys”
“long live Odorico!” the same man shouted, causing a general uproar of laughter that shook the building
“i would ask the comrade to have the decency,” João Slowly said, irritated now, “to abstain from speaking, and to sign up in advance should he wish to do so... let’s show respect, this is a solemn session, furthermore we have elders present here,” he pointed to Blind Man, “and even people who’ve been on television due to utterly extraordinary physiological conditions,” he pointed at Edú, “or even goodwill ambassadors and representatives of one of the greatest voices on the national musical scene,” he pointed at Paulo Flores, and the crowd broke into another loud ovation
the young woman journalist smiled and took photographs of those present, failing to realize at least two things that Angolans don’t like very much, one—which has nothing to do with the present situation—is for a woman to come to a party and not dance with anyone, and the other, this one certainly more relevant to the case, is for someone to suddenly start taking photographs without identifying herself or explaining the reason for these shots
“so culture, that immensely vast field that always has a place in Luandans’ daily lives... and even, according to some reports, in the daily lives of people from Malanje... culture requires neither a schedule nor complicated explanations: i declare this cultural space open and inaugurated, a place where, as we’ll see later, we’re going to listen and sit and drink... it will accommodate the widest possible range of forms in the areas of performance, both on film and on stage, as much the ultra-modern theatre of improvised confession as other cultural forms that i won’t divulge here for reasons of our leadership’s strategic planning, end of quote, i have spoken!” João Slowly lifted his bottle of now-warm beer and the crowd clapped its hands hard, mixing its applause with comments and laughter
“bravo,” Hoffman said in his loud voice
“long live Odorico!” the drunk shouted again
the tax inspectors This Time and Next Time accepted, without paying, the beer that Strong Maria offered them, strolled through the party, looked at the distant rooster, exchanged a few words with Edú and moved deliberately towards the young female journalist
“young lady, are you supplied with the necessary authorization?”
“sorry?”
“young lady, are you accompanied by the appropriate documentation?”
“sorry, what do you mean?”
“we’re in Angola, my young lady, here the cohorts of the mass media require a variety of documents”
“i don’t understand”
“but you’re going to understand,” This Time smiled
“yes, you’re going to understand,” Next Time confirmed
“and the other journalists, do they need these documents, too?”
“domestics are inherent”
“what?!”
“domestics are inherent, my lady, documentation for news reports, particularly of photographic content, costs money, i hope you’re prepared for that, my lady”
“i don’t know if i understand”
“fortunately we’re tax inspectors of multiple functions, perhaps we will be able to impart to you some information, maybe even the appropriate authorization”
“you gentlemen provide these documents?” the girl, in a serious mood, tried to solve this problem so she could keep taking her photographs, “i work for the BBC and i’m accredited”
“but are you accredited for this event?”
“for this event in particular, no... but in general...”
“in general is one thing,” This Time said slowly
“in particular, even in the hypothetical case...” Next Time said, “is a different story”
“who are you gentlemen?”
“we’re This Time and Next Time, the tax inspectors”
“inspectors? from which ministry?”
“from various ministries”
“various? but which ones?”
“various, meaning those that issue this type of authorization”
“i don’t know if i understand”
“that i can see, that you are having difficulties understanding, the more difficult it is for you to understand, the more difficult it will be for you to do your work”
“but is special authorization needed to cover events?”
“yes, because there is a difference between attending and covering,” This Time announced
“yes, there is a difference,” Next Time confirmed
“but normally...”
“my lady, this is not a normal situation, this is a cultural opening of parallel proportions...”
“what?” the journalist was beginning to think the tax inspectors were drunk
“look at it this way, the issue is that you, my lady, need an authorization, but only we know that you need it... isn’t that it?”
“i suppose so”
“and only you, my lady, know that you don’t have it, so why make it complicated?”
“it’s you gentlemen who are complicating things”
“no, it’s you, my lady, who’s not facilitating matters, if you don’t get down to it and facilitate, complications appear later”
“and how do i ‘get down to it and facilitate’?”
“for example, with half a big-head”
“what?”
“half a big-head,” Next Time explained, “is a bill, normally green, of fifty American dollars, so that we don’t charge you in Euros, which we’re doing in this case only because we’re dealing with a Madame Journalist”
“and if i were a man?”
“a man?” Next Time looked towards This Time so his brother could size up the situation
“a man would be one hundred Euros or more”
“and why’s that?” the journalist was irritated
“because Angolans are kinder to ladies”
“and if it were an Angolan who likes men?”
“who likes men? but what’s that?” This Time was nervous
“for men, if it were a tax inspector who likes men... you know? in that case maybe he’d charge a half big-head to a male BBC journalist... and he could charge one hundred Euros to a female journalist...”
“i’m not aware of any such case,” Next Time, also, looked confused
“i was told that the tax inspectors here in Luanda... are usually kinder to male journalists... i don’t know if this is the case with you, as a matter of fact i was going to write about exactly that question... i saw so many men here at this party... including you gentlemen, who arrived together”
“we’re brothers on our father’s side”
“but nobody at the BBC knows that...”
“well, then, we’re going to settle this without any trouble...” This Time coughed, “this time, my lady, you may proceed with your work with this verbal warning”
“i thank you for your indulgence, Senhor Tax Inspector”
“very good,” This Time said
“yes, very good,” Next Time said
“then go forth and be glad, as they say in church”
“thank you, Senhor Tax Inspector”
the crowd was dispersing, there were no free drinks left, from the moment the speech had ended, everything had to be purchased, which displeased some members of the crowd, especially those known as “gatecrashers,” a social stratum composed of people who, blissfully and almost in a spirit of social reform, devote themselves from an early age to showing up at weddings, funerals, baptisms, social or sectarian meetings, anniversaries or associative assemblies, with the intention of eating and drinking without paying a thing, being particularly aware and proud of not having been directly or indirectly invited
Nga Nelucha, Edú’s wife, came to look for him on the terrace, not only because her husband had already exposed himself to the sun and the vagaries of social, and even journalistic contact for too many hours, but also because his sister, a famous Luandan cultural agent, was downstairs ready to figure out a strategy for the commercial exploitation of Edú’s singular anatomical issue, he was lifted to his feet, with Little Daddy’s help, nor did he forget the tiny stool that had accompanied him for so many years
after answering some questions from media representatives, during which João Slowly avoided concrete revelations about the type of activities that would happen in that space, leaving almost all possibilities open, reiterating with greater or lesser eloquence what he had just said in his improvised speech, the event’s principal organizer saw the tax inspectors This Time and Next Time approaching him
“you gentlemen are here?”
