by Ondjaki
Dona Creusa opened the door slowly
“i came to bring the ice, Senhor Advisor, can i come in?”
“i already said you could, are you deaf?”
Dona Creusa headed towards the mini-bar but, as she had her hands full, failed to complete her mission and set down the bag of ice on the small table in the middle of the room
“please, Dona Creusa!”
“yes, Senhor Advisor?”
“are you saying that bag should be on familiar terms with my office? please withdraw and return when you’ve found a different solution”
“but, Senhor Advisor, these are the bags the ice comes in”
“then take the bucket with you and wet your own table when you change the ice, move it, quickly, perform your duties, in this country time is money and we’re working here”
“excuse me,” Dona Creusa withdrew
“that’s why our country sometimes doesn’t progress, we’re trying to work here and we’re constantly interrupted by uneducated employees, oh give me patience!” he sighed, “okay, tell me”
“the water mess”
“yes, the water mess... but what’s the mess?”
“Luanda is without water, it happens too often, the supply is completely unreliable”
“seriously? i hadn’t noticed anything”
“but the people have noticed it for some time, Senhor Advisor, and as i told you, the opposition is starting to talk”
“to talk?”
“that’s my boss’s suggestion, that we do a long interview with someone in a position of responsibility to tone down the rumours”
“good,” Advisor Santos Prancha smiled, “i don’t know much about water,” he fanned the glass back and forth in front of the journalist, “i’m just joking... i’ll see see what can be done”
“then i should wait for your answer?”
“about what?”
“about the interview, when we’ll be able to interview the Minister?”
“oh, yes... i’m going to have to look at his schedule, he’s always busy, and even more so now, with the American’s arrival”
“the American?”
“yes, that group of... ah, what is it... they even gave them a name... the cirollers”
“i heard about them”
“you heard? what did you hear?”
“no, i mean i read something somewhere”
“what did you read?”
“this Cirol question, there are billboards and everything”
there was another knock on the door
“yes?”
“Senhor Advisor, your brothers are here to speak with you”
“there must be some mistake, i’m an only child”
“no, Senhor Advisor, the brothers This Time and Next Time, whom you called”
“oh, yes, This Time... all right, our journalist friend is just leaving, we’ll be in touch, my friend”
“thank you, Senhor Advisor”
“you’re welcome, my compliments to your father and mother”
“thank you”
“Dona Creusa, put me through to the Minister...”
when the Minister received Santos Prancha’s call, he said they would talk about this later, he was aware of the matter and knew perfectly well that too many rumours were circulating but that the situation was under control
“above all, keep your mouth shut, you talk too much!” the Minister warned
“yes, Senhor Minister”
“good, we’ll talk later”
“excuse me, Senhor Minister”
“you can hang up”
“no, sir, you can hang up, Senhor Minister, if you please”
“hang the fuck up, are you making fun of me?”
“my apologies, Senhor Minister, i’ll hang up right away, my sincere apologies.”
João Slowly wiped the sweat from his forehead, propped up in his hands a notepad where he jotted down the debts and financial commitments of the street-corner moneychangers who sat on the sidewalk outside the building, they weren’t run by him, as he himself made a point of emphasizing, “merely-merely advised, in this complicated world of economic globalizations”
in reality, João Slowly was a man who was not very good at mathematics or economics, he merely-merely made use of his wordly powers, and now and then resorted to desultory physical violence to convince the group of female moneychangers to maintain their professional ties with him
“manager! nowadays everybody has a manager, from the soccer player to the shoemaker and even the Comrade President, how can you all want to do business in Maianga without a manager? in reality,” he paused for effect, “it’s you all who need me, not the reverse, as is reported here, comrades, the revolution is an act without end: end of quote!”
he climbed the steps slowly, refreshed his ideas as he passed through the first floor’s watery zone, entered his apartment and called his wife, Strong Maria
“they came looking for you today,” his wife said
“who came?”
“some tax inspector guys, they said you knew what it was about”
“those sons of bitches again? fucking twins, a guy doesn’t even know if they’re twins for real...”
“João, it’s better just to pay up, they work hand-in-hand with the Ministry, they’re the kind of inspectors who’ve got papers that can close businesses”
“and how are they gonna close my business? close the street? those guys think they’re hot shit, but i’ve got their number”
“quit talkin’ like a big shot, you don’t understand, those inspectors are always super-well dressed, their names are This Time and Next Time, they’re almost family to that comrade assistant”
“you think i’m afraid? i fought in Cuando Cubango Province, i crushed South Africans like ants, you think those two guys are gonna scare me?”
“i guess you know what you’re talkin’ about, i’m going downstairs”
as she was leaving, the inspectors returned
“can we go inside, Dona Strong?”
