Transparent City

by Ondjaki

  “i like the stars,” she said

  “i like your shells and your hands,” she said

  the wind passed over the first floor, Granma Kunjikise opened her eyes now and then, rested her gaze on each of those present, sang, intoned sounds that imitated those of instruments and insects, allowed the echoes to assist her whenever more than one voice was required, and spoke very slowly to spill out her truths in Umbundu

  “it’s an elderwoman’s song... her husband went away to war... he went away to war many times, there were many wars... now she weeps for her husband’s death... there are many people around her...”

  Odonato’s body dangled, slowly lost its axis, spun back on itself trying not just to listen but to see the old woman’s mouth as it went on singing and speaking, drawing the rhythm of the tale she told into the rhythm of her voice, speaking and singing at the same time

  “only she can sing or speak... this old woman has a name, her name is She-Who-Doesn’t-Dance... who doesn’t know how to dance... she cries, slowly gets up, tells her tale... about how many times she prepared her husband’s weapons for war, how many times he promised to return... and of that time he left early in the morning, very early, he didn’t say anything... he went away without saying anything... the old woman cries, sings, and begins to dance... the children are shocked... “the old woman’s dancing!” they say in chorus... “the old woman who doesn’t know how to dance is dancing” ...only the children and the old woman can speak...the old woman starts to dance little by little, a rhythm for her body alone... she cries... my husband went to war to die... my husband went to war to die... my husband didn’t say goodbye... i didn’t clean my husband’s weapons... she cries and dances for the first time in her life... the old woman dances slowly and cries... she looks at the children... my husband went to war to die and today i’m dancing... i’m dancing because my husband died in the war...and the children shout in chorus... “the old woman who doesn’t know how to dance is dancing” ...she’s dancing out of sadness... at her husband’s death... “the old woman’s dancing...” sing the children... the old woman dances slowly and, alone, she enters her reed hut... only the children stay close to the fire to sing... “the old woman danced!” “the old woman danced!””

  Xilisbaba grabbed hold of the string, pulled her husband behind her, and went up the stairs in silence

  later, Granma Kunjikise will reach her bed, remove the traditional cloths from her body and, after many years, will sleep naked, Granma Kunjikise will sleep naked, Granma Kunjikise will sleep naked with the wind brushing over her body, smiling, she is naked because she senses that her granddaughter is naked on the terrace with wind brushing over her body, Amarelinha will arrive much later, will enter the apartment with a smile hidden behind her hands, she’s going to go to bed next to the old woman, she’s going to sleep naked, her heart secretly aflutter, she’s going to gently cuddle her still-hard breasts, she’s going to caress her stomach

  Seashell Seller is going to descend the stairs slowly, he’s going to find Blind Man sitting in a corner with his lips open in laughter, Blind Man, silent and awake, is going to allow himself to be led to the faraway beach without asking a question, observing the respect that elders know how to show for younger people, he’s going to smile in silence, within himself, with the inner smile of those who are certain of a secret,

  Edú is going to go home and wake up his wife, Nga Nelucha is going to pretend that she’s still sleeping and that she wants to sleep, she’s naked, she’s sweating, and the wind that makes the window rattle and reminds her of her own presence tastes good to her, Edú is going to take off his clothes and come to bed naked, he’s going to let his hands awaken the young woman’s body, he’s going to kiss her breasts and whisper ancient words in her ear, Nga Nelucha is going to take his sex in her firm, moist hand, she’s going to say in a serious voice, “you want to start these games today, on the day of a burial,” she’s going to let her voice flow out in languid provocation, “love doesn’t offend death,” Edú is going to reply, pulling himself into an acrobatic pose to hold his swelling obliquely away from her and slowly penetrate his wife, “i can’t fall asleep like that...” she’s going to say, his hand is going to caress her back along her spinal column, his fingers are going to touch her mouth, her tongue is going to vibrate and her buttocks will make fresh movements, “let me sleep... let me sleep,” she’s going to say at each of his minimalist, pleasure-inducing retreats and advances intended to provoke more pleasure, “sleep... sleep, woman,” he’s going to murmur in her ear, more slowly and erotically with each repetition, in contrast with the rapid undulating movements she’s making, “ay!” he’s going to shout when she deliberately strikes his swollen mbumbi, “oh, sorry,” she’ll say ironically, hitting it again, “let me sleep,” her voice is going to say, panting, waiting, and extending her delayed orgasm, “sleep... sleep,” he’ll say, leaving their bodies to speak in the drowsy heat, naked, happy, waiting for soothing dreams or no dreams at all,

  Strong Maria will be in her apartment tidying up the kitchen, it’s never her preference to leave this chore for the wee hours, she’s going to smile when she hears the sound of moaning coming from the lower floors, she will put away leftovers that she’ll ask Little Daddy to take to the rooster tomorrow, she’ll listen to the sound of João Slowly entering the apartment, sitting down in the living room, taking off his shoes, the radio will be turned on for the last news broadcast of the day, the international community is troubled, not to say outraged, by the Angolan government’s decision to cancel the eclipse as though this phenomenon were its exclusive property, João Slowly, smiling, will remember again that he has to call Little Daddy

  and he’s going to call, and Strong Maria will be in the kitchen hearing her partner’s incredulous voice

  “hello, Little Daddy? finally”

  “it’s not Little Daddy! what Little Daddy are you talking about?”