“we weren’t formally invited, unfortunately, but news travels quickly in Luanda”
“it’s just as well”
“so you haven’t yet settled that question of the exchange problems...”
“problems?” João Slowly queried, “i don’t have any exchange problem, Senhor Tax Inspector, you must be getting confused, as you’re drinking on the job,” he pointed to the bottle in This Time’s hand
the tax inspector gave him a serious, irritated look, and swallowed the rest of the beer in a single gulp, taking responsibility for the bottle and the rest of the liquid
“you think you can joke with us, Senhor João Totally Slowly?”
“i don’t think anything, Senhor Tax Inspector”
“you want me to order the arrest of your wife and her friends, who are sitting outside downstairs pretending to sell fish and meat and peanuts cooked in sugar from the time before, and have dollars hidden under the food?”
“but you have to understand... i’m not actually involved in parallel exchange procedures...”
“and this cultural centre or whatever it is? what’s the deal?”
“it started today, as you can see”
“and without commercial licences, i imagine”
“you imagine very well,” João Slowly confirmed
“well, now, that’s the complicated part,” This Time commented
“that’s the complicated part,” Next Time agreed
“in that case, and the way things are going... from the look of the inaugural session... with so many people from our country and even from abroad,” they looked again at the young female journalist who winked at them, “it would be best for you to take measures”
“what measures?”
“preventive measures, that way you’re not going to have a surprise visit from some branch of the tax services”
“what’s your proposal?”
“we’d like to hear your proposal”
“how’s that?”
“neither we nor anyone else here understood... what is this going to be in the end?”
“it’s going to be a new cinema... in a modern sense, we’re still not sure”
“stop talking like you’re from Sucupira and roll out the plan”
“it can be anything... we’re going to have some sessions for adults at night... we might have afternoon matinees, with dancing or movies, we’re still not sure which”
“plus your wife’s gastronomic profits, grilled foods and such-like...”
“yes, eventually”
“but we also tax the eventually”
“i understand”
“so let’s leave it at that... we’re going to be stopping by to see how your business is doing and you’re going to stop what you’re doing to pass us the dough so that we won’t officially be seeing how your business is doing...”
“understood”
“and we don’t have to pay for our tickets at the adult-film sessions”
“fine”
“just one question”
“what, Senhor Tax Inspector?”
“what’s with that journalist with the BBC accent?”
“i don’t know her”
“then i’ll give you a piece of friendly advice... be careful with her”
“why?”
“everything she says is completely off the wall, and on top of that we have the risk that the BBC’ll go and write things for the rest of the world about us Angolans...”
“like what?”
“be careful, that’s all i’m saying”
“fine, i’ll take care of it, but is she with the opposition, or what?”
“you know, my friend... opposition is a matter of whom you’re in favour of, i don’t know if you understand me...”
the journalist had taken advantage of the event to get to know other people from the building and, not missing an opportunity, had conversations with both Seashell Seller and Blind Man, introduced herself to the silent Comrade Mute, and was now on her way downstairs with them to get to know the apartments and the people, fascinated by the building’s peculiar and diversified human scope, and struggling to understand who, among so many strange names and occupations, actually lived in the building
“and the water? hasn’t anybody solved the water problem?”
“but what’s the problem?”
“the water downstairs, where it looks like a waterfall and everybody has to take such care to go upstairs”
“no, no, it’s not necessary to take such care, it’s necessary to know,” Edú replied, serious, “if you don’t know, you mustn’t go upstairs, but if you don’t know, that’s also a warning for us: what’s this person doing here?”
“meaning me?”
“no, not you, people in general, you understand?”
“so the water isn’t a problem?”
“but is water some sort of problem in your country? water’s for everybody, it arrives here at the building and it’s distributed through the building, what’s the maka, young lady?”
“maka?”
“maka means problem”
“i understand”
“maka grossa is a more complicated problem”
“maka grossa?”
“yes, maka grossa, and then there’s maka mesmo”
“maka mesmo?”
“which happens just to you, which affects you in your life or your heart”
“you can have a maka in your heart as well?”
“you mean you can’t? so young and you don’t know about that?”
the journalist laughed and nodded, now it was Nga Nelucha who wasn’t much enjoying the situation
“oh, Edú, a minute ago you were so tired, you had to go and rest your mbumbi at home, and now you’re giving classes in Kimbundu?”
“it’s not like that, baby”
“well, i’m sure seeing a maka... a blonde maka is a different type of maka”
Nga Nelucha’s sister, a mulatta with pronounced, slightly droopy lips, arrived in the hallway just as they were about to enter their apartment
“my favourite brother-in-law!” she greeted him cheerfully
“my sister-in-law with the prettiest lips in Angola!” Edú hugged her as best he could, allowing for the fact that the swelling in his crotch always became an embarrassment in situations like this, “let me introduce you to this worldly girl who says that she doesn’t have makas in her heart”
Fató did not move, she gave the foreign woman a penetrating look, causing the journalist a level of discomfort that Nga Nelucha hadn’t succeeded in giving her
“let’s go inside and talk business, i don’t have all day,” she hurried into her sister’s apartment, “my apologies, young lady”
“bye-bye,” Edú murmured, excusing himself with a look at the astonished young woman
“thanks for everything,” her words bounced off the closed door
Little Daddy was nearby and, eager to help, he offered again to keep showing her the building, the young man answered her questions cheerfully, relating the building’s little secrets, such as how to enter without being noticed, how to leave without passing through the ground floor, and the whopping tales that got bigger and better with time
“some people say this building has its own free will... that things happen,” the journalist spoke in a muted voice, observing the strange, calm way in which the waters flowed incessantly from the walls of the first-floor hallways
“it’s up to each person to wait and see... lots of things happen right here, when i pass by, unusual thoughts enter my head”
“are you from here, from Luanda?”
