I had that dream many times, but not with so many kids running along Bishop’s Beach without the strings of their kites getting tangled up—like crazy knots in the Comrade Old Fisherman’s net—nor had I seen so much wind causing such a strong swell in such a calm sea, it was just that when I dreamed I didn’t know it was a dream: my breathing became rushed because I was upset at seeing the square and the gas station with so many children and I wanted to know who they were. The children from Bishop’s Beach were there and also those from the Blue District, others from school and even a few adults: Aunt Adelaide laughing, the Comrade Gas Jockey running with a red and yellow kite, even Uncle Rui, who was a writer, went past on a bicycle that had moustaches drawn on it, and he did two things at once, riding the bike and keeping the kite under control—what a beautiful bicycle!—and Senhor Tuarles had a mug of beer in one hand and with the other he made the kites feint like soccer players, even Comrade Gudafterov was laughing and running, “Dona Nhéte, ka-yet bring news from far-away,” but what had never before happened to me in that dream of carnivals and also laughter was to see so many animated colours in a dance of soaring winds and the sky full of a thousand greens, yellows, oranges and reds with the blue behind, the sky imitating some birds that might be the living body of what’s called a rainbow.

“Are you dreaming, son?”

“Ay, Granma, don’t wake me up like that, I was dreaming about an awesome rainbow.”

“Oh, my dear,”—she wiped my face—“you were breathing so fast and covered in sweat. I was afraid you were having an asthma attack.”

“It was a many-coloured asthma, Granma...Our sky here on Bishop’s Beach had colours that I don’t even know how to describe to you.”

“The same dream, then.”

“But with ‘multiplication factors,’ as they say at my school.”

“It’s time to wake up in any event. Are you coming with me to the cemetery?”

“Yes. Are you going to talk with Granpa Mbinha?”

“It’s not the place to talk, son. It’s just to be there for a while. Sometimes a person goes to the cemetery to talk to herself.”

“Sea Foam talks to himself without going to the cemetery.”

We lingered over breakfast: a really good black tea that Madalena mixed with verbena leaf; the first time she had done that everybody refused to drink it, and now it was a custom and was even offered to visitors.

“There wasn’t any bread today, Granma,” Madalena explained.

“That’s all right. Heat up a bit of yesterday’s bread in the oven, it tastes wonderful. Just for five minutes so we don’t waste gas.”

“Yes, Granma.”

It was very early. The windows could still be opened without the risk of our having a breakfast of bread and butter with a light covering of dust.

The chickens were demanding the corn that hadn’t appeared for three days. They were just eating stale bread and potato peelings left over from someone’s house.

At that hour of the morning, Granma Catarina didn’t appear. The parrots didn’t talk nonsense before eleven o’clock. I put this in a school composition and the Comrade Teacher told me not to lie because lies were vile. She even ordered me to write another composition. Since it was on a topic of my choice, I wrote about Granma Nhé’s friend Carmen Fernández, with her pregnancy of a bag of ants and another of a bird-baby, and the teacher threatened to beat me with her ruler and asked whether I knew how to write normal compositions like other children, like perhaps about a trip or a relative.

I swear that I made an effort, and I thought it would be a good idea to write about a journey I’d made to Benguela, where my Uncle Victor said that he had an enormous swimming pool full of Coca-Cola, and about how I had felt really sorry because we children had been told that Granma Catarina couldn’t come with us. I was scolded again just the same and my mother was even summoned to the parent-teacher meeting because the Comrade Teacher knew the family and said that it might be possible that a crazy uncle had filled a swimming pool with Coca Cola, but what was impossible was my having written that Granma Catarina could have accompanied us because the Comrade Teacher knew that Granma Catarina hadn’t lived in that house for many years.

So as not to appear undisciplined, I remained silent when the Comrade Teacher ordered me to tear up the three compositions, but I felt like laughing because of course Uncle Victor didn’t have enough Coca Cola to fill a swimming pool, but we all knew that Granma Catarina was in Granma Nhé’s house; she even opened and closed windows. It was just that she didn’t like to appear very early in the day or when there were strangers in the house, but that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t have wanted to go with us to Benguela.

