Transparent City

by Ondjaki

  Davide did not open his eyes

  he saw, with his eyes closed, within an imposed darkness, isolated images of laughter and toasts made with Paulo Paused, then voices from childhood

  the journalist’s tongue, tender and moist, grazed the side of his sweaty neck, the images sped up, he tried to slow the beat of his heart

  she liked to appreciate the man’s slightest reaction to the touch of her tongue, encircling his ear, penetrating it, then returning to the lobe, and then, suddenly, touching his closed eyes, attacking him in this sensitive spot which, rather than exciting him, moved him

  “i always think...” Davide Airosa said in a very low voice, “that lovemaking begins before bodies touch”

  “mmm-hmm,” her eyes closed, she allowed her tongue to make its gradual progress

  “lovemaking is when bodies know they’re going to touch”

  the scientist’s hand slid firmly up the journalist’s back to her neck, lifted her blouse, confirming, as he broke into a smile, that she was not wearing a bra, his other hand ran down the front of her body until the tip of his finger touched the earring in her navel, he caressed the aroused nipple of her left breast, he touched her throat

  they kissed with open, clumsy mouths, inaugurating a fire in their stomachs that took this as its cue to grow and spread.

  the fire

  began with a short circuit in the heart of Maianga Square, where thousands of kilos of explosives had already been set, so that later, as programmed, they would have the promised fireworks show that the Party had paid for and promoted

  “did you hear that?”

  “i didn’t hear anything,” a woman said

  “it sounded like an explosion”

  shooting sparks ignited the fire, the tunnels that had been dug out, the now-installed pipes, the dangerous soup of volatile gases, all formed a perfect labyrinth for the fire’s will and direction

  in a few minutes the oxygen was bearing the flame and the heat was finding avenues through which it could expand

  the explosions happened one after another, the sounds blending into the memories of the peoples of Luanda

  “oh, my god, another war has started,” shouted an elderwoman whose path had crossed all of the city’s wars

  “calm down, mother... calm down,” a woman’s voice shouted in terror, “it’s not always a war!”

  on the little boy’s face

  rough-edged drops glimmered, nearly dried by the heat of the approaching flame, they glimmered in the spittle that drooled from his trembling mouth, or, since his black face had become a series of yellow tracks, in subdued threads of snot that flowed from his nose

  exhaustion made his weeping calm and free flowing

  lost in his home from the fire’s earliest moments, he first sought visual references that the smoke had erased, he tried to advance by touch and burned his fingertips, and walked, pressing on with the courage of a gigantic little boy who refused to surrender to death, he walked, looking for his brothers and sisters, or a recognizable voice, looking for life, or a spot where there might be an exit, he walked as though the streets where the fire had taken least hold offered an escape from the labyrinth

  he moistened his body and hair and mouth with the first water he came across and, amid strange noises, the boy, tired out from crying, began to discover a kind of silence, a respite in the unmusical sounds born from the crackle of falling trees and houses

  all of the liquids in his face—from spittle to snot, from tears to terror, evaporated in a sudden sensation in which the incredible monster of solitude whimpered and fell to pieces—the little boy saw a gasping fish hopping, sniffing, if that was what it was doing, tiny droplets of water that might contain its possible salvation,

  on the other side, as though it were two different life-saving creatures, a white bird, singed and lame, arranged the setting that, suddenly, like a force for renewal in the world, made the little boy, trapped in the middle of the fire, begin to smile

  without hesitation, the child—bringing with him his smile, his burning fingers, his aching fingernails, shouldering the burning hunger in his stomach—carried on one side of his chest, for security, the remains of a palpable fear, on the other, half snuffed out, a keening need to see his mother and assailed with an unexpected wisdom, he grabbed the shuddering fish and gave it to the bird as food—as though this gesture would resolve the world’s problems.

  [from the author’s notes]

  the city writhed at each twist of fire

  the oil fumes fed the flames and created volcanoes that exhaled tongues of fire, the night first insisted on the darkness of an absence of lights, but then took on a yellow shade too searing to support human life, the beings who knew how to fly soon fled

  all the city’s foundations shuddered, the oldest buildings began to collapse, others leaned over as though about to crumble, gas cans and gas pumps lit up the Luanda night, poisoning the city with smoke and foul vapours

  “oh my god!” shouted the American, Raago, locked in his room, feeling himself hemmed in by the smoke and by the scorching heat radiating from the hotel’s hallways but also from the burning trees that surrounded the building

  he got down on the floor, crawled to the bathroom, soaked a towel in a washbasin close to floor-level, succeeded in regaining control of his exhausted breathing, and, on the flat azulejo tiles on the floor he saw the cockroach, strangely peaceful, beckoning to him with its dexterous antennae, the American tried to imagine that this would be his last sight and remained motionless while he mixed improvised prayers with glances at the albino insect, whose appearance had become shinier

  the cockroach walked for a few seconds and stopped moving, it looked behind itself, turned its body, Raago thought he must be hallucinating, but, seeing the fire sizzling inside the windows, he decided that, vision for vision, he preferred to follow the cockroach in its skewed trajectory, he wrapped another towel around his back and, wriggling like a bigger insect, set off to follow the cockroach