“no, i’m from the south, i left because of the war”
“what was the war like?”
“the war’s something you don’t talk about, lady... were you yourself ever in a war?”
“only in photographs, my grandfather was in a war for many years”
“photographs? how’s that? you can see war in a photograph?”
“no... no you can’t...” the journalist lowered her eyes, “and who’s the elder-woman who lives here in the building?”
“she’s a lady who’s also from the south”
“do you speak to each other in your language?”
“i disremembered my language, maybe on the day i find my mother”
“where’s your mother?”
“i don’t know, i’m looking for her, in fact today i’m going on television, on the program that finds people”
“and do they really find them?”
“first you have to believe...”
Little Daddy smiled
his sodden body hoisted another pail of water.
in the chambers, behind Dona Creusa, who was given permission to attend, sat Advisor Santos Prancha and the Minister
the tax inspectors This Time and Next Time entered just as they were about to drink a toast, without knowing the reason for the celebration, they were pleased with the snacks and the quantity of champagne on offer
“long live Crystal-Clear Waters!” Dom Crystal-Clear said
“long live the precious liquid,” the Minister winked, “and the preciousness of liquids in general!”
“cheers!” the tax inspectors said together
Dona Creusa remained more distant and withdrawn, hoping to be offered a glass, something that nobody would have done had it not been for Crystal-Clear’s politeness
“don’t you drink, senhora?”
“it depends,” the Advisor interjected
“what do you mean it depends? it only depends on her thirst and her wishes, so,” speaking to her alone, “will you have some champagne?”
“thank you, Senhor Crystal-Clear”
“i’m glad, drinking is good luck”
“and it quenches thirst!” the Minister concluded
through the half-open door, the telephone rang in the secretary’s office, Dona Creusa went to answer
“who? yes... just a minute,” she went back into the chambers, “excuse me, Senhor Minister, the American is at reception”
“what American?” the Minister had completely forgotten
“the one with the ass... what’s his name, Dona Creusa?”
“Rambo... Rango...”
“Raago,” Crystal Clear corrected
“yes, him”
“so?” the Minister turned to Crystal-Clear
“so he should come up and join us, there’s still champagne left”
“tell Rambo to join us, Dona Creusa!” the Minister seemed to be sincerely delighted
the American entered carrying preliminary reports from the initial field visits
his mood of disquiet and the handwritten notes he put forward were worrying, confirming suspicions, the excavations—already underway—hadn’t been surveyed properly, the risks run by the drilling and the tremors it set off, did not meet, not even remotely, acceptable levels of international security
the danger extended, therefore, to the city’s buildings and inhabitants, which even included government edifices, the Assembly of the Republic, the Port of Luanda and the residence of the Comrade President of the Republic himself
Crystal-Clear grasped that the American was mentioning these cases to underline the alert he was issuing
“let’s proceed with calm, Senhor Raago! i believe there is a correct way to do these things, this was studied, it was planned”
“yes, but it wasn’t planned very well”
they hadn’t taken into consideration the recently discovered, and now correctly measured, natural gases, nor the location, which is to say, the exact depth at which the petroleum was found, the nervous American citizen explained, an initially controlled yet threatening scenario was now unravelling into a dangerous combination of apparently unavoidable risks
the tax inspectors served themselves more champagne, Santos Prancha, nervous, opened another bottle of whisky, the Minister answered his noisy cellphone
“gentlemen,” Crystal-Clear almost shouted, “we’re going to put this house in order!”
the tax inspectors stopped drinking, Dona Creusa withdrew, closing the door, Santos Prancha sipped very slowly from his warm whisky, the Minister immediately turned off his phone
“Senhor Raago, i’m going to say something important in Portuguese, but if you don’t understand, sir, tell me so that i can translate”
“okay,” Raago said, apprehensive
“there are no unavoidable risks in this country...” Crystal-Clear spoke so slowly he appeared to be articulating a biblical revelation, “did you understand my sentence?”
“okay, i got it”
“construction has already begun, thousands of tunnels and holes are being dug at this precise moment, the pipes have been purchased, the equipment hired, the machinery of modernity is already in action...”
“i understand”
“and the Comrade President himself signed all the dispatches relating to petrolem exploration in Luanda, all of these people, including those here in this room, are part of what’s called CIROL, you’re one of them, you’re a ‘ciroller,’ as people say”
“i understand”
“therefore, there are no unavoidable events, there are solutions, there is the future! are we in agreement?”
“yes, yes”
Crystal-Clear sat down, pensive, and looked out the window
right there, very close by, noisy excavations were also taking place, and then he smiled, like someone listening to a well-rehearsed orchestra
“now you can ask for your ice, Senhor Advisor,” Crystal-Clear said
They called Dona Creusa on the phone and completed the ritual of bringing the ice, the tax inspectors drank more champagne, Raago was invited to put away his notes and revise his final report
“now let’s move on to something just as interesting, Senhor Raago, how about all this talk of an eclipse?”
“what about it?”
“Angola really is one of the best places to witness the phenomenon?”
“yes, it really is”
“this country is incredible,” the Minister said, filling his chest with air and his mouth with champagne, “another toast!”