“what’s it about?” she looked terrified
“can we come in? we came to talk to your comrade husband”
and they came inside, João Slowly went to the kitchen and brought water for everybody
“is this water boiled, Comrade João Slowly?”
“no”
“so?”
“so what?”
“how do you kill the microbes?”
“by praying”
“what?”
“i pray, i beg god to kill them, boiling water ain’t progress, i even saw it on TV, our microbes like boiling now, chlorine bleach kills more kids than microbes, too, so i pray”
“are you a believer?” the twins asked at the same time
“still”
“still what?”
“i’m still not one”
“But what do you mean ‘still’?”
“the way things are going, i figure i’m still gonna have to become a believer... but what kind of claptrap brought you here today?”
“elder, we know you got a business downstairs with the moneychanger ladies, you take cuts on big notes, exchanges and all that stuff”
“and then?”
“if you don’t have permission for a currency exchange, it’s an illegal business”
“and then?”
“we can help you legalize your business, comrade”
“i open a currency-exchange office in the street, with the holes drilled here, the flies, people eating my wife’s fried food, out in the dust?”
“you don’t have to open it, you just need to start to open it”
“what do you mean?”
“we can help, but we’ll only help you
get started,” This Time said
“and we’ll help you not finish it,” Next Time concluded
“what?”
“yup, you’ve just got to start and then you have permission for as long as you’re waiting for a response, we can help with that, too”
“with the response?”
“with the response’s non-arrival”
“is that so?”
“yes, it’s cheaper than actually getting proper authorization, are you interested?”
“of course, my lads, if it makes everything okay, let’s drink a toast”
“sorry, we don’t drink water with microbes that have been prayed over”
“that’s your problem, stay thirsty then”
João Slowly accompanied the tax inspectors to the nearest street corner, where they went to bother other small business people, hopped into a candongueiro and, from a distance, said goodbye to his wife, signalling to her that everything was well on its way
“where are you going?” Strong Maria asked
“i’m going to buy bread, i’ll be back soon”
“buying bread,” as it was known in the building, could mean a lot of things, because bread itself, the kind that was made at night, with an oven and salt, was available everywhere, going to look for bread was something else, a subject of deep speculation, an occupation of indolent or creative content, a justification as professional as it was human for erratic urban wandering
the candongueiro took him to the border of the famous Workers’ District, the sky had hauled fat clouds over Luanda that tamed the sunlight’s intensity without in the least diminishing the discomfort of its heat
he entered the Workers’ District, delighted by the sight of children who played in the clay streets with games from the time before, there were abandoned car wheels, toy cars made out of tin cans, kites, and even broken-down cars serving as shelters for drugged teenagers, above all people with beers in their hands looking at whoever passed by
they were people capable of memorizing gestures and clothing, grimaces and sounds, people who hours or days later, for reasons logic did not reveal, would rearrange the order of events, or their most credible characteristics, in order to transform them into social fictions that were important, even crucial, to the city’s normal functioning
“Elder Slowly, please come in,” said a gentle voice, “welcome, is it lunch-time already?”
“it’s always the right time for love”
“and the right time for a hard-on,” the girls laughed, turned up the music on the radio, went to look for good, cold beer
“at least this precious liquid is blessed by god at the distillery, fuck the microbes”
“hey, boy, watch your language,” Granma Humps’s voice came from the yard
“i’m sorry, mother, you’re right, my thirst got the best of me”
tiny rooms, closed off only by flimsy dark curtains, divided up the living space, this was the slack period, and for that reason preferred by some of the more discreet clients
João Slowly sat down in the yard, under the baobab tree, in the company of Granma Humps
he winked at the sisters Ninon and Rosalí and they withdrew inside the house, the ritual was nearly always the same: his arrival announced, the beer kept for him, then the net of conversation he wove with the elder woman prior to getting down to work
João waited in silence for Granma Humps’s voice
“before people didn’t come here in broad daylight”
“times have changed, little mother, the city’s grown a lot, now anytime’s the right time, even during the day here in Luanda there’s no break”
“it’s true, Luanda’s changed, i just want to live to see housing projects here in my Workers’ District”
“you’re going to see them, little mother, you’re going to live many more years, the tree grows crooked but it doesn’t break, right?”
“d’you guys piss against tree trunks? aren’t you ever ashamed?” the old woman snorted and spat
“no, don’t say that, dear mother,” João Slowly smiled, “it’s dogs that like to do that at the bottom of the trees”
“that’s a lie, with the war the dogs got afraid, now they don’t lie down against anything, it’s you men who piss all over the place, you don’t have any respect”
“you’re right...” João Slowly tried to pierce with his gaze the window of the cubicle where the sisters were waiting for him
“listen here, you who are always walking around downtown reading the newspaper”
“yes, mother”
“this talk that i hear here in the neighbourhood, it’s like i already heard it on the radio, too, about the ‘e-clips’ or whatever... what’s it called again? they’re saying you should buy more glasses, but i still see fine”
“don’t worry, dear mother, an eclipse is a thing way up in the sky, everything we see at night, planets with stars and i don’t know what else, all in a bright dust, it’s just when you look up, it looks way scarier, the sun goes really dark right at lunch time, but you don’t have to worry, you just mustn’t look at it, but if you want, mother, i can get you those glasses”
“but is this more of god’s doing, or is it the Americans’ witchcraft?”
