Transparent City

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Transparent City Page 4

by Ondjaki


  “you think my mbumbi’s king? now i’m living adaptively! with this mbumbi, i’m inventing new steps, don’t you see i’m already swivelling my knee like a soccer star? onwards and upwards...”

  Nga Nelucha laughed, she let one of Edú’s hands seize her waist, the other slid down to the vast contours of her ass, a hot sweat invaded the kitchen and the soft music went on, making the couple close their eyes without losing track of the contours of their apartment

  “don’t you remember that fateful episode? ay, oh…”

  back when there was a curfew, parties were full of people who wanted to drink, eat, and dance and it was literally prohibited, because of the curfew, to leave the party

  anybody who stayed past midnight could return home only after five-thirty in the morning, the time when, foreseeing the sunrise, sweetly exhausted bodies ask for a place to sit down, a last cold beer, and a plate of muzonguê.

  it was normal, in that time, after the soup, for a party that was winding down to heat up again, continuing for some people until ten o’clock in the morning and, for the most insistent partygoers, it would be transformed into the so-called “continuation,” where the men would go off to buy fish or meat, potatoes, cassava meal, manioc, but, above all, liquid sustenance, bottles, cans, or barrels of beer, so that, around two in the afternoon, the pace would pick up again beneath the aroma of the women’s seasonings, in an afternoon that would stretch out into a new night

  “ay, our mandatory curfews...” Edú smiled with closed eyes remembering the final night when he had made her his

  “excuse me, young lady, what’s your name?” he had approached Nelucha, crumpled white linen suit, open-necked shirt and a golden crucifix gleaming against the dark dampness of his skin

  “Nelucha,” she smiled, timid

  “do you dance, Nelucha?” he offered her his hand and his smile in a way that made the request more than irresistible

  hence, in the way in which the lady allowed the gent’s body to draw close, began the interplay of corporeal energies, the closeness of his mouth to her neck, the settling of one’s hands on the other’s body, the complicity of the smile, and the steps that evolved with ever more intimate contact, legs that brushed against each other to see if it was possible, waists that revealed intentions

  and Nelucha, without revealing herself, had already consented even before the culminating hint

  “but is it Nelucha with x or with ch?”

  “why, boy?” Nelucha drew back from his neck and asked in a serious voice

  “tell me, girl”

  “it’s with ch”

  “so we’re going to scratch out your name, now pay attention”

  Edú’s challenge wasn’t to write the name on the floor, an act of which he judged himself capable, even with the challenge of it being with a ch, the issue was that the music might not give him time to accomplish the deed with the graceful nonchalance to which he aspired

  Nelucha, looking back and forth between the floor and Edú’s calm face, was visibly impressed, the man had mastered kizomba technique to the point of not touching the other couples who danced nearby, having avoided even the icing from the cake that was spilled over the dance floor and the children who ran past

  “if it’s all right with you, we’ll write the ch during the next song,” Edú concluded when the song ended

  “i don’t know what to say,” Nga Nelucha smiled, speaking the same sentence now in the kitchen that she had said years before

  “then don’t say anything,” Edú joked, opening his eyes

  Nga Nelucha gazed at the kitchen floor, the broom was intact, and even the fruit that had rolled out of the bags hadn’t suffered any damage

  “you’re still a really good dancer”

  “we do what we can, the mbumbi gives a certain rhythm to the curves,” Edú laughed

  Nga Nelucha picked up her things, set out the bags along the bench, put away the dishes, turned on the tap to wash the vegetables

  “we have to talk, Edú”

  “again?” Edú feared that the subject in question was too serious for that hour of the day

  “i was thinking again about this business of the mbumbi, it’s a serious issue, Edú”

  “and i’m the one who drags it around with me everywhere, you think i don’t know that?”

  “but then why don’t you just make up your mind once and for all? you could take up one of those doctors on their offers, they’re important people, with knowledge, they can solve the problem easily”

  “ah, solve it, hmm? and if it goes wrong?” Edú got irritated when people came to talk to him about the surgery that would eventually free him of the gigantic lump, “don’t you know that mbumbi is related to the testicular area? how can i be sure what’ll happen down there in the privates...”

  “you don’t know, and neither do i, neither of us is a doctor, but you get visits from doctors from so many countries, one of them could explain it better to you, you don’t even let them talk”

  “talk, talk... and i already told you that a traditional healer friend of mine is the one who’s looking after this business, until he makes his decision nobody’s messing around down here, do they think this shit here belongs to the masses, or what?”

  “Edú, calm down, honey, the other day i was speaking with my sister, and she said a few things about this that made a lot of sense”

  “said what, exactly?”

  “you already said you want to wait, that’s all right by me, you have to hear everybody’s opinions, the healers’ but also the doctors’, so many people come here, journalists, American television... have you thought about that?”

  “about what?”

  “these days people go on tour, there’s all kinds of galas, sporting events, exhibits, expo-this and -that, all the artists go on publicity tours”

  “publicity tours?”

