by Ondjaki
Amarelinha was in the kitchen with Granma Kunjikise, explaining the nuances of some of the show’s dialogues, which the grandmother had failed to follow, and inventing new possibilities for conversations that hadn’t yet occurred, it was a post-fiction, running in parallel to the soap opera, a habit which the two had kept up for many years
“are you all right, Nato? your hair’s all wet...” Xilisbaba went to meet him in the doorway
“i took a dip on the first floor... has Gadinho phoned?”
“not yet”
“he’s going to try to find out where Ciente is”
“you want to eat something?”
“no thanks, i’m fine,” he went into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, stood appreciating the conversation between the two women, “like two godmothers...” he exclaimed sweetly
“oh, dad... cut it out,” Amarelinha seemed to be in a good mood
“did you buy more seashells today? i saw your friend, Seashell Seller, down on the first floor...” Odonato laughed
“i didn’t buy today, he offered me some”
“hmm...!” Odonato sighed
“hmm...!” Granma Kunjikise sighed
“come on, enough gossip... i’m going to find a towel so you can dry your head properly,” Xilisbaba left the kitchen for the bedroom
“there’s no need... i’ll head up to the terrace, my hair dries quickly up there, and i can collect my thoughts”
on the terrace Odonato found that the furniture had been arranged in a new configuration, with chairs lined up in rows, abandoned antennae making an interesting decorative installation, a few big boxes, little heaps of garbage that someone had already swept into place, and the people who were there, apparently immersed in some solemn activity
Odonato felt sad, suddenly sad
a smile gripped the corner of his mouth, things changed, that was life, with its rhythms and its rules
the person who let himself linger, in memory and feeling, in the desert landscape known as the past, was bound to suffer for that reason, “his” terrace, “his” decoration, had all been altered—and so it goes, when we sink the roots of our intimate individuality into collective soil
“have a seat, neighbour, we’re doing theatrical, cinematographic, and perfomative experimentation...”
Little Daddy, João Slowly, Seashell Seller, Comrade Mute, and even Blind Man were all there with glum expressions on their faces
“sit down, we’re going to start an experimental session in human theatre,” João Slowly slid his chair sideways, wiped away the dust, looked enthusiastic, “they’re gonna be talking about this one on Broadway!”
Comrade Mute agreed to speak first
“people have been calling me Comrade Mute for so long i’ve almost forgotten my name, to tell the truth, all i look for is to get through to the next day, for pleasure, i turn to music, as for chow, it can be potatoes, onions, fruit like coconuts or some other kind, and even things that take patience”
“very good, Comrade Mute...” João Slowly regarded the stage as though he were visually adjusting some detail, “you see, my neighbour Odonato, this is the theatre of confession... everybody just gets up and talks about something within... it’s gotta really come from within, from presentness or pastness, from each person’s life... oh, the magic of the theatre!”
Odonato realized that only men were present, a rare event in the city and the building, to be there like that, agreeing to the improvisations devised by João Slowly’s mysterious will
a game of talking, of confessing, as the author of that scene said, a game of telling others, even if only for a few minutes, a revealing truth that invades our mouths, a current truth or an old one
just a truth
almost a human celebration and, even more uncommon, was the fact that those who were present had taken up the game in earnest
“and something from now, something special?”
“well, to speak that way just a teeny bit longer... to really speak...” Comrade Mute hoped that the words would finally call forth other words from within him to say what had to be said, “it’s that... just recently... that Comrade Mailman who visits us with those letters of his... he’s bringing around letters that aren’t even for me but that he says have to be for me... and he reads them to me... and that’s what i came here to say”
Comrade Mute returned to his place and Blind Man caught the odour of his nervous perspiration, a childlike sweat that emerged from between his fingers and mixed with many other odours accumulated in his peeling back what others lacked the patience to peel back
“the elder can go now”
Blind Man waved away help with a casual gesture, between the ripples of sound he had read the space’s coordinates and moved forward, he didn’t even get close to the edge, as Seashell Seller feared, and didn’t lose his way on the path to the speaker”s chair
“me, i’d like to say i just talk about what i see... which is somethin’ other people never get because only we know about it, how come i hang around with this young guy? well, young people got old people inside them... from older times that already took place, when you’re born that time clicks into place inside you... and you, in your life, just like in the days when you were little, you’re never all alone...the reason i hang out with this young guy is because of the way he is, almost like my nephew, or he could be a son, too, and on account of the scent of the seashells that he gathers and sells, i respect his profession of asking the sea and Kianda to give him permission to take away seashells...which are like Kianda’s playthings... but to talk that way, to speak like that, it’s the same as seeing... it means hearing and feeling things... right here today i saw this cinema with its chairs spread out and i’m enjoying it a lot... even because...”
Blind Man cut himself off with a peep of laughter so tiny that it genuinely seemed like a professional actor’s rehearsal, a pretty, soundless smile, like the form or shadow of an absence of sun
“i never even seen them naughty films that they’re going to show here with foreign women howling and all... i’ve heard them when i was far away in another neighbourhood... but to say i saw, no, i never saw them!”