“to the world’s best eclipse!” Santos Prancha brought his sweating body erect.
out in the street there were enormous announcements about the eclipse, they were already calling it, “The Most Angolan of All Eclipses,” the newspapers and radios talked of nothing else, not in terms of scientific explanation, or anything that might enlighten the most superstitious sectors of the population, but above all as a munificent event that could deliver financial and political gains, the Party itself was responsible for some of these placards, which concentrated on a vast gamut of activities it had organized around the distant phenomenon, dates and details, times and places, remained to be confirmed, but Kwanza Sul Province, for example, which after all lay so close to Luanda, was actually one of the best places in the world to witness “the event,” as it was called, among other curious titles that appeared in the headlines during those days
Luanda Brings its Sun Festival to the City of Sumbe, wrote one editorial
The Sun Unvisits Angola for a few hours, wrote another
Angola Greets the Sun, a neighbourhood billboard read
diners with good vantage points offered package deals for lovers, or for single people—“don’t let the sun extinguish your relationship”—that included special drinks with appropriate names—“blessed eclipse,” “half-light martini,” “sonic boom gin,” or even, in the case of traditional drinks, “sunless moonshine”
«this is going to be a party...» Odonato thought while he walked down Luanda’s potholed, raucous streets beneath a burning, pre-eclipse sun
gigantic placards had been hung from the Party’s offices, the T-shirts and sunglasses the Party had ordered from China were already available, and right next to the big screen, which remained lit even in daylight, could be read, The Eclipse is Fleeting but our Party Always Shines!
Odonato wore a light-coloured, long-sleeved shirt because recently, due to the effects of his growing transparency, the heat of the sun bothered him more than it used to, nor did he want to call attention to himself in the streets, he hid his hands in his pockets and avoided making eye contact
in spite of this, various people stopped for a few seconds to look at him, without having any particular reason for doing so, enticed by a firm premonition or an irresistible attraction, after all, the man possessed the least normal body in the world from the point of view of someone who saw him without knowing him, his veins were sharply visible, his bones were starting to stand out in their strange shapes and conjunctions, his skin tone was beginning to lose its vitality as it dissipated into a colour that, though difficult to describe, clearly departed from the normal human or even animal standards habitually used to describe skin colour
this man carried, hanging from his arm, a plastic bag prepared by Strong Maria, with several tender steaks well-done in red pepper and onion sauce, two fried eggs that danced as they bounced against his leg, a substantial quantity of French fries, and raw onions sliced into large rings
this was the detailed special order placed by the the policemen whom Odonato was going to meet, according to what he had learned, these policemen had custody of his elder child, who for years had been called Ciente-the-Grand, a thief well known for his glaring lack of talent and for being constantly pursued in his profession by unusual bad luck
“i’m here to see Agent Belo”
“Agent Belo?” a policeman just inside the station door queried, “is this personal, or is it corporate?”
“i think it’s personal”
the policeman looked at Odonato with distrust
“and that gastronomic fragrance?”
“it’s an order”
“for Agent Belo?”
“in person”
“then it’s a personal matter”
“where can i find him?”
“you see sometimes, comrade,” the policeman relaxed, “even a personal matter can be dealt with by many people, everything can be talked through”
“that’s true, but i was instructed to find Agent Belo, it’s about a detainee”
“we’ve got lots of detainees here, but they move through here fast”
“what do you mean?”
“the detainees are sent here to await judgment, but since judgment can take a long time, we send them on to another county”
“what county?”
“it depends on the detainee, the crime... and the rest”
“what rest?”
“what i was telling you about, comrade, it depends on the rest of the conversation, all matters can be dealt with, i heard that even the eclipse is being dealt with by the government”
“but the eclipse is a natural phenomenon”
“yes, but in any event”
“so where can i find Agent Belo?”
“well, in fact, as i stated at the outset, he’s not here, but he shouldn’t be long”
“ah, so you know where he went?”
“more or less”
“but you said you didn’t know”
“no, i just said that everything can be talked through, fortunately we’re already talking because your order smells delicious... there are times, comrade, when you might be able to find someone who’s better able to help you with the matter that brought you here than Agent Belo”
“you said he shouldn’t be long”
“that’s what i said, but i can’t swear to accuracy on another agent’s business, the truth is he’s not in the station, but i am”
“i came to look for my son, they told me he was imprisoned in this station”
“do you have his name, or a reference?”
“he’s known as Ciente-the-Grand”
“the grain?”
“the grand”
“lots of bad guys have been brought in here in the last few days”
“he’s wounded”
“just a flesh wound, or wounded bad?”
“wounded bad”
“that’s kinda strange... we don’t usually get the wounded ones”
“and at what time does Agent Belo arrive?”
“Pops,” the policeman acted as though he were telling him a secret, “i’m going to tell you where he is, but i don’t want his old man walking around with that heavy bag of food”
“how’s that?”
“the bag stays here and the old man goes to find the agent at the place i’m going to tell you about”
“then what do i give to Agent Belo?”
“you give him the news”
“what news?”
“that the Deputy Superintendent kept the bag”
“you’re the Deputy Superintendent?”
“no, i’m not, Pops, that’s why you’re gonna say it was the Deputy Superintendent, that way nobody hassles me”
“fine,” Odonato agreed, passing him the fragrant bag, “if i come back soon, will you still be here?”
“it depends on the schedule, it’s unpredictable”
“what do you mean?”
“i’m supposed to attend a lecture, right here in the neighbourhood, they’re going to talk about the ‘cirollers,’ the whole excavation maka and all that stuff, you see, i live in the sheds behind a house”
“so?”
“they’re saying that with the excavations, when they find petroleum, the property’s owner will also receive a share, but since i rent the sheds, i want to know what happens to me, because of this my rent’s already gone up, you live in a backyard too, Pops?”
“no, i live in an apartment building”
“wow... in an apartment building the division is even more complicated, if i were you, Pops, i’d move to a house, or even some sheds, it’s an ‘investment,’ as a friend of mine says”
“so where’s this house?”
“let me explain, Pops, because it’s in an alley, for anything you need to know, just ask for Granma Humps, everybody knows her”
“thanks”
“you’re welcome, Pops, just excuse me,” the policeman was thinking as he opened the bag, “there isn’t any mustard or ketchup here, is there?”