  “i’m sorry, the lines must have got crossed, these phones are crap”

  Strong Maria will feel a shiver run up her spine

  another woman, much older, in the country’s south, in the city of Huambo, seated in her yard looking at the bright white light, will also feel a shiver run up her spine, a common tear will appear in both women’s eyes, the white will unsettle them for a few seconds, they’ll feel a strange tremor in their lower lips and both will think it’s nothing in particular, Strong Maria will feel another, more palpable shiver listening to her husband’s voice again, as he calls the same number

  “hello, Little Daddy?”

  “i already told you there’s no Little Daddy here”

  “but who am i talking to?”

  “it’s the thief!”

  “what?”

  “it’s the thief talkin’ here, you get it?”

  “but what thief?”

  “the thief, man! i stole this cellphone, you’re talkin’ to the thief, you got a fuckin’ problem with that?”

  “enough kidding around, just pass the damn phone to Little Daddy”

  “oh, was that his name? hey, listen, i already told you, this is the thief talkin’, you want to negotiate or what?”

  “i’m talking to the thief, for real?” João Slowly became irritated

  “yeah, you could say that, how much are you going to give me for the phone?”

  “i’m gonna give you one hell of a beating, that’s what i’m gonna do”

  “not so fast, dude, i already drilled the guy, now it’s just you who can get a return on this Nokia”

  “listen to me, you fucking son of a bitch, you know who you’re talking to?”

  “what son of a bitch is that? are you going to pay or not? fuck, you’re making me waste the phone’s battery, on top of that i don’t even have a charger here! hey, i’m gonna get off the line...”

  Strong Maria dropped the dishcloth on the floor, sat d
own close to her husband, moved closer, grabbed his hand, her hand was cold, João Slowly’s was warm, it was trembling, his breathing was shuddering with anxious rage, he hesitated before dialling the number again, he looked at his wife as though about to ask a crucial question, but Strong Maria did as wives do, she sat quiet and motionless

  a mere mirror turning her husband’s question back on him

  “hello?”

  “yes, all right, tell me, how much is it going to be?”

  “we’ll talk about the price later...” he paused, deflected his gaze out the window, perhaps looking for the moon, “but what happened? where’s Little Daddy?”

  “i already told you, i robbed the guy, he went crazy and refused to give me the phone, i drilled the guy with a shot in the back”

  “where did this happen? are you kidding or what?”

  “i’m not kidding, fuck, what do you think happened? i went ahead and swiped it, the guy wasn’t moving”

  “where did he fall?”

  “someplace in Vila Alice or something”

  “listen to me, you fucking son of a bitch, fucking prick, your mother’s cunt...”

  “whoah, who do you think you’re talkin’ to?”

  “shut your fucking mouth,” João Slowly shouted with swollen eyes, “i just want to know where the kid is?”

  “what do i know? i already told you, he was on the ground, i’m not an ambulance”

  “where’s the kid, you fucker? where’s the kid gone, you fucking son of a bitch? where’s the kid?”

  the thief hung up, João Slowly, shaken by tears, fell to the floor, crying compulsively and repeating, “where’s the kid...where’s the kid...” countless times, with his wife plastered to his body, enveloping him with as many arms as she could, trying to adopt the rhythm of his breathing, both of them gasping, both of them crying, “where’s the kid, Maria...where’s that kid gone?,” in order, little by little, to draw him into a calmer rhythm, silent tears, so she could stop squeezing him so hard, so that she, too, could begin her tardy tears

  “what happened?” Xilisbaba, frightened, had entered the apartment

  the couple paused for the time it took them to share a glance and their pain and say in a single, muffled voice

  “they killed the kid”

  “who?” Xilisbaba was trembling

  “Little Daddy”

  João Slowly hugged Xilisbaba and his wife as though he had no more strength in his body or his voice

  “they killed the kid... they killed the kid, Xilisbaba!”

  when he found out what had happened, Odonato was overtaken by a sadness so deep that Xilisbaba was afraid

  she was afraid his condition would worsen and she didn’t know how to anticipate which direction this worsening would take, she prepared a verbena-leaf tea but her husband remained absolutely silent, only his sad eyes spoke, he drank the tea, taking nearly an hour to finish it

  “take me up to the terrace, Baba, i need to be alone”

  “to the terrace?”