Blind Man returned to his seat, wagging his head from side to side in a contented way, still disbelieving the words he had just uttered, the others’ attitudes were of the greatest respect, and, as he returned, Seashell Seller helped him to seat himself
“Little Daddy,” João Slowly spoke in a loud voice, “take your place on stage!”
“me, Uncle João...?”
“take your seat, we don’t discriminate against youngsters here”
he put down his cleaning rag and didn’t know where to put his hands, he avoided standing up, tried to sit down, felt a burning in his eyes that made him seek out the sky, he looked up, prolonged the pause of his leaden silence and, when he finally homed in on the audience, he was another person:
“if i’m supposed to just get up there and talk”—his voice was alien—“then it would just be about the business of the war and my mother... that the war, when it broke over us and terrified me, i was already running,”—sounds danced in the air—“and i didn’t even think to return home to see whether my brothers and sisters had the means...”—the voice, which was alien, faltered—“to run, even with hunger and thirst and bleeding feet, that later we walked with a comandante, not even today can i remember how many kilometres, just the days, which were many...”
the tone, which was unfamiliar, grew too close
“and, to tell the truth, at night i still dream about those days, things keep repeating in my sleep, i dream about it at night”—in the air, the sounds ceased their dancing,“and that it’s... speaking like this in words... the thing is that i wasn’t able to shout... i wasn’t able to shout my mother’s name... and still today i’m looking for her...”
<
br /> he picked up the cloth he used for cleaning things again, sat down in the back, catching his breath, returning from the place he hadn’t yet succeeded in coming back from
“they just call me Seashell Seller, to speak simply, to speak here, purely to speak, it’s not rudeness nor talking out of turn... it’s that i’m learning a lot with Elder Blind Man, a person, i mean... you never help yourself all alone, you’ve gotta have somebody else nearby, sometimes a person doesn’t show up just to be helped, it’s that it also does the heart good to help another, i’m not talkin’ out of my own mouth, i’m sayin’ things that Elder Blind Man told me, you see sometimes he don’t know that he talks in his sleep... so that’s how it is in the city of Luanda, a person can unburden himself by selling seashells, assailing the rich ladies in their big houses who have more money, if people don’t have money there’s always bartering... and with pretty girls it’s just a question of making an offer... but the person... what’s really important is to be comfortable, happy... i keep that in mind right before i do anything, i remember i like diving and sell seashells... Kianda protects me...”
Odonato felt he should speak up
he got up slowly, looking at his hands and moving with the deliberate pace of a reticent convict, he’d understood and internalized the rules of the game, and during the short walk he tried to expel from his mind the deep apprehension he felt concerning his son
he settled into the chair and continued to look at his hands, causing the audience to do the same
he lifted both hands, turning them towards the public like someone exhibiting part of his inner being, a light breeze made the oldest antennae dance and awoke the one-eyed rooster in the other building
“shh... go to sleep, ha, it’s not the crack of dawn any more, my neighbour, please forgive the intra-eruptions of the Rooster Camões, our cinematographic mascot,” and João Slowly fell silent
“first it was my hands, my fingertips... it wasn’t that my body was transparent the way it is and looks now... the beginning my fingers felt lighter... and my stomachaches disappeared...”
Odonato turned his hands towards himself and spoke without lifting his gaze from them
“a man, when he talks about himself, talks about things from the beginning... like childhood and games, schools and little girls, the tugas’ presence and independences... and later, something from the more recent past, the lack of decent jobs, about looking so hard and never finding work... a man stops looking and stays at home to think about life and his family, about feeding his family, to avoid spending, he eats less... a man eats less, as if he were a little bird, to give food to his children... and that’s when i got my stomachaches... aches inside me, from seeing that in our cruel times a person who doesn’t have money, doesn’t have a way to eat or take his child to the hospital... and my fingers started to turn transparent... and my veins, and my hands, my feet, my knees... but the hunger started to go away: that’s how i began to accept my transparencies... i stopped feeling hungry and felt lighter and lighter... that’s my life...”
and again he looked each of them in the eyes, including Blind Man
“this is the body i have now,” he got up to return to his place
a silence could be felt on the terrace
“my friends,” João Slowly was unable to hide his emotions, “i don’t know how to thank... not for your help in arranging our cinema of the eighth art... it’s really for the contribution of human beings, the world needs to know that here, on the terrace of our beloved building, in Luanda, today, at this time, a group of men witnessed by a rooster who maybe doesn’t see very well... today this group of men made theatre! theatre in the old style, in the style of the stalwarts!, because... only great men cry alone in the solitary company of other men,”—he crossed his arms on his chest—“end of quote, my friends, good night and be happy!”
without altering the geography of the chairs and the antennae, Odonato lingered for long hours at the edge of the building watching the bustle of cars flowing down the broad or narrow arteries of the city of Luanda
a glow of yearning within him lit up his heart and the man yielded to the temptation to open his shirt and peer down awkwardly at his own chest, but the see-through glow no longer allowed Odonato to observe with his eyes that which was invading his veins
“Nato? what’s up?” Xilisbaba found his gesture strange
“what’s up where?” Odonato buttoned up his shirt
“chest pains?”