“no... it wasn’t included in the order”
after twists and turns and questions, to which people replied here with boredom there with a strange enthusiasm, Odonato succeeded in finding Granma Humps’s house
the door of the yard, made from wood that had long ago ceased to stand upright, was ajar, and through the crack escaped an odour of burnt charcoal, and of embers that had been visited often by mackerel shads
Granma Humps, seated in the colossal shade of her modest yard, made the sign of the cross and said something in an incomprehensible Kimbundu, focused on the man’s face without regarding his hands, which Odonato opened as though he were making a corporeal confession,
the man came to a stop after his first steps into the yard, and awaited the old woman’s verdict, a skinny dog—very skinny—fled into the house and the parrot started to talk until the elder-woman ordered it to be quiet
and only then did she smile
“those beasts, too...” she made a terse gesture, grabbed another stool and offered Odonato a spot, “you’d think they’d never seen anyone who was the least bit different”
Odonato walked slowly and, perhaps for the first time, became aware of the limitations his new appearance imposed on a social setting
he sat down without speaking a word, out of respect, since it fell to the old woman to speak first
“did you come to look for a girl?”
“no, i came to look for a man”
“a skinny cop?”
“that’s him”
“he’s in the room, just let him finish, then i’ll call him, will you have a drink?”
“thank you,” he accepted out of courtesy
“hey, boy,” she shouted towards the kitchen, “a beer, good and cold”
“there isn’t any, Granma”
“go get one from next door, you insolent twerp,” then she turned towards Odonato, looking him in the eyes again, as though seeking his inner being, “the drink’s on its way, we’ll stay here in the shade”
“yes, mother, that’s fine”
“i’m Granma Humps”
“i’m Odonato, thanks”
the elder-woman lit her cigarette
the skinny dog returned to the yard, skulked in the corners, sniffed the trunk of a stunted banana tree and, obedient and lazy, came to sit down at Granma Humps’s feet, it yawned and set its eyes on the parrot, which was whistling an extended melody
“but this dog... so skinny and all...” Odonato seemed puzzled, “doesn’t he eat?”
“him?” Granma Humps stroked his head and hindquarters, “this dog eats a ton... we just don’t give him anything!”
they half-laughed, Odonato realized that, without meaning to, he had asked the classic question that had been part of the collective repertoire of Luanda anecdotes for years
the parrot repeated its melody
“i heard that tune earlier today”
“he’s always singing that song, who’s it by?”
“Ruy Mingas”
“ah...” Granma Humps passed him the beer the kid had fetched, “listen here, you insolent twerp, beer with the cap on? is the gentleman supposed to open it with his teeth?”
“sorry, Granma”
“just go and open the bottle on the gate”
a metal orifice, halfway up the gate, served as a bottle opener
“thanks,” Odonato smiled at the child
“sorry”
“it’s okay”
“kids these days...” Granma Humps stroked the dog but continued looking at Odonato
he was going to say something, any old thing, his chest expanded to prepare the words, but his body desisted before he could make the necessary vocal movements, the curtain opened, fluttering, Agent Belo came out tightening the belt of his trousers, repositioning his pistol and nightstick at his waist
“this gentleman is waiting for you”
“yes, good afternoon,” Belo shook Odonato’s hand
“hey, boy, bring another stool”
“yes, Granma”
“yeah, and a beer, good and cold,” the policeman ordered
“but we don’t have be—”
“that story again? are you kidding me? go get it from next door”
the boy got ready to leave
“hey, kid, first you bring the stool, are you going to leave the officer standing?”
“sorry, Granma”
the beer arrived, Belo drank most of the bottle’s contents in a single swallow, he became more serious
“so, tell me, comrade, i hear you want to talk with me”
“my name’s Odonato, i’m the father of Ciente-the-Grand, i got a phone call and i wanted to know how we can resolve the situation”
“well... your son’s situation, it’s complicated. you know we don’t have the power to help very much, right?”
“i understand”
“but we can always help in some way, at least to make sure the other offenders treat your boy right, it’s a small comfort, you know, jail’s not an easy place”
“that’s true”
“but our lives aren’t easy either... beat cops who make the neighbourhood rounds, or even transit cops, who shake down the candongueiros, get extra salary, you know... now us guys, assigned to the station, all we can do is wait for the end of the month when we get our tiny little salary...”
“that’s true”
“so that’s how it is,” Agent Belo finished
“so where do we stand?”
“as it stands, family visits haven’t been authorized yet, and if you, sir, went to bother the Deputy Superintendent, that makes it worse, the best thing you can do is wait calmly, and we can go in and get you a visit, but maybe only a week from now”
“and now—what can we do now?”
“now, sir, you can bring food, i’ll hand it over, there’s still time today, did you bring the special order?”
“i brought it... i mean i brought it but i left at the station”
“at the station? who with?”
“unfortunately, with the Deputy Superintendent”
“oh fuck... we’re off to a bad start,” Belo finished his beer, “sorry, Gramps, i’m talking out of turn now... so if we could just settle on tomorrow”
“that’s fine, i’ll come by tomorrow, the same order?”
“the same, did it have fried egg?”
“it did”
“and onion?”
“that, too”
“so it’s g-o-o-d”
“what time should i come?”
“the same as always”
“but are you always here at this time, or are you at the station?”
“i’m collateral”
“what do you mean?”
“if i’m not here, i’ll be there, you just bring the merchandise and i’ll hand it over”
“but you’ll really hand it over?”
“oh, so you think i’m not going to hand it over? i’ll take a sample, the rest is for your son”
“can you tell me if he’s well? he doesn’t need medicine?”
“medicine?”
“yes, he’s wounded”
“well, i can ask tomorrow, geez, what time is it?”
“it’s well after—” Granma Humps said
“then i’ve got to get going, Senhor Ornato...”
“it’s Odonato”
“yes, Odonato, see you tomorrow, it’s business hours for me, if i don’t move they’re going to say the police don’t do any work”
“until tomorrow”
“excuse me, mother,” Belo shook Granma Humps’s hand
“have a good day and be careful not to trip on your way out”
“i already know my way out,” Belo, laughing, left
but Granma Humps, a lady steeped in ancient wisdom, wasn’t referring to the gate
“did you see that, Senhor Odonato?”
“see what, mother?”
“i don’t want to meddle in other people’s suffering, but you know that men lie a lot, right?”