Rosalí came outside and tenderly took João Slowly’s hand
“with your permission, mother,” João set down his beer
“yes, go,” Granma Humps consented, picking up the beer, spilling the portion reserved for the dead on the ground, and downing the remaining liquid in a single swig.
“Dona Creusa,” shouted the Advisor from inside his office, “don’t you hear me, Dona Creusa?” he insisted, unplugging his computer, grabbing leaning stacks of paper and stuffing them into his name-brand purple attaché case
“purple suits me, i must have some French blood,” the Advisor was in the habit of saying, being a man of style, dubious style, one might say, but he cultivated a constant concern for the shine of his shoes and the state of his socks
his political rise was swift due to his ties to the Comrade Minister, he exchanged beer for whisky and acquired the habit of scolding his secretary
‘i’m sorry, Senhor Advisor”
“you’re delaying me then? don’t you know that the Minister has commitments that can’t be postponed?”
“yes, i know, Senhor Advisor”
“i’m here braying like a billy goat, does that strike you as fair? an Advisor of my stature braying in the corridors of the Ministry?”
“no, it doesn’t strike me as fair, Senhor Advisor, i had to leave the office”
“i also have to leave, and it’s to go and work, did you remember to warn me of the American’s arrival?”
“yes, Senhor Advisor, i left a memorandum on your desk”
“where?”
“it’s that piece of paper that you used as a coaster for your whisky glass, Senhor Advisor”
“are you making fun of me? where were you, ma’am? probably off flirting with the Ministry drivers, don’t you know that the drivers are all under surveillance? not to mention the virus, eh? the virus,” his voice dropped, “the virus... of AIDS...” and he coughed, “where were you, ma’am?”
“i had to go to the banheiro, Senhor Advisor”
“well, all right, fine, but you don’t have to call it a banheiro, that’s a Brazilianism from your soap operas... call my driver, we have to go to the airport to pick up the American, is the hotel reservation confirmed?”
“yes, it is, Senhor Advisor, but there’s a problem”
“what is it this time? you have to go to the toilet again?”
“no, Senhor Advisor, it’s that the driver didn’t come”
“what do you mean, didn’t come? call him”
“i already called him”
�
��and...?”
“a funeral! one of his relatives died in Gabela”
“in Gabela... or Kibala?”
“i think it was Gabela”
“that driver guy is going to be dispensed with or maybe even dismissed with unjust cause”
“‘unjust,’ Senhor Advisor?”
“yes, i’m going to dismiss that little devil: it’s unjust because he kills family members every week to get off work, it shows disrespect for tradition, it’s one thing to die for real, it’s another when we die in the lies of a layabout relative, isn’t that right, Dona Creusa?”
“yes, it is, Senhor Advisor”
“then what’s the story?”
“concerning what, Senhor Advisor?”
“concerning getting to the airport,” the Advisor sat down, served himself another whisky
“do you want ice?”
“no, leave it, this deserves an impromptu sugarcane rum, a real cat-killer, isn’t there another driver around?”
“i don’t think so, Senhor Advisor”
“well, what i think, Dona Creusa,” he served himself for the second time, “is that you, ma’am, are going to have to straighten out this mess, you have five minutes to get me a driver with family members who aren’t dead or about to die”
Dona Creusa passed through the Ministry’s corridors and courtyards, sweating as she thought of the ways in which her boss might retaliate
with a driver picked up right there on Ministry Square, the Advisor, already late, made his way to the airport
the city was in chaos with new and old construction projects competing for space, and then there were the CIROL excavations, as well as the holes for installing cable television, as well as the holes from the rain and the open potholes that no one ever remembered to pave over and the holes of the kids who lived beneath the city’s streets and who now—poor saps—would be expelled to make way for new pipes or even for the installation of the dangerous machinery that would extract petroleum
at the airport, the usual babel of people who were waiting for others to arrive, a zone of opportunities, contacts, of unpostponable business meetings, of easy bilking, the stage for conversations and re-encounters, where ministers mixed with baggage handlers and the highest-ranking public officials, or even intellectuals, cohabited for brief instants with pickpockets or cellphone-card salesmen, moneychangers, transit police who ticketed illegally parked cars, the beggars, the hopeful, those who were sweating in the city’s heat and those who suffered from congestion from the powerful air conditioning in their imported jeeps
