by Ondjaki
“I don’t like to see you cry, Granma.”
“I’m over it now, son. Your granma’s not going to cry anymore. Aunty Tó will come here at lunchtime. She says she’s bringing a special little feast and that after she’ll explain everything.”
Granma Catarina appeared in the living room with her shawl over her head.
“Catarina! You gave me a fright.”
“Everything’s going to go fine, Sis, don’t worry. What did Tó say to you?”
“I didn’t understand her explanation at all, but they say they’re going to have to cut off my toe. They say it’s all infected.”
“Aren’t you afraid, Granma?”
She made a face like someone who was afraid but wanted to hide it.
“It’s not necessary to be afraid.” Granma Catarina touched me, the way she used to a long time ago. “They’re just going to cut off a toe, she’ll still have lots left. Life’s like that, son.”
It feels wrong to talk like this, but in Luanda having a granma who’s in danger of losing a toe conjures up meals that you usually just dream about and wouldn’t find anywhere.
Aunty Tó arrived with her husband and over the course of the afternoon other people began appearing, relatives or close friends, nephews or cousins-who-were-like-brothers. Each of them brought something to eat or drink. The table started to fill up with such appetizing treats that they had to forbid the children from coming close prior to the official opening of the meal.
We didn’t really have lunch that day. When Aunty Tó arrived she explained to Granma Nhé that Comrade Rafael KnockKnock was an “excellent” doctor—that was what she said—an ace in operations related to that word that sounded like grenade, and turned out to be “gangrened,” and that she herself had been at the meetings at the military hospital and the longer we waited the worse it would be. Comrade Rafael’s suggestion of operating the next day had been accepted by everyone; all that remained was for Granma Nhé to say yes.
“I’ll do whatever you think is best, daughter.” Granma Catarina sat halfway up the stairs, looking at me while she listened to the conversation, and laid her finger on her lips as a signal to me to not tell anyone that she was there. “They can cut off as many of my toes as they like. There’s just one thing I’m going to promise you: you will never see me with a cane. Not even if I have to spend the rest of my days locked up in my room.”
“Oh, Mother, don’t exaggerate. It’s just a toe, and your other toes are so crooked you won’t even notice that they’ve cut one off.”
“I repeat: they can cut off as many toes as they wish, as long as I can squeeze my foot into my shoe so that nobody sees. But no cane. Nor crutches. That would be all I need: to have my late husband see me at this age, walking with crutches.”
“May I schedule the operation, Mother?”
Granma Nhé looked at me, but it wasn’t me she wanted to talk to. I made a sign to Granma Catarina, who came down two steps. Granma Catarina smiled.
“Mother?”
“You can schedule it. But today we’re going to have a party.”
“A party, Mother?”
“Yes, ask your brothers and sisters to bring food and wine. Isn’t the operation tomorrow?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then today we’re going to have a farewell party for my toe.”
Granma Catarina laughed and began to climb the stairs slowly, without making a sound.
“Come here, son,” Granma Nhé called me. “Go tell your Granma’s friends that late this afternoon we’re going to have special snacks here. But don’t tell them anything else.”
“Sure, Granma. Can the kids from the street come, too?”
“Yes they can.”
Once she had made her sudden decision to throw a real farewell party for her toe, Granma Nhé was in a good mood. She didn’t even bawl out Madalena Kamussekele for not yet having tidied up the kitchen at this late hour; she simply ordered her to go to the Blue District to look for some delicious patties that had shrimp inside them instead of just cream. Then she put in an order with Granma Maria, Charlita’s granma, for two orders of freshly cooked kitaba, one with hot peppers and the other without; she requested of the Old Fisherman that he bring fresh quitetas that someone was going to prepare. When Dona Libânia came to see if she was better, she found Granma Nhé walking with difficulty but saying that she could no longer sit down, to the point of laughing at this suggestion. In the street, we bought sweet pastries that had just come out of the oven at Samba’s store and then Dona Libânia said she was going to make her famous banana cake, which was enormous and filled the stomach even of a person who ate only half a slice.