“heart pains”
“seriously?”
“heart pains of feeling, leave it, woman, the doctors have already assured me i suffer from accumulated yearning”
Xilisbaba smiled and, as she had been doing for years, moved her husband away from the edge of the building
“i suffer from a yearning disorder”
“don’t make me laugh, Nato”
“it’s true, i only understood it completely today, i have yearnings in all directions, not only yearnings for the past, i even have yearnings for things that haven’t happened yet”
“you sound like my mother”
“just like her... but do tell, what’s been going on?”
“Gadinho phoned”
“and?”
“he’s located Ciente in a police station, he left directions, but...”
“tell me”
“he said it’s a very tricky police station and that he’s already had squabbles with the commanding officer there, he can’t help you”
“well, at least we know where Ciente is, did he say anything else?”
“he said he got to speak with one of the guards who sleep there”
“so, they want money?”
“no, apparently not”
“what do they want?”
“tomorrow i’ll speak with Strong Maria so she can prepare a basket”
“but what do the guards want?”
“steak and French fries! they said that if you bring them more than they can eat they’ll give the rest to your son”
“sons of bitches!”
“that’s life...! so much the better for us, because steak and French fries is something i think i can lay my hands on, if they’d asked for money it would be a lot worse”
“you’re right”
Odonato leaned against Xilisbaba
“are you lighter, too?”
“i am”
“Nato...you’ve gotta eat, baby,” Xilisbaba begged
“i don’t have to eat, Baba... i already told you, not eating has done me good, it’s got rid of my stomachaches, i feel better, i think better, maybe the rest of you could try it”
“we already talked about that, Nato, all of us except the children”
“i know, i know”
Odonato returned to the edge of the building, looked at the sky, saw the rooster hide, then remained motionless with his body rigid and sweaty, like a statue that had been spit upon
“the truth is even sadder, Baba: we’re not transparent because we don’t eat... we’re transparent because we’re poor.”
when he opened the box, his hands danced in the light of the room
they were delicate hands that, for the time being, fingered pages, rummaged in papers, examined little plastic bags
his fingers became attuned to the intensity of the light, later they looked for the glass, the glass close to his lips, the breathing-in of whisky, the return of the glass meeting the table again
the intense silence
it came from far away, farther than the city’s borders. a freak silence, a cloak that invited more silence.
the fingers didn’t acknowledge the wait. the last box had finally arrived. like a puzzle divided into parts. he had decided a long time ago to assemble the weapon only when he reached the last part of his secret.
his clean fingers, untrembling, did not betray the impatience of his gesture or the anxiousness of the wait. twelve boxes. now there was no escaping fate.
...
a man is made of what he plans and what he comes to feel. of chains that rivet him to the floor and chain verses that course like air through his body in echoes of poetry.
truth and urgency
[from the author’s notes]
for years now, Paulo Paused, the journalist, had nourished the habit of spending certain mornings alone, reviewing notes in his old diaries, revisiting and taking clippings from old magazines and newspapers from various parts of the world, listening to music, standing for hours on end at the window of his apartment, looking at the city
his girlfriend left early, because she was going to work or because she had her regular meetings with her boring mother or because Paulo was, on these mornings, a different person
buried in the fleeting immersion of his silences, his hands already thirsty for a pair of scissors that would clip the countless pages his eyes had run over days or months earlier
and his girlfriend thought that with the exception of herself and her mother, all Angolans were somehow paranoid about weapons or armaments, they all had a tale to tell that involved a weapon, a pistol, a grenade, or at least a lively tale that involved a shot or a burst of gunfire, some had scars on their bodies, others attributed to various sorts of scars the breathtaking episodes they concocted because they needed them,
to put it another way, a means of experiencing the war and its episodes at a profound level, the battles and their consequences, even if it were just from hearing about them, or listening to them on radio broadcasts, in the time before, in the days when the war, in fact, had been a cruel yet banal part of reality, and, even today, dissociating the war from daily life was almost a sin
from weapon to weapon, from shot to shot, from violent conversation to brutal description, the war remained on the loose—in every corner of Angola, at some moment, even if it were in the first flashes of the clearest morning light, someone would be willing to sacrifice his silence to speak, if only by implication, of a certain war, his own or his neighbour’s, that of his family or that of his stepson who came from a province that had suffered more, imbuing marriages, funerals, working hours, dances, the arts and even love, an almost innate ability to speak about that monstrous subject like someone who, smoothly and fearlessly, stroked the shoulder of a raging beast, tormented by a false peace masquerading as mere exhaustion