“What are you thinking about, son? Finish your bread.”

“About a composition I wrote... Granma Catarina was in it. I still think she didn’t go to Benguela just because nobody invited her.”

“Finish your bread, son. Today I have to go to the hospital to have a toe removed.”

“And after that we’re really going to call you Granma Nineteen?”

“I suppose so.”

We were just about to leave. Granma Nhé’s bag was ready, with her nice silk nightgown and her Chinese slippers.

Granma looked slowly around at the whole room—the windows, the carpet, the beat-up brown sofa, the really old wood-framed television, the photos on the walls—and stopped to look at the display cabinet containing the pretty Chinese tea service.

“The first granddaughter who makes a proper marriage gets that tea service. We’ll see who it is.”

“These days nobody marries as a virgin.” Granma Catarina appeared out of nowhere.

“Catarina, I’m going to the hospital. But first I’m going to the cemetery.”

“Take advantage of the opportunity to tell your grandson the truth.”

“I’ll only be back tomorrow morning, if the doctor lets me.”

“The truth, Agnette. You have to tell the children the truth.”

“Goodbye, Sis. Till tomorrow.”

“Goodbye.”

“See you, Granma Catarina.”

“See you, son. Look after your Granma.”

Granma Nhé went out carrying her bag. Senhor Osório, who was going to give us a lift, had already honked twice. Granma Catarina stayed near the door to watch me while I went down the steps of the veranda.

“Even if you don’t see me, I’m nearby. Life is also made up of things that we don’t know how to explain but which are always there.”

“I didn’t understand anything, but I’m going to give you a kiss.”

Granma Catarina didn’t leave the doorway. It was as if there were a fox trap there that she couldn’t tread on. She looked in the direction of the enormous trees of Dona Libânia’s house, and she smiled.

“You see the mills?”

“Those are trees, Granma Catarina. Big, beautiful trees.”

“But they look like mills of time.”

“I’m sorry, Granma. It’s just I don’t know what mills are and I’m really late.”

“They’re big spades that help to push time forward.”

“What pushes time forward, at least as I’ve seen it being pushed, are the hands of the clock,” I shouted as I ran for the car.

“It’s the same, my dear.”

We went in Senhor Osório’s car. He was already pretty much a friend of the family and drove a white Opel that ran on diesel fuel. Before turning the key in the ignition, it was necessary to wait for a pretty blue light that came on; only after that was the car warmed up. I met Senhor Osório when I was little and he used to visit Uncle Chico at his house with the wonderfully chilled beer that came out of the faucet installed in the wall.

“Are you all right?”

“Good, thanks, Senhor Osório.”

“Ready to go for a spin?”

He always drew a deep breath—I’d never seen a person who made so much noise with his breathing—once the blue light came on. He started the car. That Opel was pretty: all white, and always freshly polished and washed. Senhor Osório actually worked for Opel and I guess he must have washed his car several times a day; at least I never saw it dirty. Seated, he succeeded in straightening his slacks, that’s to say, everybody knew that Senhor Osório was notorious as “slacks-up-to-his-armpits” because he pulled his slacks up until they almost touched his armpit, in spite of his handsome belly and wide suspenders.

“We’re going to High Cross Cemetery, please, Senhor Osório.”

“All right, Dona Agnette.”

I opened the window to sniff the odours from the sea because we were certain to follow the shore of Bishop’s Beach, that’s to say, close to the sea, and after the Fortress we were going to turn onto the Marginal, and since Senhor Osório drove really slowly, I had time to say hi to Charlita and 3.14, who shouted, “Good luck.” The Comrade Gas Jockey waved a languid goodbye, Sea Foam was at his house’s front gate, fanning his leg with his whip and a chain in the other hand; the church was closed, but a few cleaning ladies were sweeping the dusty patio, though I don’t know why they bothered to sweep it since the same dust was going to return to the same places. On the lefthand side was the calm, peaceful sea with the sun’s patterned light shining on it and some fishermen going out to fish. Then came the Marginal—the wide street of the Marginal—still with only a few cars, and the beautiful building of the National Bank of Angola, and when we got close to the Nazaré Church, we curved to take the Eixo Viário, this time in the direction of the cemetery.

