I travelled to Cabo Ledo two days after landing in Luanda. It was a Saturday. When I arrived, the sky was bleeding over the sea, not in its usual way but with a funereal halo around it, like an ill omen. I was surprised to find Hossi in the company of a well-fed woman, wide-hipped, round-faced, with a clear, frank smile. Hossi took her hand and led her towards me:
‘I want to introduce you to Ava. I’ve told you a lot about her.’
It took me a few seconds to remember.
‘Ava?! That’s not possible …’
She greeted me with two kisses.
‘Encantada.’
That night, as the three of us sat at a table with a sea view illuminated by a giant moon, Ava told me how after her husband’s death, six months earlier, she had decided to leave Cuba and find Hossi.
‘Nicolás died aged ninety-one. But no, he didn’t die of old age, he was tough. He was healthy. He died of stupidity.’
The Spanish she spoke was very beautiful. She seemed younger when she spoke, too.
‘Stupidity?’ I asked. ‘How so?’
‘Nicolás liked playing cards with a group of other old men. One night on his way home he was surprised by a kid, a boy of fifteen, sixteen, who showed him a blade. Instead of handing over his watch, the only thing of value he had with him, Nicolás gave him a punch in the nose. Old fool.’
‘Did he die right away?’
‘Not immediately, no. They called me. He died in my arms, asking my forgiveness for the trouble, because he was getting blood on my new dress.’
Some days later, while sorting through her husband’s things, Ava found a letter addressed to her. Nicolás, anticipating his death, not by stabbing, of course, but owing to his advanced age, was saying goodbye to her. He explained that he had a bit of money stashed away in a Spanish bank. Ava bought a ticket to Madrid. She spent a month in Spain, withdrew the money, and flew from there to Luanda.
‘All those years, there wasn’t one day I didn’t think about my Angolan man. After Hossi disappeared I received a visit from a State Security agent.’
‘Captain Pablo Pinto?’ asked Hossi.
‘Pablo Pinto?! No, his name was Juan Ernesto.’
‘A short man, with John Lennon glasses?’
‘That’s right. Juan Ernesto. I knew him. He was married to a cousin of mine. He was put in prison two years later. For paedophilia. He died in prison. Another one of the prisoners killed him. But that’s not relevant now. He showed up at my door. I was scared, because I could tell it was something to do with you. I didn’t invite him in. He took off his hat – he was wearing a panama on his head, as if he was any old tourist – he took it off and told me you’d gone back to Angola.’ Ava was silent a moment. She wiped away a tear with a paper napkin. ‘He told me he was very sorry. That you’d told him you would love me for ever and you’d wait for me in Angola. That was why I came. I owe my happiness to that bad man.’
Ava didn’t know a single person in Angola and she hadn’t the faintest idea how to find Hossi.
‘What about Facebook?’ I asked.
She laughed.
‘I’ve never used Facebook. We didn’t have a computer at home. And the internet on the island, you know …’
On the plane, en route to Luanda, Ava met a young Angolan businesswoman called Rosa Prata, who despite not being rich had been managing a company buying and selling craftwork with some success. Ava told her she was going to Angola in search of a man she’d fallen in love with, eighteen years earlier. She had lost him, thanks to the treacheries of life, but she had never forgotten him. Rosa hugged her warmly:
‘We’re going to find this man of yours, girl. I promise.’
The woman insisted on having Ava stay with her. She lives in Quinaxixe in a nice apartment she shares with a niece. It wasn’t hard to find Hossi. An ex-guerrilla with whom Rosa does business remembered him well. Two or three more phone calls and somebody mentioned the Rainbow Hotel. Two days after that, a Saturday, Rosa drove Ava to Cabo Ledo.
‘I was so afraid Hossi would be married, happily married, with a wife and kids. I didn’t want to disrupt his life,’ said Ava. ‘My second biggest fear was that when he saw me like this, all old and fat, my preto wouldn’t like me any more.’
Hossi shifted in his chair, and took the woman’s hand.
‘You haven’t got old, my love. You’re even more beautiful.’
I got up.
‘I don’t want to get in the way …’
The old guerrilla smiled, nervous. He hesitated:
‘No, no. Stay! Don’t you like seeing me in love?’
‘On the contrary. I just think I’m in the way. I’ll leave you both with this huge stunning moon …’
‘I ordered it specially for Ava,’ said Hossi, taking my arm. ‘Stay. Drink with us. You can toast your friend’s happiness.’
We toasted. We drank. Hossi ordered more beer. Ava kept pace with us, with that fabled Cuban courage. Around eleven at night she excused herself and stood. She was tired. She needed to sleep to recover from those last highly emotional days. As soon as she’d gone, Hossi’s voice hardened.
‘We’ve got a lot to talk about.’
He told me what had happened on his visit to the prison. I told him about my conversation with my daughter. He was furious with his nephew. I tried to calm him down. Sabino was right, I said. The hunger strike was an extreme measure, but undoubtedly more sensible than attacking the prison, all guns blazing. Hossi banged the table, knocking over the glasses. I pushed my chair back, as the beer trickled and dripped onto the floor. The other guests stopped their conversations. Adriano, the mute waiter in dark glasses, rushed over with a damp cloth and cleaned the table. He looked askance at me, mistrustful, as he picked up the bottles and withdrew again. Hossi didn’t even notice him.
‘For fuck’s sake, Daniel! Whose side are you on?’
‘Take it easy! I’m on your side, but I’ve got to agree with Sabino …’
‘Who said we had to fire guns?’
‘What do you mean – what did you have in mind?’
‘I’ve talked to some of the boys. Totally trustworthy guys …’
‘I’ll bet one of them’s Adriano!’
‘You win your bet. We went through hell together. He’d give his life for me.’
‘I hope that won’t be necessary.’
‘It won’t. My plan’s very simple. The simplest plans are always the best. We arrive at the girls’ prison at four in the morning with two ambulances. Then we go to fetch the boys. You’re in a captain’s uniform, with two soldiers, I’m in a nurse’s. We’re carrying documentation that authorises the transfer of the revos to São Paulo prison-hospital. Nobody will be surprised because it’s already been announced that they’re going to be transferred there.’
‘And where are you going to get hold of the ambulances?’
‘One of the guys I mentioned, he works at the military hospital …’
‘Jesus, you people are everywhere.’
‘We really are.’
‘Don’t expect me to be a part of it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not doing anything illegal.’
‘Illegal?!’
‘What you’re suggesting is definitely illegal.’
‘So you’d rather wait for your daughter, my nephew and the other kids to starve to death?’
‘No! Of course not. We need to start organising a solidarity movement.’
‘A solidarity movement?! You? You, who’ve never organised anything, who’ve lived your whole life on your knees …’
‘I haven’t lived my whole life on my knees!’
‘You haven’t?’
‘No!’
‘Looks like it to me. And not just me,’ he said, getting up. He held out his hand. ‘I wish you luck! All the luck in the world – you’re going to need it.’
That was the last time I talked to him. In a conventional way at least, face to face, rather than in dreams.