Granma Nineteen and the Soviet's Secret
Page 15
We didn’t see the fire at the main gate of the Mausoleum catch on the treetops of Dona Libânia’s house, and the Boss General shout that it wasn’t that fire they had to extinguish, it was another one, the fire on the most important part of the construction site, and the ordinary folk laughing and bringing pails and wash-basins with water from their houses or from the sea, we didn’t see the Comrade Gas Jockey hurriedly open the gas pump, connect the little generator to be able to activate the gas pump, set the needle to gasoline, and attach a long hose to the end of his own hose full of salt water
“don’t be afraid, get back”
he shouted, and when the fire was about to enter Dona Libânia’s house, he engaged the pump and began spraying a salty water that put out the fire in the tall trees in Dona Libânia’s yard, even though the gasoline fumes set off some sparks in the branches, which all had the same fire-yellowed colour as they were left damp and limp even after the fire went out
we didn’t see the general looking terrified because he had never seen a gas pump put out a fire in old trees, then get into his car because by that time Senhor Tuarles had already said to Dona Isabel
“go upstairs and get the AK-47”
Dona Isabel had even gone already and Senhor Tuarles would have loved to put bullets in the chamber and fire two shots, the general hadn’t brought either his pistol or his soldiers and he had to leave
we didn’t see Dona Libânia crying with fear and even in that state go and prepare a tea with leftover banana cake that was served on Granma Nineteen’s veranda to anybody who wanted it and especially those who had helped to put out the fire, we didn’t see it because we were far away, on the other side of the gas pump, on the other side of the square, beyond the sand, beyond the construction site fence, beyond the cardinal points that we had invented, we were over there, stripping off our clothes, laughing, shouting as we called out to Sea Foam, who did not come, readying our bodies to dive, our mouths to smile and our lungs to shout, as we did sometimes beneath the water, laughing in happiness, in those shoutless submerged voices and invented jokes that all could hear, to such an extent for one day someone to have said that those were “blue shouts”
and in this way, with naked bodies feeling a soft breeze, looking at the kites that flew over our square in Bishop’s Beach, I, Charlita and Pi, better known as Comrade 3.14, jumped the shells and the holes of the crabs that fled in fear of us, we who sought the experience of the salt water on our bodies, hungry for white surf in the dark sea at that moment of partying and laughter, we were there, in search of where our bodies were able to dance gently on the air in our lungs that had been spared by our shouts, and I remembered the elders who I had met and who sometimes weren’t capable of believing in the simple secrets of children, the elders who thought that the cries of the birds were those we heard in the morning or in the late afternoon, when birds are in a hurry to get somewhere and shout for other birds to get out of their way, but those cries, in spite of being shouted, aren’t very true, since birds are like children, they need to be beneath the water to give a true shout, it wasn’t a child who told me that, it was a bird, Charlita and Pi know it, we all heard the birds shouting beneath the water of the sea of Bishop’s Beach, but not that night
at that moment we three were alone in the dark water, diving to shout our blue shouts, and I was thinking: what colour is a bird’s shout?, or, as Sea Foam said
“a true shout is only to be imagined or heard by our individual ears, like a true secret, because no one else believes in it”
it was good to feel our bodies, with our skins hot, in the pleasant temperature of the water, turning our heads from time to time to glance and see whether Foam might not be there nearby and wish to bathe with us, “you’re crazy,” Charlita said, “he only bathes alone, then he stands up to see the fowling stars,” and we laughed, how was it that we knew so many of his expressions, “nobody forgets the blinking brilliance of a fowling star,” Pi remembered, “fowling stars? never heard of them,” Sea Foam used to laugh, “but I’ve already seen a few of them,” we dived as we said these things in the language of blue shouts to see our soaked faces with red, irritated eyes
a last explosion went off at the peak of the Mausoleum and the sky was possessed by a slow gleam
“the world is full of invisible secrets, the sea cools the stars”
I seemed to hear Foam’s voice and I stayed with my head poking up out of the water, even though the others were tugging on me to submerge me more, our shouts of half-pretend fear made a tiny noise and we heard the cries of the birds that were leaving for the far-away, we plunged deeper with mouths open, each of us shouting inside the water of the immense sea
“we invented blue shouts”
someone was going to say later, but for me it was a heap of voices imitating the knots of the Old Fisherman’s net, shouts all drowned from not succeeding in making any noise other than that poorly realized imitation of the voices of the shells that were close to our ears recounting, without cease, the old secrets that the sea never wanted to tell, and it was on observing the others’ laughter, on hearing their blue shouts, that I tried to remember another phrase that Sea Foam had said, but I wasn’t able to speak with my mouth full of water and with the words that would not be heard in the ever so salty water of the sea, I raised my neck and peered at the fresh air above, I made signals for them to swim upwards as well and come to hear this other memory, and they came, but a shameful laughter invaded my chest because in the end I had forgotten the phrase again
“what was it?”
they were asking as they looked at my face of someone who had something to say
“let’s just go swimming”
I invented, swimming gently like that, the three of us almost touching the bottom with our feet because it wasn’t deep here, we were in the pretty area of white sea surf when we saw Sea Foam so close by pretending to be running in a hurry
“look at the sky flooded with stars...the stars are the eyes of the shining universe”
he was inventing circles on the seashore with his body, and his dreadlocks hung with shells, and he shouted the exact phrase that I had just remembered and forgotten
“stars whirling in the black desert...I need stars, compañeros, I need stars...Because the sky doesn’t know how to dance alone!”
Deer Komrad Frend Dona Nhéte,
Forgive Portuguese error. Bilhardov write some letter in hurry to leave, no have time give apersonally Dona Nhéte, your grankildren like destroy so Bilhardov hope letter succeed arrive.