“Are you coming in with us, Senhor Osório?”

“No, Dona Agnette. I’m not in the habit of entering cemeteries.”

“What will you do the day your mother passes away?”

“My dear mother is already deceased, Dona Agnette.”

“You didn’t go to the burial?”

“I was here in Angola. She died in Portugal.”

When we arrived there were lots of ladies outside the cemetery selling flowers of all colours, those really big ones that they put on the coffin once it’s closed and other, smaller ones to be carried in the hand or offered to those who cry the most. As it was a weekday, there wasn’t much crying or wailing going on.

“Instead of planting flowers in gardens, they bring them to cemeteries where nobody cares any more.”

“Don’t you like flowers, Granma?”

“I like them, son, but I like to see them in gardens and along the streets to give life some colour. Death hasn’t got any colour, son.”

“Granma Catarina says that, too.”

“Let’s go in. Can you manage to carry that big bottle?”

“I can carry it, Granma.”

The big bottle of water was to clean off Granpa Mbinha’s headstone, which was filthy because Granma Nhé only came to visit it once a year, on Granpa’s birthday.

“Let’s go look for the headstone. I never know exactly where it is.”

I liked this part because, to tell the truth, I think this was just Granma Nhé playing around. She knew very well where the headstone was; even I could almost get there with my eyes closed. But that was how this worked: we went wandering around and stumbling over other headstones and she told me little tales. I never completely understood whether this was a way to make me aware of certain things, or whether it was just to tame her own sad yearning for people she hadn’t seen in a long time. “This headstone belongs to the late Don Tito, Carmen Fernández’s father, who died of heartbreak when he learned about her giving birth to the bag of ants.” She poured out a few drops of water, arranged the dry but pretty flowers that someone had left there a long time ago. “Here lies the late Barradas, father of that Barradas who was famous all the way to the Workers’ District for being excessively endowed.” I didn’t really understand. “Endowed, Granma?” She smiled, wiping the tears from her eyes. “One day Granma will tell you the tale of how Barradas got ready to play soccer and then the tale of the blind woman who started shouting.” She blew on other headstones, looked at the little photographs behind broken glass, brushed away leaves. “Here’s Senhor Santos, Granma Chica’s husband. Yes, they sure had a nice wine cellar. Clean that photograph well.” The gravediggers started to approach us to ask if we needed help. Granma didn’t want any help, she was even willing to give them money, but Granma Nhé didn’t like to have a lot of people around her in the cemetery.

We found Granpa Mbinha’s headstone. It was actually clean; it had rained a little while ago. We swept around the sides, Granma blew away the dust and cleaned the black-and-white photograph that Granpa must have had taken without knowing that he was going to die because he had a really important air, with his head tilted, looking upwards. Granpa Mbhina was handsome and something about him reminded me of the Indians in movies.

“My Cachimbinha is handsome, don’t you think?”

“Really handsome, Granma.”

“The women who were after him! Leave it, son... I had to be very careful. This Granpa of yours was a scoundrel.”

“Granma, why did they call him Cachimbinha?”

“Because of that other Cachimbinha, the soccer player.”

“Granpa liked soccer?”

“He loved it, and he played it very well.”

“My Granpa Aníbal told me that when he was young they played soccer with a ball made from a pig’s bladder.”

“A pig’s bladder be damned! That must have been back where he came from.”

“I don’t know, Granma. Maybe it was in the really, really olden days.”

Granma Nhé fell silent. She put her hands together at the front of her waist and began to pretend that she was praying. Her lips were moving and I made an effort to understand the text, but it wasn’t possible, there was just a murmuring—shh, shh, shh. I only heard a few words from the Lord’s Prayer, and the “Amen,” at the end. And then Granma Nhé was at peace.