  “yes, i’m going to spend the night up there so i can look out at the city... to think about life... can you take me?”

  it was so early in the morning—so early in the morning inside her—that Xilisbaba had difficulty discerning what she felt, among the various emotional truths her body had absorbed during the day, she grabbed the string, climbed the stairs, reached the terrace with her husband, the Rooster Camões woke up and came to look out at them with curiosity, but since no one paid it any attention, or even looked in its direction, the rooster avoided making noise and returned to its corner

  “leave me here, please”

  “here, where? i can’t just leave you like that”

  “tie me to those antennas, i’ll stay here at the edge, looking out over the city”

  Xilisbaba lashed him to an antenna, tied two or three knots, fearful from having agreed to this request

  and if her husband untied himself? and if a strong wind visited him during the night? and if the knots on the antenna or his ankles weren’t strong enough and her husband came undone and soared through the skies of Luanda?

  “are you all right? i’m afraid to leave you like that, Nato”

  “i’m fine”

  “are you tied up tight?”

  “yes, i am, Baba: nostalgia ties me to this city”

  Xilisbaba went home to her kitchen, and found Granma Kunjikise completely naked in the kitchen

  “Mother! you gave me a shock”

  “i came to boil water”

  the old woman, dragging her feet and her wrinkled skin, returned to her bed, kissed Amarelinha on the forehead, and covered herself with one of her cloths

  in the moonlit darkness, Xilisbaba prepared her tea, looked in the kitchen drawer for the leftover end of a candle that she liked to light when she meditated or prayed, lit the candle and felt more at ease because across the street from the building, on a broad wall, she was able to see her winged husband’s oscillating shadow dancing slowly, spinning from one side to another in accord with the rhymes whispered by the night-time breeze

  to prompt her thinking, one hand dropped bits of wax into her other hand, later switching hands, she imitated her own gestures in a trance

  the brief pain of the wax hardening

  in her solitude

  a woman with a burning candle in her hand needed to be somewhere else, or not to be herself, or to be in another life

  a woman with a candle in her hand who had long ago accepted her body, her destiny, now and then turned to glance at the door, then ascertained that a few drops had escaped from her hand and hardened on the table

  the window was opened gradually by an unlikely breeze and she smiled as though she were going along with it

  if the woman hadn’t smiled, would the window have closed again?

  the same breeze nearly extinguished the flame, signals such as these brought the woman back to her reality, seated in the kitchen, the woman travelled so far in her thoughts that it was difficult to remember where she had been

  a woman needs to remain still in order to go so far

  and she goes

  she comes back from there with a tear that doesn’t reach her mouth, she intercepts the tear before the taste of salt can dye her tongue, for that would be to know a tear twice

  coming from so far away, it’s enough to have tasted the tear once

  and she thinks

  «the candle has to stay in the kitchen so that others, who are in darkness, may make use of its light.»

  then he knew

  a delicate chill in his ribs

  and saw the map of his own blood spread on the ground – feeling that this was how he would die, longing for his mother

  [from Little Daddy’s sensations]

  thousands of balloons, black, yellow and red, were distributed through all the neighbourhoods, and the colours mixed with the children’s smiles as well as with the sound of the Party’s cars announcing that night’s celebrations

  people reacted with an outpouring of relief in response to the sadness and upheaval they had lived through recently, radio and television ran interviews with people who declared with conviction that they smelled or saw residues of a dark compound that signalled the presence of black gold right in their backyards

  “the government has to come to my place right away, the road to the future goes through my backyard, i’m sure of it,” a middle-aged man shouted, as he rambled down the street, gripping his seventh early-morning bottle of beer

  “there’s more oil than oil tankers,” a young poet bawled, “i’ve devoted my work to the era we’re presently living through in our city, i’m only a few pages shy of reaching the fateful conclusion of this masterpiece,” he concluded, exalted, hugging a young woman who was as drunk as he was, “therefo
re... here’s a high alert to the nation’s poetry publishers and general publishers of other genres... i’m taking my place in Angolan literature, right from my neighbourhood, which will be the biggest oil producer of them all... my work is based on real facts, the oil will be real...”

  people reacted with hollow fury

  it’s often like that in Luanda, there’s a generalized feeling that fantasy and celebration are the obligation and moral duty of each Luandan, the citizen is genetically programmed to join the party, paying little regard to either prior explanations or future consequences, but only to its intense homage to human sloth in that time known as the present

  few were aware, during the early hours of the day, and in spite of the news in the main organs of the press, that the party that would take place that night was as a result, precisely, of the first oil geyser discovered the previous morning, in a neighbourhood whose identity had not been divulged

  and that the event, announced in the morning by the distribution of balloons, brightly coloured T-shirts, flags and crates of beer, would enable the observer to behold, during the late afternoon and all night long, a monumental concert that would feature huge light shows, the most modern speaker systems on the planet, a gamut of A-list national musicians assembled at the last minute and paid big bucks in real dollars, a show of semi-naked beauty queens motivated by the thought of making their lives comfortable in a couple of hours and even a megalomaniac pyrotechnical performance taking place simultaneously in several neighbourhoods of the city that would culminate, precisely, with a wicked explosion over the meandering Luanda Bay

  “you’re our first little geyser, the materialization of the Angolan dream,” the Minister said, opening the bottle of French champagne ordered for the occasion

  “you’re a man who thinks ahead, Minister,” Dom Crystal-Clear laughed