by Ondjaki
hence, in his way of acting, reacting, welcoming others, of setting out to tell in great detail the story of the national wound, the Angolan invested a large part of his imagination in memories that in most cases did not belong to him, or in projecting onto the past that which only might have occurred, or making all-too-clear allusions to a future which, fortunately, would not come to pass, and, all things considered, in the end, in dealing with such a societal scar on this scale, the truth is that anyone, without asking others for authorization, could fall back on the magic wand of words to open the gargantuan strongbox where the monster had decided to live
«the war» he said to himself, «is an eternally bleeding memory, and at some point you open your mouth or make a motion, and what comes out is the blood-red trail of things you didn’t know you knew»
all Angolans, therefore, had some sort of paranoia about weapons or armaments, they all had a tale to tell or an episode to invent
“i’m going out, love,” his girlfriend said, already at the door
the journalist held the scissors in his hand, mountains of magazines were piled on the living-room sofas, the doorbell sounded in a declarative double ring, making him freeze as though he’d been caught in some inappropriate activity
“open the door or i’ll break down this piece of shit”
followed by the deep, eccentric laughter of Colonel Hoffman
“isn’t it too early for a visit, Senhor Colonel?”
“there’s no such thing as early when you live life in a rush, boy! don’t you remember what that Brazilian dude used to say? time doesn’t stop passing... we have to celebrate while there’s time...”
“what are we going to celebrate?” the journalist made his way to the refrigerator
“we’re just going to celebrate!... i mean life itself, we don’t know which of us will still be here tomorrow, boy... bring them on, the blessed beers and the unsampled whisky... today is to-daily!”
it was one of those days when the city had woken up more chaotic than it really was, uniformed and duly-equipped men had begun to excavate Luanda’s arteries and street corners at the crack of dawn, few streets escaped the screaming pulse of the machines, surrounded in some cases—if not in others—by improvised enclosures constructed in such a way that everything seemed to be taking place in the public eye, It’s no secret!, a newspaper announced, The latest excavation technology has reached the capital! announced another, and it was this, the sudden, absurd effectiveness, that had excited Scratch Man, or Colonel Hoffman, so much that he sought out his friend this early in the morning
“for some people the end of the world is coming... for others the beginning of paradise... may there be bank accounts to receive the rivers of money that are going to flow,” the colonel got started with two well-chilled beers, his glance suggested to Paulo Paused that he make an omelette in the way Paulo liked, three well-beaten eggs with spicy sausage, lots of onion, dark powdered curry and ginger cut into slender yet visible slices, “a rising tide lifts all boats, hahaha!”
“what about the people who aren’t on the inside track?”
“that’s how life’s always been, boy, ever since they strung up Jesus Christ on the cross: those who can, can, those who can’t, wriggle and writhe on the line if you let them”
“so the highroller cirollers are moving full-steam ahead?”
“it’s Kinaxixi, it’s the Workers’ District, it’s Alvalade, it’s Maianga, nobody’s escaped, there’s drilling everywhere you look,” Hoffman had brought an odiferous Jornal de Angola, hot off the press, “you can read it aloud, too, because that way i save my eyes and my voice”
“the headlines?”
“what headlines! that’s to put the masses to sleep, the truest news is tiny and discreet, take a look at page seven...”
a brief text, solemn and concise, spoke openly of the role of the Crystal-Clear Waters Company, responsible for the distribution of safe drinking water in certain areas, and also, in a discreet mention near the end of the document, signed by members of the government and of the Party, which ceded to this very non-public company the right, and the duty, to ensure the installation of a new network of pipes “at a recognized international level of quality,” for the transportation and supply of potable water in Luanda
implemented by ministerial decree, and approved by the highest-ranking member of the Angolan government, particularly during the period of intense excavations connected to the CIROL project, but with the possibility of being maintained “for a number of years” thereafter, the respective and above-cited authorization, the document reiterated, permitted the transportation and distribution of potable water to the great majority of the population resident in the capital city
“that, for example, sounds to me like an unpublished briefing document”
“unpublished? like hell... i’d already heard about this, and the business’s name? did you notice?”
“it’s our friend Crystal-Clear!”
“in the flesh”
“now the plot thickens,” the journalist sat down to rest his body, breathe deeply, and refuse the offer of a final, small piece of omelette
“it would be discourteous of you to accept the final piece... furthermore, as you’re in your own home, and i’m a guest of long standing...”
“that part’s certainly true,” the journalist’s smile was sad, muffled
“don’t be like that, comrade,” Hoffman smacked him hard on the back, “action... reaction!”
“what reaction?”
“waiting, observing, and then acting”
“it’s the excessive calm that distresses me”
“but are there more eggs?”
“in reality, it’s apathy... instead of attacking the enemy, everyone looks for a hole in the ground... or an imaginary heaven...”