Forgive no goodbye like should, everything sudden, organize with frends from groop sad for land in far-away.
Groop take advantage explozhun of Muzzleum to take plane out. If Komrad General no, all groop prisoner, then organize explozhun in Muzzleum. Bilhardov, your frend, never want participate plan explozhun of houses in Bishop beach. Orders of general for end of verk.
Your family here very booteful. Your grandkildren, your kildren, all very simpatiko and like you very much. Bilhardov speak serious when invite Dona Nhéte come with me to Soviet Union. Snov very booteful in Russia, in my village in far-away. But Bilhardov understand that place is with family.
When you reed these letter I don’t know where Bilhardov will be. Maybe can catch all plane to Russia and see family. After Bilhardov write, but they say Angolan mail no verk very gud.
Bilhardov feel miss for Bishop beach and all Komrades, especially Dona Nhéte.
Forgive if explozhun in Muzzleum make problem, but Dona Nhéte family get time and they must start verk again. Bilhardov cover dinamite with sea salt for booteful effect in Luanda sky. The kildren like? One day kildren can rite tell how was Bishop beach after fireverk. Bilhardov no stay see and tell in far-away.
Best vishes, with sadness and respekt, always gud wish for family. Bilhardov no forget conversation with your sister Catarina very funny her
mysterious secret only appear when want.
Best vishes to all in Bishop beach.
Bilhardov
Luanda, Bishop beach
Dona Nhéte: pleeze no forget tell your grandsun body of Komrad President Agostinho Neto is gud, away from explozhun. Tell also that alligator in house of Sea Foam is really real. Is Bilhardov who bring food to alligator every thursday. But be careful: alligator grow big...
“Is that what tales from before were like a long time ago?”
“Yes, son.”
“So before is a time, Granma?”
“Before is a place.”
“A place really far away?”
“A place really deep inside.”
Glossary
Spanish Expressions
abuela: grandmother
adiós: goodbye
bailamos: we dance
bailar: dance (verb)
baile: dance (noun)
bienvenido: welcome
buena suerte: good luck
buenas tardes: good afternoon
bueno: good; but also, well
cabrón: bastard
¿cómo?: how? (literal); what? (colloquial)
¿cómo está(s)/ cómo están?: How are you? ( singular and plural)
comprendo: I understand
del barco del Chanquete, no nos moverán: (“They won’t make us leave old Chanquete’s boat”): refrain from a popular song from Blue Summer (see below).
desaparecer: disappear
¿dónde está?: Where is?
encantado: Pleased to meet you
errores: errors, mistakes
flores: flowers
hasta mañana: until tomorrow
¿Hay alguien aquí?: Is there anybody here?
hijo de puta: son of a whore
La lluvia no perdona a los que se ponen por debajo de ella: The rain does not forgive those who stand beneath it.
la luna: the moon
La vida es como es: Life is as it is.
mañana: tomorrow
más: more
me gusta: I like
muchacho: boy
muy bien: very good
nada: nothing
el poder: power
planes: plans
poeta: poet
por completo: completely
por favor: please
que te parió: who gave you birth. Understood as part of the insult, “The whore who gave you birth.”
sí: yes
todo: all, everything
trabajo: work
tranquilo / tranquila: calm
Yo hablo: I speak
Yo lo sé: I know it
Cultural References
Blue Summer: An influential Spanish television series of the early 1980s, it was widely broadcast in socialist countries. The story revolves around the freewheeling lifestyle of children and adolescents living on a beach.
FAPLA: People’s Armed Forces for the Liberation of Angola. The national army of post-independence Angola.
Gabriela: A Brazilian soap opera, popular throughout the Portuguese-speaking world; it is based on the novel Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon by Jorge Amado.
japie: Derogatory term for a white South African.
Kianda: The Goddess of the Sea in Angolan mythology; she has mermaid-like features.
Kimbundu: One of the three major African languages of Angola; spoken in the area around Luanda.
kitaba: A paste made from toasted peanuts.
kizomba: A popular Angolan dance.
Marginal: Broad, scenic waterfront avenue that follows the curve of the bay in front of downtown Luanda.
Odorico Paraguaçu: Comic character on Brazilian television; he is the mayor of a remote town called Sucupira.
ngonguenha: Mixture of cassava root flour with water and sugar.
nyet: No. (Russian)
Pioneers: Socialist organization for children, similar to the Boy Scouts.
quiteta: A type of edible shellfish.
Roque Santeiro: Outlaw character in a famous Brazilian soap opera of the same name; Luanda’s largest market was named after this fictitious character.
Sinhozinho Malta: All-powerful landowner in the Brazilian soap opera Roque Santeiro.
Sucupira: See Odorico Paraguaça above.
Trinità: Star of Italian spaghetti Westerns.
tuga: Derogatory term for someone from Portugal.
Acknowledgements
The translator thanks David Brookshaw and Ondjaki for their help in finalizing the translation.
About the Author
Ondjaki was born in Luanda, Angola in 1977. He is the author of five novels, three short story collections and various books of poems and stories for children. He has also made a documentary film, May Cherries Grow, about his native city. His books have been translated into eight languages and have earned him important literary prizes in Angola, Portugal and Brazil. In 2008 Ondjaki was awarded the Grinzane for Africa Prize in the category of Best Young Writer. In 2012, The Guardian named him one of its “Top Five African Writers.” In 2013, he was awarded the José Saramago Prize for his novel Os Transparentes.
About the Translator
Stephen Henighan’s previous translations include Ondjaki’s Good Morning Comrades. He is the author of a dozen books of fiction, reportage and criticism, including the short story collection A Grave in the Air and the essay A Green Reef: The Impact of Climate Change. He teaches at the University of Guelph, Ontario.