by Ondjaki
“i see, and he didn’t say when the interview was rescheduled for?”
“what interview?”
“the one he was going to give me”
“i just said it was cancelled”
“yes, but there must be an alternate date...”
“ah, but that will be a different interview, you’ll have to wait for us to contact you, sir,” the secretary concluded
at that moment, Dom Crystal-Clear, behind the wheel of his luxurious car, was on his way to a meeting with the Minister and the American, where questions of concern to him would also be addressed, as he’d been informed by the Minister himself who, for some reason, found it interesting to include him in the first meeting
Crystal-Clear was a man of few words who, in a propitious moment, had decided to associate himself with the then-not-yet-Minister, who at that stage already had a promising political future and close connections to the great Leader,
this association had turned out to be beneficial for them both, as they had complemented each other throughout their respective careers: whatever one of them understood about opening doors, the other knew about financial strategy, and if one of them immersed himself in national political intrigues, the other became a distinguished analyst of the nation’s economy
Dom Crystal-Clear had grasped many years earlier that it was the manipulation of social capital that determined the success of all Angolan actors in the post-Scientific Socialism era
«the difference between a guy who’s just smart and a guy who’s smart and clued-in» Paulo Paused thought, «is that the former has useless obsessions and talks about stuff he doesn’t understand and the latter chooses his obsessions and rarely speaks of what he’s already grasped... all the rest are just small fry!»
wandering through the streets, lost in his meandering thoughts, Paulo Paused regulated his breathing in a way he hoped would deflect the heat
fortunately he was close to Noah’s Barque
he loved this place, which was, in his opinion, one of the most questionable bars in Luanda, in all the interesting senses that the word “questionable” can have in Luandan speech
the bar’s owner, an old man of incalculable age with a white beard, a slight hunchback, and hands older than time itself, answered to the name of Noah
“good morning, Senhor Noah,” the journalist greeted him, his tone of voice providing advance warning of his acute thirst
“here it’s Comrade Noah, i’m from the time before, a good cold beer to kill all the microbes?”
“the very thing,” Paulo smiled
the crowd, in permanent attendance, was made up of a set of people who inhabited the borderlands of diluted colours and origins, one of these figures, who for many years had been known simply as the Leftist, arrived early at Noah’s Barque, drank his beer very slowly, regardless of its temperature, and carried with him a worn attaché case from which he pulled countless handwritten sheets of paper
“is that book as big as the Bible, or does it run more in the direction of an installation manual for some kind of scientific product?” the other patrons gave him a hard time, chuckling at his shy yet annoyed air
“when the time comes you’ll find out...” the Leftist said in a serious tone
the beer at Noah’s Barque was among the coldest in the city, and its secret, public and widely known, lay in a huge freezer locker, known as the “ark,” that had never been unplugged—so the story went—since November 11, 1975, the wire that nourished it, the voice of the people claimed, was very long and connected to a certain house where the lights never flickered
“that’s something lots of people wanted to know... and have, but it’s not for everyone! don’t forget, my friends,” Noah would say, his voice bursting with pride, “it was this ark that supplied the beer to celebrate our national independence day, including the bottles of whisky and champagne that the late Comrade President Agostinho Neto ordered kept here, hours before we got our pure in-dee-pen-dence!”
he paused, looking for the right detail, before continuing
“this ain’t advertising, even the Cubans, when they reached the Port of Luanda came through here before going on to Kifangondo, this bar has history, my friends...”