“cool it with the poetry this early in the morning, bring on our whisky for a few moments of intense reflection and close the newspaper, i already regret showing you that shit”
“all right, cool it, cool it...” Paulo took the plate to the kitchen and put away the newspaper clippings that were spread over the veranda table
the noise of the jackhammers, mixed with various technical idioms spoken in Portuguese, English, and Chinese, reached his window
he peered out
the Mailman was trying to deliver his letters in the entrance of a private clinic, pestering the doctors as they arrived in their jeeps
“hey, man, go do your job,” a bad-tempered doctor replied
“that’s exactly the problem, Senhor Doctor, that’s exactly what i want... to work like a professional, deliver all the letters, all of them, today’s and the ones that are behind schedule, but to do that and get to the end of the day content with my profession and my working conditions...”
“let me past, i don’t have any money to give you”
“you don’t understand, Doctor”
“how?”
“you don’t understand, because i haven’t even asked you for any money, or am i mistaken?”
“yes, but then...”
“then i’m asking for two different things, since people are used to hearing requests for money, they don’t understand my request for attention... please forgive the simple chatter of a poor Mailman”
“i can’t help you, man”
“but if you can’t help, can’t you at least understand, or isn’t that possible? i’m going around asking for two very simple things, one is attention, or rather people’s understanding, the other is that everyone make a small effort, just this one time, as i do every day of my life: deliver one of my letters, Senhor Doctor! just one!”
“that’s it? a letter? but isn’t that your job?”
“mine, yes, that’s true, i’m a carrier, and on foot, on top of it all, but anybody in this life can suddenly be r
equired to carry or deliver a letter, you understanding me, Senhor Doctor?”
“i guess so”
“and i ask one very simple thing of you, deliver a letter, this letter,” he pressed the letter into his hands, “to whomever you can, i need motorized locomotion, Senhor Doctor, each of us has the tools of his profession, you, sir, have this stethoscope, your car, your clinic,” the Mailman’s seriousness was utterly convincing, “given that it is so, is this asking too much?”
the doctor put the letter in his briefcase
the security guards were already on their way to ask whether the doctor needed help, whether this was a madman disguised as a Mailman or a nagging drunk, but then they recognized the Mailman and, smiling, stood back
“life is made up of understandings, comrades, to each his labour, i’m going to deliver more letters”
as he was so close, he decided to go to the building
he fulfilled the ritual of his smiles, greeted Strong Maria, who had already processed more than forty-some Motorola sandwiches, as her oblong bread slices with sausage inside were known, recalling in their design Angola’s first cellphones
“a Motorola, Comrade Mailman?”
“i had breakfast this morning, Dona Strong Maria, but thanks anyway”
“you’re welcome...”
“i’m on my way upstairs”
“then do me a favour, Comrade Mailman”
“yes?”
“tell Comrade Mute that he can start to peel it all off, at lunchtime we’re going to have a special session”
“so what’s a ‘session’?”
“ah, you don’t know? i’m going to invite you, if you’re nearby, to go up to our terrace right away, my husband is organizing a completely new kind of cinema”
“so he’s doing it after all?”
“yes”
“thank you”
the Mailman was about to slowly climb the stairs
he stopped
there, among the strange waters, a dance of a forgotten flavour sprang up from inside his body
“i tell them this building is bewitched...”
his feet stirred like notes on an epileptic piano, his knees trembled, muscle spasms gripped his neck, and the sudden swelling in his pants gave clear evidence of an exercise unsuitable for the hour
the Mailman stood still, in the sudden coolness that washed over his intoxicated but abstemious soul, closed his eyes, and listened to the building’s orchestra of soft sounds
voices of people waking up, feet that dragged across the upper floors, stray phrases in Umbundu that descended slowly through the vertical corridor once used by the elevator, sounds of water splattering onto the floor, the sharp sound of a rooster pecking the floor of the neighbouring building, the abrasive but smooth sloshing of the Maianga leaves, the noise of Little Daddy’s pails on the third floor, Nga Nelucha’s voice as she scolded her husband Edú that he couldn’t always use his gigantic mbumbi as an excuse for not taking a bath
the Mailman opened his eyes and began to climb to the fifth floor where a polished vinyl record relayed Ruy Mingas’s suffering voice as he intoned a song that the Mailman hadn’t heard for years
mother of mine, you taught me to wait, as you waited patiently in the most difficult hours
Little Daddy saw the hypnotized Mailman pass by without greeting him and also felt the call of the music, but it was too early to go up top and also too late, because he was behind in his car washes and water-pail deliveries
but in me life killed that mystical hoping, i don’t wait... i’m the one whose arrival they’re awaiting...
on the fourth floor, Nga Nelucha left home dressed as though for a beauty contest, and even though he didn’t want to look, the Mailman couldn’t help but notice her purple shoes, her tight skirt, her breasts sticking out like verandas over the top of a bra too small for her, the strong fragrance of her perfume and the way her body took advantage of the stairs’ uneven terrain to simulate little dancing oscillations that contrasted with her powerful legs
we the naked children... the kids without a school, playing with a cloth ball...