“thank you, Dona Humps”
the sun had softened a bit and in reality Odonato felt tempted to let his body lie where it was, in that cool, appetizing shade, but it didn’t make sense, nothing now held him to this place
“are you going already?” a coy voice said from the window
Ninon took advantage of the afternoon, and the sunlight, to put a huge smile on her face
“don’t you want to lie down for a bit? to rest? or maybe to tire yourself out?” the young girl laughed
“no, thanks”
“then come back another day”
“all right,” Odonato got up, cast a last look at the dog, whistled a farewell at the parrot, and did not hide his hands when Granma Humps looked at them, confirming what she had suspected from the beginning
“thank you, senhora”
he left through the gate, holding in his nostrils the dull odour of the grill where the fish had burned.
at nightfall Luanda was suffused by a pleasant coolness and the sound of car horns and jackhammers was replaced by a lulling lethargy, and by the sound of radios, which turned the metropolis into an almost pleasant place in which to idle away the time
the candongueiros undertook their bewildering work, transporting the population from its more or less official workplaces to its more or less comfortable, more or less dignified homes, for on the subject of dignity much may be said or conjectured
that which in some countries is a hearth, made up of a certain combination of objects and possibilities, in another might not be so at all, since, in human terms, on the most varied continents, it’s force of habit that dictates which circumstances each citizen regards as acceptable, collectively unbearable, or democratically fair and just
“as somebody else used to say,” the Leftist proposed a toast, “to Caesar that which is Caesar’s and to the rest whatever they can grab!”
drinks flowed steadily at Noah’s Barque, sometimes in silence, sometimes in words half-spoken, listening to the news, or the rumours brought in from the street, here time seemed to have come to rest in some broad net that beckoned the people and things of this world into idleness
“you have to be careful with this thing called progress,” the Leftist was saying, pointing at a nearby sidewalk, where an enormous placard with the acronym CIROL stood next to other advertising
“don’t tell me you know something other people here don’t,” Noah opened the ark, checked that everything was in its proper place, cast a quick glance at the lighted lamp, closed up again and served another round of good, cold beer
“i know what everybody knows: haste makes waste”
“haste?”
“you have to read between the lines, my friends... everybody’s lost it, they’re convinced they’re going to find oil in their own backyard... but i’m not going around with my eyes shut, i may be going around drinking, but i’m not going around asleep...”
“how’s that?”
“you only reading the big stories? the banner headlines? you have to read everything that’s in the papers, from the most official to the most officious... did anybody here read the name of a certain Raago, the American? did anybody hear or see the first interviews he gave?”
“the specialist guy?” somebody said
“but what kind of name’s that?”
“the specialist, yeah... the great scientist, i’ve read about him before, it’s not the first time i’ve heard about that guy”
“spill it, man”
“there’s a controversy, my friends... in his first interviews he spoke about exercising care, about risks, potential consequences, now you never hear him... the system must have already set its course, now they just talk about the advantages, they’ve already opened a new water distribution system... where have you ever heard of such a thing!... privatizing water...”
“but isn’t it just the distribution system, keeping track of the pipes and so on?”
“wake up, guys... what distribution?! so now the state needs somebody from the private sector to distribute water? and we just sit here in silence, is that it? the state admits, ‘i can’t distribute quality drinking water, but this gentleman, whose name is actually Crystal-Clear, yeah, sure, he can do it! from now on, water will be well distributed, well purified! long live water privatization!’ but where have we seen that before?”
“you don’t have to act like that either, man”
“keep sleeping, then...” the Leftist said with an ironic and sad and disappointed and serious air, “keep sleeping while they stick their finger up your ass with their unclipped nails...keep sleeping while they anaesthetize you with doses of supposed modernity! and pretty cars, and an internet that doesn’t even work, and a new Marginal with buildings put up on land dredged without asking Kianda’s blessing, and drill the city’s body without listening to others who already drilled their own cities’ bodies, about how it didn’t work out... listen here, sleepyheads, it didn’t work out there and here, because we’re stupid, blind, and conniving, that’s to say, because we are globally corrupt, here, too, the city is going to be drilled, water is going to be privatized, oil is going to be sucked up from under our houses, under our noses, from beneath our dignity... while the politicians pretend to be politicians... while the people sleep... while the people sleep...”
a harsh silence, the sound of thoughts finally being processed, was broken only by the sound of four or five men doing what seemed to be all they could do at that moment, chugging noisily from their beers, staring into the distance without looking each other in the eyes, scratching their heads and their chests, letting the walls of the place speak in muted voices, raised over men’s the muted voices
“don’t fuck with me...”
the Leftist concluded, seating himself at his table, pulling his endless supply of papers out of his attaché case, and beginning to write without stopping.
far off, in that limited far off that Luanda allows, close to the sea
walking along the Marginal, allowing the salt from the whitecaps to seep into his skin, Odonato wandered as he hadn’t done for a long time, absorbing the voices and the noises, the honking of car horns and the shouted insults, the finely tuned horizontal beauty of the National Bank of Angola, the smells of Baleizão Square now with no ice cream for sale, the strangely chaotic vision of the ruined buildings beneath the hilltop foundations of the São Miguel Fortress, the bay’s extensive, elongated breadth, like the smile of some Luandan adolescent, the peaceful murmur of the coconut palms that had withstood time and construction on the Marginal’s sidewalks, taking in the spectacle of billboards announcing the latest and most expensive cellphones and jeeps
he smiled in the manner of those accustomed to smiling to themselves
a few years ago he could count his friends with cars, allowing for the fact those cars might be owned by the State, or even borrowed, back in the time when you could ask for a ride in the street or a glass of cold water at the gate of an unfamiliar backyard, in the time when carnivals were danced by weaving bodies in front of crowds of smiling people
the people always find an excuse for a celebration, their joyfulness remains their own, it cannot be predicted or bought, at most it’s induced, and even then doesn’t happen as expected
Odonato smiled
watching the sea and the bay now infested with human intrusions that shrank it, the areas reclaimed by dredging revising the original contours of its body shaped only by the sea, the currents and the gales, or by time, that greatest of machines which, in the final instance, is the force freest to suggest that we change or cease our human activities
«it’s time»
the semitransparent man thought, heading home, not wishing to delay and concern his wife, already much given to the arts of supposition and chronic worry.