The rest was brought by relatives. “The spread looked pretty,” as Granma Nhé liked to say. There were wines of all colours. I even heard the names: white wine—I was already familiar with that one—“well-aged red wine”—I didn’t even know that wine had to age—and even something called “rosé” that Comrade Rafael KnockKnock really liked a lot, and that made him start to talk like anything at the end of the party.
Almost all of Bishop’s Beach came, and everybody laughed when they heard that it was an impromptu party whose purpose was to bid farewell to a toe that was going to be removed the next day. It was funny, and when somebody didn’t believe her, Granma Nhé called on Comrade Rafael who was already completely loaded and before he began to speak, even without a door, would say, “KnockKnock!” and then confirm the matter, saying that it was because of its being “gangrenated,” and somebody still asked, “A grenade?” He would laugh and wink at me: “No, no. It’s gangrene, we have to remove her toe as quickly as possible.” Even Father João Domingo showed up, and Granma Nhé asked him if it was necessary to bless the toe in order for the operation to go well.
“No, Dona Agnette. If it were the birth of a toe, we would do a small baptism. Now, under these conditions, I think this party will be sufficient. The main thing is that you have a positive outlook.”
“That I do.” Granma Nhé shared a toast with the priest.
The party went on because that’s the way it was: until all the drinks and all the food had been finished nobody was going to leave. The Old Fisherman’s quitetas were a wonder with lemon sauce, and people even mixed white wine with hot peppers. When the children’s kitaba ran out we attacked the elders’ spicy kitaba. The trick was to drink a mouthful of milk right after and then it didn’t sting any more. Everybody said that Dona Libânia’s cake was a marvel; it was enormous and she had put something powerful in the cake because it was unusual for anyone to manage to eat more than a slice. Everybody was in high spirits with the Cuban music they were playing on National Radio. Two or three couples were already dancing; outside, in the yard, we played hide-and-seek and tag. The parrots started to talk nonsense because things were getting too wild for them. “Cabrón,” one was saying. “Hijo de puta,” said the other. They went on like that the whole night. It must have been from some film because those parrots only knew words from soap operas or films. “My nayme eez no-bodee,” was from a Trinità film. “And here’s the news,” was the voice of the eight o’clock anchor, “Rosebud” was from a show, “Ametista... Ametista...” was the voice of Sinhozinho Malta in the episode where Zé das Medalhas kills Sinhozinho’s cow, and at times they even sang, “Del barco del Chanquete, no nos moverán,” which was a song from Blue Summer, and in the midst of all this confusion, I think the radio’s batteries died, and when somebody went to change them, there was a knock on the door.
Sea Foam, who was in the yard with us, looked terrified and took off running towards his house. There was another knock. I looked up at the second floor. Granma Catarina, who hadn’t come down since the beginning of the party, was at the window. She just smiled.
“It must be the Soviet.”
So it was. He was frightened by the crowd in the living room, with all of them stari
ng at him. He came in slowly and spent a long time cleaning his dust-laden boots.
“Gudafter-noon.”
As everyone was already a bit sloshed, they answered with the same accent: “Gudafter-noon.”
The music started again. He entered and asked for Granma Nhé, who was getting some more dishes ready in the kitchen. When Granma Nhé came into the living room, his smile disappeared from his mouth in an instant. Granma Nhé regarded Comrade Gudafterov with a strange look.
“Take it easy, Mother,” Aunty Tó urged.
“Gudafter-noon, Dona Nhéte. You don’t haf light again? Bilhardov put cable.”
Granma made her way slowly to his side.
“Good evening, Comrade Bilhardov. Are you coming from a funeral?”
“Fooneral? I no understand.”
“You have flowers in your hand. You must be coming from a funeral. What a shame you forgot to leave the flowers there.”