Elders do that, it’s normal. I don’t like to be at peace very much, but sometimes it happens. It was good there, like a film that couldn’t be shown any more: the gravediggers kept their distance but they stopped digging and remained silent, the trees swayed more gently, and there was a noise in the sky made by birds that came in to land in those peaceful trees, very old trees, because cemeteries, as everyone knows, are very old places, and, “Lots of people have already died in this world,” as Granma Catarina said. The sky was turning all blue and it was almost cloudless, even the few clouds that were visible were at a standstill; only Granma Nhé’s hair was moving a touch, as if it were flying.

The letters on Granpa Mbinha’s headstone were very small and had been worn down by time and the sun. It was almost impossible to read them. There was another name there, not the main name, but a name from the family. I tried to ask Granma Nhé who it was, but she had a little tear falling from her eye, and I stayed silent.

“Let’s go, son. I can’t put up any more with the pain in my foot.”

“You want me to call Senhor Osório with his slacks up to his armpits?”

Granma laughed.

“No, that’s not necessary. You help me yourself.”

“Granma, do you come here to talk to Granpa Mbinha?”

“I suppose I do.”

“Can the dead hear what we say?”

“Some of them can.”

The gravediggers said goodbye and thanked Granma for the money she had given them. The birds made their starting-to-fly noise and the trees stirred a little. The walls inside the cemetery were all white; it was true that it was a pleasant spot for a person to spend half an hour not doing anything.

“Granma, can more than one person be buried beneath the same headstone?”

“Yes.” She stopped and stood looking at me with her eyes very open and moist.

“I saw two names there, Granma.”

“I know, son.”

“Is there another person buried there, Granma?”

“There is.”

In that moment a great silence struck my heart. I looked into Granma Nhé’s pretty eyes; her face was telling me that I could ask her a thousand more questions and she would answer them for me, but my heart silenced me. It took the words out of my mouth and I was left without any more questions to ask. Just like that.

“Are you coming to drop me at the hospital?”

“Yes I am, Granma.”

She had kept a tiny flower in her handbag. She took it out gradually and set it in my hand.

“Did you forget it? Do you want me to go put it over there?”

“I want you to keep it for yourself.”

“All right.” I put it in my shirt pocket so as not to crush it. “Granma?”

“Tell me, my dear.”

“I like you a lot.” Granma didn’t reply and kept walking, but she held my hand with a soft grip. “I like our conversations a lot, even when sometimes we don’t manage to say anything.”

“You’re a darling. And when you grow up,”—she lowered her head to speak with me, looking me in the eyes with a peaceful gaze—“when you grow up, you have to remember all of these tales. Inside you. You promise?”

“Yes, Granma.” I didn’t even know what she meant, but with the open wound in her foot hurting her, and with her on the point of being hospitalized for an operation to have something cut off, I figured it was a good idea just to promise everything. “And you, Granma, do you promise to give me an ice cream when you come out of the hospital?”

“I promise.”

Senhor Osório looked like a chauffeur in a black-and-white movie: he went around the back and opened the door for Granma Nhé to get in.

“Can we go on, Dona Agnette?”

“We can, thank you very much, Senhor Osório. We’re going to the military hospital.”

Everyone was silent during the drive. Senhor Osório was whistling, it must have been because his indicators didn’t work; he whistled before he made a turn. All he had to do was go and see a mechanic. Everybody knows that when the indicators don’t work it’s something to do with a fuse, and you’ve just got to change it, a fuse that’s not needed for another light can be installed there; but I didn’t say a word, so that Senhor Osório wouldn’t think I was setting myself up as an expert.

At the entrance to the military hospital there was a barrier with military comrades who kept tabs on everybody who came in. They asked us what we were doing there.

“The vehicle can’t enter, Comrade.”

“What do you mean it can’t? I’m going to take this lady to have an operation, she can’t walk.”

“An operation on what?”

“On her leg.”

“On a toe,” Granma Nhé corrected.