“it’s time,” the production assistant said
and Little Daddy, more nervous than he’d expected, was taken to an enormous room with intense white lighting, where three television cameras pointed at him as though it were judgment day
“and what do i say now?” he asked
“you have one minute to explain that you’re looking for your mother, the important thing is to say where you fled from, the last time you saw your family, the province and the neighbourhood you come from, and also say where you are... if you’re lucky...”
the word “luck” stuck in his head, it had taken him a number of years to understand the mysteries of this term, he’d slept in the street, he’d taken drugs, he’d stolen food and clothing, and in some way life had seen fit to arrange his time and his activities, he approached the building, he didn’t really remember how, he began to wash cars and earn people’s trust until he was given permission to spend the night there, first at the back of the building, in the company of countless cockroaches and mosquitoes, later inside its doors, a spot where it was unclear whether he was on the ground floor or on a landing on the notorious first floor with its mysterious waters, until, by virtue of a consensus reached among the residents, during the business of a condominium meeting, he was granted the very much abandoned third floor, if he accepted it and wouldn’t take offence, it was completely emptied out and dark, well-ventilated by missing doors and windows, and he accepted it with emotion and gratitude, and on that first night, thrilled finally to have a roof over his head, he was unable to sleep, he spent the night feeling the strangeness of the silence created by the night and the absence of cockroaches, confirming that the permanent coolness kept the mosquitoes away and that even on the hottest nights the site remained ventilated, a powerful upheaval shook his chest and his eyes, he cried quietly in a corner, and he remained still for a long time until day broke, accepting the salt of his tears on his hands and the tremulous spasms of his stomach making his whole body quiver, and only later, beneath the first rays of pre-dawn sunlight, did he think of that word that they now applied to him—luck—not with a thorough consciousness of its meaning, but making do with whatever the word’s echo might be, and his body grew still, and his tears stopped and he tried to believe that yes, Luanda and some of its people had granted him a big, lucky break, which started right there, on the third floor of that building, during a night of nervous invocations and self-admonishing memories,
“hey, buddy, you ready to record?” the Brazilian assistant understood the boy’s suffering, brought him a glass of water and gave his shoulder a gentle touch, “it’s like getting a vaccination, you know? just a little prick... and before you know it, it’s over... are we gonna record?”
in the studio next door
they brought a special, comfortable chair, and Edú said he was ready to record
before he’d had a long conversation with Fató about the key points to raise and the questions to which he should not, under any circumstances, reply in order not to compromise himself relating to either the past or the future
the lights irritated his eyes
for Edú the experience was more like a music hall, a world that exercised a certain attraction and fascination over him, he had even inquired whether the lights would be sufficiently strong to illuminate the bulk of his seated body, as well as the mbumbi swelling in his crotch
“no worries, guy, everything’s cool, you’re gonna do great,” another Brazilian assistant understood his anxiety, brought him a glass of water and gave his shoulder a gentle touch, “it’s like getting a vaccination, you know? just a little prick... and before you know it, it’s over... ready to record?”
with aching feet, the Mailman made a detour before going home, he’d spent the whole afternoon imagining the moment when the end of his shift would find him with his feet immersed in the cool waters of the building in Maianga
“excuse me...”
he had to say, for feet other than his were already present, in a spontaneous human gathering there, and packed in more tightly than it might at first seem, those who for various reasons, among them fatigue, had been taken with the same idea
“if you please,” Strong Maria smiled, not having seen him for a few days
from her countless bags she offered some snacks, she apologized there were no drinks left, but invited him to sit down because the water was lovely, a line sometimes heard on the building’s first floor, less in reference to the water’s taste or temperature than to its inexplicable powers of relaxation
“i’ve got to say, it is really categorical water,” the Mailman said from up above, on the fifth floor, a piano-and-saxophone melody descended like a gift from the gods at the day’s end, a soft, faltering, soothing sonorousness
“there’s always good international music here,” Blind Man commented, already seated
“not always, elder, just the other day he played Elias Dia Kumuezo, and Waldemar Bastos, the great Ruy Mingas, and Uncle Paulo Flores”
“it’s true, he plays everything,” Amarelinha murmured, bent forward over her own body, a little scared of having accepted Seashell Seller’s invitation to be there, seated at his feet, without knowing what to say, and fearful of the behaviour of her own body which, as a result of the lack of space, was leaning as never before into Seashell Seller’s firm, warm arms
“are you comfortably seated, Amarelinha?”
“yes, i am, thank you”
“and your father, he’s well?”
“he’s well...” Amarelinha burst into tears
“don’t cry like that”
“i’m sorry”
“what is it?”
“i don’t know, i always feel like i want to cry, lots of stuff is happening at home, my father’s very worried that he can’t find out where Ciente-the-Grand is”
“you don’t have any information?”
“almost none, just today Dad went out to see if he was in that police station there”
“everything works out in the end,” Blind Man murmured, trying to soothe the conversation’s mournful rhythms
“thank you, elder”
“take this shell, it’s special,” Seashell Seller opened his bag and pulled out an enormous pink shell so vibrant that it looked as though it were about to glow
“thank you”
Clara said when Paulo Paused passed her the package
“what is it?”
“open it and see, a present, it’s been such a long time since i gave you a present,” she sat down next to him, “or received one—”
“oh, cut it out, i give you a lot more presents than you give me”
“open it”
it was a small, carefully polished seashell in a format so unadorned that threaded on a necklace it would look like a deluxe piece
“it’s beautiful, Paulo, thank you... really beautiful”
“you deserve it, my love”
“where did you buy it?”
“professional secret, i can’t tell you”
“just tell me, in which store?”
“curiosity killed the cat, Clara”
“please, i want to buy something similar and i don’t even know where the store is”
“it wasn’t a store”
“it wasn’t?”
“no, it was from a guy, Seashell Seller, he came by here the other day, i liked it so much i bought it”
“what? that guy who’s always hanging around with a stinky old man?”
“you see? your world depends on interpretations... i don’t suppose you’ve ever stopped to chat with them?”
“not me, you’re the one who’s friends with those kinds of people”
“what do you mean by ‘those kinds of people’?”
