Transparent City

Home > Other > Transparent City > Page 27
Transparent City Page 27

by Ondjaki


  “nice set-up you’ve got here, new floor, pretty plastic chairs”

  “thank you, were you acquainted with the deceased?”

  “to a certain degree,” This Time said

  “yes, to a certain degree,” Next Time agreed

  “then, to a certain degree, are you staying for the ceremony?”

  “yes, and afterwards we want to talk to you about business”

  “i understand”

  “and the two blonde babes, are they new acquisitions, or friends of the family?”

  “new propositions, let’s put it that way”

  “and in what area are they propositioning? the cinematographic?”

  “maybe, maybe, you never know... it all depends on how much we talk”

  “oh, you mean we can already start to talk about how much”

  “one can always talk about ‘how much,’ my friends, we’re in Luanda!”

  “that’s true,” the tax inspectors smiled at the blondes, who responded each time with open laughter and light nudges to rearrange their voluminous brassieres

  “we can talk later, the ceremony’s about to begin”

  “fine, and what are we listening to?”

  “classical music, the parlance of angels, appropriate for a ceremony of this gravity,” João Slowly explained

  “yes, sir, people are going to be talking about this church”

  “let’s hope”

  “stereo sound, plenty of speakers, very nice, god is in the details of Dolby Surround, very nice”

  “it’s a direct connection to the system of my friend Noah, the one with the bar, but in the future we’ll have our own set-up”

  Strong Maria handed out napkins to all the guests, except for the Swedes, and once they had wiped their hands and mouths, they fraternized, whisky glasses in hand, while the pastor began the ceremony

  “my brothers... Angolans and other nationalities,” the pastor winked at one of the blondes, “we’re here to celebrate...”

  João Slowly gave a deliberate cough, looking at the pastor

  “it’s Ciente-the-Grand,” Odonato corrected, secured now to the armrest of one of the chairs, he drifted above the level of the pastor’s eyes

  “yes, our brother Ciente-the-Grand, now departed to the gates of the garden of our lord god... here and now we invoke his name, i mean both their names, that of our lord on high, and the name of our beloved brother, whose family is gathered here, and also his friends, both Angolans and those of other nationalities,” the pastor winked at the other blonde, “lending this simple homage a spirit that rises to the heavens”

  the pastor met Odonato’s eyes, regretted his phrasing, coughed

  “let us be aware that the house of our lord god, and that of his son, Senhor Jesus, is present everywhere, in the physical and psychological space of this world, in all places, including in our hearts,” he made a deliberate pause

  “am-baaah,” João Slowly said in a loud voice, inviting all those present to repeat after him, and after the pastor

  “am-baaah!” repeated the multitude

  “thus, in this religious homage, availing ourselves of the hospitality of our recently inaugurated Church of the Sacred Little Lamb, we are gathered here in the company of the body and the spirit... not of a saint... but of a good man, good at least during his infancy on the streets of Luanda,” he hesitated, “and later... his career evolved through certain moral and even physical errors, as he chose a path little approved of by our lord god or by his son, Jesus, fruit of the artificial insemination... i mean the immaculate insemination, of his mother, the Virgin Mary, may god protect her and keep her free of sin”

  “am-baaah,” João Slowly said, very loudly, regarding the pastor with a threatening air

  “but god chooses the roads and detour, god places the stones where we will trip over them, god knows the suffering of our stumblings and the swellings of our bodies,” the pastor looked in the direction of the Swedes, who were re-arranging their brassieres with sensual smoothness, “it is god who gropes... i mean grows, in our bodies and our suffering, god who speaks through our sinful mouths, now and in the hour of our death”

  “am-baaah,” everyone said

  “our beloved Ciente-the-Grand is now seated next to our lord god, speaking with him... facing him, giving him an account of his days and his actions... who knows? who here can say what they may be discussing at this moment? Ciente-the-Grand grew up and was born in Luanda, here he was a child, here he became a young man, with his own very particular activities, and, as people say here in Luanda, who knows what rumours Ciente may be passing along to god at this very moment?”

  the multitude almost broke into open laughter on hearing such religious speculation, of a supposedly cultural nature, but João Slowly, making use of a strange hand signal, urged the pastor to continue the ceremony without fewer digressions, of whatever nature they might be

  “the power and will of our lord is great, as is that of his immaculate son, Jesus... therefore, let us pray, brothers, let us pray for our brother who ascended to the heavens at the hour and in the instant that god called him to his side... let us pray... in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost...”

  “am-baaah,” everyone said

  “in the name of our blessed Little Lamb, who is in god’s presence, at his feet...”

  “am-baaah”

  “brothers... let us pronounce in silence our prayers of the ushering of our brother Ciente into the house of our lord god... let us pray that his moral wounds be cured, and that god take note with excessive clarity of our brother’s wounds... i’m not speaking, of course, of the wounds in the region of his rump, but of his moral wounds... which are the deepest, and which god pardons and has already pardoned in others, and of himself... just as we shall one day pardon those who trespass against us,” he fixed his gaze on the Swedes’ chests, “who trespass against us with their visions... with their bodies... with their fiery eyes... let us pray in silence, brothers... am-baaah!”