“On a leg or a toe?”

“On the toe, Comrade. Let us in, we’re already late.”

“Is the operation being performed by a doctor, and who is he?”

“Doctor Rafael KnockKnock,” I snapped.

“KnockKnock? I’ve never heard of him.”

“Please, Comrade, “ Granma said, “don’t make us waste time. It’s an emergency case. Doctor Rafael is going to cut off my toe.”

“A toe?”

“That’s right.”

“And are you gonna walk okay after that, ma’am?”

“Yes, I will. Inside my shoe it won’t even be noticeable.”

“Do you know where the operating block is?”

“Yes, I know.” Senhor Osório started to whistle and put on the indicator even though the indicator didn’t work.

“Go ahead, please. Have a good operation, ma’am. They cut my brother’s whole leg off, he needs crutches to walk. Even so, he still dances at parties.”

Inside, Comrade Rafael KnockKnock was laughing as he waited for Granma Nhé.

“KnockKnock,” he joked as he rapped on the door of the car. “¿Cómo está, abuela? Everything bien?”

“Yes. This is Senhor Osório.”

“Encantado. Are you staying for la operación?”

“No, no, I have to go take care of some business. Good luck, Dona Agnette. Your daughter should be in there. I’ll wait outside to take the little boy home.”

“Okay. Yes, your daughter’s inside and we have a little sorpresa.”

“More surprises?”

“Only una. You are going to like it.”

Senhor Osório got out of the car even though Granma’s door was already open. He pulled his slacks up even higher, until his suspenders were completely limp, wiped his sweat with a white handkerchief and stood watching us while we entered the hospital.

“I’ve learned that I can’t give flores to the señorita,”—Comrade Rafael was smiling—“but there is something I want to give her.”

This must have been the waiting room for the operations. Aunty Tó was there, already dressed in the really ugly green gown worn in operating rooms. A clapped-out old apparatus with pretenses to being a turntable and two columns stood on a shelf.

“If you will do me el honor...” Comrade Rafael KnockKnock made a gesture in the air with his hand. I figured it was for Granma to dance with him.

Granma Nhé accepted with a smile.

“I don’t know if I’m up to this, doctor.”

“Sí, you are. Don’t worry. A last baile before the procedure.”

Music from the movies was playing. I already knew that sound, pretty and calm. Some nurses came to listen and stood still, watching while Granma danced with the doctor. Aunty Tó’s eyes were moist; I don’t know if she was afraid, or she simply felt like crying. With difficulty but in good spirits, Granma started to dance to that music from the past—then I knew what it was: a tango.

“That’s so that when you are better, bailamos again. You are going to see what beautiful trabajo we are going to do here. I just need you to be tranquila, Abuela.”

“Thank you, doctor. I never thought I would dance a tango in the waiting room at the military hospital.”

“Life is full of sorpresas, señora Agnette.”

They were dancing as if time had stopped on all of the hospital’s clocks.

Other patients, in bed, on crutches, in filthy gowns, with tired eyes and dishevelled hair, with plasters on their arms, wearing grimy glasses, and other doctors in white and green gowns, even two security guards, came to take a good look at the dance that seemed to go on forever. Aunty Tó, her arms crossed, let her body bob from side to side; her eyes travelled far away. I can understand this: even I, being there, hearing that music, remembered a film I’d seen, the couple who danced in the film, a little more rapidly, it’s true, but it was also necessary to see that Granma had a wound in her toe and, with her steps, couldn’t twirl around any more than she was doing already.

“Now it’s time.” Comrade Rafael spoke gently as the music ended. “We are going to do our trabajo. One toe, nada más, I promise you. You will have nineteen digits left.”

Granma blew me a kiss from her hand as she smiled. I figure that the dancing had done her good, her face looked calmer and she even walked better.

As Sea Foam used to say, it was the miracle of music.

“My feet know the truth that my heart feels when my ears smile. Music is the miracle the Communists already authorized, ha-ha-ha! Let’s bailar, compañeros!”