“Bilhardov no understand.”
It was Aunty Tó who saved Comrade Gudafterov. She smiled at him. “Don’t worry, my mother’s had a couple of drinks.” She took the flowers from his hand, thanked him and carried them to the kitchen.
Granma Nhé, as everybody knows, doesn’t like to be given flowers. She says it reminds her of funerals and cemeteries.
Comrade Gudafterov, without even noticing, found himself in a confusing situation, but then his confusion deepened because someone had brought vodka and he rapidly downed seven shots in a row.
“Tomorrow Bilhardov fix cable again. Dona Nhéte’s house haf light from Mausoleum. Viva!”
In the kitchen, Aunty Tó was about to drop the flowers into the garbage.
“Don’t do that, daughter.”
“But, Mother, you don’t like being given flowers.”
“No, I don’t like it. But this time I’m going to make use of them.”
“Make use of them to do what, Mother?”
“Tomorrow I want to go to the cemetery.”
“Tomorrow’s the day of your operation, Mother.”
“But before, I want to go to the cemetery. Leave the flowers there in the corner.”
Aunty Tó left the kitchen and went to say goodbye to some people who were leaving. Madalena came in.
“Madalena, get a vase for those flowers.”
“Should I put them in the living room, Granma?”
“Don’t even think of it. Put them outside in the yard.”
Granma Nhé remained standing, her eyes gleaming with a slow light. She looked outside, but in a direction where it was impossible to see the light or the stars. I didn’t understand where she was looking.
“Granma.”
“Yes, son.”
“Can I go to the cemetery with you tomorrow?”
“You want to?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Can Granma Catarina come with us, Granma?”
Granma Nhé laughed to herself, gave me an affectionate pat and told me to go play a little longer. Aunty Tó came back into the kitchen with a laugh.
“What is it, daughter?” Granma Nhé wiped at her bright eyes.
“I just came to give you a kiss, Mother. Everything’s going to be fine. I think you’re wonderful.”
“That’s good, daughter.”
“Now you won’t be my little mother any more.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll be my little nineteener, Mother. You’re only going to have nineteen fingers and toes.”
They both burst out laughing with a happiness that startled me. As Sea Foam said, “Words have magical charms and invisible strengths.” It’s true: that little gibe about being a “nineteener” not only made Granma Nhé laugh again but it changed her name for the rest of her life.
It was that night, on Bishop’s Beach, that Granma Agnette became Granma Nineteen.
I had that dream many times, but not with so many kids running along Bishop’s Beach without the strings of their kites getting tangled up—like crazy knots in the Comrade Old Fisherman’s net—nor had I seen so much wind causing such a strong swell in such a calm sea, it was just that when I dreamed I didn’t know it was a dream: my breathing became rushed because I was upset at seeing the square and the gas station with so many children and I wanted to know who they were. The children from Bishop’s Beach were there and also those from the Blue District, others from school and even a few adults: Aunt Adelaide laughing, the Comrade Gas Jockey running with a red and yellow kite, even Uncle Rui, who was a writer, went past on a bicycle that had moustaches drawn on it, and he did two things at once, riding the bike and keeping the kite under control—what a beautiful bicycle!—and Senhor Tuarles had a mug of beer in one hand and with the other he made the kites feint like soccer players, even Comrade Gudafterov was laughing and running, “Dona Nhéte, ka-yet bring news from far-away,” but what had never before happened to me in that dream of carnivals and also laughter was to see so many animated colours in a dance of soaring winds and the sky full of a thousand greens, yellows, oranges and reds with the blue behind, the sky imitating some birds that might be the living body of what’s called a rainbow.
“Are you dreaming, son?”
“Ay, Granma, don’t wake me up like that, I was dreaming about an awesome rainbow.”
“Oh, my dear,”—she wiped my face—“you were breathing so fast and covered in sweat. I was afraid you were having an asthma attack.”