the Leftist’s eyes shone and his head nodded in approving confirmation
Paulo Paused, his thirst already appeased by an ultra-cold Nocal, asked Noah to turn up the volume, as there was a live interview with the President of Angola himself on the television
“a little silence, if you please,” the Leftist said
it was officially confirmed by the figure of the Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, President of the Republic, Head of Government, President of the Council of Ministers and of the Council of the Republic, and of the MPLA, and patron of the Eduardo dos Santos Foundation, that what Paulo had heard days earlier, from the mouth of his friend Scratch Man, about the commission, now duly constituted, which served under the name of CIROL, was true
but the President clarified that the population should remain patient and ready to help all the workers involved in the project, for the performance of the Commission for the Installation of Recoverable Oil in Luanda would promote the wellbeing of the city and the country, since this activity inaugurated a new phase in the exploitation of on shore petroleum and even, he added, under city petroleum, according to the standard technical terms, which he went on to explain
the idea was very clear, it was based on intensive, varied excavations around the perimeter of Luanda which had as their epicentre Maianga Square, with the sphere of activity sprawling all the way to the Roque Santeiro Market and, to the south, as far as the so-called Futungo De Belas, former residence of the nation’s head of state
“but it’s just digging? i already know about the ‘pothole problematic,’” one of the regulars said, his beer dying from lack of use, “digging’s really quick, what i want to see is who comes afterwards to fill that shit in... my street has a pothole that’s older than my son”
“shh! cut the noise, comrade, the Comrade President still hasn’t finished”
in his solemn tone, the President continued his explanations, laying out the working methodology, the research that had been done without being revealed to the public because it hadn’t yet been clear whether the exploitation of petroleum would be feasible, but now that it was an ongoing reality and the City of Luanda, the country’s capital, site of so many revolutions, and host to people arriving from all parts of the country when war blazed in other provinces, would now begin, like the provinces of Zaire or Cabinda, to contribute to increasing the national outpouring of petroleum
the first phase, that of confirming scientific suspicions of the aforementioned possibility, was completed, and the project was now moving forward with the support of the masses but also of the police and the military, to the high-speed excavations that would lead to the imminent exploitation of what was commonly referred to as black gold
more details would be provided to the populace through official communication channels, but the work, the head of state guaranteed, would be carried out in accordance with the most advanced technological and scientific standards, relying on partnerships with countries such as the United States, Russia, France, India, and Brazil
“so this time the tugas don’t get to suck the tit?” someone laughed
Paulo Paused sweated as he watched the screens and absorbed the plans for the replacement of countless streets and alleys and their respective underground tubing, for the channelling of water and the installation of enormous pipeline networks designed to transport gas and petroleum
the journalist drank a second beer as the live segment ended and the regulars returned to their places, remaining seated a little longer, perhaps in anticipation of commentaries and reactions
“this means,” the Leftist returned to his notes, speaking to no one, �
�that with this we could finally attain the status of a Third World country”
“what do you mean?” another protested, “we’re already in the Third World!”
“don’t you wish,” the Leftist laughed, “don’t we both wish, we must be in the Fifth World, or something like that...!”
with his sweat-drenched body and murky vision, Ciente-the-Grand woke up and stirred with difficulty as a result of the enormous dressing on his ass, his head hurt as well and his feet were swollen
he crept through the kitchen, quenched his thirst, grabbed a fruit, and was on his way out when he ran into Granma Kunjikise in the hall
“only those who need to flee take flight”
“shut your big mouth with that shitty language nobody understands, you don’t even know how to say ‘good morning’ in Portuguese!”
“everyone speaks the language they were taught”
the young man hurried to get away and Granma Kunjikise put the water bottle back in the refrigerator and arranged the fruit basket according to her preferred colour scheme
Ciente-the-Grand went furtively down the stairs, feeling his strength faltering, stricken by an overpowering fever, but he was hopeful and his heart gladdened as he approached the first floor, where the coolness of the waters made him feel better
“hey, where are you going?” Little Daddy was climbing the stairs with two brimming pails of water
“shut your mouth, you fucking bitch, you think i’m my dad, letting you live in this building in return for them pails of water you go carting around with your stupid little face?” Ciente tripped over his feet, had to grab the banister, he didn’t have the strength
“you’re sick, Ciente, on top of your rotten ass”
“fuckin’ bitch, you’re lucky i don’t have any strength... who told you that you could talk about my ass like that? just go right on upstairs with your shitty pails, and if you open your mouth,” Ciente’s voice became terrifying, “two things could happen: either i’ll blow you away or, if i croak before that, i’ll come back from the next world and find you and drown you in one of them pails, you hear me?”
Little Daddy looked sad
“sorry,” he bowed his head, “do you have a message for your family?”
“shut your goddam trap,” unsteady on his feet, Ciente-the-Grand stumbled down the stairs, “with you talkin’ about my ass at this time of the morning, it makes it sound like i trust you... fucking bitch cunt...”
outside, the sun lashed him with a violent wave of heat, weakening him, his legs gave way, his wound burned, his head turned circles
Strong Maria found it impossible to do anything more than watch it all
a group of six police officers, after kicking the articles she had for sale, and savouring, with guffaws, the food she was beginning to grill
closed in on the collapsed body simply to see what was going on, one of them shouted, “he must be a pot-head, give him a few kicks so he knows you’re here,” and another, more alert, understood that the bandages strapped to his waist might be concealing something worth investigating
“do you know this individual?” the policeman in charge asked
Strong Maria made a face that could mean anything
“you lost your voice? then you’re coming down to the station with us to see if you feel like talking”
Edú, who due to his swollen mbumbi spent a lot of time at the window, overheard what was going on
the police carried Ciente into their car
after some protestations and tears on the part of Strong Maria, they decided not to take her away, as she might yield to the temptation to tell their chief all they had done before capturing the individual with the patch on his ass
“it’s your duty to notify the family”
“that boy’s wounded”
“in the first place this boy isn’t exactly a child, in the second place the situation will be studied and we’ll act according to conclusive facts...” the policeman concluded, signalling to the driver to pull away.
by the time the toasts were over, the American was almost drunk
he had been convinced, particularly by the Senhor Adviser, that it would be very insensitive, especially from a cultural standpoint, to refuse the good whisky that they were offering him because the meeting had been a success and significant steps had been taken around the Cirolian question
before leaving the room, Raago was warned in Portuguese and English that in no way, shape, or form should he contact the press, either state-owned or private, without the prior consent of the Ministry that had hired him
“shall we have lunch?”