  on the veranda, a door opened into a larger room, the cockroach ran forward and he followed close behind, they passed through the door, everything was ashy smoke and suffocation, they went through another door and reached a tiny corridor that ended in some narrow stairs

  the last thing he was able to see was the albino cockroach sneaking away under the crack at the bottom of a door that was bolted shut, he got up, and, with all his strength, broke the lock, more smoke came in from outside, this time accompanied by a strong smell of burning rubber, and, when he was about to stumble over, giving up on saving his own body, he saw a water tank and succeeded in pulling away the wooden lid and diving into it, he felt terrible, he drank a little of the water and remained still, immersing himself each time he was assailed by a particularly explosive burst of flame, breathing however he was able, beginning to appreciate the silence he experienced whenever he submerged his head completely in the water

  and he thought, finally, he thought about the albino cockroach, but he didn’t see it.

  on the first floor, hurrying along in the collective procession and the disorderly shoving of bodies, the whole group arrived

  Edú carried his tiny stool in his hand and set it down immediately in order to sit close to his wife, Nga Nelucha, who was crying compulsively and holding her hands over her ears to avoid hearing the explosions that followed one after another, Comrade Mute was carrying a bag full of LPs, some with covers, others without, and allowed his body to fall into the water

  Amarelinha arrived with Granma Kunjikise, who was barefoot and wrapped in various coloured cloths but unable to speak, not even in Umbundu

  “what’s going on?” Comrade Mute shouted

  “my mother’s upstairs”

  between the torrents of smoke that poured out of the elevator shaft, Davide Airoso only had time to quickly pull on his trouser
s and head upstairs barefoot, already suffering an asthma attack, making his way more by the touch of his outstretched hands than by sight

  when he reached the sixth floor, he bumped into Xilisbaba’s stumbling body trying to climb the stairs that led to the terrace

  “where are the stairs? but where are the stairs?” she bellowed like a madwoman

  “come with me, madam”

  “no... my husband”

  she tried to resist, but Davide grabbed her firmly

  “come with me, madam”

  as if the smoke were actually very thick, the woman lost her strength and almost fainted in the scientist’s arms

  “don’t faint now, madam, if you do we’re both going to die here, please, i don’t want to die yet”

  “neither do i,” Xilisbaba’s voice was already lifeless

  “then wake up a little”

  they descended without touching anything, they listened to objects collapsing or falling to the floor inside the apartments, windows shattered, vases exploded, and on reaching the second floor they both thought they had glimpsed the peaceful image of a terrifying ghost, a body lay in repose in the centre of the corridor, as though it were consigning itself to the fire of its own free will and wished to be carried far away by the oncoming disintegration

  “do you see what i see?” Davide asked

  “is it a person?”

  the sound of weeping howled out like an appeal, Xilisbaba recognized the murmuring as that of Strong Maria, the three of them descended in utter blindness, guided by the life-saving sound that the waters, now grown stronger, sent out to whoever was looking for them

  they sat down near the others, now quiet and huddled in what they took to be the centre of the corridor, where the flux of the waters was strongest and windows of oxygen appeared to be opening up

  Xilisbaba, her body pooled with water, was breathing with difficulty and coughed slowly despite her efforts to stifle it

  in her hand she gripped a small piece of sisal, similar to the piece her husband had tied around his left ankle, her sweat and the frenetic movement of her fingers untied the chord into fine, soaked threads which covered her feet, the others looked at her, guiding themselves by sound and by the sight of her wavy hair

  outside, human voices were shouting

  the women’s hands reached towards each other in a delicate, almost secret gesture, more to share fears than temperatures, Strong Maria felt she must appeal to higher forces to placate her sister’s tears, her gaze sought out Xilisbaba’s face, she divined the tracks of her tears, foresaw her sadness in the defiant set of her nostrils, tried to take her pulse, but the pumping of Xilisbaba’s heart, as she thought of her husband marooned at the top of the building, was nothing more than a silent murmuring in her veins

  “Maria... i want to see my husband one last time... to talk to him about the things people keep quiet their whole lives”

  Maria’s hand exerted a comforting pressure and Xilisbaba let herself slide down with her back to the wall, lying nearly flat in her friend’s lap

  her clothes, her shoes, her hair and her soul, all were sodden from the water that protected them from the fire

  “take it easy, sis... fire’s like wind, it shouts a lot but it has a tiny little voice.”