  “am-baaah,” murmured the faithful and the rest over the whispers that fluttered around their prayers the sad rhythm of a Beethoven sonata stretched out, spurred on here and there by the swift hands of the pianist interpreting it

  Noah was at the door, he hadn’t come to this sort of place for years, and he strained to prevent himself from laughing at the Brazilian pastor’s homily, the people closed their eyes, with the exception of Odonato who, like a distracted child, spun, his body suspended, his arms opening as though embracing the air, making the string tethering him to the chair’s armrest the axis of his slow rotation, his body winding around, spinning to the left and remaining very still, awaiting the inverse motion that the string would initiate, regarding his son’s face with tenderness and sadness, and appreciating, by virtue of the full view afforded him by his tightrope routine, the faces and gestures of the others present, until his movements ceased and he looked at his wife as she, feeling herself being watched, opened her eyes

  “close the casket, Baba, this tale’s gone on long enough”

  everything that looked planned in advance was due, according the version of the true believers, to divine will or, as the Brazilian pastor would say, “to god who knows all and plans all”

  when Xilisbaba closed the casket the pastor extinguished the candles on the improvised altar and initiated a ceremony for the distribution of flowers, one for each individual present, in a movement that began next to the altar and extended, by way of the flowers’ passage, to the chairs at the back, where the blondes sat peacefully, and, when the crowd got to its feet in respectful silence, the sonata was abruptly interrupted and the voice of the National Radio announcer was heard saying

  “we interrupt this broadcast to transmit, through the whole national territory of the Republic of Angola, a message from His Excellency, the Engi
neer, the President of the Republic of Angola...”

  people looked at each other, then at the pastor, who for his part turned towards João Slowly who, as surprised as everyone else, tured his gaze upward in the direction of Odonato

  “let’s listen in, it could be something important...”

  those who were outside squeezed into the church in order to better hear the message that National Radio would transmit any minute now, a few moments of silence followed, hit songs were being cued up, two slaps to the microphone preceded the Comrade President’s cough, and then his voice was heard and continued in a serious tone,

  “dear citizens of the Republic of Angola, representatives of other countries accredited in our nation, religious and civic bodies: in the name of the national government of Angola and as the outcome of an extraordinary session of the political bureau of the Party, i am fulfilling my duty to inform you of a decision that will have implications in the social, political, and cultural life of each of us, after analyzing the most recent national events, taking into account the relevance of their moral implications and political significance, since the days of our independence, taking into account also the deep consternation of the entire population of the Republic of Angola, much mature reflection has been given to the events and phenomena scheduled to take place on the nation’s soil, perpetrating in our lives events of incommensurable magnitude, even so, the Party in power understands that, in Angola, this is not the most propitious moment for the fulsome celebrations that are so quickly approaching,” the President coughed lightly, “it being so, and given the recent passing of Comrade Ideology, one of the moral and civic pillars of our nation, the Party in power has decided to cancel any and all collective celebrations, declaring a period of three days of national mourning, in this context, and imbued with the power that is vested in me, i am taking advantage of this communiqué to affirm that Angola announces to the nation and the world the cancellation, i repeat, the absolute cancellation, of the eclipse scheduled for the coming days, efforts will be undertaken to minimize any economic damage that this decision may cause, but from this moment forward the Party declares utterly cancelled the much-awaited total eclipse.”

  “that’s all we needed”

  “holy fuck, if i’d known i wouldn’t’ve come here”

  the foreigners moaned

  it was frustrating to witness, in this way, the alteration of the course of events and collective expectations, not by acts of nature but rather by human will, even when that alteration was depicted as the fruit of a wise decision taken by a group of people, in the present case, a political collective

  “do you think they’re serious?”

  said the voices expressing the general shock and disbelief out loud, since, at least within narrow circles, freedom of speech had not yet fallen victim to control

  the young BBC journalist reported live using her cellphone, pressed up against a speaker broadcasting the sound of National Radio, which was followed by her diligent but abridged translation, which initially provoked laughter and derisive comments in the world’s main news services, but shortly afterwards the news was confirmed scientifically by NASA and other equivalent agencies, something in the planet’s movements had been changed

  and it was true that the eclipse, cancelled by the Angolan nation, was no longer going to occur, as per the announcement made by Our Excellency, the Engineer, and Comrade President

  “the Party’s going to have to rethink the situation,” Dom Crystal-Clear commented

  “well, changing an eclipse’s agenda is a complicated business, even for the Party...” said the Advisor Santos Prancha

  “they’ll have to come up with something”

  “yes, the population’s already been stockpiling beer and food...”

  “good god, there must be some scheme behind all this that we’re not seeing”

  “you really think so?”

  “of course, man, the Party doesn’t lift a finger without some purpose”

  “is that what people are saying?”