  “yes, you could go on a publicity tour, instead of the doctors coming here, we could be the ones who go to them...visiting clinics, newspapers, television stations, and like that we could go get to know other countries”

  “i don’t know, Nelucha... all that travelling... dancing is one thing, but staircases, airplanes, i don’t know, and they’re gonna make us pay the bills...”

  “they won’t make us pay a thing, that’s what my sister says, they pay the expenses and if they want to operate on you, you just say you’d like to see another doctor and then we go on to some other country, my sister’s an experienced event organizer, she can be our agent”

  “agent? this sounds like a promotional tour for the Kassav’,” Edú chided, though the idea didn’t displease him

  “she can come over here one day and explain the plan to us, just think about it, first the usual circuit, Portugal, South Africa, Namibia, then Europe, with the Frances and the Italian Spains. and if all goes well, America, New York and Miami”

  “then who knows, Japan and China, now that the Chinese are coming here they should know about a mbumbi of this size...” Edú sat down on the tiny stool which, because it was strong, was reserved for his use, “tell your sister to come on over, it sounds like we’re in business”

  on the sixth floor, Xilisbaba entered her apartment and felt a coolness that displeased her

  the intense silence was barely ruffled by the jazz notes coming from the fifth floor, the half-closed windows, the drip of the kitchen tap in its sure rhythm, and a beautiful light cast by the holes in the old living-room curtain

  “Odonato? Mama?”

  she put down her meagre bags in the kitchen, Amarelinha had already sat down in the living room to check out the threads and beads she had brought for new bracelets, Granma Kunjikise emerged from her room, dressed in her striking traditional robes

  “white robes, Granma?” Amarelinha smiled, “is it party day?”

  “
a day of misfortune, that’s what it is”

  she continued walking with her silent steps, came into the kitchen and kissed her granddaughter on the forehead

  “good day, mama,” Xilisbaba greeted her

  “good day, my daughter”

  “did Odonato go out? did he go out to look for work?”

  “i figure he went looking for something else, he’s up top”

  up top, in the parlance of the building, was on the rooftop terrace, a wide, cluttered space, frequented by whoever wanted to go there, an open-air courtyard for abandoned chairs and water tanks, both empty now that water was no longer lacking in the building, which is to say that it was often lacking in the taps but never in the burst sewer pipes on the first floor

  there innumerable antennas lay quiet or danced in the wind, those from the old days, decrepit, crooked or even wavering, and the most recent ones, large and small, parabolic, of the kind that seized news and voices from other, more international places, they were also a source of some income since the neighbourhood took advantage of the building’s height to serve some of the surrounding houses

  Odonato was on the edge of the terrace, regarding the city, its ancient dust, its trees, the Mutu-Ya-Kevela School, formerly known as Salvador Correia High

  “i don’t like you to be here on the edge”

  “there’s lots of stuff i don’t like, either,” Odonato wasn’t in a good mood

  “you feel like cooking? i brought vegetables, fruit, and fish for grilling”

  “Baba,” Odonato took a deep breath, as though he were breathing in all the dust in Luanda, “i’ve decided i’m not going to eat”

  “you’re not hungry? you don’t want to eat lunch?”

  “you don’t understand. i’m not going to eat any more, i’m sick of leftovers and other people’s slops, i’m going on a public fast”

  “oh, honey,” Xilisbaba didn’t know what to say

  she approached her husband without looking at him

  seen from here, the city was simpler, the painful weight of its problems, its dramas, didn’t get under his skin and into his eyes in the same way

  “what’s beautiful in this city, Odonato... are the people, the parties, the rhythm, even the burials”

  “we’ve spent many years, Xilisbaba, looking for beauty to put up with ugliness, and i’m not talking about the buildings, the holes drilled in the street, the burst sewage pipes, now is the time to face what’s wrong”

  “where i come from, the elders used to say it’s good to take the long view, to cross the river with the far bank already in mind”

  “where i come from, the elders used to say that to cross the river it’s good to know the alligator’s schedule”

  the sun sent metallic gleams dancing from antenna to antenna, the wind had ceased, car horns and sirens crossed the city in the direction of the sea’s vastness, the swallows were resting in the shade, feeding their young

  Xilisbaba touched her husband’s cold hand, lifted it to her lips to give it a soft kiss, her old gesture of soothing tenderness, her breathing changed, her gaze took on the fear of those faced with something they don’t understand

  “don’t be afraid, please,” Odonato, too, had tenderness in his voice

  “Odonato...”

  “i know”

  the light vibrated differently in his hand

  a translucency toyed with reflections in his veins, Xilisbaba watched attentively so that the minutes would give her certainty

  looking at him carefully, Xilisbaba saw, without seeing, the blood running through her husband’s veins, his beautiful, exhausted hand, the callouses on his most worn fingers, and that kind of vision that was an uncertain foreseeing, as though he understood the course of his blood and outlined with his sight the bony movements of his fingers

  “i know, Baba; i’m becoming transparent!”