when he reached the fifth floor, Comrade Mute was smiling patiently, almost inside his head, guardian of the secrets of his vinyl music, a perpetual soundtrack—even when silenced—of life rambling in celebration through that mysterious, broken, poor building
on the midday sands, we, the cheap labour...
the sharpened knife swung back and forth in rapid cutting movements, the peelings fell at his feet as though laughing, the open door danced in the occasional gusts, the gramophone needle read the disk as the oracle’s voice reads life
we’re your children, from the poor neighbourhoods, hungry and thirsty
ashamed of calling you mother
afraid to cross the streets, afraid of men
it’s us, hope in search of life...
with a sluggish step, the Mailman finally approached Comrade Mute, who separated the knife from the damp potato, leaving his thick fingers to tap across the morning’s silence, when the music stopped
“excuse me, elder, but this music is too much,” the Mailman wiped tears from his face, embarrassed
“leave our worries behind, son, i cry a lot, too... it’s just that we’re more used to crying alone... you used to know this music, right?”
“i knew it, but i hadn’t come across it for a long time”
“hmm... the thing about music is that it follows us,” Comrade Mute returned to his rhythmic peeling of innumerable potatoes, insinuating with a discreet series of signs that the Mailman should come inside, serve himself water, and turn over the record to the B-side.
up top, teasing out new furniture arrangements, João Slowly rehearsed his controlled nervousness in the service of the event scheduled for around lunchtime on that splendorous day: the inaugural special session of the mysterious performances of the Rooster Camões Cinema, at the peak of the building among the holes drilled in the streets of the Maianga neighbourhood, at the heart of his beloved city
“if this sunlight weren’t so strong, we’d have a beautiful session here!”
João Slowly had already spread the word, scorning the strong light of day with rushed efforts to overcome his lack of professional preparation
it would be obvious to other open-air cinema professionals that the lunch hour wasn’t the ideal time to inaugurate a project of this nature, but João Slowly frequently rode roughshod over his own plans, the truth is that he was equally good at the art of social improvisation, he had summoned his wife to make snacks and stock up on drinks, he had invited neighbours and people of influence in the Luandan art of indolent amusement, including some friends from distant neighbourhoods, and even some professional journalists, securing in this way the media coverage that the event deserved, even the journalist Paulo Paused had received an invitation transmitted via his third-floor neighbour, who regularly grilled fish in the building’s corridor, and, as he was in a solitary conversation with Colonel Hoffman, this person, perhaps due to quantity of whisky he’d drunk, would end up attending the event too
the crowd was led to the spacious terrace by Little Daddy, who was able to lend only a few water-hauling services that morning, given the number of new commitments he had in this regard, carrying chairs, cleaning grills for the snacks that Strong Maria would cook on skewers with lemon and red peppers for the more resilient customers, and with mustard or olive oil for those condemned to certain heartburn
as always happens in Luanda, many of those present joined spontaneous entourages without knowing the reason for the social gathering, but rather because they learned there would be food and drink in a ventilated spot at lunch-hour, in a singular makeshift venue, the terrace of a famous Luandan building bursting with tales of a first floor with mysteriously cool waters which, as those who had pa
ssed through them confirmed, produced a special, revivifying glow that turned out, they now knew, to be very difficult to explain to anyone who had never been there
the men who usually frequented Noah’s Barque were summoned, including potbellied Noah, who, in order not to feel out of place, arrived in the company of the friend known as the Leftist, who came with his old attaché case and its respective notes, groups of curious young people were also allowed to attend, the singer Paulo Flores was passing through Maianga and was welcomed with an ovation, the building’s residents also attended, Edú brought his tiny stool and, assisted by Little Daddy, seated himself in a strategic corner where he could alternately observe the smiling gathering, João Slowly’s verbal and gesticular activities, and even the shifting, now vertically, now diagonally, of the rooster’s head from the building next door, as though the bird were trying to participate, though he had not been invited, by listening to the voices and music that surrounded him
close to the bench with the food, which emerged at a steady clip, beers of all sizes and brands stood in ice-packed styrofoam coolers, Strong Maria smiled happily at the pace of sales, continually requesting that Little Daddy replenish the stock, Odonato’s daughter Amarelinha set up a small bench at the entrance where she sold bead necklaces and wristbands decorated with tiny pieces of wood, or shells she’d bought from Seashell Seller who, at that instant, daunted by the size of the crowd, arrived in the company of his elder friend, Blind Man
“Amarelinha... you’re here?” Seashell Seller didn’t know which words to speak to the girl
“yeah... lots of people, i came here to sell, i don’t know if it’s going to be like this every day”
“is your father in the building? or is he not coming?”