“i wanted to go back to the hotel, i’m tired from last night...” the American tried
“no, we’re going to a fabulous place for lunch, náice pleice, very good, you’re gonna like it, grillated feesh, with feijão, how do you say feijão in English?”
“what?”
“feijão—black beans, with palm oil”
“palms?”
“palm! mufete, mu-fe-te, you’ll see, let’s go”
Dom Crystal-Clear signed some papers and explained that he had to hurry to an appopintment
“then we’ll talk later, to nail down a few details,” the Minister said
“certainly”
as he left the Ministry, Crystal-Clear observed that the driver was trying to manouevre the vehicle and, as the sun was too hot, he remained waiting in the shade
suddenly the Mailman approached him
“Comrade Senhor Crystal-Clear, please excuse this interruption, i know you, respected sir, from television”
“listen here, i’m not in the mood for talking, here, take a thousand hard ones and buy yourself a beer,” Dom Crystal-Clear was about to pull the money from the inside pocket of his impeccable suit
“sorry, Comrade Super-Crystal, it’s not anything like that, i’m not in need of money, thank you very much”
“how’s that?”
“i simply came to leave a missive for your consideration”
“what? fuck, that’s quite some Portuguese you’ve written”
the Mailman pulled a long envelope out of his mailbag and passed it to the businessman
“it’s a letter, written on paper of twenty-five lines, in the old style”
“what kind of letter?”
“a request for a vehicle”
“but i don’t hand out vehicles, my friend”
“but your contribution could be valuable, i don’t mean one of those four-wheel vehicles, what i wanted was one of those motorized bikes, it could even be one of those Simsons from the old days, or preferably a Suzuki that could withstand the streets... i’m a Comrade Mailman”
Crystal-Clear’s vehicle approached, his driver turned and opened the door, but Crystal-Clear, astonished at the man’s enterprise, had already opened the envelope and begun to read the letter
“beautiful handwriting,” he praised
“thank you very much”
“what should i do with the letter?”
“if you could get it onto the desk of one of those ministers who pay attention to the mail, i’d be infinitively gracious”
“wouldn’t it be easier for me to give you the money for a bicycle?”
“Comrade Crystal-Clear, i thank you for your gesture, if you’d like to give a bicycle to my son, i’ll thank you even more, now, for the purposes of my profession, in light of the hills in our city, notably in the Alvalades and the Miramars, i believe that it has to be a motorized vehicle, even if it has only two wheels, but i think that it’s the Ministry of Transportation itself, or another one, which must provide my mode of transportation”
“very good, good luck, then, and take the thousand hard ones for your thirst.”
when he found out what had happened, Odo
nato stood still for a long time, unable to move, it wasn’t that his body wasn’t responding, it was his mind, his so-called spirit, that breath within
“the calamities have begun... i hope god’s not asleep...” Granma Kinjikise murmured
Odonato appeared to be lost in thought, looking out the window in search of a place within time
“i think i suffer from the illness of national malaise,” he said to his wife with a thin smile
“what do you mean?” Xilisbaba asked the question without regarding her husband
“my country hurts me... the war, the political misunderstandings, the internal ones and the ones set off by people outside...”
his eyes and body felt a deep yearning for his Sunday walks with the family, close to the sea in the so-called Luanda Island District, even when the surf spray was up and their faces were bathed and gleaming from the cold August waves
Luanda was then, at least when compared with the present, practically an urban desert, where food, clothing, and medicine were in short supply, without water or electric light, often there was no beer or wine, meals were restricted to the famous fried fish with rice and tiny shreds of tomato, canned goods were absent though small amounts of fruit came from the south or the interior, whisky was missing but not dried fish, there were no reliable telephone lines but conversations were blessed by the lazy winds of the sunrise, shoes were worn out but legs rejoiced in inexhaustible nights of kizomba, there was the mandatory curfew and for that reason parties filled with people who ensured, with their smiles and animation, that they would continue until after five o’clock in the morning, there were neither CDs nor MP3s but the turntables sweated and electric fans were set on the speakers in order not to compromise the musical conviviality, so many sexual diseases remained unknown like the more recent habits of covering the member with tight-fitting pieces of rubber, but the beaches and the walls and the rocking, clapped-out vehicles were familiar with bodies remade in the celebratory act of love, so many children were born then, so many more died, the parties brought together relatives and neighbours to eat, not to commit nouveau-riche exhibitionism, the sea was richer in fish then