“It was a many-coloured asthma, Granma...Our sky here on Bishop’s Beach had colours that I don’t even know how to describe to you.”
“The same dream, then.”
“But with ‘multiplication factors,’ as they say at my school.”
“It’s time to wake up in any event. Are you coming with me to the cemetery?”
“Yes. Are you going to talk with Granpa Mbinha?”
“It’s not the place to talk, son. It’s just to be there for a while. Sometimes a person goes to the cemetery to talk to herself.”
“Sea Foam talks to himself without going to the cemetery.”
We lingered over breakfast: a really good black tea that Madalena mixed with verbena leaf; the first time she had done that everybody refused to drink it, and now it was a custom and was even offered to visitors.
“There wasn’t any bread today, Granma,” Madalena explained.
“That’s all right. Heat up a bit of yesterday’s bread in the oven, it tastes wonderful. Just for five minutes so we don’t waste gas.”
“Yes, Granma.”
It was very early. The windows could still be opened without the risk of our having a breakfast of bread and butter with a light covering of dust.
The chickens were demanding the corn that hadn’t appeared for three days. They were just eating stale bread and potato peelings left over from someone’s house.
At that hour of the morning, Granma Catarina didn’t appear. The parrots didn’t talk nonsense before eleven o’clock. I put this in a school composition and the Comrade Teacher told me not to lie because lies were vile. She even ordered me to write another composition. Since it was on a topic of my choice, I wrote about Granma Nhé’s friend Carmen Fernández, with her pregnancy of a bag of ants and another of a bird-baby, and the teacher threatened to beat me with her ruler and asked whether I knew how to write normal compositions like other children, like perhaps about a trip or a relative.
I swear that I made an effort, and I thought it would be a good idea to write about a journey I’d made to Benguela, where my Uncle Victor said that he had an enormous swimming pool full of Coca-Cola, and about how I had felt really sorry because we children had been told that Granma Catarina couldn’t come with us. I was scolded again just the same and my mother was even summoned to the parent-teacher meeting because the Comrade Teacher knew the family and s
aid that it might be possible that a crazy uncle had filled a swimming pool with Coca Cola, but what was impossible was my having written that Granma Catarina could have accompanied us because the Comrade Teacher knew that Granma Catarina hadn’t lived in that house for many years.
So as not to appear undisciplined, I remained silent when the Comrade Teacher ordered me to tear up the three compositions, but I felt like laughing because of course Uncle Victor didn’t have enough Coca Cola to fill a swimming pool, but we all knew that Granma Catarina was in Granma Nhé’s house; she even opened and closed windows. It was just that she didn’t like to appear very early in the day or when there were strangers in the house, but that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t have wanted to go with us to Benguela.
“What are you thinking about, son? Finish your bread.”
“About a composition I wrote... Granma Catarina was in it. I still think she didn’t go to Benguela just because nobody invited her.”
“Finish your bread, son. Today I have to go to the hospital to have a toe removed.”
“And after that we’re really going to call you Granma Nineteen?”
“I suppose so.”
We were just about to leave. Granma Nhé’s bag was ready, with her nice silk nightgown and her Chinese slippers.
Granma looked slowly around at the whole room—the windows, the carpet, the beat-up brown sofa, the really old wood-framed television, the photos on the walls—and stopped to look at the display cabinet containing the pretty Chinese tea service.
“The first granddaughter who makes a proper marriage gets that tea service. We’ll see who it is.”
“These days nobody marries as a virgin.” Granma Catarina appeared out of nowhere.
“Catarina, I’m going to the hospital. But first I’m going to the cemetery.”
“Take advantage of the opportunity to tell your grandson the truth.”
“I’ll only be back tomorrow morning, if the doctor lets me.”
“The truth, Agnette. You have to tell the children the truth.”
“Goodbye, Sis. Till tomorrow.”