“the ones you like to talk to, weirdos, you collect weirdos, weird words, weird places, like that old-timers’ bar where you like to go to eavesdrop on their conversations”
“you should talk more with ‘those kinds of people’ instead of spending your life gossiping with your mother”
“if you went out more often with me and my mother you might actually know what we talk about, but no, of course...you prefer to talk to blind weirdos who sell seashells...” Clara closed the package, leaving it on the table
she went to the bedroom and returned quickly, with irritated, determined gestures, and tossed a mass of newspapers and magazines on the sofa
“and let’s see if you can put away this crap that’s all over the bed”
they were the magazines his clippings came from—the clippings Clara avoided asking about, and about which Paulo Paused shunned giving extensive explanations
“isn’t shopping your hobby? mine’s collecting magazines...”
the journalist’s girlfriend locked herself in the bathroom
while he smoked at the window listening to her movements, he knew her gestures by heart, he knew where she was and what she was doing from the slightest sound issuing from the cubbyhole bathroom, imagined her body’s movements, the shades of the towels, the amount of toilet paper that his partner was unrolling from the roll, he almost mentally measured the water she used to take a shower or to brush her teeth, the languid or more nervous way in which she put on her clothes or her pyjamas, and the precise location where her feet trod the floor’s light-brown ceramic tile
“Paulo...” she said in a voice so soft that it could scarcely bear the weight of the most explicit feminine worry, “if you could please not forget to take your pills”
“no problem.”
Edú walked with difficulty, climbing the first flight of stairs and smiling openly at finding the sea of people on the first floor
Nga Nelucha, his young wife, who had taken in her sister’s wary advice to keep quiet about audiovisual happenings in her husband’s career, was avoiding areas of conviviality, particularly the crowds of neighbours and acquaintances standing in the flowing waters of the local bathing spot, who were bound to ask about their all-afternoon adventure on National Television
“how did it go on TV?” asked João Slowly, who had just come down from his terrace
his smile and stare suggested the question was really directed at Little Daddy, who had got a ride with them
“everything was just great,” Little Daddy replied, “it’s all really big, really pretty just from the lights!? it looks like a soccer stadium”
they all laughed out of a shared sense of joy and wellbeing and the secret, so simple after all, lay in those feet resting in the marvellous water that was neither hot nor cold, neither still nor really flowing, that stroked their toes, tickled their heels and gave their calves a rested feeling that induced a temporary drowsiness
“are you falling asleep, elder?” Seashell Seller nudged Blind Man
“hey, who are you to wake me up by giving me a shove like that, how come you don’t show any respect?”
making room for the new arrivals
Amarelinha laughed at the fake quarrel, and, after laughing together, they all made themselves comfortable, finding it curious that only Nga Nelucha did not take off the red, high-heeled shoes she was wearing, even though the others advised her that doing so would be appropriate given the place and the occasion
“we’re not all the same, neighbours, we’re going to respect our differences,” Nga Nelucha grumbled, revealing an unusual bout of bad temper
“hey, look who’s here, it’s my neighbour...!” João Slowly exclaimed, having just set his feet in the collective almost-swimming-pool, “excuse me for not getting up to greet you, come and join us”
“may i?” Odonato inquired, his face visibly tired, or sad
“by all means, there’s always room for one more”
only after taking off his shoes and letting his eyes adjust to the gloom did Odonato recognize, with shock, the body, face, and hands of Amarelinha who, on the other side of the water, gave him a timid wave
“are you all right, my dear?”
“how was your day, Dad?”
“i’ll tell you later,” Odonato said, taking a deep breath, and plunging his feet into the water, “is your mother at home?”
“yes, she is there”
the words themselves killed the conversation without killing time, as though the place and the waters demanded silence and contemplation
but the silence was broken by someone who was unable to refuse to speak if the elders present asked him a question
“how about you, Little Daddy, how did your first time on television go?”
“even if it’s not worth the trouble, it’s too... just really beautiful”
“did you record your message?”
“i recorded it, yeah, a cool Brazilian guy gives you tips, but i talked about my province and just said i was looking for my mother”
“you did good, it’s great that you got a spot, it’s tough to get on there,” João Slowly made implicit reference to the friends he had called to get the young man into the recording session for the much-solicited family reunification show
“you left them your contact details?”
“what do you mean?”
“how’s she going to get in touch with you?”
“i left the name of the neighbourhood and the building”
“not even a telephone number, boy? you could have left mine”
“but i didn’t even speak with you, godfather”
“well, forget about it, they have people’s contact details, we’ll hope that everything works out”
“yes”
and as though the silence wished to descend again
“we don’t always get what we want, that’s what life will teach you one day... at times we don’t get even the simplest things” the Mailman said, making some people aware of his peaceful presence
“a simple moped... so many letters, so many ministries, and it seems like they’re ignoring me on purpose, how much would it cost? i’m sure it’s just a question of a signature, a simple order... other people who don’t even need transportation drive around in big cars, i’m just asking for a moped, i even tell them explicitly in my letters that it can be a Chinese moped, although i’d prefer a Japanese one, they last longer...”
it was night in the city of Luanda
with its placid tides, in spreading horizontal beauty, as it says in poems written by dreamers who prefer this way of describing the sea and its aquatic configurations
a strange heat permeated Odonato’s body, Amarelinha assumed she shouldn’t stay any longer and withdrew, the Mailman bid farewell, resigned to his moped-less condition, Edú, unable to reach the itch caused by his famous swelling, suggested to Nga Nelucha that she scratch it with her own hand, Blind Man sniffed three times as a secret signal to Seashell Seller that it was time to leave, the rooster from the neighbouring building recovered its ability to crow and must have realized that its remaining eye didn’t guide it very well either, it bumped into pails and abandoned buckets on its terrace and, as a result, felt what might be called rooster sadness
on arriving at the humid sanctuary, Xilisbaba saw her husband strip off his oversized shirt, exhibiting a nudity that offended all known notions of human density
“this is my body, this is the sight of my pain,” he murmured
“let’s go upstairs, dear,” Xilisbaba comforted him.