  Ciente-the-Grand, Odonato’s eldest child, had been sleeping at his friend The Real Zé’s house for several days, where they started the day with a long joint shared between smiles and coffee

  the annex that The Real Zé rented on the other side of Maianga Square wasn’t far from the building, close to the Presidential Palace

  it was in another, lower building, inhabited above all by Luanda’s Rasta community, to which The Real Zé had belonged in the time before he’d become a professional crook

  “my friend,” The Real Zé began, “living here right under the boss’s boot is awesome, you’re never without water or light—and as for a generator, we don’t even need it! and when the light goes out, the whole city in darkness, and us—no problem!—we’re sittin’ pretty, when the Man came here to live in the palace, we cheered him”

  “yeah, i heard...” Ciente-the-Grand opened his eyes with difficulty

  “only snag is, i’m stuck with this jinx, don’t even know if it’s from birth or what, jinx goes right along with me, business don’t go my way, i swipe, i’m caught, i try to swipe, guys beat the shit out of me, i swipe, i can’t unload the goods, pain in the ass!”

  “yeah, i get it”

  “you don’t get shit, because you don’ even know how to smoke, you just stay stoned, but you don’ even get it, now i’m gonna cut you in on a deal i got here... pure business, but you’re gonna command the operation”

  “okay”

  “deal’s in a store... i got a bunch of lowlifes there who wash cars, they already gave me the inside dope, the store owner’s gonna spend the weekend in Benguela, two dumb-ass guards, the gang can go in and take it cool”

  “swiping food?”

  “what food, don’t you be a dumb-ass, too... the store’s just a front, the guy inside changes dollars, and now the Euro’s lookin’ sweet, you get the picture?”

  “yeah, i get it”

  “you don’t get shit, but it’s okay, i’ll give you directions, and you go twelve hours without smoking up so you’re in shape for Operation Cardoso”

  “ah, but are the twelve hours up yet?

  “whoah, you’re thick, we’ll talk later, but you’re gonna have to get a piece”

  “yeah, i ain’t got a thing, i’ll talk with my cousins”

  Ciente-the-Grand hadn’t shown up at home for months

  earlier, in a somewhat more stable period, punctuated here and there by petty thievery, cellphones, tires, jeep grilles, robberies on the beach, it was customary for him to appear at his father’s home on Sundays to sit down to a good meal, after a while the situation got worse and members of the Rasta community, who knew of the father’s existence, warned Odonato of Ciente’s degeneration

  he had been expelled from the community for failing to follow its rules and for having expropriated funds intended for the annual commemorations, nobody touched him, he was just expelled with loud threats, above all out of respect for Odonato

  “you know we respect you, mister, but he can’t show up here no more”

  Odonato collected some money and handed it over to the Rastas to clear his son’s name, Ciente disappeared for months, relatives in Benguela had seen him in the south, later he was glimpsed smuggling in Cunene, close to the border

  he was able to hold onto some money from his business, including his ill-advised participation in some excursions to the mouth of the Cunene River in search of diamonds, but he never got beyond the various camps where idle chatter took place, there was bathing in the river and generous amounts of weed were consumed,

  when Ciente returned to Luanda, just as confused as when he’d left, he met The Real Zé, famous bandit, swaggerer and good dancer, a ruffian known for his fame for having, as an innate characteristic, incredible luck, which he called “the jinx”

  “actually, you guys call it luck because it’s not you who have to take the rap...”

  the truth is that it was common to get caught and norma
lly he didn’t escape his nocturnal adventures unscathed

  what the populace called luck was the number of times The Real Zé had been involved in physical confrontations with the populace or the police, and from which, after recuperating, he returned to his normal state, smiling and planning his next coup, as though he’d been hit by total amnesia regarding the pain his previous actions had brought upon him

  he’d been shot seven times without ever having fallen into a coma, the seventh time a stray bullet had struck him unawares as he was returning from a discotheque on a motor bike at six in the morning

  stopped at a traffic light, he felt a strange stickiness around his belly and saw a huge bloodstain on his trousers, he continued home, he asked his sister to come and visit him at the Military Hospital in two hours with clean clothes

  “Military Hospital? are you crazy, or what?” the sister tried to object

  “hey, you shut your mouth, here i am shot up at six in the morning and you want to fucking argue? i’m tellin’ ya, come and find me in the Military Hospital, give them my name, if they ask who i am, tell them the colonel’s bodyguard, that’s all”

  he arrived, weak, at the front door of the Military Hospital, got off his motorcycle, parked it close to the security hut where two guards opened the gate

  “please, comrade, just call a doctor, tell him i was shot in the stomach”

  “but are you a soldier? out of uniform?”

  “comrade, my boss went home, we were coming out of the discotheque, there was a shot, i tried to protect him and they shot me”

  the soldiers, confused, confirmed the bullet hole and the blood on the stomach of the supposed bodyguard

  “but who’s your boss?”

  “comrades,” The Real Zé began to close his eyes, “i’m gonna pass out now, if anybody asks, i’m Colonel Hoffman’s bodyguard”

  the surgery went well, the Cuban doctor who operated on him was fascinated not so much by the soldier’s having walked into the hospital on his own two feet, that’s to say, on his own two wheels, as by the difficult route the bullet had taken through his body, avoiding by millimetres any organ that compromised his vital functions

 

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