  the only calm bark of laughter came from the Mailman

  seated in the same position for hours, he remained still, confident that the fire would not reach his body, he remained still imitating the serenity of a baobab tree that had no idea how to flee, he observed the fire’s progression from the edges of the dump, he saw adults and children disappear into the gigantic flames, he heard the far-away explosions, he swivelled his head slightly to see, in the distance, the airport emitting a series of gasoline-nourished flashes, he scoured the sky for the sight of a gleaming star, then restored his attention to the fire that was entering the huge garbage dump right in front of him, he laughed like a madman awaiting the moment of vengeance and, still peaceful, he danced

  he created for himself a seated dance, he stamped his feet in time with music he believed he could hear, he laughed in hot guffaws and made circular movements with his hands that, above all, were incitations to the invading flames to consume the garbage dump so that hours later, his hair and clothing scorched, still laughing

  he might reach the door of his house, its doorbell broken, and see the glowing embers of everything in his home that had burned, breathing deeply from the atmosphere of tragedy, to affirm in a loud voice

  “finally i can say that i made it home.”

  worried at first, then consciously calmer

  Odonato saw the rooster’s agitation, its body enclosed by the fire that had finally invaded its terrace, he saw it’s feet and its hesitant hops

  even maddened and enclosed by heat, the Rooster Camões felt no yearning to jump, various times he went to the edges that were least hot and regarded the city from the vantage point of his final dwelling, he ran frenetically and looked at Odonato, who was calmer now, bobbing, his foot tethered to the highest antenna, the man pulled away from the rooster’s gaze and looked around

  in every direction the horizon was a sea of yellow flames and twisted smoke, sounds dwindled only to return to feed fresh explosions, the devouring flame died down in burned-out corners only to reignite immediately in oblong, vertical, spitting flames stirred up by the wind

  from his left pocket Odonato pulled out a tiny scrap of paper and, beneath the cool gaze of a tender farewell, rapidly scrawled a few lines, then leaned over in front of himself and began to gnaw with his upper and lower teeth at the length of cord tying him to the building

  the rooster saw Odonato progress rowards the skies, unbound, free, fanning his body from side to side in response to the wind, overflying the building, where the rooster sat, shocked into silence, then climbing suddenly, crumpled into lopsided ball, the wrinkled note that the rooster, for lack of anything better to do, heightened by a certain appetite, pecked at, opened and, seeing that the sodden material was mushy and could be devoured, finally ingested it

  letter by letter, word by word.

  seizing Blind Man by the wrist, forcing himself to run without letting him go, Seashell Seller shouted

  “aren’t you going to say anything, elder?”

  lying out of fear of telling the truth, feeling the fire’s heat too close to his skin, the old man preferred to remain silent in order not to have to speak of his fear

  yet he yielded to the request of the man who still hadn’t abandoned him

  “it’s not my turn to speak, just between you and me, which of us is the elder here, isn’t it me?”

  “so it is”

  “then i just have to endure...”

  they wandered around, following their instincts, they ran, they stopped, they awaited gaps in the flames to locate fleeting corridors, wherever there was a puddle they slurped water over their bodies, and, during a long pause, Blind Man grasped that the boy was breathing with the rhythm of someone attentively awaiting something

  “what’s up?” Blind Man asked, “are you looking at the fire?”

  “no, at the sky...”

  “what about it?”

  “the sky is full of balloons, elder”

  Blind Man suddenly rubbed his hands together and Seashell Seller parried the gesture as though he didn’t understand the reason for this agitation, he remained with his neck stretched from craning up at the sky through the rivers of smoke, Blind Man’s hands finally reached his mouth, Blind Man intended to read the shape of his smile

  “yellow, red, black balloons”

  Seashell Seller looked but did not see, in the midst of the thousands of balloons, a body rising, outdistancing the dangerous tips of the flames

  there were still occasional explosions and some of the balloons burst from the intensity of the hea
t, they continued wandering at random, Seashell Seller’s hand firm and sweating on Blind Man’s wrist

  “let’s run, the fire’s really big here”

  “leave me behind, old people have to die,” Blind Man said in a tearful voice and mentioned that he was going to stop running

  “old people! but do the blind also have to die today?” Seashell Seller joked, “come with me, elder, we’re close to that bar”

  they ran, they felt the fire scorching their backs and feet, Seashell Seller’s bag fell to the floor and for a few moments the young man left the elder behind to go back, metres back, to pick up the bag with his most precious collection of seashells, they ran together and entered the door of Noah’s Barque

  the night was a like braid coming undone and losing its blackness, the hide of a nocturnal beast with mud dripping from its body, there was already a timid gleam of stars in the sky, the languor of certain whitecaps, and the seashells overheating and clattering open, human bodies undergoing involuntary cremation and the sleepwalking city wept, unaffected by the moon’s consolation

  Blind Man, his lips a sad smile, laid his hand on Seashell Seller’s leg

  “just tell me...”

  the city sweated beneath a scarlet glow, getting ready to experience, in the unsteady bodies and skins, a deep dark night such as fire alone can teach

  “what’s your question, elder?”

  “the colour of that fire,” Blind Man seemed to be imploring him

  Seashell Seller felt it would show a lack of respect not to reply

  “if i knew how to explain the colour of the fire, elder, i’d be a poet”

  but, his voice hypnotized, Seashell Seller followed the inclinations of the heat, the surly circles of that flaring jungle driven on by the wind in unending provocation

  “don’t let me die without knowing the colour of that light” Blind Man said over the huge flames’ powerful roaring