  “ha! they don’t lift a finger without scoring a point”

  National Radio, underlining the feeling of loss, followed the President’s remarks with a well-rehearsed rendition of the National Anthem, during which those attending Ciente-the-Grand’s funeral, the ladies and their dresses, the men with well-waxed shoes and glasses of whisky in their hands, the smiling Brazilian pastor, those not invited to the burial and Odonato, safe in his wife’s firm grasp, floating in a sudden gust of wind, left the Church of the Sacred Little Lamb to the measured tones of the National Anthem, which gave the funeral an absolutely unforgettable and highly appropriate feel

  “onward?” João Slowly asked

  “of course,” Odonato replied, “oh how lovely, João, National Radio playing the anthem at my son’s funeral!”

  with the exception of the Swedes, everyone returned to the apartment building

  carrying in their hands the leftover food to be consumed over the next three days, their stomachs filled with alcohol, their eyes shining, now with tears, now simply because they were moistened by the beers and wine and whiskies they had consumed

  the funeral cortege made a silent, symbolic pause on arriving at the apartment building’s entrance, Odonato asked to be lowered to the level of the other people and so, glancing up from the floor down below, he set himself to pondering the strange hole his son had made right down to the ground floor of the building

  Granma Kunjikise murmured something inaudible in Umbundu and glanced at her tired feet, Amarelinha rubbed her arms, brushing away a sudden shiver

  on the first floor, around the waters, the temperature was so superhumanly pleasing that it became difficult to resist the spot

  Edú set down his tiny stool and eased the weight off his back by leaning against the wall, Nga Nelucha stood next to him, stroking his head, her husband closed his eyes, pretending to succumb to a premature sleepiness and wearing a childlike smile on his lips, Granma Kunjikise folded one of her cloths and sat down on the floor, the string that tethered Odonato to the world of those who walked the earth was tied to a railing, Xilisbaba seated herself next to him, at an angle, crossed her legs and drew a deep breath, Amarelinha excused herself and went upstairs, Comrade Mute did the same and asked the family of the deceased whether the sound of “appropriate light music” would offend them because it was his custom to fall asleep to a few bars of jazz, João Slowly, already seated, tugged his wife’s hand and Strong Maria leaned towards him, Blind Man was led to a corner and also wore on his face the indecipherable smile of those who cannot see the world through the daylight, Seashell Seller left without anyone noticing, headed upstairs and it was then that, softly, the old woman’s voice was heard, at first light and sweet, an imperceptible murmuring of many voices beneath the stroking of an intense light, then at a slow cadence with a soft slapping of her hands in the water that covered the floor keeping them company, their heads kept time with the free-flowing rhythm that Granma Kunjikise imprinted on her venerable song, several imaginary instruments fitted within her one-woman chorus, and the water appeared to run out of the walls in counterpoint to her vocal rhythm, and they all seemed to be hypnotized when they were interrupted by the freakish sounds that the rooster Camões gave off at that late hour, the interruption being followed by the less-acoustic music that Comrade Mute had chosen to play

  “hey, Little Daddy, go upstairs and tell him Granma’s singing is better than that jazz”

  “who you talkin’ to?” Strong Maria asked

  “ah, it’s a habit, that boy took off on me today, he’s not even answering the phone”

  “i’ll go up there,” Nga Nelucha offered to help, “but i’m not coming back down, my legs hurt”

  “and you’re so young,” Edú laughed, lazily scratching his gigantic mbumbi.

  “young people work a lot, didn’t yo
u know that?”

  “young people were made to dance,” Edú sighed

  a few moments later, up above, Comrade Mute’s turntable stopped its droning and Odonato’s sad voice was heard between the drip-dripping beats of the water

  “sing, mother, your voice is so beautiful”

  Granma Kunjikise, her eyes closed, sang in the sad rhythm of a sordine murmur, in the brief pauses she slapped her hands in the water, swayed her head from side to side, and trembled with her eyes closed

  “i’m going to sing a sad song...”

  up above, on the terrace, below the abandoned seats of the Rooster Camões Cinema, Amarelinha’s bare feet soothed the floor and the night, the moon waited to find its voice in other choruses, her peaceful gaze concentrated on the rooster, which calmed down and began to regard the body of the young woman and that of the young man behind her

  “don’t be afraid,” Seashell Seller murmured, embracing her very gradually, “i’m the sea approaching a shell...”

  “i’m not afraid,” Amarelinha smiled, “i’m looking at the moon”

  “and i’m looking at you”

  “you can’t see me”

  “i see you every night when i think about you, miss”

  “you think about me every night?” Amarelinha turned around to look at him, resting her face and mouth close to his

  “almost every night,” he tried to kiss her

  “if you want to give me a kiss you have to ask my father or my grandmother”

  “i’ll ask later,” Seashell Seller gave her clumsy kiss

  she laughed her open laugh, then composed her face and straightened her dress, gripping the Seashell Seller’s strong, lean arms, tugging his bag off his shoulder, embracing him with all her strength, and kissing him again

  “you’ve got to go slowly, kisses have to be slow”

  “okay”

  Seashell Seller’s body shook and, feeling naked, he groped with his hands in the air, seeking a gesture that might calm him, with his foot he assured himself that the bag was nearby, he heard the sound of shells inside the bag as he touched it and they sank down to stretch out on the floor, the white moonlight ambled over their bodies, few stars were visible in the sky

 

‹ Prev